Chapter 24 Chapter Sixteen Weaving

Madame Defarge and her husband returned to the arms of St. Antoine in peace, while a figure in a blue hat walked a long distance in the dark night for several miles, waiting in the direction indicated by the compass. Lord Jue's manor is gradually approaching.Lord Marquis was listening to Lin Mang's whisper in the tomb.Now the stone-carved human face is very leisurely, you can listen to the sound of the woods and spring water, and the poor people in the village dare to break into the huge stone courtyard and near the steps to find wild vegetables to satisfy their hunger and dead branches for firewood.Because of hunger they had the illusion that the stone face had changed expression.There was a rumor in the village—its existence was as feeble as its people—that all the stone faces changed expression when the dagger went in, from pride to rage and pain, and over the spring After the figure swayed from forty feet, the expression of the stone statue changed again, taking on a kind of vengeful cruelty.And that look will last forever.At the same time it was pointed out that the carved nose of the statue above the window of the room where the murder had taken place had two small dimples.Everyone recognizes this nest, but no one has seen it on the stone statue before.Occasionally, two or three ragged peasants would come out of the group of companions to peep at the Marquis who had turned into a stone statue, and poke and poke their thin fingers for a minute, and then they would walk on foot with their companions again. Fleeing on moss and leaves, like some hares--hares were luckier than they were to survive in the woods.

Manors and huts; stone faces and dangling figures; bloodstains on stone floors and clear springs in village springs—a land of thousands of acres—a province of France—a province of France The whole one—they were all condensed into a faint thread under the night sky.The whole earth, with all its greatness and smallness, exists in one twinkling star.Now that human knowledge can already analyze the composition of light, then, a higher intelligence will be able to read every thought and behavior, every crime and evil of every person in charge of our earth in the faint light of our earth. Virtue works.

The Defarges rumbled to the gates of Paris in a stagecoach under the stars.That's where they naturally go.They stopped in front of the barricade guardhouse, and the man with the lantern came to check and question as usual.Defarge recognized two soldiers and a policeman there.He and the police are confidantes, and the two embrace each other warmly. Saint-Antoine embraces the Defarges in the wings of twilight.The two got out of the car near the border and picked their way among the black mud and garbage of its streets.Then Madame Defarge said to her husband: "Well, friend, what did Jacques from the police tell you?"

"Small tonight, but he told me all he knew. We have another spy here, and he says there may be more, but he doesn't know him." "Very well!" said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cold business air. "Got to record him. What do they call him?" "He's British." "That's better. What's your last name?" "Bahsa," said Defarge, pronouncing it in French.But he was very careful and wanted to be precise, so he spelled every letter exactly. "Barcelona," said Mrs. "Okay, what's the name?"

"John." "John Bartha," muttered Madame, and repeated. "Okay, do you know what he looks like?" "Aged about forty, about five feet nine tall, black hair, dark skin, generally pretty. Dark eyes, thin, sallow face. Hooked nose, but not straight, slightly askew to the left cheek, so the expression insidious." "Well, yes, what a portrait!" said the lady with a smile. "Write it down for him tomorrow." The two went to the hotel.Because it was midnight, the hotel closed early.Madame Defarge immediately sat down at the counter, counted the change she had received since she left, took stock, searched the ledgers, made some more entries of her own, made every possible check of the waiter, and sent him to bed. .It was only the second time that she poured out the money from the bowl, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and made a bunch of bumps to prevent danger at night.Meanwhile Defarge walked up and down with his pipe in his mouth, admiring it with satisfaction, without disturbing her.All his life he had been walking up and down in such business and domestic activities.

It was hot at night, the hotel was airtight, and the environment was dirty, so there was a bad smell.M. Defarge's sense of smell was not very keen, but the smell of wine in the shop was much stronger than usual, and so was the smell of rum, brandy, and anise.He put down his finished pipe and blew on the mixture through his nose. "You're exhausted," the proprietress wrapped the money in a knot and looked up at him. "It's just the usual smell here." "I'm a little tired," admits her husband. "You're also a little depressed," said the proprietress.Her keen eyes followed the account with intense concentration, but she glanced at him now and then. "Oh, man, man!"

"But my dear!" began Defarge. "But my dear!" said the landlady, nodding her head firmly, "but my dear! You are too soft-hearted tonight!" "Yes," said Defarge, whose words seemed to be wrung from his heart, "it is indeed too long." "It's a long time," his wife repeated him, "but what can happen without a long time? Revenge takes a long time, that's the rule." "It doesn't take long to kill someone with a thunderbolt," said Defarge. "But tell me," the proprietress asked calmly, "how long does it take for the lightning to accumulate?"

Defarge raised his head in thought, as if he felt that his words made sense. "It doesn't take long for an earthquake to destroy a city," said the proprietress. "But tell me, how long does it take to prepare for an earthquake?" "I think it will be a long time," said Defarge. "But when it's ready to heat it explodes and pulverizes everything in front of it. Meanwhile, earthquake preparations are always going on, though invisible and inaudible. That's a consolation to you, remember." Her eyes were burning, and a knot was tightened in her hand, as if strangling an enemy.

"I tell you," the proprietress stretched out her right hand and said emphatically, "although it has been on the road for a long time, it is already on the road and has come. Tell you, it will not retreat or stop. Tell You, it's always on the move. Look at the world around you, think about everyone we know in the world, think about the anger and resentment the Jacques are growing with every hour! Does it grow any longer? Phew! You are ridiculous." "My brave wife," replied Defarge, bowing his head slightly, with his hands behind his back, like a schoolboy standing before a catechism teacher, "I have no doubts about any of this. But it is not coming. It's been too long, and there's a good chance we'll never see it in our lifetime. You know it's possible, my wife."

"Eh! so what?" asked the landlady, tying another knot, as if hanging another enemy. " "Hmm!" Degorge shrugged, half complaining, half apologetic. "Then we won't see victory." "But we will always help it come back," answered the landlady, with a strong gesture of her outstretched hand, "our efforts will not be in vain. My whole soul believes that we shall see victory .Even if I can't see it, even if I know I can't see it, if you give me the neck of a nobleman and a tyrant, I can still put it—" Gritting her teeth, the landlady tightened a terrible knot.

"Stop!" cried Defarge, blushing, as if he had been accused of cowardice. "Honey, I dare to do anything, too." "Yes! But sometimes you need to see the object and the opportunity to persist. This is your weakness. Don't do that, you have to persist. When the time comes, let the tiger and the devil out, but there is still a chain between the tiger and the devil When you're tethered, you bide your time—quietly ready." The proprietress beat the bunch of knots on the small counter, as if trying to smash its brains out, to emphasize her conclusion.Then she calmly put away the heavy handkerchief under her arm and said, "It's time to sleep." The next day at noon the venerable woman was working hard and knitting again in her usual seat in the hotel.There was a rose by her side, and although she sometimes wanted it to look at it, it did not hinder her usual demeanor of being at ease.There were a few scattered customers in the store, some drinking and some not drinking; some standing and some sitting.It was a very hot day, and swarms of flies took exploratory adventures, crawled into the sticky wine glass beside the proprietress, and fell to the bottom of the glass to die.The flies swimming outside the cup are indifferent to the death of their companions, and only look at them with the most indifferent attitude, as if they are elephants or something that has nothing to do with them, until they themselves meet the same fate. .It is amusing to think of the carelessness of flies! —The carelessness of the princes of the court that hot summer may have been equal to them. A figure came in and cast its shadow on Madame Defarge.She thought it was a newcomer, so she put down her wool, put a rose on her scarf, and glanced at the newcomer. What's interesting is that as soon as Mrs. Defarge picked up the rose, the customers stopped talking and started slipping out of the store one by one. "Good day, madam," said the newcomer. "Good day, sir." She answered loudly, and knitting again, thinking to herself, "Ha! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black hair, fair face, dark complexion, dark eyes, long thin face Gray matter, nose aquiline, but not straight, sloping at a peculiar angle to the left cheek, forming a sinister expression! Good day, every feature is present!" "Please give me a small glass of old cognac with a sip of fresh cold water, madam." The proprietress complied politely. "This cognac is delicious, madam!" This is the first time this wine has received such praise.Madame Defarge knew a great deal about its appraisal, and had a more accurate estimate in her mind.But she still said that was a compliment, and started knitting again.The guest looked at her finger for a moment, and took the opportunity to look around the place again. "You knit very well, ma'am." "I am used to it." "The pattern is also quite beautiful.", "Do you think it's pretty?" the proprietress said, looking at him with a smile. "Sure. May I ask what it is for?" "Just for fun," said the landlady, still looking at him with a smile, and moving her fingers deftly. "What's the use?" "That depends. Maybe someday I'll be able to put it to use. If that-well," said the landlady, taking a coquettish and stern breath, and nodding, "it will It worked." Strange to say, the people of Saint-Antoine seem to be firmly opposed to Madame Defarge's roses.Two people came into the store separately, wanting to drink, but when they saw the unusual rose, they both hesitated and slipped away pretending to be looking for friends there.Even the customers who were in the store before they entered the store were gone.The spy opened his eyes wide, but saw nothing.People walk away.They are poor, and their actions are accidental and purposeless.It's natural and unassailable. "John," thought the landlady, knitting with her fingers, but she was examining her work in her mind, and her eyes were on the stranger. "As long as you stay a little longer, I'll weave 'Barcelona' into it before you leave." "Have you a husband, landlady?" "Have." "do you have any kid?" "No." "Business doesn't seem to be going well?" "Business is very bad, and the people are too poor." "O wretched, wretched people! So oppressed—as you say." "That's what you said," retorted the landlady, correcting him while skilfully adding to his name a credit that would do him no good. "I'm sorry, I did say that, but of course you think so, no doubt about it." "I think?" the proprietress answered, raising her voice. "My husband and I are busy enough to maintain this store. What else is there to think about. All we think about here is how to survive. That's all we think about, and that's enough to keep us thinking from morning till night, We don't think about other people's business and ask for trouble. Should I think about other people's business? No, I won't." The spy was here to collect some breadcrumbs or make something.He did not want to show a look of distress on his sullen face, but leaned his elbows on the landlady's little counter, pretended to be courteous and gossip, and occasionally sipped his cognac. "Gaspard's death, madam, is nothing. Ah, poor Gaspard!" he said with a deep sigh of sympathy. "Ah!" said the proprietress lightly and nonchalantly, "it is always punishable to do such a thing with a knife. He should have known the price of such a luxury, but it is only a debt to pay the money." "I believe it," said the spy, lowering his voice.In order to gain the other party's trust, every muscle on his evil face showed the sensitivity of the injured revolution: "To tell you the truth, I believe that people in this area have strong sympathy and anger for this poor man, yes Is it?" "Really?" The proprietress said with a puzzled expression. "No?" "—here comes my master," said Madame Defarge. The innkeeper entered, and the spy touched the brim of his hat and said, with a flattering smile, "Good day, Jacques!" Defarge stopped and stared at him. "Good day, Jacques!" repeated the spy.Under the gaze of the other party, he seemed not very confident, and his smile was not natural. "You are mistaken, sir," replied the innkeeper. "Think of me as someone else. My name is not Jacques. My name is Ernest Defarge." "It doesn't matter what you call it," the spy said with a smile, but he was also embarrassed, "Good day!" "Good day!" replied Defarge dryly. "I had the honor of chatting with the landlady when you came in, and I was telling what I was told: St. Antoine's sympathy and anger at poor Gaspard's unfortunate fate." "I haven't heard anyone say that," said Defarge, shaking his head. "I don't know." Having said this, he went behind the small counter, put it almost on the back of his wife's chair, and looked across the barrier at the person they were facing together.If they could kill him with one shot, the two of them would feel happy. The spy was quite accustomed to his professional life, and did not change his unconscious posture, but drank his small glass of cognac, took a sip of water, and ordered another glass of cognac.Madame Defarge poured him wine, and began knitting again, humming a little tune. "You seem to know this part of the country well. That is, better than I do, don't you?" said Defarge. "No no, just want to know more. I have a deep concern for the suffering residents," "Ah!" said Defarge vaguely. "It has been an honor to speak to you, Monsieur Defarge, which reminds me of—" continued the spy, "that I have the honor of having your surname as an interesting association." "Really!" said Defarge indifferently. "Yes, indeed. I know that Dr. Manette was in your care when he was released. You were an old servant of his family, so he was entrusted to you. You see, do I understand the situation?" "There's something like that, sure," said Defarge.His wife touched his elbow as if by accident while she was knitting and singing, and he understood that as a hint that he'd better answer, but briefly. "When his daughter came," said the spy, "it was you who were looking for her. She took her father from you, and she came with a very neat gentleman in a brown suit. What was the name of that man?" Come?—with a little wig—named Lorry—from Tellson's—got him to England." "It is a fact," repeated Defarge. "What a fun memory!" said the spy. "I knew Dr. Manette and his daughter in England." "Is it?", "You don't hear much from them now?" said the spy. "No news," said Defarge. "Actually," interjected the landlady, having put her work aside and stopped humming, raising her head, "we haven't heard from either of them. We've only had one or two letters since we got word that they arrived safely. Afterwards, their lives gradually got on the right track—we also only cared about our own lives—and there was no more correspondence.” "Exactly, landlady," said the spy. "The lady is getting married soon." "Are you going to get married soon?" the proprietress replied. "She's pretty, and should've been married long ago. You English are so cold, I think." "Ah! You know I'm English!" "I recognized your accent a long time ago," the proprietress replied, "I guess since the accent is British, you are also British." He didn't regard this appraisal as a compliment, so he had to fight hard and deal with it with a laugh.He finished his cognac and said: "Really, Miss Manette is getting married. Not to an Englishman, but to a Frenchman, born in France like her. As for Gaspard (oh, poor Gaspard! how cruel! too Cruel!), there is one strange thing. The lady is going to marry the nephew of the Marquis, and it is because of the Marquis that Gaspard was hanged. In other words, it is the Marquis who is now. But he is anonymous in England, not a Marquess there. His name is Mr. Charles Darnay. His mother's name is Darnay." Madame Defarge knitted quietly, but the news had a noticeable effect on her husband.He was lighting his pipe behind the little counter, but no matter what he did, his hand was a little unruly and his mind was very disturbed.If the spy couldn't even see this point or didn't record it in his heart, he wouldn't be a spy. Mr Bassa's shot had at least landed squarely, though its value is unclear.At this time, there were no more guests coming in to give him another chance to show his skills, so he paid for the drink and left.Before leaving, he took the opportunity to express his gentle hope that he would have the opportunity to see the Defarges again.For a while after he left the hotel the couple remained the same, fearful that he would return. "His news about Mademoiselle Manette," whispered Defarge, standing, smoking, with his hand still on the back of her chair, "could it be true?" "His words are likely to be false," the proprietress raised her eyebrows a little, "but it may also be true." "If it is true—" said Defarge, and stopped. "So what if it's true?" repeated his wife. "--and that happened again, and we saw the victory--then for her sake, may fate keep him from returning to France." "Her husband's fate," said Madame Defarge, as calmly as ever, "will lead him where he ought to go, and end him where he ought to end. I know that." "But there's one thing that's strange—at least for now, isn't it?" said Defarge, beseeching his wife to admit it, "though we sympathize very much with her and her father, her husband's At this time, the name is under your hands, and it is recorded in the punishment list, and it is with the hell dog who left us just now." "Stranger things than this will happen then," answered the landlady. "I've got both here, that's for sure. They've got their own accounts, and they're both, and that's all." Having said this, she rolled up her knitting, and took the roses from the handkerchief which was wrapped around her head.St. Antoine either had an instinctive awareness that the hideous ornament was gone, or had been watching and waiting for it to disappear.All in all, after a while, people have mustered up the courage to walk to the store, and the hotel has returned to its former appearance. At dusk in this season all St. Antoines would go out, and some would sit on the threshold, some on the window-sills, and some in the dirty streets.They all come out to breathe.At this time Madame Defarge was in the habit of walking among groups of people with her knitting work: she was a missionary--there were many like her--if such a thing would no longer happen in the world, The missionaries are just fine.The women weaved wool, and what they wove was worthless things.However, mechanical work can mechanically bring about eating and drinking.The movement of the hands is for the movement of the mouth and digestive system.If the lean fingers stop moving, the stomach will be even less full. But where their fingers go is also where their eyes go, and where their thoughts go.As Madame Defarge moved among the people, the fingers, eyes, and thoughts of the women she came into contact with moved faster and more violently. Her husband, smoking at the door, eyed her with admiration. "Wonderful woman," he said, "strong woman, great woman, terribly great woman!" As darkness gathered, the church bells rang, and the distant drums of the Royal Guard sounded.The women sat knitting and knitting.Darkness enveloped them.Another dark aura is steadily building up.The bells that then roared with joy from the steeples of all France shall be cast into cannon that thunder.And the rumbling snare drum will drown out a miserable sound.That night will be as omnipotent as the voice of power and abundance, of freedom and life.The women sit there and weave continuously, and many things accumulate and surround them, so that they surround themselves under a shelf that has not yet been built, sit there and weave continuously, and record the heads that are about to fall.