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1A Hand at Cards Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets
2and crossed the river by the bridge of the Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases she
3had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They both looked to the right and to the left into most
4of the shops they passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and turned out of their road to avoid
5any very excited group of talkers. It was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing lights and
6to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the
7Army of the Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with that Army, or got undeserved promotion in it! Better for him
8that his beard had never grown, for the National Razor shaved him close. Having purchased a few small articles of
9grocery, and a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted. After peeping into
10several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National
11Palace, once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any
12other place of the same description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was not so red as the rest.
13Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
14attended by her cavalier. Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth, playing with limp cards
15and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of the
16others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward
17asleep, who in the popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude, like slumbering bears or dogs;
18the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and showed what they wanted. As their wine was measuring out, a man
19parted from another man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her,
20than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped her hands. In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That
21somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked
22to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all the outward aspect
23of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman, evidently English. What was said in this disappointing anti-climax,
24by the disciples of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very voluble and loud, would
25have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
26ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and
27agitation, but, Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual account--was in a state of the
28greatest wonder. "What is the matter?" said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt
29voice (though in a low tone), and in English. "Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!" cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
30"After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time, do I find you here!" "Don't call me Solomon. Do
31you want to be the death of me?" asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way. "Brother, brother!" cried Miss Pross,
32bursting into tears. "Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?" "Then hold your
33meddlesome tongue," said Solomon, "and come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this
34man?" Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said through her tears,
35"Mr. Cruncher." "Let him come out too," said Solomon. "Does he think me a ghost?" Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge
36from his looks. He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with
37great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of
38Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which caused them all to relapse into their
39former places and pursuits. "Now," said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, "what do you want?" "How dreadfully
40unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from!" cried Miss Pross, "to give me such a greeting, and show
41me no affection." "There. Confound it! There," said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's lips with his own. "Now are
42you content?" Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence. "If you expect me to be surprised," said her brother
43Solomon, "I am not surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If you really don't want to
44endanger my existence--which I half believe you do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
45am an official." "My English brother Solomon," mourned Miss Pross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, "that had the
46makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and such
47foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his--" "I said so!" cried her brother, interrupting.
48"I knew it. You want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just as I am getting on!"
49"The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!" cried Miss Pross. "Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon,
50though I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is nothing
51angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you no longer." Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them
52had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in
53Soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and left her! He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a
54far more grudging condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative merits and positions had been
55reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely
56and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question: "I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your
57name is John Solomon, or Solomon John?" The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not previously
58uttered a word. "Come!" said Mr. Cruncher. "Speak out, you know." (Which, by the way, was more than he could do
59himself.) "John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And I know you're
60John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the
61water." "What do you mean?" "Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name was, over the
62water." "No?" "No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables." "Indeed?" "Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I
63know you. You was a spy--witness at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to yourself, was you
64called at that time?" "Barsad," said another voice, striking in. "That's the name for a thousand pound!" cried Jerry.
65The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he
66stood at Mr. Cruncher's elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself. "Don't be alarmed, my dear
67Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
68elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present myself here, to beg a little talk with your
69brother. I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad was not a Sheep of
70the Prisons." Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and
71asked him how he dared--
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