A Tale of Two Cities

    Chapter XV   The Footsteps Die out Forever

    ALONG the Paris streets the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrels carry the day¡¯s wine to La Guillotine(1). All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious licence and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.

     Six tumbrels roll along the streets. Change these back again to what they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilets of flaring Jezebels(2), the churches that are not my Father¡¯s house, but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants! No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order of the Creator never reverses his transformations. ¡°If thou be changed into this shape by the will of God,¡± say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, ¡°then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!¡± Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrels roll along.

    As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrels. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.

     Of the riders in the tumbrels, some observe these things, and all things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he a miserable creature of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals, by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.

    There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrels, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart frequently point out one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbrel, with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there, in a long street of St. Honor¨¦, cries are raised against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound.

    On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming up of the tumbrels, stands the spy and prisonª²sheep. He looks into the first of them:  not there. He looks into the second:  not there. He already asks himself, ¡°Has he sacrificed me?¡± when his face clears, as he looks into the third.

    ¡°Which is Evr¨¦monde(3)?¡± said a man behind him.

    ¡°That. At the back there.¡±

    ¡°With his hand in the girl¡¯s?¡±

     ¡°Yes.¡±

      The man cries, ¡°Down, Evr¨¦monde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats! Down, Evr¨¦monde!¡±

      ¡°Hush, hush!¡± the spy entreats him timidly.

      ¡°And why not, citizen?¡±

      ¡°He is going to pay the forfeit; it will be paid in five minutes more. Let him be at peace.¡±

      But, the man continuing to exclaim, ¡°Down, Evr¨¦monde!¡± the face of Evr¨¦monde is for a moment turned towards him. Evr¨¦monde then sees the spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.

      The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the foremost chairs stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.