It was curious. The moment Madame
Defarge took up the rose, the customers ceased
talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
wine-shop.

"Good day, madame," said the new comer.

"Good day, monsieur."

She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she
resumed her knitting: "Hah! Good day, age
about forty, height about five feet nine, black hair,
generally rather handsome visage, complexion
dark, eyes dark, thin long and sallow face, aquiline
nose but not straight, having a peculiar
inclination towards the left cheek which imparts
a sinister expression! Good day, one and all!"

"Have the goodness to give me a little glass
of old cognac and a mouthful of cool fresh
water, madame."

Madame complied with a polite air.

"Marvellous cognac this, madame!"

It was the first time it had ever been so
complimented, and Madame Defarge knew enough of
its antecedents to know better. She said,
however, that the cognac was flattered, and took
up her knitting. The visitor watched her fingers
for a few moments, and took the opportunity of
observing the place in general.

"You knit with great skill, madame."

"I am accustomed to it."

"A pretty pattern too!"

"You think so?" said madame, looking at
him with a smile.

"Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?"

"Pastime, said madame, still looking at
him with a smile, while her fingers moved
nimbly.

"Not for use?"

"That depends. I may find a use for it, one
day. If I do——well," said madame, drawing a
breath and nodding her head with a stern kind
of coquetry, "I'll use it!"

It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint
Antoine seemed to be decidedly opposed to a
rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge.
Two men had entered separately, and had been
about to order drink, when, catching sight of
that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
looking about as if for some friend who was not
there, and went away. Nor, of those who had
been there when this visitor entered, was there
one left. They had all dropped off. The spy
had kept his eyes open, but had been able to
detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner,
quite natural and unimpeachable.

"JOHN," thought madame, checking off her
work as her fingers knitted, and her eyes looked
at the stranger. "Stay long enough, and I shall
knit 'BARSAD' before you go."

"You have a husband madame?"

"I have."

"Children?"

"No children."

"Business seems bad?"

"Business is very bad; the people are so
poor."

"Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So
oppressed too—as you say."

"As you say," madame retorted, correcting
him, and deftly knitting an extra something into
his name that boded him no good.

"Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so,
but you naturally think so. Of course."

"I think?" returned madame, in a high voice.
"I and my husband have enough to do to keep
this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
think, here, is, how to live. That is the subject
we think of, and it gives us, from morning to
night, enough to think about, without embarrassing
our heads concerning others. I think for
others? No, no."

The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs
he could find or make, did not allow his baffled
state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning
his elbow on Madame Defarge's little counter,
and occasionally sipping his cognac.

"A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's
execution. Ah! the poor Gaspard!" With a
sigh of great compassion.

"My faith!" returned madame, coolly and
lightly, "if people use knives for such purposes,
they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand
what the price of his luxury was; he has paid
the price."

"I believe," said the spy, dropping his soft
voice to a tone that invited confidence, and
expressing an injured revolutionary susceptibility
in every muscle of his wicked face: "I believe
there is much compassion and anger in this
neighbourhood, touching the poor fellow?
Between ourselves."

"Is there?" asked madame, vacantly.

"Is there not?"

"—Here is my husband!" said Madame
Defarge.

As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the
door, the spy saluted him by touching his hat,
and saying, with an engaging smile, "Good day,
Jacques!" Defarge stopped short, and stared at
him.

"Good day, Jacques!" the spy repeated; with
not quite so much confidence, or quite so easy a
smile under the stare.

"You deceive yourself, monsieur," returned
the keeper of the wine-shop. "You mistake me
for another. That is not my name. I am
Ernest Defarge."

"It is all the same," said the spy, airily, but
discomfited too; "good day!"

"Good day!" answered Defarge, dryly.

"I was saying to madame, with whom I had
the pleasure of chatting when you entered, that
they tell me there is—and no wonder!—much
sympathy and anger in Saint Antoine, touching
the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard."

"No one has told me so," said Defarge,
shaking his head; "I know nothing of it."

Having said it, he passed behind the little
counter, and stood with his hand on the back of
his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
person to whom they were both opposed, and
whom either of them would have shot with the
greatest satisfaction.

The spy, well used to his business, did not