“Yes.”

The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all

aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!”

“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, Evremonde!” the

face of Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him.

Evremonde 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

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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.

“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her?

Therese Defarge!”

“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the

sisterhood.

“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance petulantly.

“Therese.”

“Louder,” the woman recommends.

Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she 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 Evremonde will be

dispatched in a wink, and she not here! See her knitting in my

hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with vexation and

disappointment!”

As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the

tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte

Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash!a head is held up, and the

knitting-women, who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a

moment ago when it could think and speak, count One.

The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up.

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Crash!And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in

their work, count Two.

The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is

lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand

in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places