A TALE OF TWO CITIES - 2 - 16 in English Moral Stories by Charles Dickens books and stories PDF | A TALE OF TWO CITIES - 2 - 16




By Charles Dickens

The Golden Thread


Still Knitting

Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the

bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the

darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by

the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where

the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to

the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,

for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village

scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead

stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and

terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that

the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the

village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that

when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to

faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled

up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel

look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the

stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder

was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which

everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the

scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the

crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a

skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all

started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares

who could find a living there.

Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the

stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres

of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the

night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole

world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling

star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse

the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in

the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every

vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.

The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,

in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their

journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier

guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual

examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two

of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate

with, and affectionately embraced.

When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,

and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were

picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his

streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:

“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”

“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy

commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he

can say, but he knows of one.”

“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool

business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that


“He is English.”

“So much the better. His name?”

“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had

been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect


“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”


“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.

“Good. His appearance; is it known?”

“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;

complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face

thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a

peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,


“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be

registered to-morrow.”

They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),

and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted

the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the

stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of

her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally

dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl

of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her

handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the

night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked

up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which

condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he

walked up and down through life.

The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a

neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was

by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than

it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He

whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.

“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the

money. “There are only the usual odours.”

“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.

“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had

never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for

him. “Oh, the men, the men!”

“But my dear!” began Defarge.

“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are

faint of heart to-night, my dear!”

“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his

breast, “it _is_ a long time.”

“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?

Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”

“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said


“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store

the lightning? Tell me.”

Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that


“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to

swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the


“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.

“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything

before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not

seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”

She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.

“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,

“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and

coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it

is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world

that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider

the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with

more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock


“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head

a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and

attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But

it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,

it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”

“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there

were another enemy strangled.

“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.

“We shall not see the triumph.”

“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in

strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all

my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew

certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I


Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.

“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with

cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”

“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim

and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.

When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the

time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”

Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her

little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains

out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene

manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.

Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the

wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she

now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her

usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not

drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,

and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous

perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell

dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies

out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they

themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met

the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they

thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.

A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she

felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her

rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.

It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the

customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the


“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.

“Good day, monsieur.”

She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:

“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black

hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,

thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a

peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister

expression! Good day, one and all!”

“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a

mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”

Madame complied with a polite air.

“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”

It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame

Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,

however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The

visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity

of observing the place in general.

“You knit with great skill, madame.”

“I am accustomed to it.”

“A pretty pattern too!”

“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.

“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”

“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her

fingers moved nimbly.

“Not for use?”

“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said

madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of

coquetry, “I'll use it!”

It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be

decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two

men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,

catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of

looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.

Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there

one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,

but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a

poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and


“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,

and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit

'BARSAD' before you go.”

“You have a husband, madame?”

“I have.”


“No children.”

“Business seems bad?”

“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”

“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”

“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an

extra something into his name that boded him no good.

“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.

Of course.”

“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have

enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we

think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and

it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without

embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”

The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did

not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,

stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame

Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.

“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor

Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.

“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives

for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the

price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”

“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone

that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary

susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there

is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor

fellow? Between ourselves.”

“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.

“Is there not?”

“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.

As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted

him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,

Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.

“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much

confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.

“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.

“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”

“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good


“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.

“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when

you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy

and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”

“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing

of it.”

Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his

hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the

person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would

have shot with the greatest satisfaction.

The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious

attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh

water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it

out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over


“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”

observed Defarge.

“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested

in its miserable inhabitants.”

“Hah!” muttered Defarge.

“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”

pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting

associations with your name.”

“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.

“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,

had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am

informed of the circumstances?”

“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed

to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and

warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.

“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was

from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown

monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of

Tellson and Company--over to England.”

“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.

“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor

Manette and his daughter, in England.”

“Yes?” said Defarge.

“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.

“No,” said Defarge.

“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little

song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe

arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,

they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held

no correspondence.”

“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”

“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long

ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”

“Oh! You know I am English.”

“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I

suppose the man is.”

He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best

of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the

end, he added:

“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to

one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,

poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is

going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard

was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present

Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is

Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”

Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable

effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,

as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was

troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no

spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.

Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be

worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad

paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,

in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the

pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes

after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the

husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should

come back.

“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife

as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has

said of Ma'amselle Manette?”

“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it

is probably false. But it may be true.”

“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.

“If it is?” repeated his wife.

“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her

sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”

“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,

“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is

to end him. That is all I know.”

“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said

Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,

“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her

husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by

the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”

“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered

madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here

for their merits; that is enough.”

She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently

took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.

Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable

decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its

disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very

shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.

In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned

himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came

to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame

Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place

to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like

her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women

knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a

mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the

jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,

the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.

But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame

Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer

among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left


Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A

great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully

grand woman!”

Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and

the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as

the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another

darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing

pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into

thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a

wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,

Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat

knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around

a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,

counting dropping heads.


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