A Tale Of Two Cities

Chapter 61 BOOK THE SECOND: THE GOLDEN THREAD (44)
'As to you，'said she，'you would shout and shed tears for anything，if it made a show and a noise. Say！Would you not？'
'Truly，madame，I think so. For the moment.'
'If you were shown a great heap of dolls，and were set upon them to pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage，you would pick out the richest and gayest. Say！Would you not？'
'Truly yes，Madame.'
'Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds，unable to fly，and were set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage，you would set upon the birds of the finest feather：would you not？'
'It is true，madame.'
'You have seen both dolls and birds today，'said Madame Defarge，with a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent；'now go home！'
XXII.STILL KNITTING
M adame 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 Monseigneur the Marquis petrified，a skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute，＆nbsp；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 hairbreadth 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 tonight，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 eye brows with acool business air.'It is necessary to register him. How do they call that man？'
'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 correctness.
'Barsad，'repeated madame.'Good. Christian name？'
'John.'
'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，sinister.'
'Eh，my faith. It is a portrait！'said madame，laughing.'He shall be registered tomorrow.'
They turned into the wine-shop，which was closed（for it was midnight），and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk，counting 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 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.
(End of this chapter)