Defarge which she felt to be a new one. She laid down her
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A Tale of Two Cities
knitting, and began to pin her rose in her head-dress, before she
looked at the figure.
It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose,
the customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of
the wine-shop.
“Good day, madame,” said the newcomer.
“Good day, monsieur.”
She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her
knitting: “Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet
nine, black hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion
dark, eyes dark, thin long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not
straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which
imparts a sinister ! Good day, one and all!”
“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”
Madame complied with a polite air.
“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”
It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and
Madame Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better.
She said, however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her
knitting. The visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and
took the opportunity of observing the place in general.
“You knit with great skill, madame.”
“I am accustomed to it.”
“A pretty pattern too!”
“You think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.
“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”
“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile, while
her fingers moved nimbly.
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“Not for use?”
“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do—well,”
said madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern
kind of coquetry, “I’ll use it!”
It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge.
Two men had entered separately, and had been about to order
drink, when, catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a
pretence of looking about as if for some friend who was not there,
and went away. Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor
entered, was there one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had
kept his eyes open, but had been able to detect no sign. They had
lounged away in a poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental
manner, quite natural and unimpeachable.
“John,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers
knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough,
and I shall knit ‘Barsad’ before you go.
“You have a husband, madame?”
“I have.”
“Children?”
“No children.”
“Business seems bad?”
“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”
“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too—as
you say.”
“As you say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly
knitting an extra something into his name that boded him no good.
“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally
think so. Of course.”
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“I think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my
husband have enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without
thinking. All we think, here, is how to live. That is the subject we
think of, and it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think
about, without embarrassing our heads concerning others. I think
for others? No, no.”
The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or
make, did not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister
face; but stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow
on Madame Defarge’s little counter, and occasionally sipping his
cognac.
“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard’s execution. Ah! the
poor Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.
“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use
knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew
beforehand what the price of his luxury was; he has paid the
price.”
“I believe,” said t"};
