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1The Footsteps Die Out For Ever Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the
2day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
3are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate,
4a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those
5that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself
6into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
7the same fruit according to its kind. Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what they were,
8thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal
9nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's house but dens of thieves, the huts of
10millions of starving peasants! No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order of the Creator,
11never reverses his transformations. "If thou be changed into this shape by the will of God," say the seers to the
12enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, "then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration,
13then resume thy former aspect!" Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along. As the sombre wheels of the six carts
14go round, they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to
15this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the
16spectacle, that in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the hands is not so much as
17suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
18then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to
19this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before. Of the riders in the tumbrils, some
20observe these things, and all things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with a lingering interest
21in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
22heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures.
23Several close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he a miserable
24creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of
25the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people. There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding
26abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some question. It would seem
27to be always the same question, for, it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The horsemen
28abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is
29he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of
30the cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here
31and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet
32smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being
33bound. On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into
34the first of them: not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, "Has he sacrificed me?" when
35his face clears, as he looks into the third. "Which is Evrémonde?" says a man behind him. "That. At the back there."
36"With his hand in the girl's?" "Yes." The man cries, "Down, Evrémonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats! Down,
37Evrémonde!" "Hush, hush!" the Spy entreats him, timidly. "And why not, citizen?" "He is going to pay the forfeit: it
38will be paid in five minutes more. Let him be at peace." But the man continuing to exclaim, "Down, Evrémonde!" the face
39of Evrémonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evrémonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his
40way. The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the populace is turning round, to come on into
41the place of execution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind the last
42plough as it passes on, for all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
43public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking
44about for her friend. "Thérèse!" she cries, in her shrill tones. "Who has seen her? Thérèse Defarge!" "She never missed
45before," says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood. "No; nor will she miss now," cries The Vengeance, petulantly.
46"Thérèse." "Louder," the woman recommends. Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear thee.
47Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to
48seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of
49their own wills they will go far enough to find her! "Bad Fortune!" cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair,
50"and here are the tumbrils! And Evrémonde will be despatched in a wink, and she not here! See her knitting in my hand,
51and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!" As The Vengeance descends from her elevation
52to do it, the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash!--A
53head is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think
54and speak, count One. The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And the knitting-women, never
55faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two. The supposed Evrémonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
56after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places
57her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks
58him. "But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart;
59nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here
60to-day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven." "Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. "Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
61and mind no other object." "I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are
62rapid." "They will be rapid. Fear not!" The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they
63were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else
64so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom.
65"Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a
66little." "Tell me what it is." "I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very dearly.
67She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she
68knows nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is." "Yes, yes:
69better as it is."
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