With these words and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver

shouldered himself into Fleet Street, amidst the general

approbation of his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were

left alone at the desk in the general departure from the Bank.

“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know

where to deliver it?”

“I do.”

“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been

addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it,

and that it has been here some time?”

“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”

“From here, at eight.”

“I will come back to see you off.”

Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other

men, Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the

Temple, opened the letter and read it. These were its contents:

“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.

“June 21, 1792.

“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the

village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have

suffered a great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been

destroyedrazed to the ground.

“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the

Marquis, and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal,

and shall lose my life (without your so generous help), is, they tell

me, treason against the majesty of the people, in that I have acted

against them for an emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have

acted for them, and not against, according to your commands. It is

in vain I represent that, before the sequestration of emigrant

property, I have remitted the imposts they have ceased to pay; that

I had collected no rent; that I had had recourse to no process. The

only response is, that I have acted for an emigrant, and where is

that emigrant?

“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is

that emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven,

will he not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur

heretofore the Marquis, I send my desolate cry across the sea,

hoping it may perhaps reach your ears through the great bank of

Tilson known at Paris!

“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour

of your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the

Marquis, to succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been

true to you. Oh Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be

you true to me!

“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend

nearer and nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore

the Marquis, the assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.

“Your afflicted, “GABELLE”