"Good day!" said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
bent low over the shoemaking.
It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
salutation, as if it were at a distance:
"You are still hard at work, I see?"
After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
voice replied, "Yes—I am working." This time, a pair of haggard eyes
had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no doubt
had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was the
faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a
sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive it
was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied
out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and
friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked up
again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
"I want," said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
"to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?"
The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening, at
the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the other
side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
"What did you say?"
"You can bear a little more light?"
"I must bear it, if you let it in." (Laying the palest shadow of a stress
upon the second word.)
The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and showed
the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his labour.
His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his feet and on
his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very long, a hollow
face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and thinness of his face
would have caused them to look large, under his yet dark eyebrows and his
confused white hair, though they had been really otherwise; but, they were
naturally large, and looked unnaturally so. His yellow rags of shirt lay
open at the throat, and showed his body to be withered and worn. He, and
his old canvas frock, and his loose stockings, and all his poor tatters of
clothes, had, in a long seclusion from direct light and air, faded down to
such a dull uniformity of parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard
to say which was which.
He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones of
it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze, pausing
in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without first
looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had lost the
habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without first
wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
"Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?" asked Defarge,
motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
"What did you say?"
"Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?"
"I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know."
But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When he
had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
look and the action had occupied but an instant.
"You have a visitor, you see," said Monsieur Defarge.
"What did you say?"
"Here is a visitor."
The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
"Come!" said Defarge. "Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur."
Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
"Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name."
There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
"I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?"
"I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
"It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand." He
glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
"And the maker's name?" said Defarge.
Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand in
the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he had
spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
"Did you ask me for my name?"
"Assuredly I did."
"One Hundred and Five, North Tower."
"Is that all?"
"One Hundred and Five, North Tower."
With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
again, until the silence was again broken.
"You are not a shoemaker by trade?" said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly at
His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
"I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to—"
He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face from
which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and resumed,
in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a subject of
"I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after a
long while, and I have made shoes ever since."
As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
"Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?"
The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
"Monsieur Manette"; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; "do you
remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your mind,
As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr. Lorry
and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And so
exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who had
crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where she now
stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only raised in
frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and shut out the sight
of him, but which were now extending towards him, trembling with eagerness
to lay the spectral face upon her warm young breast, and love it back to
life and hope—so exactly was the expression repeated (though in
stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it looked as though it
had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground and
looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he took
the shoe up, and resumed his work.
"Have you recognised him, monsieur?" asked Defarge in a whisper.
"Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!"
She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on which
he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the figure
that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped over his
Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
beside him, and he bent over his work.
It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument in
his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him which was
not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was stooping to
work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He raised them,
and saw her face. The two spectators started forward, but she stayed them
with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his striking at her with the
knife, though they had.
He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began to
form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in the
pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
"What is this?"
With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her lips,
and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she laid
his ruined head there.
"You are not the gaoler's daughter?"
She sighed "No."
"Who are you?"
Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench beside
him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange thrill
struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he laid the
knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action he went
astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his shoemaking.
But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his shoulder.
After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to be sure that
it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand to his neck, and
took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag attached to it. He
opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained a very little
quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden hairs, which he
had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. "It is the
same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!"
As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the light,
and looked at her.
"She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
out—she had a fear of my going, though I had none—and when I
was brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
"How was this?—Was it you?"
Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
said, in a low voice, "I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near us,
do not speak, do not move!"
"Hark!" he exclaimed. "Whose voice was that?"
His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and tried
to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and gloomily shook
"No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face she
knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was—and He was—before
the slow years of the North Tower—ages ago. What is your name, my
Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
"O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!"
His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
"If you hear in my voice—I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
is—if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when I
hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you with
all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the remembrance
of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away, weep for it,
weep for it!"
She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
"If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living, and
of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my honoured
father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake striven all
day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of my poor mother
hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep for her, then, and
for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred tears upon my face,
and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank God for us, thank
He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which had
gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
storms—emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the
storm called Life must hush at last—they came forward to raise the
father and daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the
floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with
him, that his head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him
curtained him from the light.
"If, without disturbing him," she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, "all could be
arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
could be taken away—"
"But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?" asked Mr. Lorry.
"More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
"It is true," said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. "More
than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France. Say,
shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?"
"That's business," said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
methodical manners; "and if business is to be done, I had better do it."
"Then be so kind," urged Miss Manette, "as to leave us here. You see how
composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me now.
Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until you
return, and then we will remove him straight."
Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and in
favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage and
horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed, for the
day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily dividing the
business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away to do it.
Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
through the chinks in the wall.
Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and had
brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and meat,
wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the lamp he
carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the garret
but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and assisted
him to his feet.
No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in the
scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that he
was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They tried
speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to answer, that
they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for the time to tamper
with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of occasionally clasping his
head in his hands, that had not been seen in him before; yet, he had some
pleasure in the mere sound of his daughter's voice, and invariably turned
to it when she spoke.
In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took—and kept—her
hand in both his own.
They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps of
the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and round
at the walls.
"You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?"
"What did you say?"
But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if she
had repeated it.
"Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago."
That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter, "One
Hundred and Five, North Tower;" and when he looked about him, it evidently
was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed him. On their
reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his tread, as being in
expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was no drawbridge, and he saw
the carriage waiting in the open street, he dropped his daughter's hand
and clasped his head again.
No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the many
windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
that was Madame Defarge—who leaned against the door-post, knitting,
and saw nothing.
The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed him, when
Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking, miserably, for
his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge immediately
called to her husband that she would get them, and went, knitting, out of
the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly brought them down and
handed them in;—and immediately afterwards leaned against the
door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word "To the Barrier!" The
postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
Under the over-swinging lamps—swinging ever brighter in the better
streets, and ever dimmer in the worse—and by lighted shops, gay
crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. "Your papers,
travellers!" "See here then, Monsieur the Officer," said Defarge, getting
down, and taking him gravely apart, "these are the papers of monsieur
inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with him, at the—"
He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and
one of them being handed into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes
connected with the arm looked, not an every day or an every night look, at
monsieur with the white head. "It is well. Forward!" from the uniform.
"Adieu!" from Defarge. And so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler
over-swinging lamps, out under the great grove of stars.
Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from this
little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their rays
have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything is
suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black. All
through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry—sitting opposite the
buried man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for
ever lost to him, and what were capable of restoration—the old