A Tale of Two Cities and Great Expectations (Oprah's Book Club) (43 page)

Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted. After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of The Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace, once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr Cruncher and finding him of her opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, attended by her cavalier.

Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth, playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the popular, high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude, like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and showed what they wanted.

As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped her hands.

In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion, was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and woman standing staring at each other; the man with all the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman, evidently English.

What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation; but, Mr Cruncher – though it seemed on his own separate and individual account – was in a state of the greatest wonder.

‘What is the matter?’ said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in English.

‘Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!’ cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again. ‘After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time, do I find you here!’

‘Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?’ asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way.

‘Brother, brother!’ cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. ‘Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question!’

‘Then hold your meddlesome tongue,’ said Solomon, ‘and come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who’s this man?’

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said, through her tears, ‘Mr Cruncher.’

‘Let him come out too,’ said Solomon. ‘Does he think me a ghost?’

Apparently, Mr Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty, paid for the wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and pursuits.

‘Now,’ said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, ‘what do you want?’

‘How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from!’ cried Miss Pross, ‘to give me such a greeting, and show me no affection.’

‘There. Con-found it! There,’ said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross’s lips with his own. ‘Now are you content?’

Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.

‘If you expect me to be surprised,’ said her brother Solomon, ‘I am not surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If you really don’t want to endanger my existence - which I half believe you do – go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.’

‘My English brother Solomon,’ mourned Miss Pross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, ‘that had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his—’

‘I said so!’ cried her brother, interrupting. ‘I knew it! You want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just as I am getting on!’

‘The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!’ cried Miss Pross. ‘Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you no longer.’

Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr Lorry had not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and left her!

He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over), when Mr Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question:

‘I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon, or Solomon John?’

The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not previously uttered a word.

‘Come!’ said Mr Cruncher. ‘Speak out, you know.’ (Which, by the way, was more than he could do himself.) ‘John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And
I
know you’re John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That warn’t your name over the water.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t know all I mean, for I can’t call to mind what your name was, over the water.’

‘No!’ sneered Solomon.

‘No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. T’other one’s was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy-witness at the Bailey. What in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to yourself was you called at that time?’

‘Barsad,’ said another voice, striking in.

‘That’s the name for a thousand pound!’ cried Jerry.

The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr Cruncher’s elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.

‘Don’t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr Lorry’s, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr Barsad was not a Sheep of the Prisons.’

Sheep was the cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared—

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Sydney. ‘I lighted on you, Mr Barsad, coming out of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connexion, and having a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr Barsad.’

‘What purpose?’ the spy asked.

‘It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your company – at the office of Tellson’s Bank, for instance? ’

‘Under a threat?’

‘Oh! Did I say that!’

‘Then why should I go there?’

‘Really, Mr Barsad, I can’t say, if you can’t.’

‘Do you mean that you won’t say, sir?’ the spy irresolutely asked.

‘You apprehend me very clearly, Mr Barsad. I won’t.’

Carton’s negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and made the most of it.

‘Now, I told you so,’ said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his sister; ‘if any trouble comes of this, it’s your doing.’

‘Come, come, Mr Barsad!’ exclaimed Sydney. ‘Don’t be ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?’

‘I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with you.’

‘I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort knows Mr Barsad, I will invite him to Mr Lorry’s with us. Are we ready? Come then!’

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney’s arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was too much occupied then, with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection, and with Sydney’s friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she observed.

They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr Lorry’s, which was within a few minutes’ walk. John Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side.

Mr Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery little log or two of fire – perhaps looking into their blaze for the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson’s, who had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with which he saw a stranger.

‘Miss Pross’s brother, sir,’ said Sydney. ‘Mr Barsad.’

‘Barsad?’ repeated the old gentleman, ‘Barsad? I have an association with the name – and with the face.’

‘I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr Barsad,’ observed Carton, coolly. ‘Pray sit down.’

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr Lorry wanted, by saying to him with a frown, ‘Witness at that trial.’ Mr Lorry immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence.

‘Mr Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate brother you have heard of,’ said Sydney, ‘and has acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.’

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, ‘What do you tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about to return to him!’

‘Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr Barsad?’

‘Just now, if at all.’

‘Mr Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,’ said Sydney, ‘and I have it from Mr Barsad’s communication to a friend and brother Sheep over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no earthly doubt that he is retaken.’

Mr Lorry’s business eye read in the speaker’s face that it was loss of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was silently attentive.

‘Now, I trust,’ said Sydney to him, ‘that the name and influence of Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow – you said he would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr Barsad?—’

‘Yes; I believe so.’

‘- In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own to you, I am shaken, Mr Lorry, by Doctor Manette’s not having had the power to prevent this arrest.’

‘He may not have known of it beforehand,’ said Mr Lorry.

‘But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how identified he is with his son-in-law.’

‘That’s true,’ Mr Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.

‘In short,’ said Sydney, ‘this is a desperate time, when desperate games are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I will play the losing one. No man’s life here is worth purchase. Any one carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned to-morrow. Now, the stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr Barsad.’

‘You need have good cards, sir,’ said the spy.

‘I’ll run them over. I’ll see what I hold. – Mr Lorry, you know what a brute I am; I wish you’d give me a little brandy.’

It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful – drank off another glassful – pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.

‘Mr Barsad,’ he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking over a hand at cards: ‘Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer, so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name. That’s a very good card. Mr Barsad, now in the employ of the republican French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That’s an excellent card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom, the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so difficult to find. That’s a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr Barsad?’