“John.”

“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to

herself. “Good. His appearance; is it known?”

“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;

complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark;

face thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a

peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,

sinister.”

“Eh, my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He

shall be registered tomorrow.”

They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was

midnight), and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post

at her desk, counting the small moneys that had been taken

during her absence, examined the stock, went through the entries

in the book, made other entries of her own, checked the servingman

in every possible way, and finally dismissed him to bed. Then

she turned out the contents of the bowl of money for the second

time, and began knotting them up in her handkerchief, in a chain

of separate knots, for safe keeping through the night. All this

while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked up and down,

complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which condition,

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he walked up

and down through life.

The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by

so foul a neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge’s

olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the stock of wine

smelt stronger than it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and

brandy and aniseed. He whiffed the compound of scents away, as

he put down his smoked-out pipe.

“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she

knotted the money. “There are only the usual odours.”

“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.

“You are a little depressed too,” said madame, whose quick

eyes had never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a

ray or two for him. “Oh, the men, the men!”

“But my dear!” began Defarge.

“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my

dear! You are faint of heart tonight, my dear!”

“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his

breast, “it is a long time.”

“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long

time? Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the

rule.”

“It does not take a long time to strike a man with lightning,”

said Defarge.

“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to

make and store the lightning? Tell me.”

Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were

something in that too.