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双城记|A Tale of Two Cities

Book 1 Chapter 6 The Shoemaker

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 查尔斯-狄更斯] 阅读：[37186]
Book 1 Chapter 6 The Shoemaker
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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“日安！”德伐日先生说，低头看着那个低垂着的白发的头。那人在做鞋。

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那头抬起了一下，一个非常微弱的声音作了回答，仿佛来自遥远的地方。

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“日安！”

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“我看你工作得还是很辛苦？”

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良久的沉默，然后那头才抬了起来；那声音回答说，“是--我在工作。”这一回有一双失神的眼睛望了望发问的人，然后那张脸又低了下去。

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那声音之微弱今人怜悯，却也吓人，并非由于体力上的衰弱，虽然囚禁与粗劣的食物无疑都起过作用；却是由于孤独与废弃所导致的衰弱，而这正是它凄惨的特色。它仿佛是漠漠远古的声音那微弱、濒危的回响，已完全失去了人类嗓音所具有的生命力与共鸣，仿佛只是一种曾经美丽的颜色褪败成的模糊可怜的污斑。那声音很低沉，很压抑，像是从地下发出来的，令人想起在荒野里踽踽独行、疲惫不堪、饥饿待毙的旅人，那无家可归的绝望的生灵在躺下身子准备死去之前苦念着家庭和亲友时所发出的哀音。

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一声不吭的工作进行了几分钟，那双失神的眼睛又抬起来望了望。眼里全无兴趣或好奇，只是模糊地机械地意识到刚才有个唯一的客人站立的地方现在还没有空出来。

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“我想多放一点光线进来，”德伐日目不转睛地望着鞋匠，“你可以多接受一点么？

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鞋匠停止了工作，露出一种茫然谛听的神情，望了望他身边的地板，同样望了望另一面地板，再抬头望着说话的人。

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“你说什么？”

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“你可以多接受一点光线么？”

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“你要放进来，我只好忍受。”（“只好”两字受到很轻微的强调）

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只开了一线的门开大了一些，暂时固定在了那个角度。一大片光线射进阁楼，照出鞋匠已停止了工作；．一只没做完的鞋放在他膝头上；几件平常的工具和各种皮件放在脚旁或长凳上。他长了一把白胡子，不长，修剪得很乱；面颊凹陷，眼睛异常明亮。因为面颊干瘦和凹陷，长在仍然深浓的眉毛和乱糟糟的头发之下的那双眼睛似乎显得很大，虽然实际上并非如此一-它们天生就大，可现在看去却大得不自然。他那破烂的黄衬衫领口敞开，露出瘦骨嶙峋的身子。由于长期与直接的阳光和空气隔绝，他跟他那帆布外衣、松垂的长袜和破烂的衣衫全都淡成了羊皮纸似的灰黄，混成一片，难以分清了。

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他一直用手挡住眼前的光线，那手似乎连骨头都透明了。他就像这样坐着，停止了工作，直勾勾地瞪着眼。在直视眼前的人形之前，他总要东望望，西望望，仿佛已失去了把声音跟地点联系的习惯。说话之前也是如此，东看看，西看看，又忘掉了说话。

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“你今天要做完那双鞋么？”德伐日问。

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“你说什么？”

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“你今天打算做完那双鞋么？”

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“我说不清是不是打算，我想是的。我不知道。”

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但是，这个问题却让他想起了他的工作，便又埋头忙起活儿来。

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罗瑞先生让那姑娘留在门口，自己走上前去。他在德伐日身边站了一两分钟，鞋匠才抬起了头。他并不因见了另一个人而显得惊讶，但他一只颤巍巍的手指却在见他时放错了地方，落到了嘴唇上（他的嘴唇和指甲都灰白得像铅），然后那手又回到了活儿上，他弯下腰重新做起鞋来。那目光和身体的动作都只是一瞬间的事。

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“你有客人了，你看，”德伐日先生说。

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“你说什么？”

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“这儿有个客人。”

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鞋匠像刚才一样抬头望了望，双手还在继续工作。

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“来吧！”德伐日说。“这位先生很懂得鞋的好坏。把你做的鞋让他看看。拿好，先生。”

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罗瑞先生接过鞋。

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“告诉这位先生这是什么鞋，是谁做的。”

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这一次的停顿比刚才要长，好一会儿之后鞋匠才回了话：

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“我忘了你问的话。你说的是什么？”

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“我说，你能不能介绍一下这类鞋，给这位先生介绍一下情况。”

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“这是女鞋，年轻女士走路时穿的。是流行的款式。我没见过那款式。可我手上有图样。”他带着瞬息即逝的一丝自豪望了望他的鞋。

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“鞋匠的名字是……？”德伐日说。

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现在手上再没了工件，他便把右手的指关节放在左手掌心里，然后又把左手的指关节放到右手掌心里，接着又用一只手抹了抹胡子拉碴的下巴。他就像这样一刻不停地依次摸来摸去，每说出一句话他总要落入一片空白。要想把他从那片空白之中唤醒过来简直像是维持一个极度衰弱的病人不致休克，或是维持濒于死亡者的生命，希望他能透露些什么。

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“你问我的名字吗？”

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“是的。”

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“北塔一Ｏ五。”

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“就这个？”

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“北塔一０五。”

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他发出了一种既非叹息也非呻吟的厌倦的声音，然后又弯腰干起活儿来，直做到沉默再度被打破。

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“做鞋不是你的职业吧？”罗瑞先生注视着他说。

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他那枯槁的眼睛转向了德伐日，仿佛希望把题目交给他来回答，从那儿没得到答案，他又在地下找了一会儿，才又转向提问者。

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“做鞋不是我的职业么？不是。我--我是在这儿才学做鞋的。我是自学的。我请求让我--”

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他又失去了记忆。这回长达几分钟，这时他那两只手又依次摸索起来。他的眼睛终于慢慢回到刚才离开的那张脸上。一见到那张脸，他吃了一惊，却又平静下来，像是那时才醒来的人，又回到了昨夜的题目上。

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“我申请自学做鞋，费了很多力，花了很多时间，批准了。从那以后我就做鞋。”

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他伸手想要回被拿走的鞋，罗瑞先生仍然注视着他的脸，说：

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“曼内特先生，你一点都想不起我了么？”

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鞋掉到地下，他坐在那儿呆望着提问题的人。

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“曼内特先生，”罗瑞先生一只手放在德伐日的手臂上，“你一点也想不起这个人了么？看看他，看看我。你心里是不是还想得起以前的银行职员，以前的职业和仆人，曼内特先生？”

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这位多年的囚徒坐在那儿一会儿呆望着罗瑞先生，一会儿呆望着德伐日，他额头正中已被长期抹去的聪明深沉的智力迹象逐渐穿破笼罩着它的阴霾透了出来，却随即又被遮住了，模糊了，隐没了，不过那种迹象确实出现过。可他的这些表情却都在一张年轻漂亮的面孔上准确地得到了反映。那姑娘早已沿着墙根悄悄走到一个能看见他的地点，此时正凝望着他。她最初举起了手，即使不是想把自己与他隔开，怕见到他，也是表现了一种混合着同情的恐惧。现在那手却又伸向了他，颤抖着，急于把他那幽灵样的面孔放到她温暖年轻的胸膛上去，用爱使他复活，使他产生希望--那表情在她那年轻漂亮的脸上重复得如此准确（虽是表现了坚强的性格），竟仿佛是一道活动的光从他身上移向了她。

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黑暗又笼罩了他，他对两人的注视逐渐松懈下来，双眼以一种昏瞀而茫然的表情在地下找了一会儿，便又照老样子东张西望，最后发出一声深沉的长长的叹息，拿起鞋又干起了活儿。

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“你认出他了么，先生？”德伐日先生问。

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“认出来了，只一会儿。开头我还以为完全没有希望了，可我却在一瞬间毫无疑问地看到了那张我曾十分熟悉的面孔。嘘！咱们再退开一点，嘘！”

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那姑娘已离开阁楼的墙壁，走近了老人的长凳。老人在低头干活儿，靠近他的人影几乎要伸出手来摸摸他，而他却一无所知。此中有一种东西令人肃然竦然。

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没有话语，没有声音。她像精灵一样站在他身边，而他则弯着腰在干活。

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终于，他放下了手中的工具，要取皮匠刀了。那刀就在他身边--不是她站立的一边。他拿起了刀，弯下腰要工作，眼睛却瞥见了她的裙子。他抬起头来，看到了她的脸。两个旁观者要走上前来，她却做了个手势，让他们别动。她并不担心他会用刀伤害她，虽然那两人有些不放心。

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他恐惧地望着她，过了一会儿他的嘴唇开始做出说话的动作，虽然没有发出声音。他的呼吸急促吃力，不时停顿，却听见他一个字一个字地说了出来：

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“这是什么？”

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姑娘泪流满面，把双手放到唇边吻了吻，又伸向他；然后把他搂在胸前，仿佛要把他那衰迈的头放在她的怀抱里。

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“你不是看守的女儿吧？”

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她叹了口气，“不是。”

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“你是谁？”

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她对自己的声音不放心，便在他身边长凳上坐了下来。他退缩了一下，但她把手放到了他的手臂上，一阵震颤明显地通过他全身。他温和地放下了鞋刀，坐在那儿瞪大眼望着她。

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她刚才匆匆掠到一边的金色长发此时又垂落到她的脖子上。他一点点地伸出手来拿起发鬟看着。这个动作才做了一半他又迷糊了，重新发出一声深沉的叹息，又做起鞋来。

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但他做得并不久。她放掉他的胳膊，却把手放到了他的肩上。他怀疑地看了那手两三次，似乎要肯定它确实在那儿，然后放下了工作，把手放到自己脖子上，取下一根脏污的绳，绳上有一块卷好的布。他在膝盖上小心地把它打开，其中有少许头发；只不过两三根金色的长发，是多年前缠在他指头上扯下来的。

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他又把她的头发拿在手上，仔细审视。“是同样的，怎么可能！那是什么时候的事？是怎么回事？”

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在苦思的表情回到他额上时，他仿佛看到她也有同样的表情，便拉她完全转向了亮光，打量她。

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“那天晚上我被叫走时，她的头放在我的肩上一-她怕我走，虽然我并不怕--我被送到北塔时，他们在我的袖子上找到了这个。‘你们可以把它留给我么？它不能帮助我的身体逃掉，虽然能让我的精神飞走。’这是我当时说的话。我记得很清楚。”

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他用嘴唇做了多次动作才表示出了这些意思。但是他一旦找到了话语，话语便连贯而来，虽然来得缓慢。

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“怎么样--是你吗？”

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两个旁观者又吓了一跳，因为他令人害怕地突然转向了她。然而她却任凭他抓住，坦然地坐着，低声说，“我求你们，好先生们，不要过来，不要说话，不要动。”

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“听：”他惊叫，“是谁的声音？”

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他一面叫，一面已放松了她，然后两手伸到头上，发狂似地扯起头发来。正跟除了做鞋之外他的一切都会过去一样，这阵发作终于过去。他把他的小包卷了起来，打算重新挂到胸口，却仍然望着她，伤心地摇着头。

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“不，不，不，你太年轻，太美丽，这是不可能的。看看囚犯是什么样子吧！这样的手她当年从来没看见过，这样的脸她当年从来没有看见过，这样的声音她当年从来没有听到过。不，不。她--还有他--都是很久很久以前的事了--在北塔那漫长的时间之前。你叫什么名字，我温和的天使？”

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为了庆贺他变得柔和语调和态度，女儿跪倒在他面前，哀告的双手抚慰着父亲的胸口。

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“啊，先生，以后我会告诉你我的名字，我的母亲是谁，我的父亲是谁，我为什么不知道他们那痛苦不堪的经历。但我现在不能告诉你，不能在这儿告诉你。我现在可以在这儿告诉你的是我请求你抚摸我，为我祝福，亲我，亲我啊，亲爱的，我亲爱的！”

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他那一头凄凉的白发跟她那一头闪光的金发混到了一起，金发温暖了白发，也照亮了它，仿佛是自由的光芒照射在他的身上。

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“如果你从我的声音里听出了你曾听到过的甜蜜的音乐--我不知道你会不会，但我希望会--就为它哭泣吧，为它哭泣吧！如果你在抚摸我的头发时能回想起在你自由的青年时代曾靠在你胸前的头的话，就为它哭泣吧，为它哭泣吧！若是我向你表示我们还会有一个家，我会对你一片孝心，全心全意地服侍你，这话能令你想起一个败落多年的家，因而使你的心憔悴，你就为它哭吧，哭吧！”

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她更紧地搂住他的脖子，像摇孩子似的在胸前摇着他。

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“如果我告诉你，我最最亲爱的人，你的痛苦已经过去，我是到这儿来带你脱离苦海的，我们要到英国去，去享受和平与安宁，因而让你想到你白白葬送的大好年华，想到我们的生地--对你这样冷酷无情的法兰西，你就哭吧！哭吧！如果我告诉你我的名字，谈起我还活着的父亲和已经死去的母亲，告诉你我应当跪在我光明磊落的父亲面前求他饶恕，因为我不曾营救过他，不曾为他通宵流泪、睡不着觉，而那是因为我可怜的母亲爱我，不肯让我知道她的痛苦。若是这样你就哭吧！哭吧！为她而哭！也为我哭！两位好先生，谢谢上帝！我感到他神圣的眼泪落在我脸上，他的呜咽抽搐在我心上！啊，你看！为我们感谢上帝吧！感谢上帝！”

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他已倒在了她的怀里，他的脸落到了她的胸膛上：一个异常动人，也异常可怕的场面（因为那奇冤和惨祸）。两个在场人都不禁双手掩面。

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阁楼的静谧久久不曾受到干扰，抽泣的胸膛和颤抖的身躯平静了下来。正如一切风暴之后总有静谧。那是人世的象征，被称作生命的那场风暴必然会静下来，进入休息和寂寥。两人走上前去把父女俩从地上扶了起来--老人已逐渐歪倒在地上，精疲力竭，昏睡过去。姑娘是扶着他倒下去的，让他的头落在自己的手臂上；她的金发垂了下来，挡住了他的光线。

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“如果我们能把一切安排好，”她说，罗瑞先生已好几次抽动鼻孔，这时才对她弯下身来。她向他举起手说，“我们立即离开巴黎吧！不用惊醒他就能从门口把他带走--”

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“可是你得考虑，他经得起长途跋涉么？”罗瑞先生问。

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“这个城市对他太可怕，让他长途跋涉也比留在这儿强。”

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“这倒是真的，”德伐日说，此时他正跪在地上旁观，听着他们说话。“更重要的是，有一切理由认为，曼内特先生最好是离开法国。你看，我是不是去雇一辆驿车？”

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“这是业务工作，”罗瑞先生说，转瞬之间恢复了他一板一眼的工作态度。“既是业务工作，最好就由我来做。”

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“那就谢谢你了，”曼内特小姐催促道，“就让我跟他留在这儿。你看，他已经平静下来。把他交给我好了，不用担心。有什么可担心的呢！如果你关上门，保证我们不受干扰，我毫不怀疑他在你回来的时候会跟你离开时一样平静。我保证尽一切努力照顾好他。你一回来我们马上就带他走。”

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对这做法罗瑞先生跟德伐日都不怎么赞成。他们都很希望有一个人能留下来陪着，但是又要雇马车，又要办旅行手续；而天色又已经晚了，时间很急迫。最后他们只好把要办的事匆匆分了个工就赶着办事去了。

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暮色笼罩下来，女儿把头放在硬地上，靠在父亲身旁，观察着他，两人静静地躺着。夜色越来越浓，一道光从墙壁的缝隙里透了进来。

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罗瑞先生和德伐日先生已办好了旅行所需的一应事项，除了旅行外衣、围巾，还带来了夹肉面包、酒和热咖啡。德伐日先生把食品和带来的灯放到鞋匠长凳上（阁楼里除了一张草荐床之外别无他物），他跟罗瑞先生弄醒了囚徒，扶他站起身来。

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人类的全部智慧怕也无法从那张脸上那惊恐茫然的表情解释他心里的神秘。他是否明白已经发生的事？他是否回忆起了他们告诉他的东西？他是否知道自己已经获得了自由？没有任何聪明的头脑能够回答。他们试着和他交谈，但是他仍然很迷糊，回答来得很缓慢。见到他那惶惑迷乱的样子，他们都感到害怕，都同意不再去惊扰他。他露出了一种从没出现过疯狂迷乱的表情，只用双手死死抱住脑袋。但-听见他女儿的声音就面露喜色，并把头向她转过去。

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他们给他东西吃，他就吃；给他东西喝，他就喝；给他东西穿，他就穿；给他东西围，他就围，一副长期习惯于担惊受怕、逆来顺受的样子。他的女几揽住他的胳膊，他反应很快，立即用双手抓住她的手不放。

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他们开始下楼，德伐日先生提着灯走在前面，罗瑞先生断后。他们才踏上长长的主楼梯没几步，老人便停下了脚，盯着房顶和四壁细看。

93
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“你记得这地方么，爸爸？你记得是从这儿上去的么？”

94
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“你说什么？”

95
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但是不等她重复她的问题，他却喃喃地作出了回答，仿佛她已经再次问过了。

96
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“记得？不，不记得，太久了。”

97
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他们发现他显然已不记得从监牢被带到这屋里的事了。他们听见他低声含糊地念叨着“北塔一Ｏ五”。他向四面细看，显然是在寻找长期囚禁他的城堡坚壁。才下到天井里，他便本能地改变了步态，好像预计着前面便是吊桥。在他看到没有吊桥，倒是有马车在大街上等着他时，他便放掉女儿的手，抱紧了头。

98
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门口没有人群；窗户很多，窗前却阒无一人，甚至街面上也没有行人。一种不自然的寂静和空旷笼罩着。那儿只看到一个人，那就是德伐日太太一-她倚在门框上织着毛线，什么都没看见。

99
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囚徒进了马车，他的女儿也跟着上去了，罗瑞先生刚踩上踏板，却被他的问题挡住了一-老人在痛苦地追问他的皮匠工具和没做完的鞋。德伐日太太立即告诉丈夫她去取，然后便打着毛线走出灯光，进了天井。她很快便拿来了东西，递进马车--又立即靠在门框上打起毛线来，什么都没看见。

100
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德伐日坐上驭手座位，说，“去关卡！”双手“叭”的一声挥动鞭子，一行人就在头顶昏暗摇曳的路灯下蹄声得得地上路。

101
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马车在摇曳的路灯下走着。灯光好时街道便明亮，灯光差时街道便幽暗。他们驰过了火光点点的店铺、衣着鲜艳的人群、灯火辉煌的咖啡厅和戏院大门，往一道城门走去。提着风灯的卫兵站在岗哨小屋边。“证件，客人！”“那就看这儿，军官先生，”德伐日说，走下车把卫兵拉到一旁，“这是车里那位白头发先生的证件。文件和他都交我负责，是在一一”他放低了声音，几盏军用风灯闪烁了一下，穿制服的手臂举起一盏风灯，伸进马车，跟手臂相连的眼睛用颇不寻常的眼色望了望白发的头。“行了，走吧！”穿制服的人说。“再见！”德伐日回答。这样，他们从摇曳在头顶越来越暗淡的不长的光林里走了出去，来到浩瀚无涯的星光之林下面。

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天弯里悬满并不摇曳的永恒的光点，天穹下夜的阴影广阔而幽渺。有的光点距离这小小的地球如此辽远，学者甚至告诉我们它们发出的光是否足以显示出自己尚成问题。它们只是宇宙的微尘，而在宇宙中一切都能容忍，一切都干了出来。在黎明之前整个寒冷而不安的旅途中，点点星光再一次对着贾维斯.罗瑞先生的耳朵悄悄提出了老问题--罗瑞先生面对已被埋葬又被掘出的老人坐着，猜测着老人已失去了哪一些精微的能力，哪一些能力还可以恢复：

103
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“我希望你愿意重返人世？”

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得到的还是老答案：

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“我不知道。”

106
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“日安！”德伐日先生说，低头看着那个低垂着的白发的头。那人在做鞋。

107
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那头抬起了一下，一个非常微弱的声音作了回答，仿佛来自遥远的地方。

108
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“日安！”

109
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“我看你工作得还是很辛苦？”

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良久的沉默，然后那头才抬了起来；那声音回答说，“是--我在工作。”这一回有一双失神的眼睛望了望发问的人，然后那张脸又低了下去。

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那声音之微弱今人怜悯，却也吓人，并非由于体力上的衰弱，虽然囚禁与粗劣的食物无疑都起过作用；却是由于孤独与废弃所导致的衰弱，而这正是它凄惨的特色。它仿佛是漠漠远古的声音那微弱、濒危的回响，已完全失去了人类嗓音所具有的生命力与共鸣，仿佛只是一种曾经美丽的颜色褪败成的模糊可怜的污斑。那声音很低沉，很压抑，像是从地下发出来的，令人想起在荒野里踽踽独行、疲惫不堪、饥饿待毙的旅人，那无家可归的绝望的生灵在躺下身子准备死去之前苦念着家庭和亲友时所发出的哀音。

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一声不吭的工作进行了几分钟，那双失神的眼睛又抬起来望了望。眼里全无兴趣或好奇，只是模糊地机械地意识到刚才有个唯一的客人站立的地方现在还没有空出来。

113
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“我想多放一点光线进来，”德伐日目不转睛地望着鞋匠，“你可以多接受一点么？

114
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鞋匠停止了工作，露出一种茫然谛听的神情，望了望他身边的地板，同样望了望另一面地板，再抬头望着说话的人。

115
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“你说什么？”

116
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“你可以多接受一点光线么？”

117
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“你要放进来，我只好忍受。”（“只好”两字受到很轻微的强调）

118
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只开了一线的门开大了一些，暂时固定在了那个角度。一大片光线射进阁楼，照出鞋匠已停止了工作；．一只没做完的鞋放在他膝头上；几件平常的工具和各种皮件放在脚旁或长凳上。他长了一把白胡子，不长，修剪得很乱；面颊凹陷，眼睛异常明亮。因为面颊干瘦和凹陷，长在仍然深浓的眉毛和乱糟糟的头发之下的那双眼睛似乎显得很大，虽然实际上并非如此一-它们天生就大，可现在看去却大得不自然。他那破烂的黄衬衫领口敞开，露出瘦骨嶙峋的身子。由于长期与直接的阳光和空气隔绝，他跟他那帆布外衣、松垂的长袜和破烂的衣衫全都淡成了羊皮纸似的灰黄，混成一片，难以分清了。

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他一直用手挡住眼前的光线，那手似乎连骨头都透明了。他就像这样坐着，停止了工作，直勾勾地瞪着眼。在直视眼前的人形之前，他总要东望望，西望望，仿佛已失去了把声音跟地点联系的习惯。说话之前也是如此，东看看，西看看，又忘掉了说话。

120
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“你今天要做完那双鞋么？”德伐日问。

121
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“你说什么？”

122
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“你今天打算做完那双鞋么？”

123
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“我说不清是不是打算，我想是的。我不知道。”

124
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但是，这个问题却让他想起了他的工作，便又埋头忙起活儿来。

125
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罗瑞先生让那姑娘留在门口，自己走上前去。他在德伐日身边站了一两分钟，鞋匠才抬起了头。他并不因见了另一个人而显得惊讶，但他一只颤巍巍的手指却在见他时放错了地方，落到了嘴唇上（他的嘴唇和指甲都灰白得像铅），然后那手又回到了活儿上，他弯下腰重新做起鞋来。那目光和身体的动作都只是一瞬间的事。

126
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“你有客人了，你看，”德伐日先生说。

127
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“你说什么？”

128
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“这儿有个客人。”

129
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鞋匠像刚才一样抬头望了望，双手还在继续工作。

130
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“来吧！”德伐日说。“这位先生很懂得鞋的好坏。把你做的鞋让他看看。拿好，先生。”

131
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罗瑞先生接过鞋。

132
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“告诉这位先生这是什么鞋，是谁做的。”

133
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这一次的停顿比刚才要长，好一会儿之后鞋匠才回了话：

134
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“我忘了你问的话。你说的是什么？”

135
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“我说，你能不能介绍一下这类鞋，给这位先生介绍一下情况。”

136
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“这是女鞋，年轻女士走路时穿的。是流行的款式。我没见过那款式。可我手上有图样。”他带着瞬息即逝的一丝自豪望了望他的鞋。

137
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“鞋匠的名字是……？”德伐日说。

138
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现在手上再没了工件，他便把右手的指关节放在左手掌心里，然后又把左手的指关节放到右手掌心里，接着又用一只手抹了抹胡子拉碴的下巴。他就像这样一刻不停地依次摸来摸去，每说出一句话他总要落入一片空白。要想把他从那片空白之中唤醒过来简直像是维持一个极度衰弱的病人不致休克，或是维持濒于死亡者的生命，希望他能透露些什么。

139
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“你问我的名字吗？”

140
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“是的。”

141
-

“北塔一Ｏ五。”

142
-

“就这个？”

143
-

“北塔一０五。”

144
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他发出了一种既非叹息也非呻吟的厌倦的声音，然后又弯腰干起活儿来，直做到沉默再度被打破。

145
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“做鞋不是你的职业吧？”罗瑞先生注视着他说。

146
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他那枯槁的眼睛转向了德伐日，仿佛希望把题目交给他来回答，从那儿没得到答案，他又在地下找了一会儿，才又转向提问者。

147
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“做鞋不是我的职业么？不是。我--我是在这儿才学做鞋的。我是自学的。我请求让我--”

148
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他又失去了记忆。这回长达几分钟，这时他那两只手又依次摸索起来。他的眼睛终于慢慢回到刚才离开的那张脸上。一见到那张脸，他吃了一惊，却又平静下来，像是那时才醒来的人，又回到了昨夜的题目上。

149
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“我申请自学做鞋，费了很多力，花了很多时间，批准了。从那以后我就做鞋。”

150
-

他伸手想要回被拿走的鞋，罗瑞先生仍然注视着他的脸，说：

151
-

“曼内特先生，你一点都想不起我了么？”

152
-

鞋掉到地下，他坐在那儿呆望着提问题的人。

153
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“曼内特先生，”罗瑞先生一只手放在德伐日的手臂上，“你一点也想不起这个人了么？看看他，看看我。你心里是不是还想得起以前的银行职员，以前的职业和仆人，曼内特先生？”

154
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这位多年的囚徒坐在那儿一会儿呆望着罗瑞先生，一会儿呆望着德伐日，他额头正中已被长期抹去的聪明深沉的智力迹象逐渐穿破笼罩着它的阴霾透了出来，却随即又被遮住了，模糊了，隐没了，不过那种迹象确实出现过。可他的这些表情却都在一张年轻漂亮的面孔上准确地得到了反映。那姑娘早已沿着墙根悄悄走到一个能看见他的地点，此时正凝望着他。她最初举起了手，即使不是想把自己与他隔开，怕见到他，也是表现了一种混合着同情的恐惧。现在那手却又伸向了他，颤抖着，急于把他那幽灵样的面孔放到她温暖年轻的胸膛上去，用爱使他复活，使他产生希望--那表情在她那年轻漂亮的脸上重复得如此准确（虽是表现了坚强的性格），竟仿佛是一道活动的光从他身上移向了她。

155
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黑暗又笼罩了他，他对两人的注视逐渐松懈下来，双眼以一种昏瞀而茫然的表情在地下找了一会儿，便又照老样子东张西望，最后发出一声深沉的长长的叹息，拿起鞋又干起了活儿。

156
-

“你认出他了么，先生？”德伐日先生问。

157
-

“认出来了，只一会儿。开头我还以为完全没有希望了，可我却在一瞬间毫无疑问地看到了那张我曾十分熟悉的面孔。嘘！咱们再退开一点，嘘！”

158
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那姑娘已离开阁楼的墙壁，走近了老人的长凳。老人在低头干活儿，靠近他的人影几乎要伸出手来摸摸他，而他却一无所知。此中有一种东西令人肃然竦然。

159
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没有话语，没有声音。她像精灵一样站在他身边，而他则弯着腰在干活。

160
-

终于，他放下了手中的工具，要取皮匠刀了。那刀就在他身边--不是她站立的一边。他拿起了刀，弯下腰要工作，眼睛却瞥见了她的裙子。他抬起头来，看到了她的脸。两个旁观者要走上前来，她却做了个手势，让他们别动。她并不担心他会用刀伤害她，虽然那两人有些不放心。

161
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他恐惧地望着她，过了一会儿他的嘴唇开始做出说话的动作，虽然没有发出声音。他的呼吸急促吃力，不时停顿，却听见他一个字一个字地说了出来：

162
-

“这是什么？”

163
-

姑娘泪流满面，把双手放到唇边吻了吻，又伸向他；然后把他搂在胸前，仿佛要把他那衰迈的头放在她的怀抱里。

164
-

“你不是看守的女儿吧？”

165
-

她叹了口气，“不是。”

166
-

“你是谁？”

167
-

她对自己的声音不放心，便在他身边长凳上坐了下来。他退缩了一下，但她把手放到了他的手臂上，一阵震颤明显地通过他全身。他温和地放下了鞋刀，坐在那儿瞪大眼望着她。

168
-

她刚才匆匆掠到一边的金色长发此时又垂落到她的脖子上。他一点点地伸出手来拿起发鬟看着。这个动作才做了一半他又迷糊了，重新发出一声深沉的叹息，又做起鞋来。

169
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但他做得并不久。她放掉他的胳膊，却把手放到了他的肩上。他怀疑地看了那手两三次，似乎要肯定它确实在那儿，然后放下了工作，把手放到自己脖子上，取下一根脏污的绳，绳上有一块卷好的布。他在膝盖上小心地把它打开，其中有少许头发；只不过两三根金色的长发，是多年前缠在他指头上扯下来的。

170
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他又把她的头发拿在手上，仔细审视。“是同样的，怎么可能！那是什么时候的事？是怎么回事？”

171
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在苦思的表情回到他额上时，他仿佛看到她也有同样的表情，便拉她完全转向了亮光，打量她。

172
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“那天晚上我被叫走时，她的头放在我的肩上一-她怕我走，虽然我并不怕--我被送到北塔时，他们在我的袖子上找到了这个。‘你们可以把它留给我么？它不能帮助我的身体逃掉，虽然能让我的精神飞走。’这是我当时说的话。我记得很清楚。”

173
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他用嘴唇做了多次动作才表示出了这些意思。但是他一旦找到了话语，话语便连贯而来，虽然来得缓慢。

174
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“怎么样--是你吗？”

175
-

两个旁观者又吓了一跳，因为他令人害怕地突然转向了她。然而她却任凭他抓住，坦然地坐着，低声说，“我求你们，好先生们，不要过来，不要说话，不要动。”

176
-

“听：”他惊叫，“是谁的声音？”

177
-

他一面叫，一面已放松了她，然后两手伸到头上，发狂似地扯起头发来。正跟除了做鞋之外他的一切都会过去一样，这阵发作终于过去。他把他的小包卷了起来，打算重新挂到胸口，却仍然望着她，伤心地摇着头。

178
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“不，不，不，你太年轻，太美丽，这是不可能的。看看囚犯是什么样子吧！这样的手她当年从来没看见过，这样的脸她当年从来没有看见过，这样的声音她当年从来没有听到过。不，不。她--还有他--都是很久很久以前的事了--在北塔那漫长的时间之前。你叫什么名字，我温和的天使？”

179
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为了庆贺他变得柔和语调和态度，女儿跪倒在他面前，哀告的双手抚慰着父亲的胸口。

180
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“啊，先生，以后我会告诉你我的名字，我的母亲是谁，我的父亲是谁，我为什么不知道他们那痛苦不堪的经历。但我现在不能告诉你，不能在这儿告诉你。我现在可以在这儿告诉你的是我请求你抚摸我，为我祝福，亲我，亲我啊，亲爱的，我亲爱的！”

181
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他那一头凄凉的白发跟她那一头闪光的金发混到了一起，金发温暖了白发，也照亮了它，仿佛是自由的光芒照射在他的身上。

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“如果你从我的声音里听出了你曾听到过的甜蜜的音乐--我不知道你会不会，但我希望会--就为它哭泣吧，为它哭泣吧！如果你在抚摸我的头发时能回想起在你自由的青年时代曾靠在你胸前的头的话，就为它哭泣吧，为它哭泣吧！若是我向你表示我们还会有一个家，我会对你一片孝心，全心全意地服侍你，这话能令你想起一个败落多年的家，因而使你的心憔悴，你就为它哭吧，哭吧！”

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她更紧地搂住他的脖子，像摇孩子似的在胸前摇着他。

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“如果我告诉你，我最最亲爱的人，你的痛苦已经过去，我是到这儿来带你脱离苦海的，我们要到英国去，去享受和平与安宁，因而让你想到你白白葬送的大好年华，想到我们的生地--对你这样冷酷无情的法兰西，你就哭吧！哭吧！如果我告诉你我的名字，谈起我还活着的父亲和已经死去的母亲，告诉你我应当跪在我光明磊落的父亲面前求他饶恕，因为我不曾营救过他，不曾为他通宵流泪、睡不着觉，而那是因为我可怜的母亲爱我，不肯让我知道她的痛苦。若是这样你就哭吧！哭吧！为她而哭！也为我哭！两位好先生，谢谢上帝！我感到他神圣的眼泪落在我脸上，他的呜咽抽搐在我心上！啊，你看！为我们感谢上帝吧！感谢上帝！”

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他已倒在了她的怀里，他的脸落到了她的胸膛上：一个异常动人，也异常可怕的场面（因为那奇冤和惨祸）。两个在场人都不禁双手掩面。

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阁楼的静谧久久不曾受到干扰，抽泣的胸膛和颤抖的身躯平静了下来。正如一切风暴之后总有静谧。那是人世的象征，被称作生命的那场风暴必然会静下来，进入休息和寂寥。两人走上前去把父女俩从地上扶了起来--老人已逐渐歪倒在地上，精疲力竭，昏睡过去。姑娘是扶着他倒下去的，让他的头落在自己的手臂上；她的金发垂了下来，挡住了他的光线。

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“如果我们能把一切安排好，”她说，罗瑞先生已好几次抽动鼻孔，这时才对她弯下身来。她向他举起手说，“我们立即离开巴黎吧！不用惊醒他就能从门口把他带走--”

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“可是你得考虑，他经得起长途跋涉么？”罗瑞先生问。

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“这个城市对他太可怕，让他长途跋涉也比留在这儿强。”

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“这倒是真的，”德伐日说，此时他正跪在地上旁观，听着他们说话。“更重要的是，有一切理由认为，曼内特先生最好是离开法国。你看，我是不是去雇一辆驿车？”

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“这是业务工作，”罗瑞先生说，转瞬之间恢复了他一板一眼的工作态度。“既是业务工作，最好就由我来做。”

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“那就谢谢你了，”曼内特小姐催促道，“就让我跟他留在这儿。你看，他已经平静下来。把他交给我好了，不用担心。有什么可担心的呢！如果你关上门，保证我们不受干扰，我毫不怀疑他在你回来的时候会跟你离开时一样平静。我保证尽一切努力照顾好他。你一回来我们马上就带他走。”

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对这做法罗瑞先生跟德伐日都不怎么赞成。他们都很希望有一个人能留下来陪着，但是又要雇马车，又要办旅行手续；而天色又已经晚了，时间很急迫。最后他们只好把要办的事匆匆分了个工就赶着办事去了。

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暮色笼罩下来，女儿把头放在硬地上，靠在父亲身旁，观察着他，两人静静地躺着。夜色越来越浓，一道光从墙壁的缝隙里透了进来。

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罗瑞先生和德伐日先生已办好了旅行所需的一应事项，除了旅行外衣、围巾，还带来了夹肉面包、酒和热咖啡。德伐日先生把食品和带来的灯放到鞋匠长凳上（阁楼里除了一张草荐床之外别无他物），他跟罗瑞先生弄醒了囚徒，扶他站起身来。

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人类的全部智慧怕也无法从那张脸上那惊恐茫然的表情解释他心里的神秘。他是否明白已经发生的事？他是否回忆起了他们告诉他的东西？他是否知道自己已经获得了自由？没有任何聪明的头脑能够回答。他们试着和他交谈，但是他仍然很迷糊，回答来得很缓慢。见到他那惶惑迷乱的样子，他们都感到害怕，都同意不再去惊扰他。他露出了一种从没出现过疯狂迷乱的表情，只用双手死死抱住脑袋。但-听见他女儿的声音就面露喜色，并把头向她转过去。

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他们给他东西吃，他就吃；给他东西喝，他就喝；给他东西穿，他就穿；给他东西围，他就围，一副长期习惯于担惊受怕、逆来顺受的样子。他的女几揽住他的胳膊，他反应很快，立即用双手抓住她的手不放。

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他们开始下楼，德伐日先生提着灯走在前面，罗瑞先生断后。他们才踏上长长的主楼梯没几步，老人便停下了脚，盯着房顶和四壁细看。

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“你记得这地方么，爸爸？你记得是从这儿上去的么？”

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“你说什么？”

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但是不等她重复她的问题，他却喃喃地作出了回答，仿佛她已经再次问过了。

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“记得？不，不记得，太久了。”

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他们发现他显然已不记得从监牢被带到这屋里的事了。他们听见他低声含糊地念叨着“北塔一Ｏ五”。他向四面细看，显然是在寻找长期囚禁他的城堡坚壁。才下到天井里，他便本能地改变了步态，好像预计着前面便是吊桥。在他看到没有吊桥，倒是有马车在大街上等着他时，他便放掉女儿的手，抱紧了头。

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门口没有人群；窗户很多，窗前却阒无一人，甚至街面上也没有行人。一种不自然的寂静和空旷笼罩着。那儿只看到一个人，那就是德伐日太太一-她倚在门框上织着毛线，什么都没看见。

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囚徒进了马车，他的女儿也跟着上去了，罗瑞先生刚踩上踏板，却被他的问题挡住了一-老人在痛苦地追问他的皮匠工具和没做完的鞋。德伐日太太立即告诉丈夫她去取，然后便打着毛线走出灯光，进了天井。她很快便拿来了东西，递进马车--又立即靠在门框上打起毛线来，什么都没看见。

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德伐日坐上驭手座位，说，“去关卡！”双手“叭”的一声挥动鞭子，一行人就在头顶昏暗摇曳的路灯下蹄声得得地上路。

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马车在摇曳的路灯下走着。灯光好时街道便明亮，灯光差时街道便幽暗。他们驰过了火光点点的店铺、衣着鲜艳的人群、灯火辉煌的咖啡厅和戏院大门，往一道城门走去。提着风灯的卫兵站在岗哨小屋边。“证件，客人！”“那就看这儿，军官先生，”德伐日说，走下车把卫兵拉到一旁，“这是车里那位白头发先生的证件。文件和他都交我负责，是在一一”他放低了声音，几盏军用风灯闪烁了一下，穿制服的手臂举起一盏风灯，伸进马车，跟手臂相连的眼睛用颇不寻常的眼色望了望白发的头。“行了，走吧！”穿制服的人说。“再见！”德伐日回答。这样，他们从摇曳在头顶越来越暗淡的不长的光林里走了出去，来到浩瀚无涯的星光之林下面。

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天弯里悬满并不摇曳的永恒的光点，天穹下夜的阴影广阔而幽渺。有的光点距离这小小的地球如此辽远，学者甚至告诉我们它们发出的光是否足以显示出自己尚成问题。它们只是宇宙的微尘，而在宇宙中一切都能容忍，一切都干了出来。在黎明之前整个寒冷而不安的旅途中，点点星光再一次对着贾维斯.罗瑞先生的耳朵悄悄提出了老问题--罗瑞先生面对已被埋葬又被掘出的老人坐着，猜测着老人已失去了哪一些精微的能力，哪一些能力还可以恢复：

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“我希望你愿意重返人世？”

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得到的还是老答案：

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“我不知道。”

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`GOOD DAY!’ said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at he white head that bent low over the shoemaking.

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It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the salutation, as if it were at a distance:

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`Good day!’

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`You are still hard at work, I see?’

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After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the voice replied,   `Yes--I am working.’ This time, a pair of haggard eyes had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.

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The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice under-ground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied Out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.

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Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were aware of had stood, was not yet empty.

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`I want,’ said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker, `to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?’

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The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening, at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.

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`What did you say?’

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`You can bear a little more light?’

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`I must bear it, if you let it in.’ (Laying the palest shadow of a stress upon the second word.)

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The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and showed the workman with an un-finished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked

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un-naturally so. His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.

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He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze, pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without first pandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.

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`Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?’ asked Defarge, motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.

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`What did you say?’

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`Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?’ `I can’t say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don’t know.’

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But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.

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Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker looked up. He  showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The look and the action had occupied but an instant.

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`You have a visitor, you see,’ said Monsieur Defarge.

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`What did you say?’

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`Here is a visitor.’

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The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his work.

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`Come!’ said Defarge. `Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.’

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Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.

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`Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker’s name.’

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There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoe-maker replied:

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`I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?’

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`I said, couldn’t you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur’s information?’

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`It is a lady’s shoe. It is a young lady’s walking-shoe. It is in the present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.’ He glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.

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`And the maker’s name?’ said Defarge.

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Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and so on in regular changes, without a moment’s intermission. The task of recalling him from the vacancy into which he always sank when he had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a fast-dying man.

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`Did you ask me for my name?’

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`Assuredly I did.’

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`One Hundred and Five, North Tower.’

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`Is that all?’

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`One Hundred and Five, North Tower.’

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With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work again, until the silence was again broken.

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`You are not a shoemaker by trade?’ said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly at him.

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His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back on the questioner when they had sought the ground.

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`I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoe-maker by trade. I--I learn’t it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to---’

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He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a subject of last night.

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`I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.’

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As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr. Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:

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`Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?’

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The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the questioner.

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`Monsieur Manette;’ Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge’s arm; `do you remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your mind, Monsieur Manette?’

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As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr. Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent intelligence in the middle of the fore-head, gradually forced themselves through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him, trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression repeated (though in stronger

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characters) on her fair young face, that it looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.

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Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he took the shoe up, and resumed his work.

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`Have you recognised him, monsieur?’ asked Defarge in a whisper.

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`Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hope-less, but I have unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!’

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She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as lie stooped over his labour.

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Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit, beside him, and he bent over his work.

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It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument in his hand, for his shoemaker’s knife. It lay on that side of him which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward, hut she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his striking at her with the knife, though they had.

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He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:

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`What is this?’

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With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she laid his ruined head there.

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`You are not the gaoler’s daughter?’

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She sighed `No.’

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`Who are you?’

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Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.

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Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his shoemaking.

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But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound on upon his finger.

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He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. `It is the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!’

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As the concentrating expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the light, and looked at her.

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`She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. "You will leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they may in the spirit." Those were the words I said. I remember them very well.’

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He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it. But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently, though slowly.

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`How was this?--Was it you?’

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Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only said, in a low voice, `I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near us, do not speak, do not move!’

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`Hark!’ he exclaimed. `Whose voice was that?’

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His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and gloomily shook his head.

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`No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can’t be. See what the prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your name, my gentle angel?’

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Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.

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`O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was, and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!’

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His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.

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`If you hear in my voice--I don’t know that it is so, but I hope it is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away, weep for it, weep for it!’

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She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a child.

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`If’ when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste, and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And if’ when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living, and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep

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for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see Thank God for us, thank God!’

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He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.

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When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained him from the light.

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`If, without disturbing him,’ she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, `all could be arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he could be taken away---’

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`But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?’ asked Mr. Lorry.

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`More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to him.’

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`It is true,’ said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. `More than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?’

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`That’s business,’ said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his methodical manners; `and if business is to be dune, I had better do it.’

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`Then be so kind,’ urged Miss Manette, `as to leave us here. You see how composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back, as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until you return, and then we will remove him straight.’

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Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed, for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away to do it.

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Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the hard ground close at the father’s side, and watched him. The darkness deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed through the chinks in the wall.

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Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the lamp he carried, on the shoemaker’s bench (there was nothing else in the garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and assisted him to his feet.

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No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened, whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his daughter’s voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.

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In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to his daughter’s drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand in both his own.

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They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr. Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and round at the walls.

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`You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?

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`What did you say?’

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But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if she had repeated it.

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`Remember? No, I don’t remember. It was so very long ago.’

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That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter, `One Hundred and Five, North Tower;’ and when he looked about him, it evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he dropped his daughter’s hand and clasped his head again.

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No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the many windows; not even a chance passer-by was in the street. An unnatural silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul has to be seen, and that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.

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The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed him, when Mr. Lorry’s feet were arrested on the step by his asking, miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the court-yard. She quickly brought them down and handed them in ;--and immediately afterwards leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.

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Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word `To the Barrier!’ The postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the Feeble over swinging lamps.

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Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. `Your papers, travellers!’ `See here then, monsieur the Officer,’ said Defarge, getting down, and taking him gravely apart, `these are the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with him, at the---’ He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every-day or an every-night look, at monsieur with the white head. `It is well. Forward!’ from the uniform. `Adieu!’ from Defarge. And so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler over swinging

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lamps, out under the great grove of stars.

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Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black. All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:

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`I hope you care to be recalled to life?’

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And the old answer:

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`I can’t say.’

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`GOOD DAY!’ said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at he white head that bent low over the shoemaking.

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It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the salutation, as if it were at a distance:

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`Good day!’

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`You are still hard at work, I see?’

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After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the voice replied,   `Yes--I am working.’ This time, a pair of haggard eyes had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.

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The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice under-ground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied Out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.

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Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were aware of had stood, was not yet empty.

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`I want,’ said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker, `to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?’

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The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening, at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.

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`What did you say?’

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`You can bear a little more light?’

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`I must bear it, if you let it in.’ (Laying the palest shadow of a stress upon the second word.)

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The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and showed the workman with an un-finished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked

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un-naturally so. His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.

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He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze, pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without first pandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.

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`Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?’ asked Defarge, motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.

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`What did you say?’

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`Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?’ `I can’t say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don’t know.’

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But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.

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Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker looked up. He  showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The look and the action had occupied but an instant.

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`You have a visitor, you see,’ said Monsieur Defarge.

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`What did you say?’

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`Here is a visitor.’

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The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his work.

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`Come!’ said Defarge. `Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.’

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Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.

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`Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker’s name.’

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There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoe-maker replied:

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`I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?’

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`I said, couldn’t you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur’s information?’

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`It is a lady’s shoe. It is a young lady’s walking-shoe. It is in the present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.’ He glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.

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`And the maker’s name?’ said Defarge.

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Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and so on in regular changes, without a moment’s intermission. The task of recalling him from the vacancy into which he always sank when he had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a fast-dying man.

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`Did you ask me for my name?’

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`Assuredly I did.’

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`One Hundred and Five, North Tower.’

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`Is that all?’

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`One Hundred and Five, North Tower.’

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With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work again, until the silence was again broken.

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`You are not a shoemaker by trade?’ said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly at him.

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His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back on the questioner when they had sought the ground.

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`I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoe-maker by trade. I--I learn’t it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to---’

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He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a subject of last night.

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`I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.’

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As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr. Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:

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`Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?’

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The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the questioner.

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`Monsieur Manette;’ Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge’s arm; `do you remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your mind, Monsieur Manette?’

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As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr. Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent intelligence in the middle of the fore-head, gradually forced themselves through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him, trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression repeated (though in stronger

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characters) on her fair young face, that it looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.

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Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he took the shoe up, and resumed his work.

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`Have you recognised him, monsieur?’ asked Defarge in a whisper.

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`Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hope-less, but I have unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!’

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She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as lie stooped over his labour.

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Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit, beside him, and he bent over his work.

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It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument in his hand, for his shoemaker’s knife. It lay on that side of him which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward, hut she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his striking at her with the knife, though they had.

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He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:

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`What is this?’

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With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she laid his ruined head there.

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`You are not the gaoler’s daughter?’

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She sighed `No.’

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`Who are you?’

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Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.

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Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his shoemaking.

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But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound on upon his finger.

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He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. `It is the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!’

175

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As the concentrating expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the light, and looked at her.

176

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`She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. "You will leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they may in the spirit." Those were the words I said. I remember them very well.’

177

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He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it. But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently, though slowly.

178

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`How was this?--Was it you?’

179

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Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only said, in a low voice, `I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near us, do not speak, do not move!’

180

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`Hark!’ he exclaimed. `Whose voice was that?’

181

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His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and gloomily shook his head.

182

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`No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can’t be. See what the prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your name, my gentle angel?’

183

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Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.

184

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`O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was, and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!’

185

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His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.

186

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`If you hear in my voice--I don’t know that it is so, but I hope it is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away, weep for it, weep for it!’

187

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She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a child.

188

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`If’ when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste, and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And if’ when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living, and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep

189

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for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see Thank God for us, thank God!’

190

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He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.

191

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When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained him from the light.

192

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`If, without disturbing him,’ she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, `all could be arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he could be taken away---’

193

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`But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?’ asked Mr. Lorry.

194

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`More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to him.’

195

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`It is true,’ said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. `More than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?’

196

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`That’s business,’ said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his methodical manners; `and if business is to be dune, I had better do it.’

197

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`Then be so kind,’ urged Miss Manette, `as to leave us here. You see how composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back, as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until you return, and then we will remove him straight.’

198

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Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed, for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away to do it.

199

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Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the hard ground close at the father’s side, and watched him. The darkness deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed through the chinks in the wall.

200

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Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the lamp he carried, on the shoemaker’s bench (there was nothing else in the garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and assisted him to his feet.

201

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No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened, whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his daughter’s voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.

202

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In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to his daughter’s drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand in both his own.

203

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They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr. Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and round at the walls.

204

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`You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?

205

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`What did you say?’

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But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if she had repeated it.

207

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`Remember? No, I don’t remember. It was so very long ago.’

208

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That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter, `One Hundred and Five, North Tower;’ and when he looked about him, it evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he dropped his daughter’s hand and clasped his head again.

209

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No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the many windows; not even a chance passer-by was in the street. An unnatural silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul has to be seen, and that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.

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The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed him, when Mr. Lorry’s feet were arrested on the step by his asking, miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the court-yard. She quickly brought them down and handed them in ;--and immediately afterwards leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.

211

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Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word `To the Barrier!’ The postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the Feeble over swinging lamps.

212

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Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. `Your papers, travellers!’ `See here then, monsieur the Officer,’ said Defarge, getting down, and taking him gravely apart, `these are the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with him, at the---’ He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every-day or an every-night look, at monsieur with the white head. `It is well. Forward!’ from the uniform. `Adieu!’ from Defarge. And so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler over swinging

213

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lamps, out under the great grove of stars.

214

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Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black. All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:

215

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`I hope you care to be recalled to life?’

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And the old answer:

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`I can’t say.’

218

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