pretence of looking about as if for some friend who was not there,

and went away. Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor

entered, was there one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had

kept his eyes open, but had been able to detect no sign. They had

lounged away in a poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental

manner, quite natural and unimpeachable.

“John,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers

knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough,

and I shall knit ‘Barsad’ before you go.

“You have a husband, madame?”

“I have.”

“Children?”

“No children.”

“Business seems bad?”

“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”

“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, tooas

you say.”

“As you say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly

knitting an extra something into his name that boded him no good.

“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally

think so. Of course.”

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“I think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my

husband have enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without

thinking. All we think, here, is how to live. That is the subject we

think of, and it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think

about, without embarrassing our heads concerning others. I think

for others? No, no.”

The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or

make, did not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister

face; but stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow

on Madame Defarge’s little counter, and occasionally sipping his

cognac.

“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard’s execution. Ah! the

poor Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.

“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use

knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew

beforehand what the price of his luxury was; he has paid the

price.”

“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone that

invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary

susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there is

much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the

poor fellow? Between ourselves.”

“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.

“Is there not?”

“Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.

As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy

saluted him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging

smile, “Good day, Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at