Chapter 7 Chapter Five Hotel

A large wine barrel fell on the street and broke apart. This accident occurred when the barrel was being removed from the car.The barrel rolled down, the hoops fell apart, and the barrel lay on the stone outside the tavern door, cracked like a walnut shell. People nearby stopped working and wandering to grab a drink.The stones on the road were rough and sharp, making people think that they were deliberately designed to limp the creatures that approached them, but now they have become small wine puddles; Depends on the size of the distillery.Someone knelt down, cupped his hands together and drank it, or offered it to a woman who bent over his shoulder while the wine was still running through his fingers.Others, both men and women, used incomplete ceramic cups to scoop water into puddles; A dike was built to block the wine; some ran around according to the instructions of the people at the high window, blocking the wine that was about to flow in other directions, while some people were swollen by the wine and stained with wine dregs. He worked hard on the red wine barrel wood, licking the wet wood soaked in wine with relish, and even chewed.There is no equipment for recovering wine at all, but not only did not a drop of wine flow away, but even a layer of soil was blown up.Anyone who knew the street believed that there would be a scavenger here, too, would think that the miracle had already taken place by this time.

The game of booze is on.There was high-pitched laughter and jubilant uproar in the street--men, women, and children.There is less rudeness in this game and more joviality.There was a peculiar sense of companionship in it, a decidedly joking element.This tendency makes the luckier and happier people hug, toast, shake hands with joy, and even make a dozen people hold hands and dance.When the wine was finished, there were many finger prints like furnace bridges on the place where the wine was the most.The show ended as abruptly as it broke out.The man who had just left the saw in the wood pushed it up again.The woman who had just left the jar full of hot ashes at the door went back to the jar--to soothe a hungry finger or toe of herself or her child.The shirtless, shaggy-haired, haggard man had just come out of the cellar into the winter sun, and was back in the cellar again; here was gathering a cloud that seemed more natural in these parts than the sun .

Wine is red wine; it stained a narrow street in Saint-Antoine, a suburb of Paris, with red, and it also stained many hands, many faces, many bare feet, and many pairs of clogs.The hand that saw the wood left a red mark on the block; the forehead of the woman who had fed her baby with wine was also marked by the red mark of the turban she had rewrapped.The corner of the mouth of the person who greedily sucked the staves of the barrel was painted, making him look like a tiger.There was a naughty tall man who also turned into a tiger.Only a small portion of his dirty nightcap, which looked like a long bag, was worn on his head. At this moment, he dipped his finger in the muddy wine residue and wrote a word on the wall: blood.

The day is coming when what he wrote will run down the flagstones of the street and splatter the inhabitants. At this time the dark clouds hung over St. Antoine's head again, and the short sunshine had driven the dark clouds from his holy face.Here again the heavy gloom hangs over—cold, filth, disease, ignorance, and poverty are the great lords who serve the saint—and they all hold power, especially the last one: poverty.The men here are specimens of men who have suffered and been ground over and over at the mill--but surely not the godly mill that turns old men into young men.They trembled in every corner, passed in and out of every door, and looked at the windows of a house.They shivered in the cold wind in barely coverable clothes.The mill that grinds them is the mill that grinds young men into old men; it grinds out old faces and heavy voices of children; The furrows and furrows that have been formed for years are drilled out again to be active everywhere.Hunger is omnipresent, and it is tyrannical.Hunger is tattered clothes, hanging from tall buildings on bamboo poles and ropes; hunger is patched on clothes with straw, rags, wood chips and paper; Hunger stares down smokeless chimneys; hunger floats up from dirty streets where there is nothing to eat in the rubbish heaps.Hunger was written on the baker's shelf, on every loaf of bad bread that was running out of stock, on every sausage that was sold in the sausage shop from dead dog meat.Hunger rattled its scorched bones amid roasted chestnuts in a revolving iron cylinder.Hunger was sliced ​​into very thin slices of dried potato, fried in a few drops of oil that were spent with great reluctance.

Hunger dwells on everything fit for it to dwell.From one crooked and narrow street branched other crooked and narrow streets, full of crime and stench, and peopled with rags and nightcaps, all exuding the smell of rags and nightcaps odor.All that can be seen is sullen, looking at everything sickly.In people's desperation expressions, there is also the meaning of a cornered beast.Although everyone is depressed, there are many people with tight lips and flaming eyes-the lips are white from the swallowed anger.Others knit their brows into a ball, like a noose they intend to accept or let others accept.Advertisements in stores (and almost every store has them) are all symbols of scarcity.The butcher's and butcher's advertisements are full of skinny crumbs; the bakers display their advertisements for the worst slices of bread.Hotel advertisements poorly depict drinking guests whimpering over sips of ale and beer, faces full of anger and secrecy.Nothing thrives except tools and weapons.The knife-grinder's knives and axes were sharp and shiny, the blacksmith's hammer was strong and heavy, the gunsmith's butts were murderous, and the maiming stone pavement was puddles full of mud and water.The road goes straight to the door of the residents, and there is no sidewalk. As compensation, the gutter runs to the middle of the street—if it is not blocked.But if it is not blocked, it must rain heavily, but when it rains heavily, it will circulate indiscriminately.Then pour it into the house of the residents.At regular intervals there was a clumsy street lamp suspended in the middle of the street by ropes and tackle.At night, the lamplighter puts down the lamps one by one, lights them up, and then rises into the air, forming a forest of dim and feeble lights, hanging sickly above his head, like a burning fire on the sea.They were indeed at sea, and the skiff and her crew were in danger of the storm.

For it was not long before the bored and hungry gaunt poor of the district, after long observing the work of the lamp-men, came up with an idea to improve their method of work: to hang men also by ropes and tackles, and use them to light the lamps. the darkness around them.However, that time has not yet come.Every wind that blew across France made the ragged skirts of the poor flutter, but to no avail, for the birds of beautiful plumage and song paid no heed to warnings. The hotel is on a corner street, in shape and class above most of its peers.Just now its owner was wearing a yellow vest and green trousers, standing outside the door watching people fight over the spilled wine. "That's none of my business," he said with a final shrug. "It was overturned by the people in the market. Ask them to send another bucket."

Then he came across the joke written on the wall by the tall man, and called to him across the street: "Hey Gaspard, what are you writing on the wall?" The man pointed to the words he wrote meaningfully.The gang used to do this to each other.But his move didn't work, the opponent completely ignored Yi-.This kind of phenomenon is also common among this group of people. "What's the matter with you? Are you going to a madhouse?" The hotel owner walked across the street, grabbed a handful of mud from the ground, smeared it on his writing, erased it, and said, "Why are you scribbling on the street? Is there no other place to write the font, tell me?"

When speaking, his clean hand fell on the mouth of the person who was joking intentionally or unintentionally.The man opened his hand with a slap, jumped up quickly, and danced in a strange posture.A dirty shoe flew off his foot, and he caught it again and lifted it up.Under the circumstances at that time, his prank just now was very dangerous, even if it did not destroy the family. "Put your shoes on, put them on," said the shopkeeper. "Have a glass of wine, have a glass of wine, just drink there!" After the boss gave advice, he wiped his dirty hands on the man's clothes-he did it on purpose, because his hands were dirty for him.Then he went back across the street to the hotel.

The hotel owner was about thirty years old, with a thick neck like a bull, and a combative image.He must have been of a hot constitution, for in spite of the severe cold he left his coat hanging over his shoulders, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing his tan arms to the elbows.He has short, curly black hair and doesn't wear a hat.This man had a dark complexion, and his eyes were piercing, and the eyes were set far apart, which attracted attention.Generally speaking, he is not bad-tempered, but he is stubborn and strong. He is obviously a person who has courage and determination to do whatever he wants to do.Don't meet him on a narrow road between two sides of water, this man can't be dragged back no matter what you use.

His wife, Madame Defarge, was sitting behind the counter in the shop when he entered.Madame Defarge was about his own age, a stocky woman with alert eyes that seemed to be seldom looking at anything.Her big hands were covered with rings, her facial features were thick but serene.Her air made one believe that there was no error in the accounts she kept.Sensitive to the cold, she was tightly wrapped in fur, and a large brightly colored scarf was wrapped around her head, with only two large earrings showing.The woolen yarn was right in front of her, but she didn't knit it, just holding her arm in one hand and picking her teeth with a toothpick in the other.She didn't say a word when her husband walked into the hotel, except for a slight cough.This cough, combined with a slight lift of her bushy eyebrows over the toothpick, was a suggestion to her husband that it would be better to walk around the store to see if any new customers came in after he had crossed the street.

The hotel owner rolled his eyes and saw an old gentleman and a young girl sitting in the corner.The other customers remained unchanged: two were playing cards, two were playing dominoes, and three were standing in front of the counter leisurely tasting the few remaining wines.As he passed the counter, he noticed the old gentleman wink at the young girl. "That's him." "What the hell are you doing in that corner?" thought M. Defarge. "I don't know you." But he pretended not to notice the two strangers, and only struck up a conversation with the three guests who were drinking at the counter. "Well, Jacques?" said one of the three to M. Defarge. "Drink the spilled wine, have you finished it?" "Drink every drop, Jacques," replied M. Defarge. Just as the two sides called each other Jacques, Mrs. Defarge, who was picking her teeth, coughed softly again, and raised her brows even more. "Many of these poor wretches," said the second of the three to M. Defarge, "seldom drink. They hardly taste anything but black bread and death. Yes. Right, Jacques?" "It is so, Jacques," replied M. Defarge. When calling Jacques in exchange for the second time, Madame Defarge coughed softly again, still picking her teeth very calmly, raised her brows even more, and moved her body slightly. Now it was a third person who was speaking, and at the same time put down his empty glass and smacked his lips. "Ah! That's even more pitiful! These beasts always have a bitter taste in their mouths and a hard life. Am I right, Jacques?" "That's right, Jacques," replied M. Defarge. After the third Jacques shouted, Madame Defarge had put the toothpick aside, her eyebrows still raised, and at the same time moved slightly in her seat. "Stop it! Seriously!" her husband muttered. "Gentlemen—this is the wife!" The three guests took off their hats to Madame Defarge and made three fancy gestures of salute.She nodded and glanced at them in acceptance.Then she casually looked around the hotel, picked up the wool with a calm and magnanimous look, and started knitting with all her heart. "Gentlemen," said her husband now, whose bright eyes had been gazing at her carefully, "good day. The room you wish to see--which you asked about when I went out--is on the fifth floor, It is furnished as a single house. The stairs lead to the small patio on the left side,” he pointed with his finger, “the small patio by the window of my house. But, I remembered, one of you has been there, and he can show the way.” .Goodbye, gentlemen!" The three paid for the drinks and left.Monsieur Defarge was watching his wife knitting, when the old gentleman came out from the corner of the room and asked politely for a word. "Speak, sir," said M. Defarge, and followed him calmly to the door. The two exchanged few words, but they were straightforward.Monsieur Defarge started almost at the first word, and listened intently.After talking for a minute, he nodded and walked out.The old gentleman made a sign to the young girl, and followed her out.Madame Defarge was knitting with deft hands, without moving her brow, and seeing nothing. Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette thus emerged from the hotel, and joined Mr. Defarge at the door which he had just pointed out to them.Inside this door is a small dark and smelly courtyard, and outside is a public entrance leading to a large area of ​​​​populous housing.When M. Defarge passed the blue-bricked entrance and entered the blue-bricked staircase, he knelt down to his former master and put her hand to his lips.This was originally a gentle action, but it was not gentle when he did it.In a few seconds a startling transformation had taken place in him, the gentle, cheerful expression had completely disappeared from his face, and he had become a mysterious, angry, dangerous figure. "The building is very tall, and it's a bit difficult to walk. You might as well go slowly at first." The three began to go upstairs, and Mr. Defarge said to Mr. Lorry in a rough voice. "Is he alone?" asked Mr. Lorry. "A man? God bless him, who else can be with him?" Another man also whispered. "Then he's always alone?" "yes." "Did he mean it himself?" "He had to be. When they came to me and asked me if I would take over - it was dangerous for me, I had to be careful - he was like that, and he is still like that." "Has he changed much?" "Variety!" The innkeeper stopped, punched the wall, and uttered a vicious curse that was more powerful than any direct answer.Mr. Lorry and his two companions climbed higher and higher, and their hearts became heavier and heavier. Such stairs and appurtenances, bad enough now in the more congested old quarters of Paris, were even more embarrassing to the unaccustomed and untrained.A building is a dirty nest.Every room in the building--that is to say, one or more rooms in each door leading to the common staircase--either throws the rubbish out of the window or piles it on the landing in front of the door.Thus, the uncontrollable and irremediable filth produced by the decomposition of garbage can be called air pollution even if poverty and poverty have not covered the residential buildings with its invisible and intangible filth.The combination of these two sources of pollution is even more unbearable.What the stairs pass through is such a dark and steep passage full of dirt and toxins.Jarvis Lorry, both because of his restless mind, and because of the growing agitation of his young companion, twice stopped to rest, each time by a forlorn fence.The fresh air, not yet completely corrupted, but dead, seemed to escape through the grate, and the sickly dampness of all corruption seemed to rush in there.The messy neighborhood can be seen through the rusted fence, but more so than the smell of it.Nothing within sight below the spiers of Notre-Dame's two towers and the buildings near it had healthy life and great hope. At last they reached the top of the stairs and stopped for the third time.There is also a steeper and narrower staircase to reach the attic.The innkeeper kept walking a few steps ahead, beside Mr. Lorry, as if afraid of the young lady's questioning.Here he turned, fumbled for a moment in the pocket of his coat, which was slung over his shoulder, and brought out a key. "Is the door locked, then, my friend?" said Mr. Lorry, startled. "Yes, yes," replied Defarge rather sternly. "Do you think it necessary to keep the unfortunate man so isolated?" "I think he must be locked up," M. Defarge whispered into his ear, frowning. , "why?" "Why! Because he's been locked up so long that if he opened the door he'd be afraid, he'd talk nonsense, he'd tear himself to pieces, he'd die, and he didn't know what was going to happen to him." "Is that even possible?" exclaimed Mr. Lorry. "Is it even possible!" repeated Defarge sharply. "Possibly. Our world is beautiful, and such a thing is possible, and many similar things are possible, and not only possible, but done——done, do you understand!—over there under the sky , people do it every day. Long live the devil! Let's move on." The voice of this conversation was so low that the lady did not hear a word.But at this time, the intense excitement had already made her tremble all over, and her face showed serious anxiety, especially fear and fear.Mr. Lorry felt compelled to say a few words of comfort to her. "Courage, dear lady! Courage! Business! The worst difficulties will soon be over. As soon as you walk in the door it will be over, and then you will be able to bring him all that is good and give him comfort and pleasure. Please Let our friend hold you there. Now, friend Defarge, go now. Business, business!" They climbed up slowly with light steps.The stairs were short, and they reached the top in no time.Turning a sharp turn, they suddenly saw three people bent over, their heads crowded by a door, looking intently into the room through a crack in the door or a hole in the wall.When the three heard footsteps behind them, they hurriedly turned around and stood up straight.It turned out to be the three people with the same name who were drinking in the hotel. "I was taken aback when you came, and forgot about these three friends," explained M. Defarge, "go away, my fellows, we have something to do here. The three walked past them sideways and went downstairs without a sound. There seemed to be no other doors on this floor.The hotel owner watched the three go away before coming directly to the door.Mr. Lorry asked slightly angrily in a low voice: "Are you exhibiting Mr. Manette?" "I only show it to a select few. You've seen it." "Is this okay?" "I think it's fine." "Who are these few people? Why do you choose?" "I picked them because they were real men, and they all used my name - Jacques is my name - and it would do them good to see. Enough, you're British, that's another matter. Please stand here and wait." He made a warning sign to them not to go any further, then stooped, looked in through the chink in the wall, raised his head, and knocked on the door two or three times--apparently just to make a sound, There is no other purpose.With the same purpose, he knocked the key three or four times on the door before he awkwardly inserted it into the lock and turned it noisily. The door opened slowly inward under his hand.He looked into the room, but made no sound.A faint voice gave some kind of answer, and each uttered only a syllable or two. He turned and beckoned them both in.Mr. Lorry put his arms carefully around the girl's waist, and held her up, for he felt that she was not standing still. "Ah-ah-ah, business, business!" He encouraged her, but tears that were not business were shining on his cheeks. "Come in, come in!" "I'm afraid," she said, trembling. "afraid of what?" "Afraid of him, afraid of my father." Her situation, and the beckoning of her guide, made Mr. Lorry helpless, but drawing the trembling arm from his shoulder to his own neck, and helping her to uprightness, hurried into the house, and set her down, Help her stand close to herself. Defarge took out the key, locked the door behind him, and took the key out of his hand.He did these things slowly and laboriously, and deliberately made some harsh noises.Finally, he walked cautiously to the window and stopped, turning his head. The attic was originally used as a storage room for storing firewood and other things, and it was very dark; the dormer-like window is actually a door on the roof, and there is a movable hook on the door, which is used to lift the storage from the street. product.The door was unpainted, a pair of double doors, which closed in the middle, as is common in French houses.In order to keep out the cold, one door was tightly closed, and the Yue fan was only opened a crack, luring in very little light.In this way, it is difficult to see things when you first enter the door.In such a dark environment, it is impossible to carry out meticulous work without long-term adaptation and training.But now this kind of work is going on here.Because a white-haired old man was sitting on a low stool, with his back to the door and facing the window, hunched over and busy making shoes.The hotel owner stood at the window and watched him.