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.”Mr.Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise where the good old man was gone.Sydney Carton drank nothing but a little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh himself, went out to the place of trial.The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep—whom many fell away from in dread—pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.Mr.Lorry was there; and Doctor Manette was there.She was there, sitting beside her father.When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart.If there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look on Sydney Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure, ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing.There could have been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies had not first been so monstrously abused that the suicidal vengeance of the Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.Every eye was turned to the jury.The same determined patriots and good republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day after.Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance gave great satisfaction to the spectators.A life-thirsting, cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of Saint Antoine.The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empanelled to try the deer.Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day.A fell, uncompromising, murderous business-meaning there.Every eye then sought some other eye in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one another, before bending forward with a strained attention.Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay.Released yesterday.Re-accused and retaken yesterday.Indictment delivered to him last night.Suspected and denounced enemy of the Republic, aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants, one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished privileges to the infamous oppression of the people.Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay, in right of such proscription absolutely dead in law.To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the public prosecutor.The President asked, was the accused openly denounced or secretly?“Openly, President.”“By whom?”“Three voices.Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of Saint Antoine.”“Good.”“Thérèse Defarge, his wife.”“Good.”“Alexandre Manette, physician.”A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and a fraud.You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter.My daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life.Who and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband of my child!”“Citizen Manette, be tranquil.To fail in submission to the authority of the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of law.As to what is dearer to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the Republic.”Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke.The President rang his bell, and with warmth resumed.“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her.Listen to what is to follow.In the meanwhile, be silent!”Frantic acclamations were again raised.Doctor Manette sat down, with his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew closer to him.The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together, and restored the usual hand to his mouth.Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of his having been a mere boy in the Doctor’s service, and of the release, and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”“I believe so.”Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the best patriots there.Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when it fell.Patriots, I speak the truth!”It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience, thus assisted the proceedings.The President ran his bell but The Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!” wherein she was likewise much commended.“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille, citizen.”“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him; “I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower.I knew it from himself.He knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower, when he made shoes under my care.As I serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place shall fall, to examine that cell.It falls.I mount to the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the jury, directed by a gaoler.I examine it, very closely.In a hole in the chimney, where a stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper.This is that written paper.I have made it my business to examine some specimens of the writing of Doctor Manette.This is the writing of Doctor Manette.I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of the President.”“Let it be read.”In a dead silence and stillness—the prisoner under trial looked lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them—the paper was read, as follows.10The Substance of the Shadow“I, ALEXANDRE MANETTE, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year 1767.I write it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty.I design to secrete it in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a place of concealment for it.Some pitying hand may find it there, when I and my sorrows are dust [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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