Chapter 29 Chapter 21 Echoing Footsteps

As I said before, the corner of the street where the doctor lived was a wonderful place to hear the echo.Lucy was forever busy wrapping her husband, father, herself, and her old housekeeper and old pal in gold thread, making everyone live a peaceful and happy life.She often sits in a peaceful room that echoes with echoes and listens to the footsteps of the years. Although she is a young wife, 100% happy, but the work in her hands sometimes falls, and her eyes sometimes fade.For, amid the echoes, something was coming towards her, something distant, almost inaudible, soft, beating too heavily on her heart.Her breast was divided by erratic hopes and doubts--hope, hope of a love she did not know; The footsteps on the grave of her own premature death appeared among the echoes of those who died; and when she thought of her husband who would stay in the world in desolation and mourn her too much, thousands of thoughts rushed into her eyes and burst like waves. collapse.

The period passed, and her little Lucy lay in her arms.Then, in the echo of the progress, there were the sound of the child's little feet and her babbling.Even if the huge echo is shaking, the young mother sitting by the cradle can always hear the footsteps and voices coming.They came, and the cool house was brightened with sunshine from the laughter of a child, and that child's holy Friend God--to whom she spoke in her distress-- always seemed to have taken her baby in her arms, as if How many years ago held another child.This made it all a holy joy to her. Lucy was forever busy winding them together with gold wire.She used her hard work to weave the influence of happiness, and let it pervade their lives, no more, no less, just right.In the echoes of the years she heard love and consolation, in which her husband's footsteps were strong and vigorous, her father's footsteps firm and well-proportioned, here Miss Pross' footsteps were wild and untamed But she was restrained by a gold bridle and educated by a whip, so she could only snort and dig the dirt under the plane tree in the small courtyard!

Although there have been sad voices, they are neither harsh nor miserable.The same blond hair she had then hung on the pillow, encircling the haggard face of a little boy like a halo of gods.The child smiled brightly and said, "Dear mother and father, I am very sorry that I am leaving you and my beautiful sister. But I have been called and I must go!" The tears that wet her young mother's cheeks when her soul left her were not all bitter. "Let the little ones come to me, don't forbid them." They saw the face of the Father.O Father, your blessed word! Thus the sound of the angel's wings beating was mingled with other echoes, which were not all earthly sounds, but celestial breaths.The sigh of the wind blowing through a small garden graveyard is also mixed in the echo, both are just low murmurs, like the breath of the sea beside the sleeping sandy shore in summer.All this, Lucy could hear - when little Lucy was comically busy with her morning "work", or sitting on her mother's footstool dressing dolls, using the two big cities mixed in her life chattering in the same language.

Echoes rarely reflect Sidney Carton's actual steps.He used the uninvited privilege no more than five or six times a year, and only sat between them for one night when he came, as usual.He never comes drunk.There is also something from him echoing in the whisper of the echo, that is the echo of sincerity, and it will always reverberate and reverberate for thousands of years. If a man really loves a woman, loses her, and still understands her unmistakably after she has become a wife and mother, and loves her as before, her children will always have a strange emotional resonance for him - a kind of instinctive and delicate affection.What kind of hidden subtle perception was triggered in this case, the echo did not explain.But that's exactly what happened.The same is true of Carlton here.Carlton was the first stranger to whom little Lucy stretched out his fat arms.He had always maintained that position as she grew up.The little boy also mentioned him near his deathbed. "Poor Carlton! Kiss him for me!"

Mr. Stryver dashed through the jurisprudence like a great steamship plowing through a raging rapid, dragging his useful friend behind him like a boat.Small boats so favored were always in trouble, and spent most of their time submerged, so Sidney had to live a miserable life.But unfortunately, habits are easy and powerful.It was lighter and more powerful in him than any thrilling sense of accomplishment or humiliation.So he went on with his present life, thinking as little of getting rid of his position as a jackal of a lion, any more than a real jackal thinks of becoming a lion.Stryver was rich, and begged a beautiful widow, who brought a fortune and three boys.There is nothing particularly shiny about the three children, just a few gnocchi-like heads with straight hair growing all over them.

Mr. Stryver had the air of the most infuriating benefactor in every cell of his being.He had driven the three young masters ahead of him like sheep to the quiet corner of Soho, and had Lucy's husband take them as pupils.He said with some concern, "Hey! Here are three cheese loaves for your couple's picnic, Darnay!" But the three cheese loaves were politely declined.Mr. Stryver was very angry, and he turned his anger into education when training the three young masters, telling them to beware of the poor arrogance of the governess in the future.He also had a habit of announcing to Mrs. Stryver, over a glass of wine, that Mrs. Darnay had played tricks to "catch" him, but he had a diamond-for-diamond trick to keep himself from "surviving." Take the bait".His acquaintances at the royal court, who happened to drink with him, forgave him the lie, which he repeated so much that he believed it himself.He made a mistake but insisted on not correcting it. If this kind of guy was taken to a suitable secluded place and hanged quietly, he would deserve it.

These were the things Lucy heard in her echo corner, brooding and smiling, as her daughter grew to six.The footsteps of the child, the ever-vigorous and measured footsteps of the dear father, the footsteps of the dear husband, all these, needless to say, were close to her heart.She maintains their common home diligently and frugally with her wit and virtue, and lives a life of abundance without waste.The slightest echo of the home was, of course, music to her.Also, the echoes around her were, of course, sweet to her ears.Her father had repeatedly told her that she was more filial to him married than she had been unmarried (if that was even possible).Her husband had told her many times that the worries and responsibilities of housework did not seem to distract her from her love and help for him, and asked, "You take such good care of all of us as if we were alone, yet Doesn't seem too busy, doesn't feel too tired. Honey, what's your knack for magic?"

But all this time there were other echoes rumbling menacingly around the corner.And now, on little Lucy's sixth birthday, the echoes of that rumbling were beginning to grow horrific, as if a great storm in France was coming with its heavy seas. One night in the middle of July, 1789, Mr. Lorry arrived late from Tellson.He sat down beside Lucy and her husband by the dark window.It was a hot and stormy night, and all three of them recalled that Sunday night many years ago, when the three of them were watching the lightning in the same place. "I'm beginning to think I ought to be at Tellsons tonight," said Mr. Lorry, pushing back his brown wig. “We were so busy during the day that we didn’t know where to start and what to do. The political situation in Paris was very turbulent. Our trust business was actually overwhelmed, and the clients there seemed to be eager to entrust their property to us. Some clients did send Crazy, and wanting to send property to England."

"The situation appears to be serious," Darnay said. "You mean it seems serious, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know of any reason for it. People are simply unreasonable! Some of us Tellsons are getting older, this unreasonable anomaly." But it’s too much for us.” "But," said Darnay, "you know how cloudy the sky is, and it promises a storm." "I do know," assented Mr. Lorry, muttering to himself that his kind temper was sour, "but I've been distracted all day, and I can't help losing my temper. Where's Manette?" went?"

"Here," said the doctor just as he stepped into the dark room. "I'm glad you're home. This fuss and restlessness has been haunting me all day, making me nervous for no reason. I hope you're not planning to go out?" "I don't want to go out. I'd like to roll the dice with you if you like," said the doctor. "I don't want to roll the dice, if I may tell you the truth. I'm not fit to challenge you to-night. Is the tea tray still there, Lucy? I can't see it." "Of course it's for you." "Thanks, my dear. Is the baby safe and sound to bed?"

"I slept soundly." "Well then, all is well and all is well! I don't know why everything here is not all well, thank God. I've been tired all day and I'm not as young and strong as I used to be! My tea, darling Thank you. Come, come, sit in the circle, and let's sit quietly and listen to the echo. You have your theory about the echo." "Not a theory, but a fantasy." "Illusion, then, my clever darling," said Mr. Lorry, slapping her hand; "but the echoes are very many and loud to-night, aren't they? Listen!" While this little circle of people sat at the dark windows of London, far away St. Antoine's came swiftly, madly, dangerously, and broke into the lives of others.Once the footsteps are stained with scarlet, it is not easy to wash off. That morning there was a dark, ragged mass of people in the Saint-Antoine Quarter.From time to time, light flashed above the heads of the crowd, which were war knives and bayonets shining in the sun.St. Antoine's throat uttered a great roar, and the forest of bare arms swayed in the air like dry branches in the winter wind, and all fingers clawed for a weapon or something like a weapon, no matter how far away it was place.Weapons were thrown up from the depths below. Who threw it, where it came from, where it started, by whom, no one in the crowd saw it.Dozens of weapons at a time jumped out shaking and trembling, appearing above the heads of the crowd like lightning.Out came muskets, bullets, gunpowder, shells, sticks, iron bars, knives, axes, spears.In short, there are all the weapons that a mad creative mind can find or devise.Those who had nothing else to offer would dig stones and bricks from the walls with their bloody hands.Every pulse and heartbeat of St. Antoine's was quick and hot, like a fever.Everyone there has gone mad, has put life and death aside, and is burning to sacrifice their lives. The whirlpool of churning water always has a center, and the center around which this tumultuous crowd was before me was the hotel of Defarge.Every drop (everyone) in the boiling pot is attracted by Defarge at the center of the vortex.Defarge, smeared with gunpowder and sweat, was giving orders, distributing weapons, pushing one man back, pulling another forward, taking one man's weapon to another, was Toiling away amidst the deafening noise. "Don't leave me, Jacques III," cried Defarge. "Jacques I, Jacques II, separate your activities, and gather as many patriots as you can. Where is my wife?" "Uh, here, you see!" The proprietress was still as calm as ever, but she wasn't knitting.In her firm right hand clutched an ax rather than the more benign common tools, and a pistol and a brutal knife tucked into her belt. "Where are you going, wife?" "I'm only following you now," said the proprietress. "You'll see me at the head of the women's ranks later on." "Come then!" cried Defarge, at the top of his voice. "Patriots, friends! We are ready. To the Bastille!" The crowd began to turbulent, and let out a roar, as if the throat of the whole of France was concentrated on that hateful word.Wave after wave of people rolled higher and higher, flooding the city, and came to that place.Alarm bells sounded, war drums sounded, and the crowds roared wildly and loudly on the new shores.The attack begins. Deep moats, double suspension bridges, thick stone walls, and eight huge towers.Cannons, muskets, flames and smoke.Defarge the innkeeper passed through the flames, through the smoke, into the flames, into the smoke.The crowd carried him to a cannon, and in a moment he was gunner.For two hours he fought like a gallant soldier. Deep moats, single suspension bridges, thick stone walls, and eight huge towers.Cannons, muskets, flames and smoke.A drawbridge is down! "Do it, comrades, do it! Do it, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques Two Thousand, Jacques Twenty-Five Thousand; in the name of all angels and demons—will you In anyone's name, do it!" Defarge, the hotel owner, was still working in front of the cannon, which was already hot. "Come with me, women!" cried his wife, the proprietress. "What are you doing? Take it down, and we can kill like men!" The women followed her, screaming hungrily.Their weapons are different, but their hunger and vengeance are the same. Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke, but still a deep moat, a single drawbridge, heavy stone walls and eight massive towers.Some people were injured and fell down, and the surging crowd made little adjustment.Shining weapons, bright torches, carts of wet firewood smoking, hard fighting on fortifications in all directions.Screams, cannon fires, cursing, desperate courage, cannons, crashes, clangs, the angry roar of the crowd.But it is still a deep moat, a single suspension bridge, thick stone walls and the eight huge towers.Defarge the innkeeper—still before his cannon.The cannon had been fired fiercely for four hours, and it was already doubly hot. White flags were hoisted in the fortresses, negotiations—the white flags were seen faintly among the storms of battle, but the voice was not heard.The crowd suddenly expanded immeasurably, surged, and rolled Defarge, the innkeeper, over the lowered drawbridge, into the heavy outer wall, and into the surrendered eight towers. The tide of people sweeping over him was overwhelming, and it was difficult to even take a breath and turn his head, as if he was struggling in the raging waves of the South Pacific.At last he came to the yard outside the Bastille.There he struggled to look around with the strength of the corner of a wall.Jacques III was almost at his side; Madame Defarge, still with a few women, was not far from the prison, looming, with a knife in her hand.There was commotion, excitement, deafening mad chaos, shocking shouts, but also enraged pantomime. "prisoner!" "Record!" "Secret cell!" "Tools!" "prisoner!" Of all the shouts, "Prisoner!" among the ten thousand broken words was the most answered by the rushing crowd.It seems that there are infinite people responding in infinite time and space.Those who entered first escorted the prison officials and threatened to kill them immediately if any secret corner was not disclosed.When the crowd had passed, Defarge had placed his strong hand on the breast of a jailer--a grizzled man carrying a torch.He separated him from the others and pushed him against the wall. "Tell me how to get to the North Tower!" said Defarge. "Quick!" "I will tell you seriously," replied the man, "if you will come with me. But there is no one there." "What is the meaning of 105 in the North Tower?" asked Defarge. "quick!" "What do you mean, sir?" "Is that the name of the prisoner or the cell? Do you want to die?" "Kill him!" cried Jacques Three, who was approaching. "It's the name of the cell, sir." "take me." "Then come here." Jacques III, with his usual wistful look, was clearly disappointed that the conversation didn't turn bloody.He gripped Defarge's arm, and he gripped the guard's arm.All three of their heads were together during this short talk—the only way they could hear each other then, for the crowd had rushed into the keep, flooding the passages and stairs, and making a furious din.Outside, the crowd also pounded the walls with a deep and hoarse roar; in the middle of the roar, there were occasional bursts of shouts that rose into the air, like waves rising into the air. Holding hands, Defarge, the guard and Jacques III passed through the arch that never sees sunlight all year round, passed through the hideous narrow door of the dark cave, and walked down the cave-like steps at the fastest speed. Climbing up the rocky and steep stone stairs made of stone and bricks-it's more like a dry waterfall than a staircase.Crowds still rolled past them in places, especially at first; but after they had descended some distance and climbed a tower, they were alone.Here, between the heavy stone walls and arches, the storm within and without the keep had only a dull, muffled sound in their ears, as if the noise outside had nearly spoiled their hearing. The guard stopped by a low gate.He slipped a key into a rattling lock, pushed the door open slowly, and said as they bowed their heads in: "North Tower 105!" There is a window on the high part of the wall, there is no glass on the window, the iron grille is strict, and there is a stone screen in front of it, so you have to bend down to look up to see the sky.There is a small chimney a few steps into the door, and the entrance of the chimney is also closed with heavy iron bars.There was a light pile of old ashes on the fireplace.There was a bench, a table, a bed covered with straw mats, four blackened walls, and a rusty iron ring on one wall. "Take a torch and shine slowly on these walls, and I'll have a look," said Defarge to the guard. The man complied, and Defarge followed the torch closely with his eyes. "Stop!—Look here, Jacques!" "A.M.!" Jacques III read greedily, his voice hoarse. "Alexander Manette," said Defarge into his ear, tracing the letters with his swarthy powder-stained fingers. "Here he writes 'an unfortunate doctor.' In his hand he still held the matchlock for firing the cannon.He quickly changed tools, turned to the moth-eaten tables and stools, and smashed them to pieces with a few sticks. "Light the torch higher!" he said angrily to the guard. "Jacques, examine these broken pieces of wood carefully. Here! Here's a knife," he threw the knife to him. "Slash the mattress, and search the bedding. Hold the torch higher, you!" He gave the watchman a hard look, climbed up the fireplace, looked up the chimney, beat with the crowbar, rattled the chimney walls, and poked at the iron bars that ran across the chimney.A few minutes later some plaster and dust fell, and he turned his face away, and groped carefully in the chimney, in the pile of old ashes, in the crack his weapon had cut through. "Isn't there in the logs or in the grass, Jacques?" "No." "Let's gather these things in the middle of the cell. There! Light the fire, you!" The guard set the pile on fire, and the flames rose high and hot.They let the fire burn, stooped out again through the low archway, and followed the same path back into the yard.At this time, their sense of hearing seemed to recover, and they returned to the sound of the surging waves. They found the crowd heaving and stirring, looking for Defarge.Saint-Antoine is crying out for its hotel-keepers to be in charge of imprisoning the prefect of the fortress who is guarding the Bastille and firing at the people.Without Defarge the Superintendent could not be taken to the town hall for trial, without him the Superintendent would have escaped, and the blood of the people would not have been paid (blood that had been worthless for so many years was suddenly worth so much). Wearing a gray cloak and a red medal, the grim old soldier stood out in the menacing crowd that seemed to wrap him tightly.But amidst the ubiquitous uproar, there was one person who remained unmoved.That person is a woman. "Look, here comes my husband!" she cried, pointing out him. "Look, Defarge!" She stood close to the grim old officer, without moving her place, and did not leave a single step when Defarge and others led him through the street; When someone hit him from the back, she didn't leave an inch; when the knife fist that had accumulated a long-term hatred fell on him like a sharp apex, she still didn't leave an inch.After he was injured and fell to the ground, she suddenly became active, stepped on his neck, and swung her cruel knife that she had prepared to cut off his head. The time had come for St. Antoine to carry out his dreadful design.He wants to hang people up like street lamps, to show what kind of person he can be and what kind of things he can do.St. Antoine's blood boiled, the blood of tyranny and iron rule spilled, splashed on the steps of the town hall where the body of the governor of the fortress lay, and splashed on the soles of Madame Defarge's shoes-to chop the corpse into pieces , she had stepped on the corpse with her foot. "Put down that lamp over there!" St. Antoine stared and looked around for a new killing tool, and then shouted, "He still has a soldier here, let him stand guard for him!" The sentinel called Dangli dangling and hung on the sentry post.The crowd surged forward again. The black turbulent sea, the destructive rise and crash of wave to wave, the depth of which was then unknown and its force unknown.The sea of ​​guiltless men swaying violently, the cry of vengeance, the face hardened by the furnace of suffering, on which pity no longer leaves a trace. All kinds of ferocious and furious expressions were active on the faces of the crowd, but there were two groups of seven people in each group, which formed a rigid contrast with the other faces.Never has the ocean washed out more memorable relics of shipwreck.Seven prisoners were suddenly freed by the storm that broke through their tombs, and were held aloft over the heads of the crowd.They felt terrified, bewildered, bewildered, and amazed, as if the last judgment had come, and the souls of the joyous people around them were hopeless.Seven more faces were raised higher, seven dead faces, with drooping lids and half-revealed eyes awaiting the Doomsday.Although his face was indifferent, there was an expression of expectation and not giving up, as if he had made a terrible pause, ready to raise his drooping eyelids, and testify with bloodless lips: "You killed me! " Seven prisoners freed, seven bloody heads on spears, keys to the cursed fortress of eight forts, certain letters found, dead long ago with broken hearts Prisoner's relics--things like that were escorted through the streets of Paris in mid-July, 1789, by the earth-shaking footsteps of Saint-Antoine.Now, may Heaven beat Lucy Darnay's fantasies, and keep that footstep from invading her life!Because those steps were fast, crazy, and dangerous; and those steps, once stained red after years of falling out of a wine barrel in front of the Defarge Hotel, were hard to wash off.