A year and three months. For all that time, Lucie was never sure, from hour to hour, that the guillotine would not cut off her husband's head the next day. Every day, through the stone streets, the carts, full of people being taken to be killed, bumped and shook. Lovely girls, beautiful women, with brown hair, black hair, and grey; young men; strong men and older men; rich and poor; all of them red wine for Guillotine, each day they were brought out into the light from the dark rooms under the ground in those awful prisons, and each day they were carried to her through the streets, to fill her thirst for blood. Free, equal brothers; or death. But the last is the easiest to give, oh Guillotine!
If the surprise of the awful action against her husband, and the turning wheels of time had made the Doctor's daughter stop what she was doing and wait sadly for her husband to return, she would have been no different from many others at that time. But from the time when she had taken the white head of her father to her heart in the little room where she first met him, she had always been true to what she believed to be her job, first to her father and then to her husband. And she was truest to her job when things were worst, as is always the case with quietly good people.
As soon as she was set up in her new rooms, and her father was busy doing his rounds as a doctor, she planned things in their little house just as she would have done if her husband had been there. There was a set time and place for everything. She taught little Lucie as she would have if they had been in their English home. About the only way one could know what she was going through were little actions she did when she believed he would be freed soon (like putting his chair and his books to the side), and a serious prayer at night for one special prisoner of the many sad souls in prison and living under the shadow of death at that time.
She did not change much in the way she looked. The dark dresses that she and her child were wearing to show their sadness were still as neat and clean as the lighter colours of happier days. She lost colour from her face, and the old serious look was with her at all times now; but apart from that, she was still beautiful and in control of herself. Some nights, after kissing her father, she would let out the tears she had been holding back all day, and would say that her only hope under heaven was in him. He always answered strongly: "Nothing can happen to Charles without me knowing about it, and I know that I can save him, Lucie."
They had not been waiting for many weeks when her father said to her, on coming home one night:
"My love, there is a window high up in the prison, that Charles can sometimes see out through at three in the afternoon. When he can get to it, which isn't often, he thinks he might be able to see you in the street if you stand in a special place that I can show you. You will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even if you could, it would be dangerous for you to wave or look at him."
"Oh show me the place, father, and I'll go there every day."
From that time on, in all weather, she waited there for two hours each day, from two o'clock to four o'clock. When it was not too wet or cold, her child would go with her; at other times she was alone; but she never missed even one day.
The place was at the dark and dirty corner of a small street with a bend in it. A rough cabin owned by a woodcutter was the only building at that end. Apart from that, the street at that point was nothing but walls. On the third day that she was there, the woodcutter said to her:
"Good day, countrywoman.”
"Good day, countryman."
This way of talking was now forced by law. In the past freedom fighters had been the ones to start talking to each other in this way, and they did it only because they wanted to do it; but now it was the law for everyone to do so.
"Walking here again, countrywoman?"
"As you can see, countryman."
The woodcutter, who was a little man who used his hands too much when talking (He had been a road worker in the past.) looked quickly at the prison, pointed to it, and then, putting his ten fingers in front of his face like they were bars, looked foolishly through them.
"But it's not my business," he said. And he returned to cutting timber.
The next day he was watching for her, and he talked to her as soon as she turned up.
"What? Walking here again, countrywoman?"
"Yes, countryman."
"Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little country-girl?"
"Do I say yes, mummy?” whispered little Lucie, moving closer to her.
"Yes, my love."
"Yes, countryman."
"Ah, but it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw? I call it my little guillotine. La, la, la; la, la, lah! And off his head comes!"
The stick fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
"I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again! Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off her head comes. Now a child. Tickle, tickle; pickle, pickle! And off its head comes. All the family!"
Lucie shook as he threw two more sticks into his basket. Sadly, it was not possible for her to be there without the woodcutter seeing her when he was working. So from then on, to keep him on her side, she always spoke to him first, and gave him some money for drinking, which he enthusiastically received.
He was very interested in her, and at times when she was not thinking about him because she was so busy looking up toward the prison roof and windows, and in lifting her heart up to her husband, she would come to herself only to find him looking at her, with his knee on the bench and his saw stopped in its work. "But it's not my business," he would often say at those times, and he would quickly return to cutting timber.
In all weather, the winter snow, the summer heat, and the winds and rains that came between them, Lucie would spend two hours of every day at this place. And every day, on leaving it, she would kiss the prison wall. Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) maybe one day in five or six. It might happen two or three days, one after the other, but then it could be a week or two with him not seeing her at all. There was no way of knowing. But it was enough that he could and did see her when each time came, and to make that possible she would have waited there all day, seven days a week.
These jobs brought her around to the month of December again, when her father was walking through all of the awful things that were happening around him without it changing his confidence. It was snowing lightly that afternoon when she arrived at the same old corner. It was a day of some happiness, a special day for the country. She had seen little spears with little red hats on them and thin pieces of cloth in the three colours of the country tied to them, outside many of the houses on the way. They also had the words: "One country working together. Free, equal, and brothers, or death!"
The woodcutter's little shop was so small that there was almost not enough space on the wall to put all of the letters for this saying. Someone had put the letters on for him, with the letters for "death" squeezed very close together at the end. On the top of the house were the spear and hat, as every good French person should have, and in a window he had put his saw, with the words "Little Saint Guillotine", for by that time, the little sharp female was for most people as good as a saint. His shop was closed and he was not there, which Lucie was glad to see. It left her alone.
But he was not far away, because she soon heard a troubled movement and some shouting coming toward her, filling her with fear. A second or two later, a crowd of people came pouring around the corner by the prison wall, with the woodcutter in the middle, walking hand in hand with The Punisher. There were at least five hundred people, and they were dancing like five thousand devils. There was no other music apart from their own singing. They danced to the freedom fighters' war song, marking time wildly like crazy men hitting their teeth together. Men danced with women, men with men, and women with women. At first they were just a storm of red hats and rough broken clothes, but as they filled the place and stopped to dance around Lucie, an awful crazy ghost of a dance started to take shape. They would come forward, then go back, hit each other's hands together, hold each other's heads, turn around alone, then grab another and turn around in twos until many of them dropped. While those were down, others joined hands and all ran around together, then the circle broke into smaller circles of two and four until they all stopped together, started again, clapped hands, hugged, and then went around in the opposite direction. Then they stopped again, waited for a few seconds, and, starting to mark time again, moved into lines as wide as the walkway, and then, with their heads down and their hands up high, they set off crying out loudly as they did. No fight could have been half as awful as this dance. It was clearly a sport that had turned evil... something that was once innocent, but that had now been given to the devil... a healthy way of playing changed to one that makes blood angry, minds confused, and hearts like iron. Anything beautiful in it had been made ugly by being used to encourage such sick emotions. A young woman opening her spirit to this, the mind of one who is almost a child joining in, little feet stepping in a lake of blood and dirt were all a part of the time that they were living in.
This was the song and dance of the freedom fighters. As it passed, leaving Lucie in fear and confusion, feathers of snow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft as if it had never happened.
"Oh father!" Lucie said, for he stood there when she lifted her eyes after covering them with her hands. "It was such a cruel, awful thing to see."
"I know, my love, I know. I have seen it many times. Do not be afraid! Not one of them will hurt you."
"I am not afraid for myself, father. But when I think of my husband, and the cruel mercies of these people..."
"We will put him above their mercies very soon. When I left him, he was climbing to the window, so I came to tell you. There is no one here to see, so you may kiss your hand toward that highest angled roof."
"I'm doing it, father, and I'm sending him my soul with it!"
"Can you see him, my love?"
"No, father," said Lucie, hurting and crying as she kissed her hand. "No."
A footstep in the snow. Madam Defarge.
"Good day, countrywoman," from the Doctor.
"Good day, countryman.” This in passing. Nothing more. Madam Defarge was gone, like a shadow over the white road.
"Give me your arm, my love. Walk away with a brave smile on your face for him.” And when they had left: "Well done. It will not be wasted. Charles is to come before the court tomorrow."
"Tomorrow!"
"There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are things we must do that could not be done before he was called to the court. He has not received word about the call yet, but I know from secret information that I have received. Are you afraid?"
She found it difficult to speak: "I trust you."
"Please do so fully. Your time of testing is almost over, my love. He will be back with you in a few hours. I have done everything I can to protect him. Now I must see Mr. Lorry."
He stopped. There was the heavy sound of timber wheels not far from there. They both knew too well what it was. One. Two. Three. Three carts leaving the prison with their awful weight of passengers as they moved over the quieting snow.
"I must see Mr. Lorry," the Doctor said again as he turned her away from the carts.
That true old man was still trusted by him; he had never given any reason not to be. He and his books were often asked for by the new government, so they could take wealth from people who had left the country. What he could save for the owners, he saved. There was no better man alive to protect what he could of the wealth the bank held, without making the new government angry.
A dirty red and yellow sky, and low clouds coming from the river showed that darkness was near. It was almost dark when they arrived at Tellson's Bank. The beautiful house of the past leader was empty and in very poor shape. Over what was left of a burned out fire in the yard were the words "Owned by the People. One country. Free, Equal, Brothers; or Death!"
Who is that meeting secretly with Mr. Lorry... the owner of the riding coat that can be seen on the chair? From whom did he come outside, worried and surprised, to hug someone who came a short time after the man inside? Who was this woman whose words he repeated loudly through the door of the room to the person inside: "He goes to court tomorrow!"