No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance, and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance from him in the Hall.
“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife.“See the old villain bound with ropes.That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back. Ha, ha!That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife under her arm,and clapped her hands as at a play.
The people immediately behind Madame Defarge,explaining the cause of her satisfaction to those behind them,and those again explaining to others,and those to others,the neighbouring streets resounded with the clapping of hands.Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,and the winnowing of many bushels of words,Madame Defarge’s frequent expressions of impatience were taken up,with marvellous quickness, at a distance:the more readily, because certain men who had by some wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.
At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or protection, directly down upon the old prisoner’s head. The favour was too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got him!
It was known directly,to the furthest confines of the crowd.Defarge had but sprung over a railing and a table,and folded the miserable wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him out!Bring him to the lamp!”
Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building;now, on his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back;dragged, and struck at,and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.
Nor was this the end of the day’s bad work,for Saint Antoine so shouted and danced his angry blood up,that it boiled again,on hearing when the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched,another of the people’s enemies and insulters,was coming into Paris under a guard five hundred strong,in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes on flaring sheets of paper,seized him--would have torn him out of the breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession through the streets.
Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,wailing and breadless. Then,the miserable bakers’ shops were beset by long files of them,patiently waiting to buy bad bread;and while they waited with stomachs faint and empty,they beguiled the time by embracing one another on the triumphs of the day,and achieving them again in gossip. Gradually,these strings of ragged people shortened and frayed away;and then poor lights began to shine in high windows,and slender fires were made in the streets,at which neighbours cooked in common,afterwards supping at their doors.
Scanty and insufficient suppers those,and innocent of meat,as of most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet,human fellowship infused some nourishment into the flinty viands,and struck some sparks of cheerfulness out of them.Fathers and mothers who had had their full share in the worst of the day,played gently with their meagre children; and lovers,with such a world around them and before them, loved and hoped.
It was almost morning,when Defarge’s wine-shop parted with its last knot of customers,and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife,in husky tones, while fastening the door:
“At last it is come, my dear!”
“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”
Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept:even The Vengeance slept with her starved grocer,and the drum was at rest.The drum’s was the only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint Antoine’s bosom.
CHAPTER XXIII. Fire Rises
There was a change on the village where the fountain fell,and where the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it, but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not be what he was ordered.
Far and wide lay a ruined country,yielding nothing but desolation. Every green leaf,every blade of grass and blade of grain,was as shrivelled and poor as the miserable people.Everything was bowed down, dejected, oppressed,and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated animals,men, women, children,and the soil that bore them--all worn out.
Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national blessing,gave a chivalrous tone to things,was a polite example of luxurious and shining life,and a great deal more to equal purpose; nevertheless,Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other,brought things to this. Strange that Creation,designed expressly for Monseigneur,should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out!There must be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely!Thus it was, however;and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the flints,and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and unaccountable.
But, this was not the change on the village,and on many a village like it.For scores of years gone by,Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung it,and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and beautifying features of Monseigneur.