Two Cities

Chapter 32
"That depends. Maybe I'll be able to put it to use one day. If that's the case—well," said the landlady, taking a coquettish breath and nodding her head, "it'll work." gone."

Strange to say, the people of St. Antoine seem to have been quite adamant about Madame Defarge's roses.Two people came into the store at the same time, wanting to drink, and when they saw the unusual rose, they both stopped, pretending to be looking for friends there.Even the customers who were in the store before they entered the store were all gone.The spy opened his eyes wide, but saw nothing.People walk away.They are poor, and their actions are sudden but purposeless.It's natural and unassailable.

"John," thought the landlady, knitting with her fingers, but she was examining the work she was doing, and her eyes were on the stranger. "If you stay longer, I'll weave this 'Barcelona' in before you leave."

"Do you have a husband, madam?" "Yes."

"Do you have children?" "No." "Business doesn't seem to be going well?"

"Business is bad, and the people are too poor." "Oh, wretched, wretched people! And so oppressed—as you say." "That's what you said," retorted the proprietress, correcting him words, and deftly adding to his name an account that would not do him any favors.

"I'm sorry, that's what I said, but you don't think so, it's undeniable."

"I think?" the proprietress raised her voice and answered. "My husband and I have to set up this store. We are already busy enough. What else do we want to do? All we think about here is how to survive. We think about these problems, and this is enough to keep us busy from morning to night. If you don't think about other people's business, you're asking for trouble. What if you think about other people's business? No, I won't do it."

The spy originally wanted to collect some breadcrumbs or make something.He didn't want to see a look of distress on his face, so he just leaned his elbows on the proprietress's small counter, pretending to be bored and chatting, and took a sip of cognac from time to time. "Gaspard's death, madam, is indecent. Ah, poor Gaspard!" he said with a deep sigh of sympathy.

"Ah!" said the proprietress lightly and coldly, "you will be punished for doing such a thing with a knife. He should have known the price of this luxury a long time ago, and it is just a debt to repay the money."

"I believe," said the spy, in a low voice.In order to gain the other party's trust, every muscle on his evil face showed a hurt expression: "To tell you the truth, I think people in this area have strong sympathy and anger for this poor man, don't they? "

"Really?" the proprietress said with a questioning expression on her face. "No?" "—here comes my master!" said Madame Defarge.The innkeeper came in, and the spy saluted with the brim of his hat and said with a flattering smile, "Good day, Jacques!" Defarge stopped walking and stared at him.

"Good day, Jacques!" said the spy again.Under the gaze of the other party, he seemed a bit reluctant, and his smile was uncomfortable.

"I'm not your man, sir," replied the innkeeper. "Think of me as someone else. My name is not Jacques. My name is Ernest Defarge."

"It's the same as what you call it," the spy said with a smile, but also showed a flustered expression, "Good day!"

"Good day!" replied Defarge impassively. "Before you came in, I had the honor of chatting with the landlady about what I was told: St. Antoine's strong displeasure and anger at poor Gaspard's unfortunate fate."

"I haven't heard anyone say that," said Defarge, shaking his head. "I don't know."

Having said this, he went behind the small counter, put one hand on the back of his wife's chair, and looked across the barrier at the person they were facing together.If they could kill him with one shot, the two of them would feel happy.

The spy liked his professional life very much, and without changing his self-importance, he drank his small glass of cognac, took a sip of water, and ordered another glass of cognac.Madame Defarge poured him wine, and then resumed knitting, humming a little tune from time to time.

"You know the country well, don't you? I think you know it better than I do, don't you?" said Defarge.

"No no, just want to know more. I have a deep concern for the suffering residents,"

"Ah!" said Defarge vaguely.

"It has been an honor to speak with you, Monsieur Defarge, for it reminds me of—" continued the spy, "that I have the honor of being able to make an interesting association of your surname."

"Really!" said Defarge calmly. "That's right, really. I know that Dr. Manette was in your care when he was released. You were an old servant in his house, so he was handed over to you. You see, I'm right?" There is such a thing, for sure," Defarge said.His wife seemed to touch his elbow every now and then as she knit and sang, and he knew that was a sign that it was best for him to answer, but briefly.

"When his daughter came," said the spy, "it was you who were looking for her. She took her father from you, and there was a gentleman in a brown suit, very well dressed. What was the name of that man?" What?—with a little wig—named Lorry—from Tellson's—and took him to England."

"There is such a thing," repeated Defarge. "What a fun memory!" said the spy. "I know Dr. Manette and his daughter pretty well in England." "Is that so?"

"Have you no news of them now?" said the spy. "No news," said Defarge. "Actually," the proprietress put down her knitting and stopped humming, she raised her head and interjected, "we haven't heard from them at all now. We've only heard from them once or twice after we received information that they arrived safely. A letter, and their life gradually got back on track—we were only busy with our own lives—and we haven’t been in touch any more.”

"That's right, landlady," said the spy. "The lady is getting married soon." "Getting married soon?" the proprietress replied. "She's good-looking and should have been married long ago. You Brits are not enthusiastic at all, I think so."

"Ah! You have to understand that I am an Englishman!" "I have recognized your accent," the proprietress replied, "I sound like an English accent, so you are also an Englishman." He did not take this into account. Fan Jian thought it was a compliment, so he had to smile and perfunctory.He finished his cognac and added: "Really, Miss Manette is getting married. But not to an Englishman, but to a native Frenchman like her. As for Gaspard (oh, poor Gaspard! Too cruel! Too cruel!), but there is one very strange thing. The lady is going to marry the nephew of the Marquis, and Gaspard was promoted because of the Marquis. That is, the man is the present Marquess. But he was incognito in England, and was not a Marquis there. His name was Mr. Charles Darnay. His mother's was Darnay."

Madame Defarge continued to knit quietly, but the news came as a shock to her husband.He was lighting his pipe behind the little counter, but no matter what he did, his hand was a little unruly, and he was very irritable.If the spy didn't notice such an obvious change, he wouldn't be called a spy.Mr Barca's move has at least hit home, though its value is unclear.At this time, there were no other guests coming in to give him a chance to show off his skills, so he paid for the drink and left.Before leaving, he took the opportunity to express in a gentle manner that he hoped to have the opportunity to meet the Defarges again.Long after he left the hotel, the couple remained the same for fear that he would return. "What he told me about Mademoiselle Manette," whispered Defarge, who was standing, smoking, with his hand still on the back of her chair, "was it reliable?" Nine is false," the proprietress raised her eyebrows a little, "but it may be true." "If it is true—" Defarge began and then stopped. "So what if it's true?" repeated his wife. "—and that happened again at the same time, and we saw the victory—then, because of her, may God keep him from coming back to France." "God," said Madame Defarge calmly, "will bring him to his Let him end where he ought to end. That's all." "But there's one thing that's strange—at least it seems strange now, isn't it?" said Defarge, pleadingly. The tone of the wife's admission, "Although we sympathize with her and her father, you have put her husband's name on the punishment list at this time, and is with the hell dog who left us just now."

"Something stranger than this will happen then," replied the landlady. "I've got both here, there's no question about it. They've got their own account, and they're both, and that's all."

Having said this, she put away her knitting, and took the roses from her kerchief.St. Antoine may have had an instinctive awareness that it was time for the obnoxious ornament to disappear, or he may have been watching and waiting for it to disappear.Anyway, it didn't take long for people to work up the courage to come in and the hotel was back to business as usual.

In the evenings of the season, St. Antoine all went out, some sat on the threshold, some sat on the windowsill, and some sat in the dirty streets.They're all out to get some fresh air.Then Madame Defarge used to go through the crowds with her knitting: she was a missionary—there were many like her—and everything would be fine if there were no more such missionaries in the world. up.The women knit shabby things with woolen yarn.However, mechanical work can mechanically bring about eating and drinking.Hands are to fill the stomach.If the lean fingers stop moving, the stomach will not be able to be filled even more.

But while they were weaving among the crowd, they also saw the speed of their companions knitting and heard a lot of ideas.As Madame Defarge moved through the crowd, the fingers, eyes, and thoughts of the women she saw moved more rapidly.

Her husband, smoking at the door, eyed her with admiration. "Wonderful woman," he said, "strong woman, great woman, terrifyingly great woman!"

It was getting dark, when the church bells rang, and in the distance the drums of the royal guard rang.The women sat knitting incessantly.Darkness enveloped them.At the same time, another kind of darkness is gradually approaching.Then the bells that cheer from the steeples all over France will be replaced by cannon that burst into thunder.And the rumble of the army drum will cover up a miserable voice.That night will be like the voice of almighty power and abundance, or, freedom and life.The women sit and weave, with things closing in around them, pinning themselves under a shelf that is not yet built, and sit and weave, recording the heads that are about to fall.

(End of this chapter)