Two Cities

Chapter 6 Hotel (1)
A large wine barrel fell for no reason on the street and fell apart. Such an accident happened when the barrel was lifted from the car.The barrel rolled down, the hoops fell apart, and the barrel lay on the stone outside the tavern door, crumbled like a walnut shell.

People in the neighborhood, regardless of their work and wanderings, came to grab drinks.The stones on the road were rough and sharp, as if they were deliberately designed to limp the creatures that approached them, but now they turned into small wine puddles.There are crowds of people huddling around, almost as many people as there are these small wine puddles.Someone knelt down, cupped his hands together and drank it, or offered it to a woman who bent over his shoulder while the wine was still running through his fingers.Others, men and women, scooped water from puddles in mutilated ceramic cups.Some even removed the turbans from the women's heads to fill up the wine and squeeze it into the baby's mouth.Some built embankments with mud to block the wine.Some listened to the instructions of the people at the high window and ran around, trying to intercept the wine flowing in all directions, while some tried to find a way on the wooden chips of the wine barrels that were swelled by the wine and stained red by the dross, and smacked with relish. Touching the wet and wine-soaked wood, he even started chewing.There was no container to be recycled at all, but not only did not a drop of wine flow away, even the soil was blown up.If anyone who knew the street believed that there would be a scavenger here, he might think that the miracle had already taken place at this time.

People are still immersed in the game of grabbing wine.There was a jubilant uproar in the street--men, women, and children.Among them, there are more happy voices.But there is a unique feeling of companionship, an obvious element of mutual laughter.This tendency makes those lucky and optimistic people hug each other joyfully, toast, shake hands, and even make more than a dozen people hold hands and dance.The wine was finished, and there were many finger and claw marks like furnace bridges on the place where the wine was the most.The show came to an abrupt end just as it happened.The man who had just left the saw in the wood continued to push the saw.The woman who had just placed the pot full of hot ashes at the door returned to her original place--that was to relieve the pain of her hungry finger or toe or that of her child.Naked, disheveled, haggard men had just come out of the cellar into the winter sun and were back again.Over here again, as usual, a dark cloud gathered.Wine is red wine.It dyed a narrow street in Saint-Antoine in the suburbs of Paris red, and it also dyed many hands, many faces, many bare feet, and many pairs of clogs.The handprint of sawing firewood left a red mark on the firewood.Women who had given wine to their babies also had red marks on their foreheads from rewrapped headscarves.The mouth of the greedy sucker who had sucked the staves was painted red, making him look like a tiger.There was a naughty tall man who also turned into a tiger.On his head was a dirty nightcap that looked like a long bag, and at this moment he dipped his finger in the muddy wine residue and wrote a word on the wall: blood.

This instant bloody war is coming.At this time, dark clouds covered the sky of Saint-Antoine again, and the short-lived sunshine broke the dark clouds from its holy face.Now the place is clouded again—cold, filth, disease, ignorance, and poverty are the grand lords who made this saint—they all hold power, especially the last one: poverty.The men here are specimens of men who have been toiled and tempered in the mill--but certainly not by the mill they have worked their whole lives on.They trembled in every corner, went in and out of every door, and looked in every window.They were naked and shivering in the cold wind.The mill that grinds them is the mill that grinds young men into old men.Children are worn out by it with an aging face and an aging voice.On their faces, as well as on the faces of adults, it has worn out the traces of time, and then drilled out and ran here and there.Hunger is omnipresent, and it is tyrannical.Hunger is like tattered clothes, hanging from tall buildings on bamboo poles and ropes.Hunger patched clothes with straw, rags, wood chips and paper.The hunger came over and over with every piece of lesser wood the man sawed.Hunger looked down the smokeless chimney with wide eyes.Hunger also floated from the filthy streets, where there was nothing to eat in the rubbish heaps.Hunger was written on the racks the bakers used to store their stuff, on every loaf of loaf of loaf left over, on every sausage made from dead dog meat in the salami shop.Hunger rattled its crispy bones amidst the roasted chestnuts in the rotating iron cylinder.Hunger was sliced ​​into a small bowl of thin-looking dried potato chips, fried with a few drops of oil reluctantly.

Hunger is everywhere.From one crooked and narrow street branched other crooked and narrow streets, all reeking and full of people in rags and nightcaps, all emitting rags and The smell of nightcap.Everything that can be seen has a long face, looking at everything that is sick.In the look of people having nowhere to go, there is still a last trace of struggle.Although everyone was depressed, there were many people with tightly closed lips and flaming eyes—his lips turned white because of being angry.Others frowned, as if they were preparing for a trial for themselves or for others.Advertisements in stores (and almost every store has them) are all symbols of scarcity.The butcher's advertisements are full of skinny bits and pieces.Bakers advertise the worst slices of bread.Hotel advertisements shoddyly depict drinking guests holding small shots of ale and beer and complaining, their faces full of exasperation and secrecy.Nothing thrives except tools and weapons.The knife-grinder's knives and axes were sharp, the blacksmith's hammer was strong and heavy, the gunsmith's butts were murderous, and the incapacitating stone pavement was puddles full of mud and water.The pavement leads directly to the door of the residents, there is no sidewalk, and to make up for the defect, the gutter runs to the middle of the street—if it is not blocked.But if it is not blocked, it must rain heavily, but if it does rain heavily, it will pour into the residents' houses after random circulation.At long intervals there was a clumsy street lamp suspended in the middle of the street by ropes and tackle.At night the lamp-man put down his many lamps, lit them, and rose into the air, so that there was a forest of dim, feeble lights hanging sickly above his head like a sea-fire.They were indeed at sea, and the boat and its crew were already in danger of the storm.

Because, after a long time watching the work of the lanternmen, the thin, shapeless poor people in the area who had nothing to do and had no stomach came up with an idea to improve the working method: use ropes and pulleys to lift people up too, to light up the darkness around them.However, that time has not yet come.Every wind that blows through France makes the poor man's rags float about, but it doesn't help, because the birds with their beautiful plumage and singing don't heed warnings.

The hotel is on a corner street, in shape and class above most of its peers.Just now its boss was wearing a yellow vest and green trousers, standing outside the door watching people scrambling for the spilled wine. "That's none of my business," he said with a final shrug. "It was spilled by the people in the market. Ask them to send another bucket."

Then he happened to see the joke written on the wall by the big man, and he called to him across the street:
"Hey, Gaspard, what are you scribbling on the wall?" The man pointed to his writing meaningfully.The gang often did this to each other.But his trick didn't work, and the other party ignored it at all.This kind of situation is also often seen among this group of people.

"Do you want to go to a lunatic asylum?" The hotel owner walked across the street, grabbed a handful of mud from the ground and smeared his writing on it, "Why do you want to scribble on the street? Is there no other place to write? "

While speaking, his clean hand fell on the mouth of the joker, intentionally or unintentionally.The man opened his hand at once, jumped up quickly, and danced in a posture he had never seen before.A stained shoe flew off his foot, and he caught it again and lifted it up.Under the circumstances at that time, his prank just now was very dangerous even if it did not destroy the family. "Put your shoes on, put them on," said the shopkeeper. "Have a glass of wine, just drink there!" After the boss advised, he wiped his dirty hands on the man's clothes-he did this on purpose because his hands were soiled by the man.Then he turned and walked across the street to the hotel again.

The hotel owner looked to be in his thirties, with a thick neck like a bull and a combative look.He must have a dry and hot physique. Even though it was cold winter, he still put his coat on his shoulders and didn't put it on. He also rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing his brown arms.He has short, curly black hair and doesn't wear a hat.This person has a dark complexion, bright eyes, and the eyes are far apart, which can easily attract the attention of others.Generally speaking, his temper is not bad, but he is stubborn and strong. He is obviously a person who has the courage and determination to do whatever he wants to do.Don't meet him on a narrow road with water on both sides, this man can't be dragged back no matter what he uses.

His wife, Madame Defarge, was sitting behind the counter in the shop when he entered.Madame Defarge was about his own age, a strong, strong woman with keen eyes that seemed to be looking at little.Her big hands were covered with rings, her facial features were thick, but steady and quiet.Her look gave one the confidence that there would be no error in the accounts she managed.She gets cold easily, so she's wrapped tightly in fur, and has a big brightly colored scarf wrapped around her head, with only two big earrings showing.The woolen yarn was placed in front of her, but she didn't knit. She just supported her arm with one hand and picked a toothpick with the other.Her husband didn't say anything to her when he walked into the hotel, he just coughed lightly.This cough, supplemented by a slight lift of her bushy eyebrows over the toothpick, suggested to her husband that it would be better to walk around the store to see if any new customers came in after he had crossed the street.

The hotel owner rolled his eyes and saw an old gentleman and a young girl sitting in the corner.There was nothing new about the other customers: two were playing cards, two were playing dominoes, and three were standing at the counter leisurely savoring the few remaining wines.As he passed the counter, he saw the old gentleman wink at the young girl. "That's him."

"What the hell are you doing in that corner?" thought M. Defarge. "We don't know each other."

But he pretended not to see the appearance of these two strangers, and went to chat with the three guests who were drinking at the counter.

(End of this chapter)