Section 29

"I wish I were going myself," said Charles Darnay like he was talking to himself.
"Is that right? And you think I should listen to one who talks like that?" Mr. Lorry said in surprise. "You wish you were going yourself? And you, who were born over there? Do you call that good thinking?"
"My good Mr. Lorry, it is because I was born over there that the thought (which I did not mean for you to hear) has gone through my mind so often. One cannot stop thinking, having some understanding for what the people have been through, and having left something with them," he said, deep in thought now, "that I should be
listened to, and that I might be able to show you that you should not go. Only last night, after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie..."
"When you were talking to Lucie," Mr. Lorry repeated. "Yes, I am surprised that you would even say her name! Wishing that you were going to France at this time of day!"
"But I am not going," said Charles Darnay with a smile. "What is more important is that you say you are."
"Because I am. It's as easy as that. The truth is, Charles," Mr. Lorry said as he looked at the "House" in the distance and dropped his voice, "you could never understand how difficult it is for us to do business at this time, and the danger that goes with our books and papers over there. Only God knows what it would do to so many people if some of our papers were taken or destroyed; and that could happen at any time, you know; for who can say that Paris will not be burned down today or tomorrow? Quickly taking the most important papers and burying them or in some other way making them safe is something that only I could do. Should I hold back when Tellson's knows this and says this... Tellson's, whose bread I have been eating for sixty years... just because I am a little sore in my joints? Why I am only a boy, sir, if put next to some of the really old men around here!"
"I think very highly of your brave young spirit, Mr. Lorry."
"Don't be foolish, sir! My good friend," said Mr. Lorry, looking at the "House" again, "you should know that getting things out of Paris at this time (It makes no difference what it is.) is almost impossible. The papers we received today... I should not be telling this to anyone, so please don't say a word about it to anyone... came here in the hands of some very brave men. Each one was only a hair away from losing his head as he crossed the border. Any other time our papers would move to and from France as easily as they move here in England; but now everything is stopped.
"And do you really want to go tonight?"
"I must, for the business is too important to wait any longer."
"Will you take no one with you?"
"Many have been named to go with me, but I will have nothing to say to any of them. I plan to take Jerry. He has protected me on my walks to your place each Sunday for years now, and I am used to him. Nobody will think he is anything more than an English friend, there to protect me from anyone who tries to touch me."
"I have to say again that I think you are very brave and very young at heart."
"And I have to say again that such talk is foolishness! When I have finished this little job, I may agree to stop working and take some rest. Then I can think about growing old."
This talk had taken place at Mr. Lorry's desk, with high class Frenchmen moving around only a few feet away, and talking about what they would one day do to those who had turned them into refugees. It was the way of the rich, both in France and in England, to talk about this awful change as if it was the only fruit in the world that did not grow from a planted seed... as if nothing had ever been done (or not been done) that could have had such an effect... as if no one had ever seen the poor millions in France and all that could have been done to make their life better, and as if no one had ever seen or said, years before, in words that could be easily understood, what was going to happen. Such hot air, together with talk by these same high class people
about putting things back the way they were, as if it were possible, was enough to make anyone who knew the truth and was not crazy jump into an argument with them. This talk all around his ears, like a sickness inside his head, made it difficult for Charles Darnay to sit still and say nothing.
One of the talkers was Stryver, who was doing well in the courts, and, because of that, was talking loudly here at Tellson's: telling the high class French men about how he would destroy the working class and live well without them. He had other plans too, but they were about as smart as saying that one could put an end to eagles by putting salt on all their tails. Darnay had a special feeling of anger when he heard Stryver talking, and he was pulled between leaving and speaking up, when things happened in such a way as to make up his mind for him.
The "House" came and put a dirty, closed letter on Mr. Lorry's desk, asking if he had been able to find the person whose name was on it. The letter was so close to Darnay on the desk that he could see the name, and see that it was his own real name: "The Marquis Evremonde, of France".
On the morning of the day he had married Lucie, Doctor Manette had strongly asked Charles Darnay to never tell anyone his secret without the Doctor agreeing to it first. No other person knew his real name... not Lucie, and not Mr. Lorry.
"No," said Mr. Lorry, to the "House". "I have taken it around to all the people here, and not one can tell me where I can find this man."
Because the clock said it was almost time for the bank to close, all the Sirs were moving by Mr. Lorry's desk on their way out of the bank. He held the letter out, and one by one they each had something bad to say, in French or in English, about the awful Marquis whose name was on the envelope.
"Nephew, I believe, of the wonderful Marquis who was killed," said one. "Happy to say I never knew him."
"Ran away from his job," said another. The man saying this had, himself, secretly left Paris by hiding in a wagon under a pile of straw.
"This new teaching has been his work," said a third. "He tried to fight his uncle, the last Marquis, left the land when it became his, and then let the beggars take it over. They'll pay him back now. I hope they kill him."
"Is that true?" cried the big-mouthed Stryver. "What kind of person would do that? Let me see his name. To hell with this man!"
Darnay, not able to hold himself back any longer touched Stryver on the shoulder and said, "I know the man."
"Do you, by God?" said Stryver. "I'm sad to hear that. Did you hear what he did? There is no good reason for doing that in times like these."
"And why do you say that?"
"I'll tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I'm sorry for you. Sorry that you would even ask the question. Here is a man, who, touched by the evilest teaching that was ever known, left his land to the worst people on earth, people who would kill anyone. And you ask me why I am sorry that a man who teaches young people knows him? Okay, I will answer you. I think that the evil from one person can rub off onto another. That's why."
Remembering the secret he had promised to keep, Darnay tried hard to control himself, as he said, "You may not understand the man."
"I understand how to put you in a corner, Mr. Darnay," said Stryver the Pusher, "and I'll do it. If this man is of high class, then I don't understand him. You can tell him that for me. Tell him too, that if he was prepared to give all that belonged to him to this rough crowd, then why isn't he there leading them now?" Then, looking around at the others in the bank, he said, "Men, I know something about people, and I can tell you that you will never find a person who trusts the people he helps enough to become one of them. No, men, he'll always turn and run before the fight starts."
With those words, and a wave of his hand, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way out into Fleet street, with his hearers loudly saying how much they agreed with him. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone in the bank when they had gone.
"Will you take over the letter?" asked Mr. Lorry. "Do you know where to find the man?"
"I do."
"Can you tell him that we think it came here because they believed we would know where he was, and that it has been here for a long time?"
"I'll do that. Will you be leaving for Paris straight from here." "Yes, from here, at eight."
"I'll come back to see you off."
Angry with himself, with Stryver, and with most other men, Darnay made his way into a quiet place in Temple, opened the letter, and read it. This is what it said:
Prison of the Abbey, Paris.
June 12, 1792.
Sir, the new Marquis, after being in danger of my life at the hands of the village, I have been very roughly taken a long way, on foot, to Paris. My house has been destroyed, burned to the ground.
They say I am in prison, Sir, and will come before the court, and will be killed (without your generous help) because I have hurt the people of France by acting against them for a man who ran away from France. They can't see that I was trying to help them and not hurt them, as you had asked me to do. I have told them that, before they took your land, I had already forgiven the taxes that they had not paid, and I had asked for no more rent; but they do not listen. They only say that I have acted for a man who ran away, and they ask, 'Where is he?'
Oh, most loving Marquis, Sir, where is that man who left? I cry in my sleep, 'Where is he? ' I ask God, 'Will he not come to save me? ' No answer. Oh, Sir the Marquis, I send my sad cry across the water, hoping it may reach your ears through the bank of Tellson's that I know has a branch in Paris!
For the love of heaven, of what is fair and generous, for the good of your great name, I beg you, Sir, the new Marquis, to help liberate me. All I did was to be true to you. Please Sir, the new Marquis, be true to me!
From this awful prison here, where each hour brings me closer to death, I send you, Sir, the sad news of where I am.
Your hurting one, Gabelle.
The thoughts that had been in the back of Darnay's mind before this were brought to life by the letter. What had happened to an old servant, who was also a good servant, whose only wrong was to obey him and his family, looked him so strongly in the face that, as he walked one way and the other in the Temple, thinking about what to do, he almost wanted to hide his face from the people walking by.
He knew very well that his feeling about the awful way his uncle had died, his anger against his uncle, and the voice of his conscience against taking up his uncle's job had all made him act too quickly. He knew very well that, in his love for Lucie, leaving the rich class in France (something he had wanted to do for some time) was hurried and not well thought out. He knew that he should have stayed to be sure that it was done right. He had wanted to do that too, but it had never happened.
The happiness of his English home, the need to be always busy, the fast changes in France, which would force one week's plans to be changed the next, had all worked together to stop him from finishing the job he had started. He knew things were not right, but he had not followed through and put them right. He had watched things change until it was too late to act. The rich were leaving France by every road and highway now, their land taken from them, their homes destroyed, and their names rubbed out. He knew all of this as well as any of the new leaders in France knew it, the ones who might now take action against him for doing nothing.
But he had not hurt anyone, he had put no one in prison, and he was far from taking too much money from the people because he had, in truth, taken none. He had left for a country where he would not be special, and where he was forced to work for himself if he wanted to eat. Mr. Gabelle had been put in control of the land on the understanding that he was to help the people, and to give them what little there was to give, timber for heat in the winter and food from the land in the summer. He had put it in writing to Mr. Gabelle, and surely Gabelle must have shown those papers to the court by now.
All of this gave Charles Darnay more confidence to believe that a trip to Paris would put an end to Mr. Gabelle's problems.
Like the old story of the ship owner who was forced by the storm close to a rock that acted like a magnet to pull his ship into it, Charles Darnay was being pulled, by every thought in his head, more and more toward Paris. His secret worry had been that the wrong targets were being set by the wrong people in his own sad country, and that he, knowing what was needed, should be there trying to do something to stop the killings, and to push for more mercy in the way they acted toward the people they were fighting against. With this feeling half covered and half making him feel guilty, he had come to the point where he judged his actions by those of the brave old man who had tried so hard to obey him. When doing that (which showed himself to be wrong) he remembered the words of his uncle, which had hurt so much at the time, and those of Stryver, which, even if they were very rough, had also hurt for other reasons. And then he had read Gabelle's letter: an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, asking for help in the belief that Charles Darnay would do what was right.
His mind was made up. He must go to Paris.
Yes. The Rock was pulling him like a magnet, and he had no choice but to sail on until he hit it. He knew nothing of the Rock, because he saw little danger. The good spirit in what he had started, even if he had not finished it, made him believe that others in France would see him as a friend. Then, that strong love for doing good, which tricks so many good minds, made a false picture in his mind, and he started to see himself as being able to control the war that was running so wild there now.
As he moved here and there with his thoughts, he started thinking that both Lucie and her father must not know of his plan until after he had gone. Then Lucie would not have to go through the pain of saying goodbye, and her father, always in pain if he remembered the dangers of his past, would be better off to learn about his action in one hit, without thinking about all that could go with it. He gave little thought to how much Lucie's father's fears about remembering his past had added to his confusion about what to do; but it did have some effect on what he ended up doing.
He moved here and there with his thoughts until it was time to return to Tellson's and say goodbye to Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived in Paris, he would find this old friend; but he must not say anything to him about his plan at this time.
A coach with fast horses was ready at the bank door, and Jerry was dressed for the trip.
"I have given that letter to the man it was for," said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. "I would never ask you to carry an answer in writing, but could you just tell the sender something?"
"I will gladly do that," said Mr. Lorry, "if it is not too dangerous." "Not at all. But it is for a prisoner in the Abbey."
"What is his name?" asked Mr. Lorry, with his pocket book open in his hand. "Gabelle."