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A WONDERFUL corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of years.
At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife, when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light, afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much. Fluttering hopes and doubts--hope, of a love as yet unknown to her: doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her eyes, and broke like waves.
That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take her child in His arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy to her.
Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together, weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds.
Her husband's step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal. Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the plane-tree in the garden!
Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant smile, `Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!' those were not tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!
Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
The echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by all true echoes for ages and ages.
No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother, but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms, and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of him, almost at the last. `Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!'
Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow
with property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.
These three young gentleman, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to Lucie's husband: delicately saying, `Halloa! here are three lumps of bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!' The polite rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr. Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to `catch' him, and on the diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him `not to be caught.' Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.
These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told. Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her `What is the magic secret, my darling, of
your being everything to all of us, as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to have too much to do?'
But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound, as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr. Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the lightning from the same place.
`I began to think,' said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, `that I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania among some of them for sending it to England.'
`That has a bad look,' said Darnay.
`A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course without due occasion.'
`Still,' said Darnay, `you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.'
`I know that, to be sure,' assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, `but I am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is Manette?'
`Here he is,' said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
`I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without reason. You are not going out, I hope?'
`No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,' said the Doctor.
`I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be pitted against you to-night. Is the tea-board still there, Lucie? I can't see.'
`Of course, it has been kept for you.'
`Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?'
`And sleeping soundly.
`That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now, come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear the echoes about which you have your theory.'
`Not a theory; it was a fancy.'
`A fancy, then, my wise pet,' said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. `They are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!'
Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in the dark London window.
Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine,
and a forest of naked arms struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind: all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges, powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat. Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself, already begrimed with gunpowder and
sweat, issued orders, issued arms, thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
`Keep near to me, Jacques Three,' cried Defarge; `and do you, Jacques One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these patriots as you can. Where is my wife?'
`Eh, well! Here you see me!' said madame, composed as ever, but not knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe, in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol and a cruel knife.
`Where do you go, my wife?'
`I go,' said madame, `with you at present. You shall see me at the head of women, by-and-by.'
`Come, then!' cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. `Patriots and friends, we are ready! The Bastille!'
With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums beating, the sea raging and thundering
on its new beach, the attack `begun.
Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against a cannon, and on the instant he became a
cannonier--Defarge of the wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight at towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! `Work, comrades all, work! Work, Jacques , Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!' Thus Defarge of the wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
`To me, women!' cried madame his wife. `What! We can kill as well as the men when the place is taken!' And to her, with a shrill thirsty cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and revenge.
Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggon-loads of wet straw, hard work at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys, execrations, bravery without stint, boom, smash and rattle, and the furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown
doubly hot by the service of Four fierce hours.
A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the wine-shop over the lowered draw-bridge, past the massive stone outer walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!
So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the outer court-yard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side; Madame Defarge, still-heading some of her women, was visible in the inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult, exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet furious dumb-show.
`The Prisoners!'
`The Records!'
`The secret cells!'
`The instruments of torture!'
`The Prisoners!'
Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherencies, `The Prisoners!' was the Cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the wall.
`Show me the North Tower!' said Defarge. `Quick!'
`I will faithfully,' replied the man, `if you will come with me.
But there is no one there.'
`What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?' asked Defarge. `Quick!'
`The meaning, monsieur?'
`Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I shall strike you dead?'
`Kill him!' croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
`Monsieur, it is a cell.'
`Show it me!'
`Pass this way, then.'
Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed, held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which, occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the air like spray.
Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps, and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three, linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by; but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed in:
`One hundred and five, North Tower!'
There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall, with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
`Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,' said Defarge to the turnkey.
The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
`Stop--Look here, Jacques!'
`A. M.!' croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
`Alexandre Manette,' said Defarge in his ear, following the letters with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. `And here he wrote ``a poor physician.'' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it me!'
He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
`Hold the light higher!' he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. `Look among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,' throwing it to him; `rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the light higher, you!'
With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and, peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar, and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a cautious touch.
`Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?'
`Nothing.'
`Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light them, you!'
The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and retraced their way to the court-yard; seeming to recover their sense of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once more.
They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people. Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be unavenged.
In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a woman's. `See, there is my husband!' she cried, pointing him out. `See Defarge!' She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot upon his neck, and with her cruel knife-long `ready-hewed off his head.
The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. `Lower the lamp yonder!' cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new means of death; `here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!' The swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes, voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits. Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them; faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, `THOU DIDST IT!'
Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken hearts,--such, and such-like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay, and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad, and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once stained red. 前面说过，医生居住的街角是个听回音的绝妙处所。露西永远忙着用金丝缠裹着她的丈夫、父亲、自己和她的老管家老伙伴，让大家过着平静幸福的日子。她常坐在平静的反响着回音的安谧的屋子里听着岁月的脚步回响。
她虽然是个年轻的妻子，百分之百地幸福，但手里的活计有时也会落下，目光有时也会逐渐暗淡。因为，在回音之中有某种东西正在向她走来，某种辽远的、几乎还听不见的轻柔的东西太沉重地扣击着她的心。飘忽不定的希望和疑虑分裂着她的胸臆——希望，对一种她还不知道的爱的希望；疑虑，对她是否能留在世上享有那新的欢乐的疑虑——因此，在那杂者的回音之中便出现了她自已早夭的坟头上的脚步声；她想到她丈夫会凄凉地留在世上，为她过分哀悼，便不禁有万千思绪涌入眼里，并像浪花一样崩散。
那个时期过去，她的小露西躺在了她的怀里。于是，在前进的回音之中又有了孩子那小脚的脚步声和她的牙牙学语声。即使巨大的回音尽情震响，坐在摇篮边的年轻妈妈也总能听见那脚步和语声走来。它们来了，阴凉的屋子便因一个孩子的欢笑而阳光灿烂，而那儿童的神圣的朋友上帝——她在苦难时总向他倾诉——也似乎总把她的孩子抱在怀里，正如多少年前抱着另一个孩子。这便把这一切变作了她的一种神圣的欢乐。
露西永远忙着用金丝把他们缠绕到一起。她用她的辛勤织成幸福的影响，放它弥漫于他们的生活之中，不多不少，恰如其分。在多年的回音中她听见的都是友爱和安慰，在其中，她丈夫的脚步是健壮而兴旺的，她父亲的脚步是坚定而匀称的，喏，普洛丝小姐的脚步则是野性难驯的战马的回音，但她受到了金丝笼头的羁绊和鞭子的教育，也只能在小院的梧桐树下喷喷鼻息，刨刨泥土而已！
尽管也曾有过悲伤的声音，却并不刺耳也不凄惨。那时跟她相同的金发耷拉在枕上，像神灵的光圈一样围绕着一个小男孩憔悴的脸。那孩于灿烂地微笑着说，“亲爱的爸爸妈妈，我很难过，因为我要离开你们了，要离开美丽的姐姐了。但我得到了召唤，我必须去！”即使在那托付给她的灵魂离开她时，濡湿了她那年轻母亲的面颊的泪也不全是痛苦的。“让小孩儿到我这里来，不要禁止他，们。”他们见到了天父的脸。啊天父，你的受到祝福的话语呀！
这样，天使振动翅膀的声音便跟别的回声混合到了一起，那回声已不全是人世的声音，它混合了天国的气息。吹过一个小小花园墓地的风儿的叹息也混合在回音里，两者都只是低低的呢喃，有如夏日熟睡的沙岸旁的大海的呼吸。这些，露西都听得见——那时小露西正在滑稽地忙着早上的“工作”，或是坐在妈妈的脚凳上给玩偶穿衣服，用混合在她生活里的两大都市的语言叽叽喳喳地说着话儿。
回声很少反应西德尼.卡尔顿的实际脚步。他一年最多只有五六次使用不请自来的特权，来后也只在他们之间坐一个晚上，跟以往一样。他从不带着酒意来。回声的悄语里也反响着一种来自他的东西，那是真诚的回声，千百年来总要震荡反响的。
若是一个男性真正爱上了一个女性，失去了她，却还能在她做—了妻子和母亲之后准确无误地理解她，而且挚爱如初，她的孩子们对他总会有一种奇特的情感共鸣的——一种本能的微妙的爱怜。在这种情况下究竟是触动了一种什么样的隐藏的精微知觉，回声未曾解释。但情况正是如此。卡尔顿在这儿的情况也是如此。卡尔顿是小露西第一个向他伸出胖胖胳膊的陌生人。他在她成长的过程中总保持了这种地位。小男孩接近临终时也提到他。“可怜的卡尔顿！为我亲亲他！”
斯特莱佛先生像艘在汹涌的急流中破浪前进的大型汽轮在法学界横冲直撞，把他那很有用的朋友拖在身后，像拖了一只小船。受到这种宠爱的小船总是灾难重重，大部分时间都淹没在水里，因此西德尼只好过着倒霉的日子。但不幸的是，习惯是轻松而有力的。它在他身上比一切令人激动的成就感或羞辱感都更轻松，更有力。于是他便继续过着现在的日子，很少考虑摆脱他那狮子属下的豺狗的地位，正如真正的豺狗不会想到变成狮子一样。斯特莱佛有钱，又讨了个漂亮的寡妇，带来了一笔财富和三个男孩。三个孩子没有什么特别光辉的东西，只是几个汤团似的脑袋上长了满头直发。
斯特莱佛先生每一个细胞都洋溢着最令人气愤的施主气派。他曾像赶绵羊一样让这三位少爷走在他前面来到索霍区那平静的街角，要露西的丈夫收他们做学生。他挺关怀地说道，“嗬！这可是给你们夫妇野宴上增添三个奶酪面包呢，达尔内！”可这三个奶酪面包都被彬彬有礼地谢绝了。斯特莱佛先生很生气，此后在培养三位少爷时他便化愤怒为教育，要他们以后当心那个家庭教师的穷酸傲气。他还有个习惯，喜欢喝着美酒向斯特莱佛太太宣布达尔内太太当初曾玩过花招，要想“钓上”他，而他却有一套以金刚钻对金刚钻的招数，使自己“幸免上钩”。皇家法院的熟人偶然跟他一起喝酒，听他撒了这个谎，也都原谅了他，说他那谎话重复得太多，连自己也信以为真了。犯了错误，却又坚持不改，这种家伙若是叫人押到一个合适的僻静地方悄悄绞死倒是活该。
这些东西都是露西在她那回音角里时而沉思、时而忍不住微笑时听见的，一直听到她的女儿长到了六岁。孩子的脚步声、亲爱的父亲永远活跃而有节制的脚步声、亲爱的丈夫的脚步声，这一切不用说都跟她的心贴得很紧。她以她的才智和品德勤俭地维持着他们共同的家，过着富裕而没有浪费的生活。这个家的最轻微的回音不用说对她也都是音乐。还有，她四周的回声在她耳里不用说都很甜蜜。她的父亲曾多次告诉她，她在婚后比未婚时对他更孝顺了（如果那还有可能的话）。她的丈夫曾多次告诉她，家务的烦恼与责任似乎并没有分散她对他的爱和帮助，而且问道，“你对我们几个人都照顾得那么周到，仿佛我们只有一个人，却既不显得太忙，也不觉得太累。亲爱的，你有什么魔术一样的诀窍？”
但是在这整个时期，却也有别的回声在那街角气势汹汹地隆隆作响。而现在，在小露西六岁的生日那天，那隆隆的回声已开始变得可怕起来，仿佛法兰西那一场巨大的风暴正挟着汹涌的海涛奔袭而来。
一千七百八十九年七月中旬的一个晚上，罗瑞先生从台尔森来时已经很晚。他在黑暗的窗前的露西和她丈夫身边坐下了。那是一个炎热的风暴欲来的夜晚，三个人都回忆起多年前那一个星期天的晚上，那时他们三人也在同一个地点观望着闪电。
“我开始觉得我今晚应该在台尔森度过，”罗瑞先生把他的棕色假发往后一推，说。“白天我们忙得不知道该从何处入手，该干什么好。巴黎的政局十分动荡。我们的信托业务实际上应接不暇，那边的客户们似乎迫不及待地要把财产托付给我们。有些客户确实发了疯，还想把财产送到英格兰来。”
“情况似乎有些严重，”达尔内说。
“你是说似乎有些严重么，亲爱的达尔内？是的，但是我们不知道有什么理由严重。人们简直不可理喻！我们台尔森有些人年龄越来越大，这种平白无故的反常麻烦可叫我们吃不消。”
“可是，”达尔内说，“天空有多么阴暗，预示着风暴到临，你是知道的。”
“我确实知道，”罗瑞先生同意了，努力说服自己说他那和善的脾气发了酸，因此在嘟囔，“但是我心烦意乱了一整天，难免不发脾气。曼内特到哪儿去了？”
“在这儿，”这时医生正好踏进黑暗的屋里。
“我很高兴你在家，这种忙乱和不安缠了我一整天，弄得我无缘无故地神经紧张，我希望你不打算出去？”
“我不想出去。如果你乐意，我还想跟你掷骰子呢，”医生说。
“如果可以说说心里话，我并不想掷骰子。我今天晚上不适于跟你较量。茶盘还在那儿么，露西？我看不见。”
“当然为你准备着。”
“谢谢，我亲爱的。宝宝平安无事地上床了吧？”
“睡得很香呢。”
“那就好，一切清吉平安！我不知道这儿的一切有什么理由会不清吉平安，谢谢上帝。我可是烦了一整天，却又不如过去年轻力壮了！我的茶么，亲爱的？谢谢。来，来，坐到圈子里来，咱们静静地坐着，听听回声。你对回声还有你的理论呢。”
“不是理论，而是幻想。”
“那么，我聪明的宝贝，是幻想，”罗瑞先生拍拍她的手说，“可今晚的回声非常多，
而且响亮，是么？你听听看！”
这一小圈人坐在伦敦那黑暗的窗前时，远处的圣安托万区却有疾速、疯狂、危险的脚步兴起，并闯进他人的生活。那脚步一染上猩红就不容易洗净。
那天上午，圣安托万区有黑压压的一大片衣衫褴褛的人潮水一般涌来涌去。在攒动的人头上不时有光芒闪过，那是熠耀在阳光下的战刀和刺刀。圣安托万的喉咙发出巨大的吼声，赤棵的手臂的森林在空中摇摆，有如冬季寒风中干枯的枝条，所有的手指都往武器或类似武器的东西抓去，无论它在多远的地方。武器是从下面的深处抛上来的。
是谁抛上来的，是从哪儿抛上来的，从哪儿开始抛的，是什么人经手抛的，人群中没有人看见。武器一次几十把，摇晃着、颤动着跳了出来，出现在人群的头上，有如电闪。跳出来的还有毛瑟枪、子弹、火药、炮弹、木棍、铁棍、刀子、斧子、长矛。总之，发了疯的创造精神所能搜寻到或设计出的一切武器都有。得不到别的东西的人们便用血淋淋的手从墙上挖出石头和砖块。圣安托万的每一次脉动和心跳都疾速而火热，像是发了高烧。那儿的每一个人都发了狂，都已把生死置之度外，火辣辣地准备拿出生命作牺牲。
翻腾的水的漩涡总有一个中心，眼前这纷乱的人群所围绕的中心就是德伐日的酒店。沸腾的锅里的每一滴水（每一个人）都受着漩涡中心的德伐日的吸引。此时为火药和汗水弄得满身脏污的德伐日正在发出命令，分配武器，把这个人往后推，把那个人往前拉，拿走一个人的武器交给另外一个人，正在震耳欲聋的喧哗中苦干着。
“别离开我身边，雅克三号，”德伐日叫道，“雅克一号，雅克二号，你们俩分头活动，把这些爱国者尽量多地聚集在身边。我老婆在哪儿？”
“呃，这儿，你看见的！”老板娘仍然跟任何时候一样镇定，只是没有织毛线。她那坚定的右手攥住的是一把斧头，而不是较为温和的常见工具，腰带上还插了一把手枪和一柄残忍的刀。
“你要到哪儿去，老婆？”
“我现在只跟着你，”老板娘说。“以后你会看见我走在妇女队伍最前面的。”
“那就来吧！”德伐日放开嗓门大叫。“爱国者们，朋友们！咱们已经作好了准备。到巴士底去！”
人潮开始动荡，发出一声怒吼，仿佛整个法兰西的喉咙都集中到了那一个令人憎恶的字眼上。人潮一浪接着一浪，越卷越高，淹没了城市，来到了那个地点。警钟响了，战鼓响了，人潮在新的海岸上发着狂，大声地咆哮着。攻击开始了。
深深的壕堑、双重的吊桥、厚重的石壁、八座巨大的塔楼。大炮、毛瑟枪、火焰与烟雾。酒店老板德伐日穿过了火焰，穿过了烟雾，又进入了火焰，进入了烟雾。人潮把他送向了一尊大炮，而他在转瞬之间已成了炮手。他像个英勇的士兵激战了两个小时。
深深的壕堑，单吊桥，厚重的石壁，八座巨大的塔楼。大炮、毛瑟枪、火焰与烟雾。座吊桥垮下来了！“干呀，同志们，干呀！干呀，雅克一号，雅克二号，雅克一千号，雅克二千号，雅克二万五干号；以所有的天使和魔鬼的名义——你愿用谁的名义都行，干呀！”酒店老板德伐日还在大炮前干着，大炮早烫手了。
“跟我来，妇女们！”他的妻子老板娘叫道，“干什么！拿下来之后，我们也可以像男人一样杀人的！”妇女们发出如饥似渴的尖叫，跟在她的身后。她们的武器各不相同，但是心中的饥渴与复仇的心情却一样。
大炮、毛瑟枪、火光与烟雾，但仍然是深深的壕堑、单吊桥、厚重的石壁和八个巨大的塔楼。有人受伤倒下了，汹涌的人潮作了不大的调整。闪亮的武器，通明的火炬，一车车潮湿的柴草冒着烟、四面八方的工事上的苦苦厮杀。尖叫、排炮、咒骂，奋不顾身的勇气，炮声、撞击声、叮当声，人潮的愤怒的咆哮。但仍然是深深的壕堑、仍然是单吊桥，厚重的石壁和那八座巨大的塔楼。酒店老板德伐日—还在他的炮前。大炮已激烈地打了四个小时，已经是双倍地发烫。
要塞里升起了白旗，谈判——白旗在战斗的风暴之间依稀可见，声音却听不见。人潮突然无法估量地扩展开来、汹涌起来，把酒店老板德伐日卷过了放下的吊桥，卷进了厚重的外层墙壁，卷进了投降了的八座塔楼。
席卷着他的人潮势不可当，就连吸一口气转一转头都困难，仿佛是在南太平洋的狂涛里挣扎。他终于来到巴士底监狱外面的场院里。他在那儿凭借了一堵墙的拐角的力量才挣扎着向四面看了看。雅克三号差不多就在他身边；德伐日太太仍然带着几个妇女，已离监狱不远，隐约可见，手里拿着刀。到处是骚动、兴奋、令人耳聋的疯狂的混乱，令人震惊的呼喊，却也有激怒的哑剧场面。
“囚徒！”
“记录！”
“秘密牢房！”
“刑具！”
“囚徒！”
在所有的呼喊声中，在一万个破碎的字句中“囚徒！”是为汹涌而入的人潮应和得最多的。仿佛有无穷的人在无穷的时间和空间里应和着。最早进入的人押着监狱的官员，并威胁说，若是有任何一个秘密角落没有公开就立即杀死他们。这阵人潮卷过之后，德伐日已把他结实的手放到一个监狱看守胸前——那人头发花白，手执火炬。他把他跟其他的人分开，逼到了墙壁面前。
“告诉我，北塔怎么走！”德伐日说，“快！”
“我会认真告诉你的，”那人回答，“如果你跟我走的话。不过那儿已没有人。”
“北塔一０五是什么意思？”德伐日问。“快！”
“意思么，先生？”
“那是囚徒还是牢房的名字？你想找死么？”
“杀死他！”雅克三号正走过来，叫道。
“是牢房的名字，先生。”
“带我去。”
“那就这边来。”
带着一向的渴望神情的雅克三号显然因为谈话并不往流血的方向发展而感到失望了。他抓紧了德伐日的手臂，也抓紧了看守的手臂。在这短暂的会谈里他们的三颗头攒在了一起——那时要想彼此能听见只能如此，因为人潮已冲进要塞，淹没了过道与阶梯，发出了激烈的喧嚣。外面，人潮也以一种深沉嘶哑的吼叫冲击着四面的墙壁；吼叫之中还不时有腾空而起的呐喊爆发，像是升到空中的浪花。
德伐日、看守和雅克三号手牵着手以最快的速度穿过了终年不见阳光的拱门，穿过了黑魃魃的洞窟的狰狞的窄门，走下了洞穴状的层层台阶，爬上了石头与砖块砌成的嶙绚而陡峭的石梯——那东西与其说像阶梯，倒不如说像干涸的瀑布。在某些地方人潮还从他们身边卷过，特别是刚开始的时候；但在他们下行了一段又上了一座塔楼之后，他们就孤独了。在这儿，夹在厚重的石壁和拱门之间，要塞内外的风暴在他们耳里只剩下了一种沉闷的压抑的声音，仿佛外面的噪音已经差不多破坏了他们的听觉。
看守在一道矮门边站住了。他把一把钥匙塞进了一个咔咔作响的锁里，馒慢推开了门，在他们低头进门时说：
“北塔一０五！”
墙壁高处有一个窗户，窗户上没有玻璃，铁栅森严，前面还有一道石屏挡住，要见到天空得弯下腰往上看。进门几步有一个小小的烟囱，烟囱进口也用沉重的铁栅封闭。壁炉上有—堆轻轻的陈年的柴灰。屋里有一张板凳、一张桌子、一张铺着草垫的床、熏黑了的四堵墙，一堵墙上还有一个生了锈的铁环。
“拿火炬慢慢照照这几堵墙壁，我还要看一看，”德伐日对看守说。
那人照办了，德伐日眼睛紧紧地跟着炬火观察。
“停！——看看这儿，雅克！”
“Ａ。Ｍ．！”雅克三号贪婪地读着，嗓门嘶哑。
“亚历山大.曼内特，”德伐日用他那沾满了火药的黝黑的手指画着那两个字母，对着他的耳朵说。“这儿他还写着‘一个不幸的医生’。而且，毫无疑问，在这块石头上划日历的也是他。你手上拿的是什么？撬棍么？给我。”
他手里还抓着放炮的火绳杆。他迅速换了工具，转向虫蛀的桌凳，几棍子把它们敲了个粉碎。
“火把照高一点！”他对看守怒气冲冲地说。“雅克，仔细检查一下这些破木片。喏！这儿有刀，”他把刀扔给他，“把床垫划开，搜查一下铺草。火把照高一点，你！”
他狠狠地盯了看守一眼，爬上了壁炉，从烟囱里往上看，用橇棍敲打着，拨弄着烟囱壁，捅着横在烟囱上的铁栅。几分钟之后掉下了一些灰泥和尘埃，他转过脸躲开了，然后便在烟囱里、陈年的柴灰堆里、在他那武器截穿的一道缝里仔仔细细地摸索。
“木头里、铺草里都没有么，雅克？”
“没有。”
“咱们把这些东西集中到牢房正中。好了！生火，你！”
看守点燃了这堆东西，火苗蹿得很高，也很热。他们让火堆燃烧，重新弯下身子从低矮的拱门走了出来，沿着原路回到了院子里。这时听觉也似乎重新恢复，他们又回到了汹涌澎湃的浪潮声里了。
他们发现人潮在起伏激荡，寻找着德伐日。圣安托万正叹叫着要求它的酒店老板去负责监押那死守巴士底狱、向人民开炮的要塞总监。没有德伐日那总监就无法被押到市政厅去受审，没有他那总监就会逃掉，人民的血就得不到报偿了（多少年来一文不值的血现在突然值钱了）。
那位冷酷的老军宫身穿灰色大氅，佩带红色勋章 ，站在那仿佛紧裹着他的气势汹汹的人潮中很为惹眼。可是在那无所不在的喧哗之中却有一个人泰然不动。那人是个妇女。“看，我的丈夫来了！”她指出了他，叫道。“看，德伐日！”她紧挨着那冷酷的老军官站着，不挪一下地方，而且，在德伐日等人押着他通过街道时也寸步不离；在他被押到了目的地有人从背后打他时她也寸步不离；在积聚了长期仇恨的刀子拳头狠狠地顶点般地落在他身上时， 她仍然寸步不离。等到他受了伤倒地死去之后，她却突然活跃起来，一脚踩在他脖子上，挥动她那早作好准备的残忍的刀把他的脑袋割了下来。
圣安托万执行他那可怕的设想的时刻到了。他要把人当作街灯一样挂起来，表现自己能够成为什么样的人，能干出什么样的事。圣安托万的血液沸腾了，暴虐与铁腕统治的血溅洒出来，溅在要塞总监尸体横陈的市政厅台阶上，溅在德伐日太太的鞋底上——为了把尸体砍作几块，她曾用脚踩在尸体上。“把那边那灯放下来！”圣安托万瞪大了眼四处寻找新的杀人工具，然后叫道，“他还有个兵士在这儿，让他给他站岗吧！”那个哨兵叫人晃里晃荡吊上了岗哨。人潮又往前涌。
黑色的气势汹汹的海涛，浪涛与浪涛间的破坏性的升腾与撞击，那撞击的深度那时还无法估量，其强力也还没有人知道。激烈地震荡着的毫不内疚的人的海洋，复仇的呼号，经过苦难的熔炉锻炼得僵硬的脸，在那脸上怜悯再也留不下痕迹。
人潮的面孔上活跃着各种各样狰狞的和狂怒的表情，其中却出现了两个集团，每个集团七人，跟别的面孔形成呆板的对比。海洋从来不曾冲刷出过比它们更加值得纪念的海难遗物。七个囚徒突然被冲破他们坟墓的风暴解放出来，被高高地举在众人头上。他们感到害伯、茫然、惶惑、惊讶，仿佛末日审判已经到来，而在他们周围欢天喜地的人们的灵魂都已无可救药。还有七张面孔被举得更高，那是七张死去的面孔，耷拉下的眼皮和半露出的眼睛等待着末日审判。面孔虽冷漠，却带着一种有所期待并未死心的表情，很像是作了一个可怕的停顿，准备着抬起垂下的眼帘，用没有血色的嘴唇作证：“是你杀了我！”
七个囚徒被释放了出来，七个血淋淋的人头插在了矛尖上，那受到诅咒的有八个堡垒的要塞的钥匙、某些被发现的信件、很久以前就怀着破碎的心死去的囚徒的遗物—一诸如此类的东西在一千七百八十九年七月中旬被圣安托万的震天动地的脚步声护送着通过了巴黎市街。现在，但愿上天击败露西.达尔内的幻想，不让那脚步侵入她的生活！因为那脚步疾速、疯狂，而且危险；而在德伐日酒店门前跌破了酒桶多年之后，那些脚步一旦染成红色是很难洗净的。 |
