each with his chin resting on his hand, and his eyes intent on the

road-mender; Jacques Three, equally intent, on one knee behind

them, with his agitated hand always gliding over the network of

fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge standing between

them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the light of the

window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to

him.

“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.

“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village

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looks at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But always looks up, from a

distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the

work of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the

fountain, all faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they

were turned towards the posting-house; now, they turned towards

the prison. They whisper at the fountain, that although

condemned to death he will not be executed; they say that

petitions have been presented in Paris, showing that he was

enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say that a

petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?

It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”

“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly

interposed. “Know that a petition was presented to the King and

Queen. All here, yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his

carriage in the street, sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom

you see here, who, at the hazard of his life, darted out before the

horses, with the petition in his hand.”

“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number

Three: his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves,

with a strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for somethingthat

was neither food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot,

surrounded the petitioner, and struck him blows. You hear?”

“I hear, messieurs.”

“Go on then,” said Defarge.

“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,”

resumed the countryman, “that he is brought down into our

country to be executed on the spot, and that he will very certainly

be executed. They even whisper that because he has slain

Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the father of his

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tenantsserfswhat you willhe will be executed as a parricide.

One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed with

the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds which

will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be

poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur;

finally, that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses.

That old man says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who

made an attempt on the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But

how do I know if he lies? I am not a scholar.”

“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the