a tale of two cities(双城记)-第92章

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n　appearance　as　not　to　show　disfigurement　like　any　other　woman。　She　needed　both　advantages；　for　the　marks　of　griping　fingers　were　deep　in　her　face；　and　her　hair　was　torn；　and　her　dress　（hastily　composed　with　unsteady　hands）　was　clutched　and　dragged　a　hundred　ways　
　In　crossing　the　bridge；　she　dropped　the　door　key　in　the　river。　Arriving　at　the　cathedral　some　few　minutes　before　her　escort；　and　waiting　there；　she　thought；　what　if　the　key　were　already　taken　in　a　net；　what　if　it　were　identified；　what　if　the　door　were　opened　and　the　remains　discovered；　what　if　she　were　stopped　at　the　gate；　sent　to　prison；　and　charged　with　murder！　In　the　midst　of　these　fluttering　thoughts；　the　escort　appeared；　took　her　in；　and　took　her　away。　
　‘Is　there　any　noise　in　the　streets？'　she　asked　him。　
　‘The　usual　noises；'　Mr。　Cruncher　replied；　and　looked　surprised　by　the　question　and　by　her　aspect。　
　‘I　don't　hear　you；'　said　Miss　Pross。　‘What　do　you　say？'　
　It　was　in　vain　for　Mr。　Cruncher　to　repeat　what　he　said；　Miss　Pross　could　not　hear　him。　‘So　I'll　nod　my　head；'　thought　Mr。　Cruncher；　amazed；　‘at　all　events　she'll　see　that。'　And　she　did。　
　‘Is　there　any　noise　in　the　streets　now？'　asked　Miss　Pross　again；　presently。　
　Again　Mr。　Cruncher　nodded　his　head。　
　‘I　don't　hear　it。'　
　‘Gone　deaf　in　a　hour？'　said　Mr。　Cruncher；　ruminating；　with　his　mind　much　disturbed；　‘wot's　come　to　her？'　
　‘I　feel；'　said　Miss　Pross；　‘as　if　there　had　been　a　flash　and　a　crash；　and　that　crash　was　the　last　thing　I　should　ever　hear　in　this　life。'　
　‘Blest　if　she　ain't　in　a　queer　condition！'　said　Mr。　Cruncher；　more　and　more　disturbed。　‘Wot　can　she　have　been　a　takin'；　to　keep　her　courage　up？　Hark！　There's　the　roll　of　them　dreadful　carts！　You　can　hear　that；　miss？'　
　‘I　can　hear；'　said　Miss　Pross；　seeing　that　he　spoke　to　her；　‘nothing。　O；　my　good　man；　there　was　first　a　great　crash；　and　then　a　great　stillness；　and　that　stillness　seems　to　be　fixed　and　unchangeable；　never　to　be　broken　any　more　as　long　as　my　life　lasts。'　
　‘If　she　don't　hear　the　roll　of　those　dreadful　carts；　now　very　nigh　their　journey's　end；'　said　Mr。　Cruncher；　glancing　over　his　shoulder；　‘it's　my　opinion　that　indeed　she　never　will　hear　anything　else　in　this　world。'　
　And　indeed　she　never　did。　

CHAPTER　XV
The　Footsteps　Die　out　for　Ever
ALONG　the　Paris　streets；　the　death…carts　rumble；　hollow　and　harsh。　Six　tumbrils　carry　the　day's　wine　to　La　Guillotine。　All　the　devouring　and　insatiate　Monsters　imagined　since　imagination　could　record　itself；　are　fused　in　the　one　realisation；　Guillotine。　And　yet　there　is　not　in　France；　with　its　rich　variety　of　soil　and　climate；　a　blade；　a　leaf；　a　root；　a　sprig；　a　peppercorn；　which　will　grow　to　maturity　under　conditions　more　certain　than　those　that　have　produced　this　horror。　Crush　humanity　out　of　shape　once　more；　under　similar　hammers；　and　it　will　twist　itself　into　the　same　tortured　forms。　Sow　the　same　seed　of　rapacious　licence　and　oppression　over　again；　and　it　will　surely　yield　the　same　fruit　according　to　its　kind。　
　Six　tumbrils　roll　along　the　streets。　Change　these　back　again　to　what　they　were；　thou　powerful　enchanter；　Time；　and　they　shall　be　seen　to　be　the　carriages　of　absolute　monarchs；　the　equipages　of　feudal　nobles；　the　toilettes　of　flaring　Jezebels；　the　churches　that　are　not　my　father's　house　but　dens　of　thieves；　the　huts　of　millions　of　starving　peasants！　No；　the　great　magician　who　majestically　works　out　the　appointed　order　of　the　Creator；　never　reverses　his　transformations。　‘If　thou　be　changed　into　this　shape　by　the　will　of　God；'　say　the　seers　to　the　enchanted；　in　the　wise　Arabian　stories；　‘then　remain　so！　But；　if　thou　wear　this　form　through　mere　passing　conjuration；　then　resume　thy　former　aspect！'　Changeless　and　hopeless；　the　tumbrils　roll　along。　
　As　the　sombre　wheels　of　the　six　carts　go　round；　they　seem　to　plough　up　a　long　crooked　furrow　among　the　populace　in　the　streets。　Ridges　of　faces　are　thrown　to　this　side　and　to　that；　and　the　ploughs　go　steadily　onward。　So　used　are　the　regular　inhabitants　of　the　houses　to　the　spectacle；　that　in　many　windows　there　are　no　people；　and　in　some　the　occupation　of　the　hands　is　not　so　much　as　suspended；　while　the　eyes　survey　the　faces　in　the　tumbrils。　Here　and　there；　the　inmate　has　visitors　to　see　the　sight；　then　he　points　his　finger；　with　something　of　the　complacency　of　a　curator　or　authorised　exponent；　to　this　cart　and　to　this；　and　seems　to　tell　who　sat　here　yesterday；　and　who　there　the　day　before。　
Of　the　riders　in　the　tumbrils；　some　observe　these　things；　and　all　things　on　their　last　roadside；　with　an　impassive　stare；　others；　with　a　lingering　interest　in　the　ways　of　life　and　men。　Some；　seated　with　drooping　heads；　are　sunk　in　silent　despair；　again；　there　are　some　so　heedful　of　their　looks　that　they　cast　upon　the　multitude　such　glances　as　they　have　seen　in　theatres；　and　in　pictures。　Several　close　their　eyes；　and　think；　or　try　to　get　their　straying　thoughts　together。　Only　one；　and　he　a　miserable　creature；　of　a　crazed　aspect；　is　so　shattered　and　made　drunk　by　horror；　that　he　sings；　and　tries　to　dance。　Not　one　of　the　whole　number　appeals　by　look　or　gesture；　to　the　pity　of　the　people。　
　There　is　a　guard　of　sundry　horsemen　riding　abreast　of　the　tumbrils；　and　faces　are　often　turned　up　to　some　of　them；　and　they　are　asked　some　question。　It　would　seem　to　be　always　the　same　question；　for；　it　is　always　followed　by　a　press　of　people　towards　the　third　cart。　The　horsemen　abreast　of　that　cart；　frequently　point　out　one　man　in　it　with　their　swords。　The　leading　curiosity　is；　to　know　which　is　he；　he　stands　at　the　back　of　the　tumbril　with　his　head　bent　down；　to　converse　with　a　mere　girl　who　sits　on　the　side　of　the　cart；　and　holds　his　hand。　He　has　no　curiosity　or　care　for　the　scene　about　him；　and　always　speaks　to　the　girl。　Here　and　there　in　the　long　street　of　St。　Honoré；　cries　are　raised　against　him。　If　they　move　him　at　all；　it　is　only　to　a　quiet　smile；　as　he　shakes　his　hair　a　little　more　loosely　about　his　face。　He　cannot　easily　touch　his　face；　his　arms　being　bound。　
　On　the　steps　of　a　church；　awaiting　the　coming…up　of　the　tumbrils；　stands　the　Spy　and　prison…sheep。　He　looks　into　the　first　of　them：　not　there。　He　looks　into　the　second：　not　there。　He　already　asks　himself；　‘Has　he　sacrificed　me？'　when　his　face　clears；　as　he　looks　into　the　third。　
　‘Which　is　Evrémonde？'　says　a　man　behind　him。　‘That。　At　the　back　there。'　‘With　his　hand　in　the　girl's？'　‘Yes。'　
　The　man　cries；　‘Down；　Evrémonde　To　the　Guillotine　all　aristocrats！　Down；　Evrémonde！'　
　‘Hush；　hush！'　the　Spy　entreats　him；　timidly。　
‘And　why　not；　citizen？'　
　‘He　is　going　to　pay　the　forfeit：　it　will　be　paid　in　five　minutes　more。　Let　him　be　at　peace。'　
But　the　man　continuing　to　exclaim；　‘Down；　Evrémonde！'　the　face　of　Evrémonde　is　for　a　moment　turned　towards　him。　Evrémonde　then　sees　the　Spy；　and　looks　attentively　at　him；　and　goes　his　way。　
　The　clocks　are　on　the　stroke　of　three；　and　the　furrow　ploughed　among　the　populace　is　turning　round；　to　come　on　into　the　place　of　execution；　and　end。　The　ridges　thrown　to　this　side　and　to　that；　now　crumble　in　and　close　behind　the　last　plough　as　it　passes　on；　for　all　are　following　to　the　Guillotine。　In　front　of　it；　seated　in　chairs；　as　in　a　garden　of　public　diversion；　are　a　number　of　women；　busily　knitting。　On　one　of　the　foremost　chairs；　stands　The　Vengeance；　looking　about　for　her　friend。　
　‘Thérèse！'　she　cries；　in　her　shrill　tones。　‘Who　has　seen　her？　Thérèse　Defarge！'　
　‘She　never　missed　before；'　says　a　knitting…woman　of　the　sisterhood。　
　‘No；　nor　will　site　miss　now；'　cries　The　Vengeance；　petulantly。　‘Thérèse！'　
　‘Louder；'　the　woman　recommends。　
　Ay！　Louder；　Vengeance；　much　louder；　and　still　site　will　scarcely　hear　thee。　Louder　yet；　Vengeance；　with　a　little　oath　or　so　added；　and　yet　it　will　hardly　bring　her。　Send　other　women　up　and　down　to　seek　her；　lingering　somewhere；　and　yet；　although　the　messengers　have　done　dread　deeds；　it　is　questionable　whether　of　their　own　wills　they　will　go　far　enough　to　find　her！　
　‘Bad　Fortune！'　cries　The　Vengeance；　stamping　her　foot　in　the　chair；　‘and　here　are　the　tumbrils！　And　Evrémonde　will　be　despatched　in　a　wink；　and　she　not　here！　See　her　knitting　in　my　hand；　and　her　empty　chair　ready　for　her。　I　cry　with　‘vexation　an