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1Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem
2to promise bloodshed, held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had been close together
3during this brief discourse, and it had been as much as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was
4the noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and its inundation of the courts and passages and
5staircases. All around outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which, occasionally, some partial
6shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the air like spray. Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone,
7past hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps, and again up steep rugged ascents of stone
8and brick, more like dry waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three, linked hand and arm, went
9with all the speed they could make. Here and there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
10but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the
11massive thickness of walls and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible to them in a dull,
12subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing. The turnkey stopped
13at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and
14passed in: "One hundred and five, North Tower!" There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
15with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by stooping low and looking up. There was a small
16chimney, heavily barred across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes on the hearth. There was
17a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them. "Pass
18that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them," said Defarge to the turnkey. The man obeyed, and Defarge
19followed the light closely with his eyes. "Stop!--Look here, Jacques!" "A. M.!" croaked Jacques Three, as he read
20greedily. "Alexandre Manette," said Defarge in his ear, following the letters with his swart forefinger, deeply
21engrained with gunpowder. "And here he wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched a calendar
22on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it me!" He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand.
23He made a sudden exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and table, beat them to pieces in
24a few blows. "Hold the light higher!" he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. "Look among those fragments with care,
25Jacques. And see! Here is my knife," throwing it to him; "rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the light
26higher, you!" With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and, peering up the chimney, struck and
27prised at its sides with the crowbar, and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar and dust
28came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the
29chimney into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a cautious touch. "Nothing in the wood, and
30nothing in the straw, Jacques?" "Nothing." "Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light them,
31you!" The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping again to come out at the low-arched door,
32they left it burning, and retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense of hearing as they came
33down, until they were in the raging flood once more. They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself.
34Saint Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard upon the governor who had defended the
35Bastille and shot the people. Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for judgment.
36Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness)
37be unavenged. In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to encompass this grim old officer
38conspicuous in his grey coat and red decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a woman's. "See,
39there is my husband!" she cried, pointing him out. "See Defarge!" She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
40remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him
41along; remained immovable close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to be struck at from behind;
42remained immovable close to him when the long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him when he
43dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long
44ready--hewed off his head. The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea of hoisting up men for
45lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the iron
46hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of
47Madame Defarge where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. "Lower the lamp yonder!" cried Saint
48Antoine, after glaring round for a new means of death; "here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!" The swinging
49sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on. The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving of
50wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of
51turbulently swaying shapes, voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering until the touch of pity
52could make no mark on them. But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was in vivid life,
53there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll
54which bore more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly released by the storm that had burst their
55tomb, were carried high overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last Day were come, and
56those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits. Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
57drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive faces, yet with a suspended--not an
58abolished--expression on them; faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped lids of the eyes,
59and bear witness with the bloodless lips, "THOU DIDST IT!" Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys
60of the accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters and other memorials of prisoners of old
61time, long dead of broken hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint Antoine escort through
62the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
63and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad, and dangerous; and in the years so long after the
64breaking of the cask at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once stained red.
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