Chapter 33 Track of the third storm - code

In the autumn of one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two, the traveler from England to France made his way slowly.Even in the heyday of the now-overthrown hapless King of France, travelers had too many troubles to hinder their journey: bad roads, bad equipment, bad horses, not to mention easy times. Time shifted, and there were new obstacles: every town gate and village tax office had a group of patriotic citizens, whose National Army muskets were ready to fire with maximum explosive force.They block passers-by for questioning, check documents, look for their names on their own list, and then either let them pass, or block them, or detain them, all depending on their capricious judgment or imagination, all for the sake of the dawn The best interests of the republic--that unity--the indivisible republic of liberty, equality, fraternity, or death.

Charles Darnay had hardly traveled a few leagues in France before he began to understand that unless he was declared a good citizen in Paris, there was no hope of returning home by these country roads.Now he must go to Paris no matter what.He knew that every gate of an obscure village that closed behind him, every common barricade that fell was an iron gate between him and England.The extreme scrutiny he was subjected to from all sides made him feel that he would not lose his liberty more completely than if he had been sent to Paris in nets or cages. This omnipresent surveillance not only stopped him twenty times during the journey, but also delayed him twenty times in one day.Sometimes they came on horseback and chased him back, sometimes they rushed to the front to block his way, and sometimes they came on horseback to guard him.When he lay down exhausted in a small town on the road that day, he had traveled alone in France for many days, but Paris was still far away.

If he had not always thought of the letter sent by the suffering Gabor from the monastery prison, he would never have the strength to go on and go deep into the deep place.The serious trouble he had encountered in the guardhouse of this small place made him feel that there was a crisis in his journey.So when he woke up in the middle of the night from the little guest who was appointed to sleep over, he was not too panicked. He was awakened by a cowering magistrate and three armed patriots in rough red caps and pipes.They sat down on the edge of the bed. "A fugitive," said the official, "I will send you to Paris with an escort."

"Citizen, I have no desire but to go to Paris, and an escort is unnecessary." "Shut up!" shouted a red hat, beating the quilt with a Mauser butt. "Be quiet, aristocrat." "As the good patriot says," said the timid official, "you are a nobleman, and therefore must be escorted—and paid for." "I had no choice," said Charles Darnay. "Choose! Listen to what he has to say!" said the vicious red hat just now, "Isn't it good to escort you and prevent you from hanging on the lamppost!" "This good patriot is always right," said the official. "Get up and put on your clothes, fugitive."

Darnay complied, and was led back to the guardhouse.There were some patriots in rough red caps.They were smoking, drinking, and sleeping by the campfire.He paid a large protection fee there, and set foot on the muddy road with his escort at three o'clock in the morning. The escorts were two patriots on horseback, wearing red caps with tricolor badges, carrying National Army muskets on their backs, and sabers at their backs, accompanying him one by one.The escort holds his own horse, but another rope is loosely tied to his bridle, and that end is looped around a patriot's wrist.Like this they set off with the rain on their cheeks.The horseshoes walked with heavy dragoon-like steps on the uneven streets of the town and in the deep mud outside the city.In this way, the muddy road leading to the capital was finished, and there was no change except that the horses had to be changed and the speed was different.

They walked at night, rested and slept an hour or two after dawn, and set out again at dusk.The escort was dressed in rags, with hay wrapped around his bare legs and draped over his ragged shoulders to keep out the rain.It made him feel very uncomfortable to ask people to travel under escort.There is a patriot who is often drunk and carelessly carries a gun, which makes him feel threatened at any time.Besides, Charles Darnay had not allowed the inconvenience to arouse any serious fear in his breast.Because he had thought it over and decided that this situation had nothing to do with the merits of a case that had not yet been tried.When it came time for him to plead, the prisoner of the monastery prison could attest.

But when they came to Powai City at dusk and found the streets crowded with people, he had to admit that the situation was very serious.A group of gloomy people gathered around and watched him get off his horse in the yard where he was standing. Many voices shouted, "Down with the fugitives!" He was about to fly off the horse, but he stopped immediately, and sat down again, taking the horse's back as the safest place, and said: "What fugitives, my friends! Didn't you see with your own eyes that I came back to France by myself?" "You're a damned fugitive," said a horseshoeer running furiously through the crowd toward him with a hair in his hand, "and you're a damned aristocrat!"

"Let him go, let him go, he will be judged in Paris," the postmaster intervened between the man and the rider's bridle (the man evidently wanted to pull the rein). "Judgment!" the horseshoe said, shaking his head, "good! Convict him of treason and beheaded." The crowd shouted and expressed their approval. The postmaster was about to lead his horse into the courtyard, but Darnay stopped him (while the drunken patriot sat still in the saddle with the end of Darnay's bridle in his hand), and waited until he heard Seeing him speak, he said: "Friends, you have misunderstood or been deceived. I am not a traitor."

"He lied!" cried the blacksmith. "He has been a traitor since the decree. His life has been placed at the disposal of the people. His cursed life is no longer his!" At this moment Darnay saw an impulse in the eyes of the crowd, as if they were about to jump on him.The postmaster hastily led his horse into the yard, and the escort's two horses pressed close to him, sandwiching him.The postmaster closed the rickety double doors and mounted the bars.The horseshoe slammed on the door—the man's head, and people muttered for a while, but nothing more was said. "What decree did the blacksmith speak of?" asked Darnay, as he thanked the postmaster, and stood with him in the yard.

"There is such a thing as the decree on the sale of the property of fugitives." "When did it pass?" "Fourteen days." "That was the day I left England." "Everyone says this is just one of them, there will be other laws - even if not yet - that all fugitives will be exiled, and those who return to the country will be executed. The man said that your life is not yours. Yes, that's what it means." "But there are no such laws yet?" "What can I know!" said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe now, maybe later, all the same. What can you hope for?"

They rested on the hay in the attic until midnight, and rode away when the whole town had fallen asleep.During this absurd ride he found absurd, almost unreal changes in many everyday things, and little sleep seemed not the least of them.Often, after a long and lonely journey on a deserted road, they came to a few poor cottages.The cottages were not immersed in darkness, but glowed with fire, and the villagers held hands like ghosts around a withered freedom tree in the middle of the night, or huddled together and sang songs praising freedom.Fortunately the people went to bed that night in Powai, otherwise they would have been hard to get out of.They went on, toward solitude and loneliness, clanging through the cold and damp that came early, through the barren land that hadn't been harvested year-round.The changes that occurred in the land were: the black ruins of burned houses and the sudden appearance of Patriot patrols--they were on duty on all the roads, bursting out of cover, reining in and standing still. The morning sun finally reached them before the walls of Paris.The barricades were closed and heavily guarded as they approached. "Where is this prisoner's ID?" A resolute person in charge called out from the guard. Charles Darnay, of course, was not pleased to hear the ugly word "prisoner", and asked the other party to note that he was a French citizen, a free traveler, who had been forced to paint the guards because of the turmoil in the current situation, and he had paid for it. . "This prisoner's certificate," the man didn't listen to what he said, still asked, "where is it?" The ID was in the drunken Patriot hat and he took it out.The man looked at Gabor's letter, showing some surprise and surprise, and looked at Darnay carefully for a while. The man left the escort and those escorted without a word, and entered the guardhouse. The three men were waiting outside the city on horseback. The team guards with the Patriots, the latter far more than the former.He also found that, while it was easy for the peasant carts and such vehicles and tradesmen to bring supplies into the town, getting out was very difficult, even for the most insignificant person.Waiting to get out of town was a great motley crowd of men and women, and of course cattle and vehicles.The checks on people are so strict that people pass through the barricades very slowly.Some people know that it will be a long time before they are checked, so they simply fall to the ground to sleep or smoke.Others talked and walked up and down.Both men and women wear red caps with tricolor badges. Darnay observed all this on horseback, and after waiting for about half an hour, he found himself standing in front of the person in charge.The man instructed the sworn guard to open the barricade, gave the drunk and sober escort a receipt for the escort, and asked him to dismount.He dismounted, and the two patriots led his weary horse, and turned away without entering the town. He followed the guide into a guard room.There was a smell of bad wine and tobacco leaves. Soldiers and patriots were asleep or awake; Various intermediate states, or standing or lying down.Half of the light in the guardhouse comes from the dimming oil lamp, and half comes from the gloomy sky, and it is also in a corresponding state of ambiguity.The registers were open on the desk, and a rough-looking, dark-skinned officer was in charge of it all. "Citizens of Defarge," said the officer to Darnay's leader, taking a piece of paper to write on. "Is this fugitive Evremonde?" "It's him." "How old are you, Evermond?" "thirty-seven." "Married, Evermond?" "get married." "Where did you get it?" "in England." "Of course, Evermond, where is your wife?" "in England." "Of course, Evermond, we're going to send you to La Force Prison." "My God!" Darnay exclaimed. "What law do you use to imprison me? What crime have I committed?" The officer looked up. "We have new laws since you left France, Evremonde, and new standards of conviction." He smiled sternly, and went on. "I draw your attention to the fact that I have come here voluntarily, at the written request of a fellow countryman, and the letter is before you. I only ask for an opportunity to do my business without delay. Isn't that my right?" ?” "A fugitive has no rights, Evermond." The answer was numb.The officer finished writing the official document, reread it, sprinkled sand and soaked up the ink, and handed it to Defarge, with the "secret number" written on it. Defarge beckoned to the prisoner with a letter and told him to follow.The prisoner obeyed, and two armed patriots followed in a guard. "Married to Dr. Manette's daughter," Defarge asked in a low voice as they descended the guardhouse steps towards Paris, "is that you? The doctor was a prisoner in the Bastille. " "Yes," replied Darnay, looking at him in amazement. "My name is Defarge, and I keep a hotel in the Quarter Saint-Antoine. Perhaps you have heard of me?" "My wife came to your house to pick up his father, didn't she?" The word "wife" seemed to remind Defarge of something unpleasant, and he suddenly said impatiently, "Speaking in the name of France's newborn, sharp lady Guillotine, why did you come back to France?" "I answered it a minute ago, and you heard it. Don't you believe I'm telling the truth?" "It's a very bad truth for you," said Defarge, frowning, looking straight ahead. "I'm really confused here. I've never seen anything here. The change is so great, so sudden, so unfair, I'm completely confused. Can you help me?" "No," said Defarge, always looking straight ahead. "I just ask you one question, can you answer it?" "Maybe, but it depends on what the problem is. Tell me!" "In the prison where I was wrongly sent to, can I communicate freely with the outside world?" "You'll know later." "Wouldn't I be pre-condemned and buried there without my complaint?" "You will know later. But so what? Haven't others been buried in worse prisons before?" "I did not bury it, Citizen of Defarge." Defarge gave him only a sombre glance in answer, and then, maintaining his silence, went on.The deeper he fell into silence like this, the less there was hope for him to soften a little—perhaps that was Darnay's idea.So he hastened to say: "I must inform a gentleman now in Paris, Mr. Lorry, of Tellson's Bank, and tell him the simple fact that I have been thrown into the prison of La Fosse. No comment. This matter is of the utmost importance to me, and you Know better than I do, citizen. Can you manage?" "I can do nothing for you," replied Defarge obstinately. "I have only my duty to my country and people. I have sworn to work for them and against you. I will not do anything for you." Charles Darnay felt it was vain to entreat him, and his pride was wounded.They walked in silence, and he could not help feeling that the common people were so used to walking the streets with prisoners that even the children paid little attention to him.Several passers-by turned their heads to look; several people shook their fingers at him to show that he was a nobleman.Well-dressed people go to jail no less often than workers in overalls go to factories.In a narrow, dark, and dirty street they passed, an excited orator stood on a bench and told an excited audience about the crimes committed by the king and royal family against the people.He knew for the first time, from the few words he heard from the man's mouth, that the king was under house arrest, and that the envoys had left Paris--he had heard nothing on the road, except at Bovey.The guards and the general vigilance had completely isolated him. Of course he knew now that he was in far greater danger than when he had left England, and that the danger around him was increasing rapidly, and increasing with increasing speed.He had to admit that if he had been able to predict for a few days, he might not have come.In fact, the worry he had speculated from the situation just now was far less serious than what happened later.Although the future is dangerous, I still don't know it, and because I don't know it, I still hope in a daze.Just a few more turns of the clock, and the days and nights of horrific carnage will put a huge bloodstain on the harvest season.That was far beyond his expectations, just like what happened a hundred thousand years ago.He hardly knew the name of the "newborn sharp daughter guillotine", nor did ordinary people.The terrorist activities that will appear soon may be unimaginable even for those who participated later.Even in the darkest calculations of mild minds it is difficult to conjecture such a situation. He was very worried about being treated unfairly, suffering pain, and being separated from his wife and daughter, even thinking that it was inevitable.But even further, he no longer had obvious fear.It was with such embarrassing unease that he came to La Force Prison and entered the gloomy prison compound. A man with a swollen face opened a stout little door, and Defarge handed him "Evremonde the Fugitive." "Damn it! Why are there so many fugitives!" cried the man with the swollen face. Defarge ignored his cries, took the receipt, and departed with his two fellow patriots. "I repeat, what the hell!" said the warden, when he was alone with his wife. "How much more!" The warden's wife didn't know how to answer, so she just said, "Be patient, my dear!" The three guards she rang to call all echoed this emotion, and one said, "Because I love myself." It's really nondescript to draw such a conclusion in such a place. La Force Prison is a gloomy place.It was dark, dirty, and because of the dirty, there was a horrible stench everywhere under the bed.It's odd how quickly the whole prison can become so stinking because of mismanagement. "A secret number again!" the warden muttered as he looked at the official document, "It seems like my place hasn't burst yet!" Charles Darnay waited half an hour for him to calm down, as he rushed the document into the file-post.Darnay sometimes walked up and down in the very strong room with its arches, sometimes rested on a stone seat, but could not make an impression on the memory of the Long Palace and his subordinates. "Come on!" The officer finally picked up the key chain. "Follow me, fugitive." In the bleak twilight of the prison his new chief escorted him down the corridors and steps, the doors clanging shut behind them, and at last he came to a low-vaulted room full of men and women The female prisoners sat at a long table to read, write, knit, sew and embroider, while most of the male prisoners stood behind chairs or wandered around the room. Instinctively associating the prisoner with shameful crime and humiliation, the newcomer cowered before the crowd.But after his queer journey came the most queer experience: they all stood up at once, and received him with the most courteous manners of that age and the most charming grace and decorum of life. The gloom of the prison and the behavior of the prison strangely cloud the graceful movements of the people, making it seem unearthly in its disproportionately sordid and miserable surroundings.Charles Darnay seemed to have entered the ranks of the dead.Eyes full of ghosts!Ghosts of beauty, ghosts of stateliness, ghosts of elegance, ghosts of pomp, ghosts of wit, ghosts of youth, ghosts of old age, all waited on the desolate banks, all turned to him with eyes disfigured by death —They came here dead. For a moment he was petrified and stood motionless.Although the warden standing beside him and the guards on the move can still see past when performing their tasks, but compared with these sad mothers and young daughters, they are not as good as the beautiful beauties, young women and well-educated Compared with the ghosts of well-bred, mature women and others, they appear extremely vulgar.In all his experience, this scene of shadowy figures brought his sense of vicissitudes to the extreme.No doubt it was all ghosts; no doubt the long and absurd journey was but a growing ailment which had brought him to this gloomy place. "In the name of my unfortunate companions whom I have met here," came forward a gentleman of style and speech, "I have the honor to welcome you to La Fosse, and to honor the misfortune which you have fallen into our My deepest condolences to the ranks of you. I hope you will be saved as soon as possible. It would be presumptuous to inquire about your surname and circumstances on other occasions, but could it be different here?" Charles Darnay collected his attention and answered carefully. "I hope you're not a code?" said the man, looking at the warden moving about the room. "I don't know what the word means, but I hear them call me that." "Oh, what a misfortune! What a pity! But, be brave, there are a few of us who started out with secret numbers, but they changed soon after." Then he broke his voice and said, "I regret to tell you all A password." After a murmur of sympathy, Charles Darnay crossed the room to the iron gate where the warden was waiting.At this time, many voices expressed their good wishes and encouragement to him, among which the gentle voices of concern from the women were the most obvious.He turned around in front of the iron gate to express his heartfelt thanks.The iron gate was closed by the warden, and the ghosts disappeared from his eyes forever. The small door leads to an ascending stone staircase.They walked a total of forty steps (counted by the prisoners who had sat for half an hour).The warden opened a low black door, and they entered an isolated cell.Those days were cold and damp, chilly, but not dark. "Your," said the warden. "Why am I in solitary confinement?" "how could I know." "Can I buy pens, ink and paper?" "That wasn't in the order given to me. Someone will come to visit you, and then you can make a request. Now you can buy food, but nothing else." The cell contained a chair, a table and a straw bed.The warden made a general inspection of these and the four walls before going out.At this time, facing the prisoner leaning against the wall, a wandering fantasy suddenly flashed in his mind: the warden's face was swollen, his whole body was swollen, horribly swollen, like a drowned and swollen corpse.After the warden left, he was still thinking about it, "I seem to be dead too, and I was thrown here." He stopped in front of the straw, looked down, and thought with disgust, "Dead!" After that, the body will be with these crawling creatures! This is the first state of death!" "Five steps long, four and a half steps wide, five steps long and four and a half steps wide, five steps long and four and a half steps wide." The prisoner walked up and down the cell, counting his steps.The roar of the city is like a muffled drum, mixed with wild cries: "He made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes." The prisoner continued to measure, but quickened his pace, trying to make his soul Follow the body to avoid the repeated words. "A horde of ghosts that disappear as soon as the little door closes. One of them is a young woman in black, leaning against the funnel-shaped slope of the window, a light shining in her fair hair... For God's sake, we mount our horses and go on Go! Go through the village where the lighted people are still asleep!... He made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes... five steps long and four and a half steps wide." All sorts of scattered thoughts from The depths of my heart jumped out, churning up and down.The prisoner walked faster and faster, counting tenaciously, counting, the roar of the city changed—it was still rumbling like a muffled drum, but in the rising waves, he heard a familiar voice crying No.