Section 34

"Good day, countrywoman."
"Good day, countryman."
This way of talking was now forced by law. In the past freedom fighters had been the ones to start talking to each other in this way, and they did it only because they wanted to do it; but now it was the law for everyone to do so.
"Walking here again, countrywoman?"
"As you can see, countryman."
The woodcutter, who was a little man who used his hands too much when talking (He had been a road worker in the past.) looked quickly at the prison, pointed to it, and then, putting his ten fingers in front of his face like they were bars, looked foolishly through them.
"But it's not my business," he said. And he returned to cutting timber.
The next day he was watching for her, and he talked to her as soon as she turned up.
"What? Walking here again, countrywoman?"
"Yes, countryman."
"Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little country-girl?" "Do I say yes, mummy?" whispered little Lucie, moving closer to her. "Yes, my love." "Yes, countryman."
"Ah, but it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw? I call it my little guillotine. La, la, la; la, la, lah! And off his head comes!"
The stick fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
"I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again! Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off her head comes. Now a child. Tickle, tickle; pickle, pickle! And off its head comes. All the family!"
Lucie shook as he threw two more sticks into his basket. Sadly, it was not possible for her to be there without the woodcutter seeing her when he was working. So from then on, to keep him on her side, she always spoke to him first, and gave him some money for drinking, which he enthusiastically received.
He was very interested in her, and at times when she was not thinking about him because she was so busy looking up toward the prison roof and windows, and in lifting her heart up to her husband, she would come to herself only to find him looking at her, with his knee on the bench and his saw stopped in its work. "But it's not my business," he would often say at those times, and he would quickly return to cutting timber.
In all weather, the winter snow, the summer heat, and the winds and rains that came between them, Lucie would spend two hours of every day at this place. And every day, on leaving it, she would kiss the prison wall. Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) maybe one day in five or six. It might happen two or three days, one after the other, but then it could be a week or two with him not seeing her at all. There was no way of knowing. But it was enough that he could and did see her when each time came, and to make that possible she would have waited there all day, seven days a week.
These jobs brought her around to the month of December again, when her father was walking through all of the awful things that were happening around him without it changing his confidence. It was snowing lightly that afternoon when she arrived at the same old corner. It was a day of some happiness, a special day for the country. She had seen little spears with little red hats on them and thin pieces of cloth in the three colours of the country tied to them, outside many of the houses on the way. They also had the words: "One country working together. Free, equal, and brothers, or death!"
The woodcutter's little shop was so small that there was almost not enough space on the wall to put all of the letters for this saying. Someone had put the letters on for him, with the letters for "death" squeezed very close together at the end. On the top of the house were the spear and hat, as every good French person should have, and in a window he had put his saw, with the words "Little Saint Guillotine", for by that time, the little sharp female was for most people as good as a saint. His shop was closed and he was not there, which Lucie was glad to see. It left her alone.
But he was not far away, because she soon heard a troubled movement and some shouting coming toward her, filling her with fear. A second or two later, a crowd of people came pouring around the corner by the prison wall, with the woodcutter in the middle, walking hand in hand with The Punisher. There were at least five hundred people, and they were dancing like five thousand devils. There was no other music apart from their own singing. They danced to the freedom fighters' war song, marking time wildly like crazy men hitting their teeth together. Men danced with women, men with men, and women with women. At first they were just a storm of red hats and rough broken clothes, but as they filled the place and stopped to dance around Lucie, an awful crazy ghost of a dance started to take shape. They would come forward, then go back, hit each other's hands together, hold each other's heads,
turn around alone, then grab another and turn around in twos until many of them dropped. While those were down, others joined hands and all ran around together, then the circle broke into smaller circles of two and four until they all stopped together, started again, clapped hands, hugged, and then went around in the opposite direction. Then they stopped again, waited for a few seconds, and, starting to mark time again, moved into lines as wide as the walkway, and then, with their heads down and their hands up high, they set off crying out loudly as they did. No fight could have been half as awful as this dance. It was clearly a sport that had turned evil... something that was once innocent, but that had now been given to the devil... a healthy way of playing changed to one that makes blood angry, minds confused, and hearts like iron. Anything beautiful in it had been made ugly by being used to encourage such sick emotions. A young woman opening her spirit to this, the mind of one who is almost a child joining in, little feet stepping in a lake of blood and dirt were all a part of the time that they were living in.
This was the song and dance of the freedom fighters. As it passed, leaving Lucie in fear and confusion, feathers of snow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft as if it had never happened.
"Oh father!" Lucie said, for he stood there when she lifted her eyes after covering them with her hands. "It was such a cruel, awful thing to see."
"I know, my love, I know. I have seen it many times. Do not be afraid! Not one of them will hurt you."
"I am not afraid for myself, father. But when I think of my husband, and the cruel mercies of these people..."
"We will put him above their mercies very soon. When I left him, he was climbing to the window, so I came to tell you. There is no one here to see, so you may kiss your hand toward that highest angled roof."
"I'm doing it, father, and I'm sending him my soul with it!"
"Can you see him, my love?"
"No, father," said Lucie, hurting and crying as she kissed her hand. "No." A footstep in the snow. Madam Defarge. "Good day, countrywoman," from the Doctor.
"Good day, countryman." This in passing. Nothing more. Madam Defarge was gone, like a shadow over the white road.
"Give me your arm, my love. Walk away with a brave smile on your face for him." And when they had left: "Well done. It will not be wasted. Charles is to come before the court tomorrow."
"Tomorrow!"
"There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are things we must do that could not be done before he was called to the court. He has not received word about the call yet, but I know from secret information that I have received. Are you afraid?"
She found it difficult to speak: "I trust you."
"Please do so fully. Your time of testing is almost over, my love. He will be back with you in a few hours. I have done everything I can to protect him. Now I must see Mr. Lorry."
He stopped. There was the heavy sound of timber wheels not far from there. They both knew too well what it was. One. Two. Three. Three carts leaving the prison with their awful weight of passengers as they moved over the quieting snow.
"I must see Mr. Lorry," the Doctor said again as he turned her away from the carts.
That true old man was still trusted by him; he had never given any reason not to be. He and his books were often asked for by the new government, so they could take wealth from people who had left the country. What he could save for the owners, he saved. There was no better man alive to protect what he could of the wealth the bank held, without making the new government angry.
A dirty red and yellow sky, and low clouds coming from the river showed that darkness was near. It was almost dark when they arrived at Tellson's Bank. The beautiful house of the past leader was empty and in very poor shape. Over what was left of a burned out fire in the yard were the words "Owned by the People. One country. Free, Equal, Brothers; or Death!"
Who is that meeting secretly with Mr. Lorry... the owner of the riding coat that can be seen on the chair? From whom did he come outside, worried and surprised, to hug someone who came a short time after the man inside? Who was this woman whose words he repeated loudly through the door of the room to the person inside: "He goes to court tomorrow!"
6. Free at Last!
Every day, five judges, the lawyer for the government, and a serious group of countrymen sat in the court to hear the cases for people brought there. Each evening the court would send out a list of prisoners to be brought the next day, and the prison guards would read out the list to all the prisoners inside the prison, joking as they did: "You in there, come out and listen to the evening news!"
"Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!"
At last the evening paper at La Force had his name on it, and it was first on the list.
When a name was called, the owner of the name would step to the side, to a place where all who were on the list must stand. Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the meaning of it. He had seen hundreds leave in that way.
His fat guard, who used reading glasses, looked over the top of them to see that Charles had taken his place. He went on with the rest of the list, stopping after each name to see that the prisoner moved to join the group that was to leave. There were twenty- three names called for, but only twenty who answered to their names. One had died in prison and two had already been killed by the guillotine, but no one in the courts had remembered that. The list was read in the big, low room with a rounded stone roof, where Charles had met other prisoners like himself on the night when he first arrived there. Every one of them had been killed in the four nights of killing after that. Every person he had since come to care for, and been separated from had died by the guillotine.
There were hurried goodbyes and other kind words, but it was soon over. It happened every afternoon, and there were other things that needed doing too. The others in La Force were preparing some games and music for that evening. They crowded around the windows and cried a few tears; but it would not be long before they would be locked up for the night, and there were twenty empty places in their planned entertainment to be filled. It is not that the prisoners had no feeling for those who were taken; the way they acted was just how it was at that time. Another strange way of the times was for some prisoners to become drunk with a sickness of the mind that went with the wild times, to the point where they would join those going to the guillotine even when they did not need to go. They were not trying to show off; it is just how some people feel when there is a great sickness killing many others, that they too would like to die with it. We all have secret feelings like that in ourselves that only need the right happenings to bring them out.
The ride to the little prison beside the court was short and dark, and the night in its dirty rooms was long and cold. The next day, fifteen prisoners were brought to the court before Charles Darnay's name was called. It took only an hour and a half to find all of them guilty, and to send them to be killed.
"Charles Evremonde, called Darnay," was at last called out.
The judges had hats with feathers in them, but others were wearing the rough red hats with three-coloured cloths on them. Looking at the people who were to judge him, and at the crowd in the court room, it would be easy to think that it was the law- breakers in the crowd and the honest people who were being brought before the court. The lowest, crudest, and worst people in a city which was never without some low, cruel, and bad people, were the ones leading the whole show, talking loudly, agreeing, disagreeing, looking forward to what would happen, then being the ones who made things happen, all without anyone trying to stop them. Most of the men had weapons. Some of the women carried knives; some ate as they looked on; and many knitted. In this last group was one with a special piece of knitting under her arm as she worked. She was in the front, by the side of a man who Charles Darnay had not seen since he had come into the city, but whom he remembered as being Defarge. He saw her whisper in his ear one or two times, and she seemed to be his wife; but, what was strange in the two of them was that even with them sitting as close to him as could be, they never looked toward him. They seemed to be waiting for something, and they looked at the countrymen who would be judging him, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette, dressed quietly as always. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr. Lorry were the only men there, apart from judges, who did not wear the rough clothes of the freedom fighters.
Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was said by the government lawyer to be a runaway, whose life was now owned by the new government under the law that said all runaways would be killed if they returned. It was nothing to them that the law was made after he returned to France. There he was, and there was the law. He had returned to France, and they wanted his head.
"Cut off his head!" cried the crowd. "He's an enemy of France!"
The President shook his bell to stop the cries, and he asked the prisoner if it was true that he had lived in England for many years.
Clearly it was.
Was he not a runaway then? What did he call himself? Not a runaway, he hoped, in the spirit of the law.
Why not? the President wanted to know.
Because he had freely chosen to give away a name and a class that he hated, by leaving the country. He said that at that time it would not have been seen as running away as it was now, for he only went to live through his own work in England and not by the hard work of the people of France, as his family had.
What proof did he have of this?
He had two witnesses: Gabelle, and Alexander Manette. But he had married in England, the President pointed out. True, but not to an English woman.
Was she a countrywoman of France?
Yes, she had been born there.
Her name and family?
"Lucie Manette, the only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good doctor who sits there."
This answer had a happy effect on the crowd. Enthusiastic cries for the good Doctor filled the room. So easily changed were the people that tears quickly rolled down some of the wild faces that had been looking angrily at the prisoner a few seconds before, as if they wanted to pull him out into the streets and kill him.
On these first few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had been acting on what Doctor Manette had told him to say. The same careful wisdom led every step of the way, and had prepared every inch of the road.
The President asked why he had returned to France when he did, and why he had not returned sooner.
He had not returned sooner, he answered, because he had no way to live in France apart from the way his family had lived. In England he had lived by teaching French. He had returned after being begged by letter from a French countryman who said his life was in danger by him not being there. He had come back to save a countryman's life, and to speak up for the truth, at any danger to himself. Was that wrong in the eyes of the new government?