IN the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday, the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set apart.
Two score and twelve were told off From the farmer-general of seventy, whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees; and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering, intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally without distinction.
Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him, that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could avail him nothing.
Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life was strong, and it was very, very hard to loosen; by gradual efforts and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded, this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts, a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against resignation. If for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a selfish thing.
But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So, by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the prison lamps should be extinguished.
To her father himself he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be tending.
To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs. That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first, or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in no wise directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
The hours went on as lie walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine cone for ever, ten gone for ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over. He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them.
Twelve gone for ever.
Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force, he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his recovered self-possession, he thought, `There is but another now,' and turned to walk again.
Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: `He has never seen me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose no time!'
The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's hand, and it was his real grasp.
`Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?' he said.
`I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You are not'--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--`a prisoner?'
`No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your wife, dear Darnay.'
The prisoner wrung his hand.
`I bring you a request from her.'
`What is it?'
`A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well remember.'
The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
`You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you wear, and draw on these of mine.'
There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner. Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
`Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to them. Quick!'
`Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You will only die with me. It is madness.'
`It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I?
When I ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like this of mine!'
With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
`Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.
`Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand steady enough to write?'
`It was when you came in.
`Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!'
Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table. Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
`Write exactly as I speak.'
`To whom do I address it?'
`To no one.' Carton still had his hand in his breast.
`Do I date it?'
`No.'
The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with his hand in his breast, looked down.
```If you remember,''' said Carton, dictating, ```the words that passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it. You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'''
He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon something.
`Have you written ``forget them!'' Carton asked.
`I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?'
`No; I am not armed.'
`What is it in your hand?'
`You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.' He dictated again. ```I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.''' As he said these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly moved down close to the writer's face.
The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about him vacantly.
`What vapour is that?' he asked.
`Vapour?'
`Something that crossed me?'
`I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry!'
As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
`Hurry, hurry !`
The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
```If it had been otherwise;''' Carton's hand was again watchfully and softly stealing down; ```I never should have used the longer opportunity. If it had been otherwise;''' the hand was at the prisoner's face; ```I should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been otherwise---''' Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into unintelligible signs.
Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he softly called, `Enter there! Come in!' and the Spy presented himself.
`You see?' said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: `is your hazard very great?'
`Mr. Carton,' the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, `my hazard is not that, in the thick of business here, if you are true to the whole of your bargain.'
`Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.'
`You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.
`Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and take me to the coach.'
`You?' said the Spy nervously.
`Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which you brought me in?
`Of course.'
`I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands. Quick! Call assistance!'
`You swear not to betray me?' said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a last moment.
`Man, man!' returned Carton, stamping his foot; `have I sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious moments now? Take him yourself to the court-yard you know of, place him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!'
The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
`How, then?' said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. `So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of Sainte Guillotine?'
`A good patriot,' said the other, `could hardly have been more afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.'
They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away. `The time is short, Evrémonde,' said the Spy, in a warning Voice.
`I know it well,' answered Carton. `Be careful of my friend, I entreat you, and leave me.
`Come, then, my children,' said Barsad. `Lift him, and come away!'
The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two. Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely saying, `Follow me, Evrémonde!' and he followed into a large dark room, at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion; but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking fixedly at the ground.
As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him, as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
`Citizen Evrémonde,' she said, touching him with her cold hand. `I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.
He murmured for answer: `True. I forget what you were accused of?'
`Plots. Though the just Heaven knows I am innocent of any. Is it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me?'
The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears started from his eyes.
`I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evrémonde, but I have done nothing. I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evreémonde. Such a poor weak little creature!'
As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
`I heard you were released, Citizen `Evrémonde. I hoped it was true?'
`It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.'
`If I may ride with you, Citizen Evrémonde, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, hut I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage.'
As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young fingers, and touched his lips.
`Are you dying for him?' she whispered.
`And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.'
`O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?'
`Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.
The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
`Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!'
The papers are handed out, and read.
`Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?'
This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man pointed out.
`Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?'
Greatly too much for him.
`Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?'
This is she.
`Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evrémonde; is it not'."
It is.
`Hah! Evrémonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English. This is she?'
She and no other.
`Kiss me, child of Evrémonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican; something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate. English. Which is he?'
He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
`Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?'
It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is under the displeasure of the Republic.
`Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window. Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?'
`I am he. Necessarily, being the last.'
It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
`Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.'
`One can depart, citizen?'
`One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!'
`I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!'
These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
`Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?' asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
`It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much; it would rouse suspicion.'
`Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!'
`The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.'
Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes we stick in ruts and sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing anything but stopping.
Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes, avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven, no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush! the posting-house.
Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results. All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
`Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!'
`What is it?' asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
`How many did they say?
`I do not understand you.'
` At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?'
`Fifty-two.'
`I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!'
The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him, by his name, what he has in his hand. D pity us, kind Heaven, and help us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of us; but, so far we are pursued by nothing else.
五十二个，一个一个点了名，从七十岁的赋税承包商到二十岁的女裁缝。前者的全部财富买不回他的命，后者的贫穷与低贱也救不了她的命。生理的疾病产生于人们的罪恶和疏忽，它对病人是不分尊卑一律折磨的。道德上的严重混乱产生于难以描述的苦难、无法忍受的压迫和没有人性的冷酷，它也是不分良莠一律打击的。
查尔斯.达尔内单独住在一间牢房里。自从离开法庭来到这里，他就不曾用幻想安慰过自己。昨天他听到了控诉，在每一行控诉词里他都听出了自己的毁灭。他充分理解，无论是什么人的影响也救不了他的命了。实际上判他死刑的是千百万群众，区区几个人的努力显然是无济于事的。
然而他心爱的妻子的面影在他眼前总还是那么鲜活，使他很难心安理得地引颈就戮，他对生命很执著，极其难以割舍。好不容易在这边慢慢撬松了，那边却又咬合了；把力气用到那边，略有进展，这一边却又关闭了。他感到万千愁绪滚滚而来，不禁心潮澎湃，心急如焚，无法做到听天安命。即使他确实平静了一会儿，在他死后还要活下去的妻儿却似乎又在抗议，把那平静叫作了自私。
不过，这也只是刚开头时的事。不久之后，他想起他所面临的命运之中并无耻辱的成份，又想起还有无数的人也曾含冤受屈走过同一一条路，而且每天有人从容走过，便也鼓起了勇气。然后他想起要让他的亲人将来能处之泰然，自己现在也必须能处之泰然，这样，他才逐渐稳定下来，心里也好过一些，这时他的思想达到了更高的境界，从上天汲取到了安慰。
在他被判处死刑的那天天黑之前，他已在临终的道路上到达了这种境地。他可以买纸笔和灯烛，便坐下来写信，直写到牢里规定的熄灯时间。
他写了一封长信给露西，说在她告诉他之前他并不知道她父亲被幽禁的事，又说在那篇手稿宣读之前他跟她一样并不知道自己的父亲和叔叔对这场苦难所负的责任。他曾对她解释过他何以没有告诉她他已放弃的姓氏，因为那是她父亲对他俩订婚所提出的唯一条件，也是在他们结婚那天早上他所要求的唯一承诺＿＿现在看来这要求是完全可以理解的了。他要求她，为了她父亲的缘故不要去打听他是否已忘掉了这份手稿，也不要去打听很久以前那个星期天在花园里的梧桐树下那有关伦敦塔的谈话是否暂时或永久让他想起了那份手稿。若是他还清楚记得，便无疑是以为它已随着巴士底狱一起毁掉了，因为他发现向全世界宣传的巴士底狱囚犯遗物中并没有这件东西。他请求她——虽然他也说用不着他提醒——用一切她所能想出的委婉办法去说服父亲，让他明白一个事实：他并没有做过任何应当负责的事，相反他倒是为了他们一直忘了自己。他希望她牢记自己对她最后的充满感激之情的爱和祝福，希望她节哀顺变，把她的爱奉献给他们亲爱的孩子。他们是会在天堂重逢的。他还恳求她安慰她的父亲。
他以同样的口气给她的父亲写了一封信，向他重托了妻子和孩子。他用十分郑重的口气作出委托，希望他振作起来，不要感到绝望，不要沉溺于回忆——他担心他会出现这种倾向——那是很危险的。
他向罗瑞先生托付了全家，安排了他的世俗事务。写完这些，他又加上许多话作为结束，表示了深沉的友情和殷切的怀念。他没有想到卡尔顿。他心里塞满了别人，一次也没想到他。
熄灯之前他写完了信。他躺上草荐的时候只觉得已跟这个世界永别。
但是这个世界却从梦中召回了他，在他面前露出了辉煌的形象。不知道怎么回事，他已被释放了，轻松愉快地跟露西一起自由幸福地回到了索霍老屋，虽然那屋跟它真正的样子已完全不同。她告诉他，这一切都只是一场梦，他根本没离开过家，一阵脚步之后，他又被砍了头，死了，平平静静地回到了她身边，一切都没有变。又是—阵昏沉，他在幽暗的清晨醒了过来。他已想不起自己在什么地方，出了什么事，直到他突然想起，“今天是我的死期！”
就这样他度过了这几个钟头，进入了那五十二个人头就要落地的日子。此时他心情泰然，只希望一言不发、勇敢地迎接死亡。但他清醒的头脑里却突然思潮起伏，出现了种种难以抑制的新的活动。
他还从来没见过那部快要结束他生命的机器。它离地有多高？有几步？他会被押到什么地方站住？别人会怎样碰他？那碰他的手是不是染红了的？他会不会是第一个？也许是最后一个吧？这些问题，还有许多类似的问题都无数次不由自主地闯进他的心里，并反复出现。种种思想都与害怕无关；他丝毫不觉得害怕，它们只仿佛产生于一种奇怪的无法摆脱的欲望，想知道到时候该怎么办。那件事时间那么短促，而他的欲望却是那么不相称地巨大，这种心理倒不像是产生于他自己，而是产生于他内心的某种精神。
时间一小时一小时地消逝，他不断地走来走去。钟声报着他以后再也听不见的时辰。九点永远过去了，十点永远过去了，十一点永远过去了，十二点也快要来到而且过去。在跟刚才困扰着他的那些奇怪的思想活动狠狠地斗争了一番之后，他终于控制了它们。他不断走来走去，对自己悄悄重复着亲人的名字。最艰苦的斗争过去了。他可以全无杂念地徘徊，一心只为自己和亲人们祈祷了。
十二点永远过去了。
他收到过通知，最后的时辰是三点。他知道押走的时间会早一点，死囚车还得在街上缓慢沉重地颠簸呢！因此他决心把两点钟记在心里，作为那件事的时辰。在那之前他得让自己坚强起来，然后再去让别人坚强。
他把双臂抱在胸前从容沉着地走着。他跟曾在拉福斯监狱走来走去的那个囚犯已是截然不同的两个人。他听见一点钟敲过，离开了他，并不感到惊讶，这一小时跟别的一小时完全一样长。因为恢复了自我控制，他真诚地感谢上天，想道，“只有一个钟头了。”他于是又走了起来。
门外的石头走道上有脚步声，他停了步。
钥匙插进锁孔，一拧，门还没开，或正要开，他听见有人在低声说话，说的是英语：“他从没有在这几见过我，我是避开他的。你一个人进去吧，我就在附近等候，抓紧时间。”
门匆匆打开又关上了。面对面站在他眼前，脸上挂着笑意，一声不响，凝望着他，一根手指警告地放在嘴唇前的是西德尼．卡尔顿。
他的形象是那样光辉，那样出众，囚犯刚见到他时几乎误以为是产生于自己想象中的幽灵。但是他却说话了，声音也是他的声音。他抓住囚犯的手，那手也确实是他的手。
“在全世界的人里你最想不到会跟你见面的恐怕就是我吧？”他说。
“我简直不能相信是你。现在也还难以相信。你不会是也坐牢了吧？”他突然担心起来。
“没有。我只偶然控制了这儿一个管牢的，信此机会来看看你。我是从她一—你的妻子——那儿来的，亲爱的达尔内。”
囚犯绞着自己的手。
“我给你带来了她的一个请求。”
“什么请求？”
“一个最真诚、最迫切、最重要的请求。是你最难忘的亲爱的声音以灶动人的口气提出的请求。”
囚犯把脸微微地扭到了一边。
“你没有时间了，别问我为什么带来这个愿望，也别问它是什么意思，我没有时间告诉你。你得照办＿＿脱掉脚上的靴子，穿上我的。”
牢房里靠墙有一把椅子，正在囚徒身后。卡尔顿往前一挤，像闪电一样把他推进椅子，自己光着脚，俯看着他。
“穿上我的靴子。用手拉，使劲，快！”
“卡尔顿，从这个地方是逃不掉的。根本办不到。你会跟我一起死去的。这是发疯。”
“我要是叫你逃倒真是发疯。可我叫你逃了没有？到我叫你逃出那道门的时候再说是发疯吧，你还可以不走呢！把你的蝴蝶结跟我的交换，上衣也跟我交换。你换衣服，我取下你这条发带，把你的头发抖散，弄得跟我的一样。”
卡尔顿动作神速。他们靠仿佛超自然的意志力和行动力强迫他迅速换了装＿＿囚犯在他手下完全像个儿童。
“卡尔顿，亲爱的卡尔顿！这是发疯。这是办不到的，根本不行的。有人干过，全都失败了。我请求你别在我的痛苦之上再赔上你的这条命了。”
“我要你走出那道门没有？到我要你走的时候再拒绝吧。桌于上有笔，有墨水，有纸。你的手还能写字而不发抖么？”
“你刚进来的时候，我的手倒是不发抖的。”
“那就别再发抖，照我所说的写吧！快，朋友，快！”
达内尔一手摸着感到困惑的头，在桌旁坐了下来。卡尔顿右手放在前襟里，逼近他站着。
“照我所说的写。”
“给谁写？”
“不给谁。”卡尔顿一只手仍然插在前襟里。
“要写日期么？”
“不写。”
囚徒每问一个问题都抬头看看。卡尔顿一只手插在前襟里，低头望着他。
“‘若是你还记得我俩很久以前说过的话，”卡尔顿念，让他写，“‘见了这信你就会明了的。我知道你记得，因为你的天性使你不会忘记。”
他正要从前襟中抽出手来，囚徒写到中途忽然感到不解，又匆勿抬头看了一眼。那手停住了，手上捏着个什么东西。
“写完‘忘记’了么？”卡尔顿问。
“写完了。你手上是武器么？”
“不是。我没带武器。”
“你手里是什么？”
“你马上就会知道的。写下去，只有几个字了。”他又念，让他写。“‘我感谢上帝给了我机会证明我的话；我感谢上帝，我的行为再也不会令人遗憾或悲伤了。’”说这话时，他眼睛盯着写信人，慢慢地、轻轻地把手放到了他面前。
笔从达尔内指间落下，他迷迷糊糊往周围看了看。
“那是什么雾气？”他问。
“雾气？”
“有什么东西在我面前飘过。”
“我什么都没感到；不可能有什么东西。拾起笔写完吧！快，快！”
囚徒努力集中注意，好像记忆力受到了伤害，或者器官功能已出现了紊乱。他双眼昏沉地望着卡尔顿，呼吸也不匀了。卡尔顿注视着他，手又伸进了前襟。
“快，快！”
囚徒又低头写信。
“‘要不然，’”卡尔顿的手又警惕地、轻轻地偷着往下移动。“‘我就无从使用这个作用更为长久的机会了。要不然，’”那手伸到了囚徒面前，我的责任就会更重大。要不然—一卡尔顿看着笔，笔下拖出的字已无法辨认。
卡尔顿的手再也不回到前襟里。囚徒跳了起来，脸上露出责备的意思。但是卡尔顿的右手已使劲捂住了他的鼻孔，左手搂住了他的腰。囚徒对前来为他献出生命的人作了几秒钟微弱的挣扎，但是不到一分钟他已倒在地上人事不省了。
卡尔顿用一双跟他的心同样急于达到目的的手迅速穿上囚犯脱在一旁的衣服，又把自己的头发往后梳，用囚犯的带子束住，然后轻轻地叫道，“进来吧，进来！”密探进来了。
“你看见没有？”卡尔顿一条腿跪在昏迷的人身边，同时把写好的信揣进他上衣口袋，抬起头来，“你的风险大么？”
“卡尔顿先生，”密探胆怯地打了一个响指，回答，“这里很忙乱，只要你照你的全套办法去做，我的风险并不太大。”
“别担心我。我是到死都会守信用的。”
“若要五十二个人的故事完整无缺，你确实得守信用，卡尔顿先生。只要你穿上这身衣服去顶数，我就不用怕。”
“别怕！我马上就不会麻烦你了，他们也会马上走得远远的。上帝保佑！现在，找人来帮忙把我送到马车里去。”
“你？”密探紧张地问。
“他，我跟他换了呀。你是从带我进来的门出去吧？”
“当然。”
“你带我进来的时候，我已经虚弱晕眩。现在你带我出去，我受不了生离死别的刺激，已经人事不省。这样的情况在这儿早已司空见惯，十分平常。你的生命纂在你自己手里。快！找人来帮忙！”
“你发誓不会出卖我么？”密探发着抖，好一会儿才说。
“喂，喂！”卡尔顿跺着脚说，“我不是早发过大誓，一定按计划办到底的么？你干吗浪费宝贵的时间１那院子你是知道的，你亲自送他进马车，交给罗瑞先生；亲自告诉他只给他新鲜空气，别给他用解药；叮嘱他记住我昨晚的话和他自己的承诺，赶了车就走！
密探走了，卡尔顿在桌边坐了下来，额头落在双手上。密探立即带了两个人回来。
“怎么回事？”两人中的一人望着倒在地下的人说。“他的朋友抽中了圣断头台彩票，他就那么难过么？”，
“若是这贵族没抽中，”另一个说，“优秀的爱国者也不会比他更难过的。”
带来的担架就在门口，他们把失去知觉的人放进了担架，弯下身子打算抬走。
“时间不多了，埃佛瑞蒙德，”密探用警告的口气说。
“我很明白，”卡尔顿回答。“求你小心照顾我的朋友，去吧。”
“来吧，弟兄们，”巴萨说，“抬起来，走！”
门关上了，只剩下了卡尔顿一个人。他竭尽全力仔细听着，怕出现怀疑或报警的声音。脚步声沿着远处的通道消失了！没有近乎异常的惊呼或忙乱。一会儿工夫之后他呼吸得自由了些，便在桌边坐下再听。钟敲了两点。
某些声音开始出现，他懂得那声音的意思，并不害怕。几道门依次打开，最后，他自己的门也开了。一个看守拿着名单往门里望了望，只说了句，“随我来，埃佛瑞蒙德！”便带了他来到远处一个黑暗的大屋里。那是个阴沉的冬日，因为室内幽暗，也因为天色阴沉，他对带进来上绑的人犯看不清楚。有的人站着，有的人坐着，有的人不停地哭喊躁动，不过哭闹的人是少数。绝大部分的人都不闹不动，呆呆地望着地面。
他被带到一个昏暗的角落站住，五十二人之中有些人随着他被带了进来。有个人因为认识达尔内，路过时停下脚步拥抱了他一下。他非常怕被看出破绽，不禁心惊胆战，但是那人却出去了。过了一会儿一个年轻妇女从座位上站起，向他走来，要跟他说话。他刚才还看见她坐在那儿。小小个子，像个姑娘，一张瘦瘦的甜甜的脸，没有丝毫血色，一对睁得很大的大眼睛，表现出听天由命的神态。
“埃佛瑞蒙德公民，”她用冰凉的手碰碰他说，“我是个可怜的小女裁缝，跟你在拉福斯一起坐过牢的。”
他回答时声音很含糊：“不错，他们说你犯什么罪来着？我忘了。”
“说我搞阴谋。公正的上天知道我的清白，我不会搞阴谋的。像我这么个瘦弱可怜的小女人，谁会来找我搞阴谋呢？可能么？”
她说话时那凄凉的微笑打动了他，他眼里也涌出了泪水。
“我并不怕死，埃佛瑞蒙德公民，可是我毕竟什么也没干过呀！能给穷人办那么多好事的共和国若是能因为我的死得到好处，我是不会不愿意死的。可是我不明白这能有什么好处，埃佛瑞蒙德公民，我是这么个瘦弱可怜的小女人！”
“我听说已经释放了你，埃佛瑞蒙德公民。我希望那是真的，是么？”
“是真的。可是我又被抓了回来，而且判了死刑。”
“若是我跟你在一辆囚车上，你能让我握住你的手么，埃佛瑞蒙德公民？我不害怕，可是我个子小，身体弱，握住你的手可以增加我的勇气。”
她抬起那一双无怨无仇的眼睛看着他的脸；他发现其中猛然闪过了怀疑的神色，然后是诧异。他握了握那几根被辛苦和饥饿弄得纤瘦的年轻的手指。
“你是代替他去死么？”她低声地说。
“还代替他的妻子和孩子。嘘！是的。”
“啊，你愿让我握住你勇敢的手么，陌生人？”
“嘘！愿意，可怜的妹妹，直到最后。”
落在监狱上的阴云在下午的同一时刻也落在路障上，那儿有一大群人。一辆从巴黎驶出的马车前来接受检查。
“是谁？车上是什么人？证件！”．
证件递了出来，受到了检查。
“亚历山大．曼内特，医生，法国人。是谁？”
这就是。这个说话含糊，神智不清的病弱的老头被指了出来。
“医生公民的头脑显然是出了问题，是么？革命的高烧叫他吃不消了么？”
太吃不消了。．
“哈！吃不消的人多的是。露面，他的女儿。法国人。是谁？”
这就是。
“显然是她。露西，埃佛瑞蒙德的老婆，是么？”
是的。
“哈！埃佛瑞蒙德有另案处理。露西，她的女儿。英国人。这就是么？”
是的，不是别人。
“亲亲我，，埃佛瑞蒙德的孩子。现在你亲了一个优秀的共和主义者。记住：这可是你家的新鲜事呢！西德尼．卡尔顿，律师，英国人。是谁？”
在这几，躺在马车这边的角落里。“卡尔顿”被指了出来。
“这位英国律师显然是昏迷不醒了，是么？”
希望新鲜空气能叫他清醒。他身体原本不上好，又刚跟一个共和国不喜欢的朋友告了别，挺伤心的。
“为这就昏过去了么？那能算多大的事！共和国不喜欢的人多着呢，全都得到那小窗口去往里瞧的。贾维斯.罗瑞，银行家，英国人。是谁？”
“当然是我了，我是最后一个。”
上面的问题都是由贾维斯.罗瑞一一回答的。他下了车，一手扶住车门，回答了官员们的提问。官员们慢条斯理地绕着马车转了一圈，又慢条斯理地爬上了车厢，看了看车顶上携带的少量行李。乡下人也围了过来，靠近车门，贪婪地往里瞧。一个抱在妈妈怀里的小孩伸出短短的手臂，再想摸摸一个上了断头台的贵族的妻子。
“看看你们的证件吧！贾维斯.罗瑞，已经签过字了。”
“可以走了吗，公民？”
“可以走了。走吧，车夫，一路顺风！”
“向你们致敬，公民们。一—第一道关口总算闯过了！”
这又是贾维斯.罗瑞的话。这时他双手交握，往前望着。马车里有恐惧，有哭泣，还有昏迷的旅客的沉重呼吸。
“我们是否走得太慢了一点？能不能叫他们快点？”露西紧靠着老年人说。，
“快了会像逃跑，亲爱的。不能太催他们，否则会引起怀疑的。”
“看看后头，看看后头，有人追没有？”
“路上干干净净，亲爱的。到目前为止没有人追。”
在我们身边经过的有两三座房屋、独立的农庄、建筑物的废墟、染坊和硝皮作坊之类，还有开阔的田野、一排排落了叶的树。我们下而是凹凸不平的坚硬的路，两旁是深深的污泥。我们有时从路边的泥里穿过，因为要避开石头、免得颠簸。有时我们陷在车辙和泥洼里，便很紧张、痛苦、心惊胆战、手忙脚乱，只想赶快拖出来逃掉。只要不外下，我们什么都愿意做。
走出了空旷的田野，又走过了倾塌的建筑物、孤独的农庄、染坊和硝皮作坊之类、三三两两的农舍、一行行掉光了叶子的树木。赶车的骗了我们，要把我们从另一条路带回去么？又回到老地方了么？谢天谢地，没有。前面是一座村庄。看看后头，看看后头，有没有人追？嘘！驿站到了。
我们的四匹马给懒洋洋地牵走了，马车车厢懒洋洋地停在小街上，马匹没有了，仿佛再也不会行动了。新的驿马一匹又一匹懒洋洋地出现了。新的车夫懒洋洋地跟在后面，编着鞭梢，用嘴吮着。原来的车夫懒洋洋地数着钱，算错了加法，一肚子不高兴。在这整个儿的时间里，我们那负担过重的心都在狂跳，跳得比世界上最快的马的最迅猛的奔跑还要快。
新的车夫终于坐上了马鞍，原来的车夫留在了后面。我们穿过了村庄，上了山坡，又下了山坡，来到潮湿的平川地。突然两个车夫激动地打着手势争论起来，猛一带马，马匹几乎倒坐在地上。是有人追么？
“喂！车里的客人，回答个问题。”
“什么事？”罗瑞先生从车窗往外看，回答。
“你们说是多少？”
“我不明白你的意思。”
“在刚才那驿站里，他们说今天有多少人上断头台？”
“五十二个。”
“我不是说过么！好漂亮的数字！这位公民老兄硬说是四十二。再加十个脑袋是应该的。断头台干得真漂亮，我真喜欢它。嗨，走呀。驾，驾！”
夜渐渐降临，天黑了下来。昏迷的人的动作多了起来。他开始苏醒，说话也听得清了。他以为他俩还在一起，他叫着卡尔顿的名字，问他手上拿的是什么。啊，怜悯我们，仁慈的上天，帮助我们！小心，小心，看看是不是有人在追。
风在赶着我们猛刮，云在我们身后紧跟，月亮向我们扑了下来，整个心惊胆战的夜都对我们紧追不舍。此外跟踪上来的到目前为止却只是一片空虚。