Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect
by opening it again, Defarge said, "Go on,
Jacques."

"All the village," pursued the mender of
roads, on tiptoe and in a low voice, "withdraws; all
the village whispers by the fountain; all the
village sleeps; all the village dreams of that
unhappy one, within the locks and bars of the
prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
except to perish. In the morning, with my
tools upon my shoulder, eating my morsel of
black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the
prison, on my way to my work. There, I see
him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty iron
cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking
through. He has no hand free, to wave to me;
I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
dead man."

Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one
another. The looks of all of them were dark,
repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to
the countryman's story; the manner of all of
them, while it was secret was authoritative too.
They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques
One and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed,
each with his chin resting on his hand, and his
eyes intent on the road mender; Jacques Three,
equally intent, on one knee behind them, with
his agitated hand always gliding over the network
of fine nerves about his mouth and nose;
Defarge standing between them and the narrator
whom he had stationed in the light of the
window, by turns looking from him to them and
from them to him.

"Go on Jacques," said Defarge.

"He remains up there in his iron cage, some
days. The village looks at him by stealth, for
it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening
when the work of the day is achieved and it
assembles to gossip at the fountain, all faces are
turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were
turned towards the posting-house; now, they are
turned towards the prison. They whisper at
the fountain, that although condemned to death
he will not be executed; they say that petitions
have been presented in Paris, showing that he
was enraged and made mad by the death of his
child; they say that a petition has been
presented to the King himself. What do I know?
It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no."

"Listen then, Jacques," Number One of that
name sternly interposed. "Know that a petition
was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his
carriage in the street, sitting beside the Queen.
It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
hazard of his life, darted out before the horses,
with the petition in his hand."

"And once again listen, Jacques!" said the
kneeling Number Three: his fingers ever wandering
over and over those fine nerves, with a
strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for
something—that was neither food nor drink; "the
guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
and struck him blows. You hear?"

"I hear, messieurs."

"Go on then," said Defarge.

"Again; on the other hand, they whisper at
the fountain," resumed the countryman, "that
he is brought down into our country to be
executed on the spot, and that he will very
certainly be executed. They even whisper that
because he has slain Monseigneur, and because
Monseigneur was the father of his tenants—
serfs—what you will—he will be executed as a
parricide. One old man says at the fountain,
that his right hand, armed with the knife, will
be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
which will be made in his arms, his breast, and
his legs, there will be poured boiling oil, melted
lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
that he will be torn limb from limb by four
strong horses. That old man says, all this was
actually done to a prisoner who made an
attempt on the life of the last King, Louis
Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies? I
am not a scholar."

"Listen once again then, Jacques!" said the
man with the restless hand and the craving air.
"The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it
was all done in open day, in the open streets of this
city of Paris; and nothing was more noticed
in the vast concourse that saw it done, than the
crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who
were full of eager attention to the last—to the
last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall, when he
had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed!
And it was done—why, how old are you?"

"Thirty-five," said the mender of roads, who
looked sixty.

"It was done when you were more than ten
years old; you might have seen it."

"Enough!" said Defarge, with grim
impatience. "Long live the Devil! Go on."

"Well! Some whisper this, some whisper
that; they speak of nothing else; even the
fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length,
on Sunday night when all the village is asleep,
come soldiers, winding down from the prison,
and their guns ring on the stones of the little
street. Workmen dig, workmen hammer,
soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by the
fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet
high, poisoning the water."

The mender of roads looked through rather
than at the low ceiling, and pointed as if he saw
the gallows somewhere in the sky.

"All work is stopped, all assemble there,
nobody leads the cows out, the cows are there
with the rest. At mid-day, the roll of drums.
Soldiers have marched into the prison in the
night, and he is in the midst of many soldiers.
He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
a gag—tied so, with a tight string, making him
look almost as if he laughed." He suggested
it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,!
from the corners of his mouth to his ears. "On
the top of the gallows is fixed the knife, blade
upwards, with its point in the air. He is
hanged there forty feet high—and is left hanging,
poisoning the water."

They looked at one another, as he used his
blue cap to wipe his face, on which the