Barnaby Rudge & A Tale of Two Cities. Charles Dickens

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СКАЧАТЬ with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old Nick’s.”

      “Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn’t need an interpreter to explain the meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it’s Midnight Murder, and Mischief.”

      “Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.

      “Yes, yes, yes, I’ll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back! Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don’t move your pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again! May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”

      “I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.

      “For gracious sake, don’t talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of that,” said Miss Pross.

      “Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.

      “Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”

      Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.

      “I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly. “But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”—it was the good creature’s way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner—“is there any prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”

      “I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”

      “Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she glanced at her darling’s golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we must have patience and wait: that’s all. We must hold up our heads and fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!—Don’t you move, Ladybird!”

      They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he, in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.

      “What is that?” she cried, all at once.

      “My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The least thing—nothing—startles you! You, your father’s daughter!”

      “I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”

      “My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”

      As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.

      “Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”

      “My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her shoulder, “I have saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go to the door.”

      He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms, and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.

      “The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.

      “Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.

      “I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”

      The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging to him.

      “Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”

      “It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”

      Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it, moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red woollen shirt, said:

      “You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”

      “Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”

      “We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.

      He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice, after a pause:

      “Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”

      “Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”

      The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:

      “He is accused by Saint Antoine.”

      “Of what?” asked the Doctor.

      “Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all. The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”

      “One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”

      “It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint Antoine here.”

      The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:

      “Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced—and gravely—by the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”

      “What other?”

      “Do you ask, Citizen Doctor?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”

      VIII. A Hand at Cards

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