Chapter 8 Chapter 6 The Shoemaker

"Good day!" said M. Defarge, looking down at the drooping white head.The man is making shoes. The head lifted for a moment, and a very faint voice answered, as if from far away. "Good day!" "I see you are still working very hard?" There was a long silence before the head was raised; the voice replied, "Yes—I am at work." This time a pair of absent-minded eyes looked at the questioner, and then the face dropped again. The feebleness of the voice is pitiful and terrifying, not from physical weakness, though captivity and poor food no doubt have played their part; .It seemed to be the feeble, endangered echo of a voice of remote antiquity, which had lost all the vitality and resonance of a human voice, as if it were only a faint, pathetic blotch of faded once-beautiful colour.The voice was deep, depressing, and emanating from the ground, reminiscent of a lonely, exhausted, hungry traveler in the wilderness, the homeless and desperate being lying down to die The mournful sound that I made when I was thinking about my family and relatives and friends.

After a few minutes of silent work, those absent-minded eyes looked up again.There was no interest or curiosity in the eyes, just a vague mechanical awareness that the place where the only guest had been standing was not yet vacant. "I want to let in a little more light," Defarge stared intently at the shoemaker, "can you accept a little more? The shoemaker stopped working, and looked at the floor next to him with a vacant expression, looked at the floor on the other side, and then looked up at the speaker. "What did you say?" "Can you take in a little more light?"

"You're going to have to put it in, and I'll have to live with it." (The word "have to" is lightly emphasized) The door that only opened a line opened wider and was temporarily fixed at that angle.A great ray of light enters the attic, revealing that the shoemaker has stopped working;.An unfinished shoe was on his lap; a few ordinary tools and various leather goods were at his feet or on a bench.He had a white beard, short and wildly trimmed; sunken cheeks, and unusually bright eyes.Because of the thin and sunken cheeks, the eyes seemed large under the still-thick eyebrows and tousled hair, although they were not—they were naturally large, but now they looked unnaturally large.His tattered yellow shirt was open at the collar, exposing his bony body.Long isolation from direct sunlight and air, he and his canvas coat, baggy stockings, and tattered garments had all faded to a parchment-yellow mingled and indistinguishable.

He kept blocking the light in front of his eyes with his hand, which seemed to be transparent even to the bones.He sat like this, stopped working, and stared.Before looking directly at the figure in front of him, he always looked east and west, as if he had lost the habit of associating sound with place.The same is true before speaking, looking east and west, and forgetting to speak. "Are you going to finish those shoes today?" asked Defarge. "What did you say?" "Are you going to finish those shoes today?" "I can't tell if it was intended, I think so. I don't know."

But the question reminded him of his work, and he got back to his work. Mr. Lorry left the girl at the door, and went forward himself.He stood beside Defarge for a minute or two before the shoemaker raised his head.He didn't look surprised to see the other person, but one of his trembling fingers was misplaced when he saw him, and landed on his lips (both his lips and nails were gray as lead), and then the With his hands back to his work, he bent down and resumed the shoe.Those gazes and body movements are just a matter of an instant. "You have a visitor, you see," said M. Defarge.

"What did you say?" "There is a guest here." The shoemaker looked up as before, and continued to work with his hands. "Come!" said Defarge. "This gentleman knows good shoes and bad ones. Show him your shoes. Take them, sir." Mr. Lorry took the shoes. "Tell this gentleman what shoe it is and who made it." This time the pause was longer than before, and after a while the shoemaker replied: "I forgot what you asked. What did you say?" "I said, can you introduce this kind of shoes and introduce the situation to this gentleman."

"It's a lady's shoe. Young ladies walk. It's a fashionable style. I haven't seen that style. But I have a pattern on my hand." He glanced at his shoes with a fleeting tinge of pride. "The shoemaker's name is...?" said Defarge. Now that there was no work in his hand, he put the knuckles of his right hand into the palm of his left hand, then put the knuckles of his left hand into the palm of his right hand, and wiped his unshaven chin with one hand.Like this, he kept touching and touching in turn, and every time he uttered a word, he always fell into a blank space.To bring him out of that void was like keeping a very debilitated patient from shock, or keeping a dying man alive, hoping he would reveal something.

"Did you ask my name?" "yes." "North Tower 105." "this one?" "North Tower 105." He made a weary sound that was neither a sigh nor a moan, and then bent over again and went to work until the silence was broken again. "Shoemaking isn't your job, is it?" said Mr. Lorry, looking at him. His haggard eyes turned to Defarge, as if wishing to give him the question to answer, but when he got no answer, he searched the ground for a while before turning again to the questioner. "Isn't it my job to make shoes? No. I—I learned to make shoes here. I taught myself. I beg that I—"

He lost his memory again.This time lasted several minutes, while his hands fumbled again in turn.Finally, his eyes slowly returned to the face they had just left.When he saw that face, he was taken aback, but he calmed down again, like someone who just woke up at that time, and returned to the topic of last night. "I applied to teach myself how to make shoes, and after a lot of effort and time, it was approved. I've been making shoes since then." He stretched out his hand to return the stolen shoe, and Mr. Lorry, still looking into his face, said: "Mr. Manette, don't you think of me at all?"

The shoe fell to the ground, and he sat staring blankly at the person who asked the question. "Mr. Manette," said Mr. Lorry, laying his hand on Defarge's arm, "you don't think of this man at all? Look at him, look at me. Do you still remember?" Former bank clerk, former occupation and servant, Mr. Manette?" The prisoner of many years sat gazing now at Mr. Lorry, now at Defarge, while in the center of his brow the long-lost traces of a brilliant and profound intellect were gradually breaking through the haze which had engulfed it, But then it was covered again, blurred, hidden, but the sign did appear.But these expressions of his were accurately reflected on a young and beautiful face.The girl had already crept along the base of the wall to a place where he could be seen, and was now gazing at him.She raised her hand at first, if not to distance herself from him, to express fear mingled with sympathy.But now the hand reached out to him, trembling, eager to place his ghostly face on her warm young breast, to revive him with love, to make him hopeful--the expression on her young, beautiful face. The face was repeated so accurately (albeit in a strong character) that it seemed as if a living light had moved from him to her.

The darkness enveloped him again, and he gradually relaxed his gaze on the two of them. His eyes searched the ground for a while with a dazed and bewildered expression, then looked around as before, and finally let out a deep and long sigh, and took the He took off his shoes and started working again. "Do you recognize him, monsieur?" asked M. Defarge. "Recognized, just for a moment. At first I thought it was all hopeless, but for a split second I saw the face I had known so well. Shhh! Let's step back a little more, shhhh!" The girl had left the attic wall and approached the old man's bench.The old man was working with his head down, and the figure approaching him almost reached out to touch him, but he didn't know anything.There is something awe-inspiring in this. No words, no sound.She stood beside him like an elf, while he bent over his work. Finally, he put down the tools in his hand and wanted to take the cobbler's knife.The knife was on his side -- not the side she was standing on.He picked up the knife and bent over to work, but his eyes caught sight of her skirt.He looked up and saw her face.Two bystanders were about to come forward, but she made a gesture to tell them not to move.She wasn't worried that he would hurt her with a knife, although the two of them were a little worried. He looked at her in horror, and after a while his lips began to move to speak, though no sound came out.His breathing was short and strenuous, and he paused from time to time, but he heard him say it word by word: "what is this?" With tears streaming down her cheeks, the girl put her hands to her lips, kissed them, stretched out to him again; and took him to her bosom, as if to place his decaying head in her arms. "Aren't you the guard's daughter?" She sighed, "No." "Who are you?" Concerned about her voice, she sat down on the bench beside him.He flinched, but she put her hand on his arm, and a tremor visibly passed through him.He gently put down the shoeknife, and sat there staring at her. Her long blond hair, which had been hastily swept to the side, now fell to her neck again.Little by little, he stretched out his hand to pick up the hairpin and looked at it.Only halfway through this movement, he became confused again, let out a deep sigh again, and started making shoes again. But he didn't do it for long.She let go of his arm, but put her hand on his shoulder.He looked at the hand suspiciously two or three times, as if to be sure that it was there, and then he left his work, put his hand around his neck, and removed a dirty rope with a rolled cloth on it.He opened it carefully on his knee, and there were a few hairs in it; just two or three long blond hairs, torn off years ago when they got tangled around his fingers. He took her hair in his hand again and examined it carefully. "It's the same, how is it possible! When did that happen? What happened?" When the thoughtful expression came back to his forehead, he seemed to see that she had the same expression, so he turned her completely to the light and looked at her. "When I was called away that night, her head was on my shoulder—she was afraid of me going, though I wasn't—and they found this on my sleeve when I was sent to the North Tower.'You Can you leave it to me? It won't help my body escape, though it will allow my spirit to fly away.' That's what I said at the time. I remember it well." He expressed these meanings through several movements of his lips.But once he found the words, the words came coherently, though slowly. "Well—is that you?" The two bystanders startled again as he turned frighteningly towards her.Yet she let him hold her, and sat still, whispering, "I beseech you, good gentlemen, don't come, don't talk, don't move." "Listen," he exclaimed, "whose voice is it?" As he cried, he had already let her go, and then he put his hands on his head and tore it frantically.Just as everything would pass for him except making shoes, the fit passed at last.He rolled up his little bag, intending to hang it on his chest again, but still looked at her, shaking his head sadly. "No, no, no, you are too young and too beautiful for that to be possible. Look at the prisoner! She has never seen such a hand, such a face, such a face. Voices she never heard back then. No, no. She--and he--was long, long ago--before that long time in the North Tower. What's your name, my gentle angel? " To congratulate him on softening his tone and manner, the daughter knelt before him, her imploring hands caressing her father's chest. "Oh, sir, I'll tell you my name later on, and who my mother was and who my father was, and why I don't know their miserable history. But I can't tell you now, not here. All I can tell you here now is that I ask you to touch me, bless me, kiss me, kiss me, darling, my darling!" His forlorn white hair mingled with hers of shining blond hair, which warmed it and illuminated it, as if the ray of freedom fell upon him. "If you hear in my voice the sweetest music you've ever heard--I don't know if you will, but I hope you will--weep for it, weep for it! If you're in If I stroke my hair and remember the head that rested on your breast in your free youth, weep for it, weep for it! If I show you that we will have a home again, I will Your filial piety, serving you wholeheartedly, these words can remind you of a family that has been ruined for many years, and thus make your heart haggard, just cry for it, cry for it!" She hugged him tighter around his neck, rocking him against her chest like a child. "If I tell you, my dearest, that your pain is over, that I have come here to take you out of it, that we are going to England, to enjoy peace and tranquility, and remind you of what you have lost in vain Weeping when I think of our birthplace--France, so hard and heartless as you! Weep! If I tell you my name, of my father who is alive and of my mother who is dead, tell you that I should Kneeling before my honorable father and begging him to forgive me for not rescuing him, crying and sleeping all night for him, and it was because my poor mother loved me and refused to let me know her pain. If so Cry! Cry! Cry for her! Cry for me too! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his divine tears fall on my face and his sobs convulse in my heart! Oh, you Look! Thank God for us! Thank God!" He had collapsed in her arms, his face on her breast: a scene so moving and so terrible (because of the injustice and the catastrophe).The two people present couldn't help covering their faces with their hands. The silence of the attic was undisturbed for a long time, and the sobbing chest and trembling body calmed down.As with all storms there is always calm.That is the sign of the world, that the storm called life must calm down into rest and solitude.The two stepped forward to help the father and daughter up from the ground - the old man had gradually fallen to the ground, exhausted, and passed out.The girl helped him fall, letting his head rest on her arms; her fair hair hung down and blocked his light. "If we can get everything right," she said, and Mr. Lorry, already twitching his nostrils several times, bent over her.She raised her hand to him and said, "Let's leave Paris at once! We can take him by the door without waking him--" "But you have to consider, can he stand the long journey?" asked Mr. Lorry. "This city is too scary for him, and it's better for him to travel than to stay here." "It is true," said Defarge, who was on his knees watching and listening to them. "And what is more, there is every reason to think that M. Manette had better leave France. Shall I hire a stagecoach, you see?" "It's business work," said Mr. Lorry, resuming his businesslike manner in a flash. "Since it's business work, it's best for me to do it." "Thank you, then," urged Miss Manette, "just let me stay here with him. You see, he's calmed down. Leave him to me, don't worry. There's nothing to worry about." If you close the door and keep us out of the way, I have no doubt that he will be as peaceful when you return as when you left. I promise to do everything I can to take care of him. We will take him away as soon as you return." Neither M. Farori nor Defarge much approved of this.They all hope that someone can stay with them, but they have to hire a carriage and go through travel procedures; and it is getting late and time is urgent.In the end, they had no choice but to hastily divide the tasks to be done and rushed to do the work. As dusk fell, the daughter put her head on the hard ground, leaning against her father, observing him, and the two lay quietly.As the night grew darker, a ray of light came in through a crack in the wall. Mr. Lorry and M. Defarge had arranged all the things necessary for the journey, and had brought sandwiches, wine, and hot coffee, as well as traveling coats and shawls.Monsieur Defarge placed the provisions and the lamp he had brought on the cobbler's bench (there was nothing in the attic but a straw bed), and he and Mr. Lorry woke the prisoner, and helped him to his feet. All human wisdom cannot explain the mystery in his heart from the terrified expression on that face.Does he understand what has happened?Did he recall what they had told him?Did he know he was free?No intelligent mind can answer.They tried talking to him, but he was still confused and answers came slowly.They were all frightened by his bewildered state, and agreed not to disturb him.He showed an expression of madness and bewilderment that he had never shown before, and he only held his head tightly with both hands.Dan- beamed at his daughter's voice, and turned his head to her. If they give him something to eat, he will eat; if they give him something to drink, he will drink; if they will give him something to wear, he will wear it;His girlfriend grabbed his arm, and he reacted quickly, grabbing her hand with both hands and not letting go. They began to descend, Mr. Defarge in front with his lamp, and Mr. Lorry behind.They had only taken a few steps up the long main staircase when the old man stopped and stared at the roof and walls. "Do you remember this place, Pa? Do you remember where you went up?" "What did you say?" But without waiting for her to repeat her question, he murmured the answer, as if she had already asked it again. "Remember? No, I don't. It's been too long." They found that he apparently had no memory of being taken from prison to this room.They heard him muttering "North Tower 105" in a low voice.He looked around, evidently looking for the strong walls of the castle where he had long been imprisoned.As soon as he got down into the patio, he instinctively changed his gait, as if anticipating that the suspension bridge was ahead.When he saw that there was no drawbridge but a carriage waiting for him on the street, he let go of his daughter's hand and hugged his head tightly. There is no crowd at the door; there are many windows, but there is no one in front of the windows, and there are no pedestrians even on the street.An unnatural silence and emptiness reigned.There was only one person to be seen there, and that was Madame Defarge—she was leaning against the doorframe, knitting, and saw nothing. The prisoner got into the coach, followed by his daughter, and Mr. Lorry had just stepped on the pedal when he was stopped by his questions—the old man was agonizingly asking about his cobbler's tools and his unfinished shoes.Madame Defarge at once told her husband that she was going to fetch it, and then she knitted out of the light and into the patio.She quickly fetched the things, handed them into the carriage--and immediately leaned against the door frame to knit, without seeing anything. Defarge sat in the driver's seat and said, "Go to the checkpoint!" With a bang of both hands, he swung his whip, and the group of people began to clatter on the road under the dim and flickering street lamps overhead. The carriage walked under the flickering street lamps.The streets are bright when the lights are good, and dark when the lights are bad.They drove past lit shops, brightly dressed crowds, brightly lit cafes and theater gates, toward a city gate.Guards with lanterns stood beside the sentry hut. "Passage, guest!" "Here, then, Monsieur officer," said Defarge, stepping out of the carriage and drawing the guard aside, "here is the paper of the gentleman with the gray hair in the carriage. The paper and him are in my charge." It's one by one." He lowered his voice, and several military wind lanterns flickered for a while, his arm in uniform raised a wind lantern, stretched into the carriage, and the eyes connected to his arms looked at the white hair with a rather unusual wink. s head. "Okay, let's go!" said the man in uniform. "Good-bye!" replied Defarge.In this way, they walked out of the ephemeral forest of light flickering more and more dimmer above their heads, and came to the bottom of the vast forest of starlight. The sky is filled with unwavering eternal light spots, and the shadows of the night under the sky are vast and faint.Some points of light are so far away from this little earth that scholars even tell us it is questionable whether they emit enough light to reveal themselves.They are just specks of dust in the universe where everything is tolerated and everything is done.Throughout the cold and uneasy journey before dawn, the little stars whispered the old question again into the ear of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--Mr. Lorry sat facing the old man who had been buried and exhumed, Guessing which subtle abilities the old man has lost and which abilities can be restored: "I hope you are willing to return to the human world?" Still got the old answer: "I have no idea."