It has already been said that the corner where the Doctor lived was a wonderful place for sound to travel a long way. Always busily pulling the golden thread around her husband, her father, herself, and her old motherly friend and teacher, in a life of quiet happiness, Lucie sat in the quiet house on the peaceful corner, listening to the footsteps of the years as they passed.
She was a perfectly happy young wife, but at first, there had been times when her work would fall slowly from her hands as her eyes closed. She heard something coming in the sounds, lightly and so far off that she almost could not hear it, and it affected her deeply. Hopes and fears took opposite sides in her... hopes of a love that she did not yet know, and fears that she would not live long enough to see through all the happiness that was to come with it. In with all the sounds was the sound of footsteps beside her body as it was being buried. The thought of her husband being left alone and crying for her came out as tears through her eyes.
That time passed and a little Lucie came to lay on her breast. Then, in with all the other sounds, there was the sound of baby Lucie's little feet and the sound of her first words. Let louder sounds come; still they did not stop the young mother at the side of her baby's bed from hearing those smaller and quieter sounds. With them came the sunlight of a child's laugh, and Christ, the friend of children. She trusted him with her troubles, and he seemed to take her child in his arms, as he had done in the past, bringing a holy happiness to her.
Still busily pulling the golden thread that tied them all together, putting her spirit into all of them without ever trying to control them, Lucie heard in the sound of the years nothing but friendly and relaxing sounds. Her husband's step was strong and rich, her father's strong and fair. Miss Pross's step was like that of a wild horse, making sounds with its nose and hitting the ground under the big tree in the garden!
Even where there were sad sounds in with the others, they were not deep or cruel. When golden hair like her own was lying like that of an angel around the tired face of a little boy, and he said, with a smile, "Daddy and mummy, I am sad to leave you both, and to leave my beautiful sister; but God is calling me and I must go!" they were not all tears of pain that made his young mother's cheeks wet, as the breath left the one she hugged, whom God had given to her for a time. "Let the children come to me, and do not stop them. They see my Father's face.” Oh Father, what blessed words!
The sound of an angel's wings mixed in with the others. They were not all of this world, but some had in them the touch of heaven. The soft sound of the wind blowing over a little place in the garden where he was buried was part of the sounds too, and Lucie could hear both these sounds in a soft whisper, like the breathing of a summer ocean sleeping on a sandy beach. Over it all little Lucie would look so funny working seriously at some little job, or dressing a doll at her mother's feet, always talking to herself in the languages of the two cities that had come together to make her.
It was not often that the footsteps of Sydney Carton were part of the sound. Unless asked, he came at most, half a dozen times in a year. He would sit with them through the evening as he had once done so often. He never came full of wine. And one other thing about him was whispered in the sounds, which has been whispered in all true sounds for all time.
No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and still loved her with a good heart when she became a wife and a mother, without her children having a strange love for him... like they were feeling sad for him. What good secret feelings are touched in such a case, no sound can tell; but it happens, and it happened here. Carton was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her fat arms, and he kept that place with her as she grew. Almost at the last, the little boy had said of him, "Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!"
Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the courts, like some great ship forcing itself through rough waters, and he pulled his friend, who was so much help, behind him, like a little boat. As a boat being pulled like that is often forced under the water, so Sydney had a rough time of it. But hard as it is to change, and so much harder for Sydney, who was not worried about what others thought of him, made this the life he was called to live. He gave no more thought to changing from the wild dog who feeds on what the lion leaves than what a real wild dog would think of becoming a lion instead. Stryver was rich. He had married a healthy woman whose husband had died and left her with wealth and three boys. The boys had nothing especially great coming out of them apart from the straight hair on each of their short fat heads.
Mr. Stryver, trying to show himself to be the best father in the world, had these three young men walk in front of him like three sheep, to the quiet corner in Soho, where he hoped to surprise Lucie's husband by letting him teach them. In his own special way, he said, "Hello! Here are three pieces of bread and cheese for your married needs, Darnay!" When Darnay quietly said he was not interested in the three pieces of bread and cheese, Mr. Stryver was so filled with anger that it came out later when he taught the young men to watch for the "pride of beggars", like that teacher man. He would often complain to Mrs. Stryver, over his glass of wine, about how Mrs. Darnay had once tried to "catch" him, and how it was only his great ability to see through her that kept him from being caught. Some of his law friends, who at times joined him in drinking his wine and listening to this lie, were able to forgive him for the lie by saying that he had told it so often that he believed it himself. If so, it is such a great sin on top of what was a great sin to start with, that it would only be fair for such a person to be taken off to some quiet place and to be quietly hanged there.
These were some of the sounds to which Lucie, sometimes thinking seriously, sometimes laughing easily, listened in that corner full of sounds, until her little daughter was six years old. There is no need to say how close to her heart were the sounds of her child's steps, those of her own loved father, who was always a hard worker in control of himself, and of her much loved husband. There was no need to tell of how the smallest sound from their close family was like music to her either. Their home, which she put together with great wisdom and careful use of her money, was more beautiful than many that much richer people had used much more wealth on. And there was no need to tell of the sounds all around her, sweet in her ears, coming from the many times her father had told her that he found her to be a better daughter (if it were possible) married, than if she had not married. And sounds of the many times her husband had said to her that none of her jobs seemed to take away from her love for him and her help to him; and he asked her, "What is the magic secret, my love, of your being everything to all of us, as if there were only one of us, yet you never seem to be in a hurry, or to have too much to do?"
But there were other sounds, far off in the distance, that quietly talked of danger, all through those years. And it was now, around little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they started to sound quite awful, like a great storm over in France, that was having a dangerous effect on the ocean between them.
On a night in the middle of July, 1789, Mr. Lorry came in late from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and her husband in the dark window seat. It was a hot, wild night, and the three of them all remembered the old Sunday night when they had looked at the lightning from the same place.
"I had started to think," said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, "that I would have to spend the night at Tellson's. We have had so much business all day, that it was hard to know where to start, or which way to turn. There is so much fear in Paris just now, that everyone is turning to us! The people we work with do not seem to be able to put their money with us fast enough. It is like a sickness, the way they all feel they must send their wealth to England."
"That doesn't sound good," said Darnay.
"Doesn't sound good, you say, my good Darnay? Maybe, but we don't know what the reason is for it. People often do stupid things! Some of us at Tellson's are getting old, and we really cannot be interested in change without a good reason."
"Too bad," said Darnay, "because you know how dark and dangerous the sky is."
"I know that, to be sure," agreed Mr. Lorry, trying to make himself believe that he was going to be angry, when he almost never was angry, "but I just want to be difficult after such a hard day at work. So where is Manette?"
"Here he is," said the Doctor, coming into the dark room at just that second.
"I am happy to see you're at home. The business and trouble that I have been a part of all day has made me worry without a good reason. You're not going out, I hope?"
"No. I am going to play a board game with you, if you like," said the Doctor.
"I don't think I would like to, if I may be honest. I am not in the right spirit to compete against you tonight. Is the tea still out, Lucie? I can't see."
"It sure is; it has been kept for you."
"Thank you, my sweet. Is your beautiful child safe in bed?”
"Yes, and sleeping nicely."
"Yes, all is safe and well! I know not why anything should not be safe and well here, thank God. But I have been so busy all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my child! Thank you. Now, come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quietly and listen to the sounds that are part of your beliefs."
"Not my beliefs; just my foolish thoughts."
"A foolish thought, then my wise one," said Mr. Lorry, touching her hand. "There are many of them, and they are quite loud, are they not? Listen to them!"
Angry, dangerous footsteps, out of control, and able to force their way into anyone's life. Footsteps that could not be cleaned again after they had turned red. Footsteps running in far off Saint Antoine, as the little circle sat in that dark London window.
Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a big dark crowd of hungry people moving from one place to another with many little touches of light showing above the wave of heads, where blades in hands and on the ends of guns moved in the sun. A great shout came up from the throat of Saint Antoine, and uncovered arms reached into the air like the dead branches of trees in a winter wind. All of the fingers were holding tightly to weapons or to something that could be used as a weapon, that grew up from the crowd below the arms, often passed to them from a long way off.
Who gave them out, where they started, how they moved in one direction and another dozens at a time, over the heads of the crowd like the movement of lightning, no eye in the crowd could say; but guns were being given out, as were bullets, iron and timber bars, knives, axes, every weapon that angry minds could find or make. People who could not find anything else had the job of forcing, with bleeding hands, stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every heart in Saint Antoine was on fire. Every person living there had stopped thinking of life as important, and was ready with a crazy enthusiasm to give their life for what they wanted.
As wild water moving in a circle always has a center, so all of this anger circled around Defarge's wine shop, and every drop in that pot of hot water was pulled toward the place where Defarge himself, already dirty with gunpowder and sweat, was telling people what to do, giving out weapons, pushing one man back and pulling another forward, taking a weapon from one to give to another, working and fighting in the middle of the storm.
"Stay near me, Jack Three," cried Defarge. "And, Jack One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these men as you can. Where is my wife?"
"Ah! Here I am!" said Madam, relaxed as ever, but not knitting today. Madam's strong right hand was holding an axe, in the place of the softer tools, and in her belt were a gun and a cruel knife.
"Where will you go, my wife?"
"I go," said Madam, "with you for now. But before long you will see me at the head of the women."
"Come, then!" cried Defarge, in a strong voice. "Friends and lovers of our country, we are ready! To the prison!"
With a shout that sounded as if all the voices in France had been shaped into that hated word, the living ocean moved, wave on wave, and poured across the city to that place. Warning bells were ringing, drums were sounding, and the ocean was storming onto its new beach as the war started.
Deep ditches, two bridges, big stone walls, eight great towers, cannons, guns, fire, and smoke. Through the fire and through the smoke... in the fire and in the smoke, for the crowd pushed him against a cannon, and just so quickly he became the one using the cannon... Defarge of the wine shop worked like a brave soldier for two angry and wild hours.
One deep ditch, one bridge, big stone walls, eight great towers, cannons, guns, fire and smoke. One bridge down! "Work, brothers, work! Work, Jack One, Jack Two, Jack One Thousand, Jack Two Thousand, Jack Twenty-five Thousand. In the name of all the angels or devils -- You choose -- work!" It was Defarge of the wine shop, still at his gun, which was quite hot now.
"Follow me, women!" cried Madam his wife. "What! We can kill as well as the men when the place is taken!" And to her, with a high thirsty cry, came women with many different weapons, but all armed with hunger and hate.
Cannons, guns, fire and smoke; but still the deep ditch and the one bridge, the big stone walls, and the eight great towers. There were some small breaks in the waves of angry people, made by some being killed or hurt. Flaming weapons and burning torches, smoking carts full of wet straw to hide their movements, hard work at other carts on each side of them, shouts, explosions, angry words, brave actions without end, noise of all kinds, and the sound of the angry ocean of people over it all. But still the deep ditch and that one bridge, and the big stone walls, and the eight great towers, and still Defarge of the wine shop at his gun, now twice as hot after four hours of wild angry work.
Then a white flag from inside the prison, and a meeting between leaders on both sides -- this almost impossible to see, and not heard at all -- and the wave of people quickly growing wider and higher pushing Defarge of the wine shop over the bridge (now open) past the big stone walls and into the eight great towers, as the people holding them gave up!
So strong was the movement of the wave of people pouring into the prison that Defarge could not even breathe or turn his head against it, until he finished in the outside yard of the prison. There, against the side of a wall, he was able, at last, to look around and see what was happening. Jack Three was almost at his side. Madam Defarge, still leading some of the women, could be seen in the distance with her knife in her hand. Everywhere was noise and confusion, happy, crazy, wild, and so very loud, and yet nothing that could be understood.
"The prisoners!" "The papers!"
"The secret rooms!" "The torture tools!" "The prisoners!"
Of all their shouts, and ten thousand noises that could not be understood, "The Prisoners!" was the one most taken up by the wave that pushed forward, as if it was an eternity of people like there is in time and space. When the first wave rolled past, taking the prison officers with them, and warning them all of a fast death if they did not show them every secret place, Defarge put his strong hand on the chest of one of them -- a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his hand -- separated him from the others, and put him between himself and the wall.
"Show me the North Tower!" said Defarge. "Quickly!"
"I will," answered the man, "if you will just follow me. but there is no one there."
"What is the meaning of one hundred and five North Tower?” asked Defarge. "Now!"
"The meaning, sir?"
"Is it the name of a person or a place? Or do you want us to kill you?"
"Kill him!" spoke Jack Three, who had come up close.
"Sir, it is a room for a prisoner."
"Show it to me!"
"Come this way, then."
Jack Three, with the same old hunger, and clearly not happy that the talk had turned away from killing, held Defarge's arm, and Defarge held the guard's. Their three heads had been close together during this, and even then it had been difficult for them to hear each other, so great was the noise of the living ocean as it poured into the prison, and flooded the rooms and walk ways and steps. All around outside too, the wave pushed against the walls with a deep, rough shout, from which at times, some side shouts broke away and jumped into the air on their own, like happens with the water in a wave.
Through dark sad rooms under the ground, where the light of day had never been, past ugly doors to dark holes and cages, down cave-like steps, and again up steep rough stone and brick steps, more like cliffs than steps, Defarge, the guard, and Jack Three, joined hand to arm, went as quickly as they could. Here and there, mostly at the start, they met people from the flood above, but when they were finished with going down and were climbing up through the tower, they were alone. Shut in here by the thick walls of the tower, the storm inside and outside the prison was softer on the ears, as if the earlier noise had destroyed their ability to hear well.
The guard stopped at a low door, put a key in the noisy lock, pushed the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and went in:
"One hundred and five, North Tower!"
There was a small, heavily covered window with no glass in it, high in the wall, with a stone wall coming down from the roof in front of it, so that one could only see the sky by bending low and looking up at the window. There was a small chimney with heavy bars across it, a few feet inside, with a pile of ashes from the timber burned in it. There was a small chair without a back, a table, and a bed of straw. There were the four black walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
"Move that torch slowly across these walls, so I can see them," said Defarge to the guard.
The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
"Stop! Look here, Jack!"
"A.M.!" said Jack, in a low, rough voice, as he read greedily.
"Alexander Manette," said Defarge in his ear, following the letters with his dark first finger, that was deeply coloured by the gunpowder he had been using. "And here he wrote 'a poor doctor'. And it was he, for sure, who scratched a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? An iron bar? Give it to me!"
He still had in his hand the long stick he had used to light the cannon. He quickly gave that tool for the other one, and turning on the chair and table broke them to pieces with a few hits.
"Hold the light higher!" he said angrily to the guard. "Look through that rubbish with care, Jack. Look! Here is my knife," throwing it to him. "Cut open that bed and look through the straw. Hold the light higher, you!"
With an angry look at the guard he climbed up into the fireplace and, looking up the chimney, hit and scratched at its side with the iron bar, and worked at the iron bars across it too. In a few minutes, some dust and broken bricks came dropping down, which he turned his face to get away from. In that, and in the rubbish of the fireplace, and in the hole in the chimney that his weapon had found its way, he reached with a careful touch.
"Nothing in the timber and nothing in the straw, Jack?"
"Nothing."
"Let us put them together in the middle of the room. Good! Now light them, you!"
The guard put a light to the little pile, which burned high and hot. Bending again to come out at the low door, they left it burning and returned to the prison yard. They seemed, little by little, to receive back their ability to hear as they climbed down, until they were back in the angry flood once again.
They found the storm of people moving one way and another as the crowd looked for Defarge himself. Saint Antoine wanted to have its wine shop owner at the front of those guarding the governor of the prison -- the one who had been shooting people to stop them from breaking into the prison. Without Defarge they could not make the governor walk to the Hotel de Ville to be judged. Without him, the governor would break free, and he would not be forced to pay for the people's blood (which was now of some worth after so many years when it had not been important at all).
In all the noise and emotion that circled this serious old officer, who was easy to tell from the others by his grey uniform with red ropes and other things on it, there was only one person who was not moving, and she was a woman. "See, there is my husband!" she cried, pointing to him. "See Defarge!" She stood without moving, close to the serious old officer, and stayed close to him through the streets, as Defarge and the others carried him along. She stayed close to him without moving when he was close to where they were going, and the hits had started coming at him from behind. She stayed close to him without moving as the rain of hits from weapons and hands that had been held back for so long fell more and more heavily. She was so close to him when he dropped dead under it that, moving quickly, she put her own foot on his neck, and with her cruel knife -- that had been ready for such a long time -- she cut off his head.
The time had come when Saint Antoine was going to really hang people up as lanterns, to show what he could be and do. Saint Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of cruel leaders with iron hands was down -- down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the governor's body lay... down under the sole of Madam Defarge's shoe, that had been used to keep him from moving during the cutting off of his head. "Lower the lantern out there!" cried Saint Antoine, after looking around for a new way to kill.
"Here is one of his soldiers to be left to guard the prison!" The hanging head was put up, and the ocean of people moved on.
It was an ocean of black dangerous waters and of wave against wave, with no one yet knowing how deep it was or how strong it was. An ocean that would not be stopped, made up of storming shapes, angry voices, and faces made hard in the fires of pain, until there was not the smallest mark of love on any of them.
But in the ocean of faces, where every angry look was so full of life, there were two groups of faces -- each seven in number -- so very opposite to the others that there was never an ocean that had any more surprising broken ships on it. Seven faces of prisoners, just freed by the storm that had broken into the rooms where they were to die, were carried high above the crowd. They were all scared, all lost, all surprised and confused, as if the Last Day had come, and as if those happy people around them were lost spirits. Seven other faces were there, carried even higher. These were seven dead faces, whose half closed eyes were waiting for the Last Day. Faces without life, having a look of fear on them that had stopped -- but had not been taken away. The eyes were yet to open and the lips, now without blood in them, were yet to say, "YOU DID IT!"
Seven prisoners freed, seven blood-covered heads on sticks, the keys of the awful building with eight strong towers, some letters and other things left by past prisoners, long dead from broken hearts... these, and things like them, the loud footsteps carried through the streets of Paris in the middle of July, 1789. Now, Heaven stop the foolish thoughts of Lucie Darnay, and keep those feet far out of her life! For they are wild, crazy, and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the barrel at Defarge's wine shop door, they are not easily cleaned after they turn red.