Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among

the feet of the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the

fountain, and was down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a

wild animal.

“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive

man, “it is a child.”

“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”

“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquisit is a pityyes.”

The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where

it was, into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall

man suddenly got up from the ground, and came running at the

carriage, Monsieur the Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on

his sword-hilt.

“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both

arms at their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”

The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis.

There was nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him

but watchfulness and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or

anger. Neither did the people say anything; after the first cry, they

had been silent, and they remained so. The voice of the submissive

man who had spoken, was flat and tame in its extreme submission.

Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes over them all, as if they had

been mere rats come out of their holes.

He took out his purse.

“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot

take care of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you

is for ever in the way. How do I know what injury you have done

my horses? See! Give him that.”

He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

heads craned forward that all the eyes might look down as it fell.

The tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”

He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom

the rest made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell

upon his shoulder, sobbing and crying, and pointing to the

fountain, where some women were stooping over the motionless

bundle, and moving gently about it. They were as silent, however,

as the men.

“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man,

my Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than

to live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived

an hour as happily?”

“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling.

“How do they call you?”

“They call me Defarge.”

“Of what trade?”

“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”

“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the

Marquis, throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you