my peril, be discreet—as he was then, so he is
now."

"He is greatly changed?"

"Changed!"

The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike
the wall with his hand, and mutter a tremendous
curse. No direct answer could have been half
so forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier
and heavier, as he and his two companions
ascended higher and higher.

Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the
older and more crowded part of Paris, would be
bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses.
Every little habitation within the great foul nest
of one high building—that is to say, the room
or rooms within every door that opened on the
general staircase—left its own heap of refuse on
its own landing, besides flinging other refuse
from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered,
would have polluted the air, even if poverty and
deprivation had not loaded it with their intangible
impurities; the two bad sources combined
made it almost insupportable. Through such
an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt and
poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own
disturbance of mind, and to his young companion's
agitation, which became greater every instant,
Mr. Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each
of these stoppages was made at a doleful grating,
by which any languishing good airs that were
left uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt
and sickly vapours seemed to crawl in. Through
the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and
nothing within range, nearer or lower than the
summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame
had any promise on it of healthy life or wholesome
aspirations.

At last, the top of the staircase was gained,
and they stopped for the third time. There was
yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended,
before the garret story was reached. The keeper
of the wine-shop, always going a little in
advance, and always going on the side which Mr.
Lorry took, as though he dreaded to be asked
any question by the young lady, turned himself
about here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets
of the coat he carried over his shoulder, took out
a key.

"The door is locked then, my friend?" said
Mr. Lorry, surprised.

"Ay. Yes," was the grim reply of Monsieur
Defarge.

"You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate
gentleman so retired?"

"I think it necessary to turn the key." Monsieur
Defarge whispered it closer in his ear, and
frowned heavily.

"Why?"

"Why! Because he has lived so long, locked
up, that he would be frightened—rave—tear
himself to pieces—die—come to I know not what
harm—if his door was left open."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Mr. Lorry.

"Is it possible?" repeated Defarge, bitterly.
"Yes. And a beautiful world we live in, when
it is possible, and when many other such things
are possible, and not only possible, but done—
done, see you!—under that sky there, every day.
Long live the Devil. Let us go on."

This dialogue had been held in so very low a
whisper, that not a word of it had reached the
young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
under such strong emotion, and her face
expressed such deep anxiety, and, above all, such
dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
on him to speak a word or two of
reassurance.

"Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business!
The worst will be over in a moment; it is but
passing the room door, and the worst is over.
Then, all the good you bring to him, all the
relief, all the happiness you bring to him, begin.
Let our good friend here, assist you on that
side. That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now.
Business, business!"

They went up slowly and softly. The staircase
was short, and they were soon at the top.
There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came
all at once in sight of three men, whose heads
were bent down close together at the side of a
door, and who were intently looking into the
room to which the door belonged, through some
chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing footsteps
close at hand, these three turned, and
rose, and showed themselves to be the three of
one name who had been drinking in the wine-
shop.

"I forgot them, in the surprise of your visit,"
explained Monsieur Defarge. "Leave us, good
boys; we have business here."

The three glided by, and went silently down.

There appearing to be no other door on that
floor, and the keeper of the wine-shop going
straight to this one when they were left alone,
Mr. Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little
anger:

"Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?"

"I show him, in the way you have seen, to a
chosen few."

"Is that well?"

"I think it is well."

"Who are the few? How do you choose
them?"

"I choose them as real men, of my name—
Jacques is my name—to whom the sight is likely
to do good. Enough; you are English; that is
another thing. Stay there, if you please, a little
moment."

With an admonitory gesture to keep them
back, he stooped, and looked in through the
crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again,
he struck twice or thrice upon the door—
evidently with no other object than to make a noise
there. With the same intention, he drew the key
across it, three or four times, before he put it
clumsily into the lock, and turned it as heavily
as he could.

The door slowly opened inward under his
hand, and he looked into the room and said
something. A faint voice answered something.