ALONG the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious licence and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.

Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants! No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. `If thou be changed into this shape by the will of God,' say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, `then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!' Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.

As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.

Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number
appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is always followed by a press of people towards
the third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the
side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honoré, cries are raised against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound.

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, `Has he sacrificed me?' when his face clears, as he looks into the third.

`Which is Evrémonde?' says a man behind him. `That. At the back there.' `With his hand in the girl's?' `Yes.'

The man cries, `Down, Evrémonde To the Guillotine all aristocrats! Down, Evrémonde!'

`Hush, hush!' the Spy entreats him, timidly.

`And why not, citizen?'

`He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more. Let him be at peace.'

But the man continuing to exclaim, `Down, Evrémonde!' the face of Evrémonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evrémonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.

The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.

`Thérèse!' she cries, in her shrill tones. `Who has seen her? Thérèse Defarge!'

`She never missed before,' says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.

`No; nor will site miss now,' cries The Vengeance, petulantly. `Thérèse!'

`Louder,' the woman recommends.

Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still site will scarcely hear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find her!

`Bad Fortune!' cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, `and here are the tumbrils! And Evrémonde will be despatched in a wink, and she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with `vexation and disappointment!'

As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, count One.

The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash--And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their work, count Two.

The supposed Evrémonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him.

`But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven.

`Or you to me,' says Sydney Carton. `Keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object.'

`I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid.'

`They will be rapid. Fear not!'

The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom.

`Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.'

`Tell me what it is.'

`I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate--for I cannot writ--and if I could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is.'

`Yes, yes; better as it is.'

`What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support, is this:--if the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old.'

`What then, my gentle sister?'

`Do you think:' the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble: `that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?'

`It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.'

`You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?'

`Yes.'

She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before him-is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.

`I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'

The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty-Three.

They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked sublime and prophetic.

One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--Had asked at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given an utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:

`I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge, long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present use. I see a beautiful city
and a brilliant people' rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.

`I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father, aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing tranquilly to his reward.

`I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul, than I was in the souls of both.

`I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, foremost of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.

`It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.'  

死亡之车在巴黎街上隆隆驶过，声音空洞而刺耳。六辆死囚车给断头台小姐送去了那天的美酒。自从想象得以实现以来，有关饕餮颟顸不知饱足的种种恶魔的想象便都凝聚在一个发明上了，那发明就是断头台。然而在法兰西，尽管有各种各样的土壤和气候，却没有一棵草、一片叶、一道根、一条枝、一点微不足道的东西的生长成熟条件能比产生了这个怪物的条件更为一成不变的了。即使用类似的锤子再把人类砸变了形，它仍然会七歪八扭地长回它原来那受苦受难的模样。只要种下的仍然是暴戾恣雎与欺凌压迫的种子，那么结出的必然是暴戾恣雎与压迫欺凌的果实。

六辆死囚车沿着大街隆隆走过。时间，你强大的魔术师，你若让死囚车恢复它原来的面目，它便分明是专制帝王的御辇、封建贵族的车骑、弄权的耶洗别的梳妆台，是成了贼窝而非上帝住所的教堂和千百万饥饿的农民的茅舍！不，那庄严地制定了造物主的秩序的伟大魔术师从不逆转他的变化。“若是上帝的意志把你变成这种模样，”智慧的天方夜谭中的先知对身受魔法者说，“那你就保持这副模样！但若你这形象只是来自转瞬即逝的魔法，那就恢复你的本来面目吧！”不会变化，也没有希望，死囚车隆隆地前进。

这六辆车的阴沉的轮子旋转着，似乎在街上的人群中犁出了一条弯弯曲曲的沟畦。人的脸是沟畦的脊，犁头稳定地犁过，人的脸便向两面翻开，街两边的居民太熟悉这重场面，许多窗户前都没有人，有的窗户上开窗的手连停也没停，眼睛只望了望车上的面孔。有些窗户的主人有客人来看热闹，主人便带着博物馆馆长或权威解说员的得意之情用手指着这一辆车，那一辆车，好像在解说昨天是谁坐在这儿，前天又是谁坐在那儿。

死囚车上有人注意到了上述种种和自己最后的路上的一切，却只冷漠地呆望着；有人表现出对生命和人的依恋；有人垂头坐着，沉入了无言的绝望；也有人很注意自己的仪表，照他们在舞台或图画里见到的样子在群众面前表露一番。有几个在闭目沉思，力图控制混乱的思想。只有一个可怜人吓破了胆，形象疯狂，昏沉如醉，唱着歌儿，还想跳舞。可全部死囚并无一个用目光或手势向人们乞求怜悯的。

由几个骑兵组成的卫队跟囚车并排前进着。有的人不时转向他们，向他们提出问题。问题似乎总是相同，因为问过之后，人们总往第三辆囚车挤去。跟第三辆囚车并排走着的骑兵常用战刀指着车上的一个人。人们主要的好奇心是找出那人在哪里。那人站在囚车后部低头在跟一个姑娘谈话。那站娘坐在囚车的一侧，握住他的手。那人对周围的景象并不好奇，也不在意、只顾跟姑娘淡着。在圣奥诺雷长长的街道上不时有人对他发出叫喊。那叫喊即使能打动他，也不过让他发出一个沉静的微笑，并随意甩一甩落到脸上的头发——他的手被绑着，不容易摸到脸。

在一个教堂的台阶上等着囚车到来的是密探兼监狱绵羊。他望了望第一辆，不在。他望了望第二辆，不在。他已经在问自己，“难道他拿我作了牺牲？”他脸上却立即平静了下来，望进了第三辆

“埃佛瑞蒙德是哪一个？”他身后有人问。

“那一个。后面那个。”

“手被一个姑娘握住的？”，

“是的。”

那人叫道，“打倒埃佛瑞蒙德！把全部贵族都送上断头台！打倒埃佛瑞蒙德！”

“嘘，嘘！”密探怯生生地求他。

“为什么不能叫，公民？”

“他是去抵命的，五分钟后就要完事了，让他安静一下吧。”

可是那人还继续叫着，“打倒埃佛瑞蒙德！”埃佛瑞蒙德的脸向他转过去了一会儿，看见了密探，仔细望了望他，又转向了前方。

时钟敲了三点，从人群中犁出的沟畦转了一个弯，来到刑场和目的地。人的脸向两边分开，又合拢了，紧跟在最后的铧犁后面往前走——大家都跟着去断头台。断头台前有几个妇女手中织着毛线，坐在椅子上，仿佛是在公共娱乐园里。复仇女神站在最前面的一把椅子上。她在寻找她的朋友。

“泰雷兹！”她用她那失利的声音叫道。“谁见到她了？泰雷兹．德伐日！”

“她从来不曾错过的，”姐妹行中的一个织毛线的妇女说。

“不会的，现在也不会错过，”复仇女神气冲冲地说。“泰雷兹！”

“声音大一点，”那女人建议。

是的，声音大一点，复仇女神。声音很大了，可她仍然没听见。再大一点吧，复仇女神，再加上几句咒骂什么的。可她仍然没出现。打发别的女人到各处去找找吧！是在什么地方舍不得离开了么？可是去找的人未必情愿走远，尽管她们做过许多可怕的事。

“倒霉！”复仇女神在椅子上顿脚大叫，“囚车到了！埃佛瑞蒙德一转眼工夫就要报销了，可她不在这儿！你看，她的毛线活儿还在我手里呢！她的空椅子在等她。气死我了，我太失望了，我要大喊大叫！”

复仇女神从椅子上跳下来喊叫时，囚车已开始下人。圣断头台的使者们已经穿好刑袍，做好准备。嚓——一个脑袋提了起来，在那脑袋还能思想、还能说话的时候，织毛线的妇女连抬头看一眼都不愿意，只是数道，“一。”

第二辆囚车下完了人走掉了，第三辆开了上来。“嚓”——从不迟疑、从不间断地织着毛线的妇女们数道，“二。”

被当作是埃佛瑞蒙德的人下了车，女裁缝也跟着被扶了下来。下车时他也没有放松她那无怨无尤的手，总按自己的诺言握住它。他体贴地让她用背对着那“嚓”“嚓”响着的机器——那机器正不住地呜呜响着，升起和落下。她望着他的眼睛，表示感谢。

“若不是有了你，亲爱的陌生人，我不会这么镇静，因为我天生是个可怜的小女人，胆子很小。我也不能抬头看上帝——上帝也被杀死了——向他祈求今天能给我们希望和安慰。
我认为你是上天送给我的。”

“你也一样，是上天送给我的，”西德尼．卡尔顿说，“让你的眼睛总看着我，亲爱的孩子，别的什么都不要想。”

“我握住你的手就什么都不想了。若是他们很快，我放手之后甚至可以完全不想。”

“他们会很快的。别害怕！”

两人虽在迅速减少的死囚群中，说起话来却似乎没有旁人。他们眼睛相望，声音相应，手拉着手，心映着心。这一对万类之母的儿女原本距离很远，还有种种差异，现在却在这阴暗的大路上走到了一起，要同路回家，到母亲怀里去休息。

“勇敢而大度的朋友，你能回答我一个最后的问题吗？我很无知，因此这问题叫我烦恼——只有一点点烦恼。”

“什么问题？告诉我。”

“我有．一个表妹，是我唯一的亲戚，也跟我一样是个孤儿。我非常爱她。她比我小五岁，住在南方一户农民家里。我们是因为穷而分手的，她对我的命运完全不知道，因为我不会写信。若是我能写，我能怎样告诉她呢！那总比现在这样好吧！”

“是的，是的，是要好一些。”

“来的时候我就一直在想，现在我望着你那善良坚强的脸，觉得你给了我很大的支持。我仍然在想，是这么个问题：若是共和国真地为穷人办好事，穷人少挨饿了，受的各种苦也少了，我的表妹就可以活很久，甚至活到老年。”

“你的问题是什么，我温和的妹妹？”

“你认为，”那一双无怨无尤、受得起委屈的眼睛噙满了泪水，嘴唇颤抖着张得略大了些，“我在一个更好的世界里等她，我相信在那儿你和我都会受到慈祥的关注。那时你认为我会感到等得太久么？”

“不可能。那儿没有时间，也没有烦恼。”

“你给了我很多安慰！我太无知了。我现在是不是该跟你吻别了？时间到了么？”

“到了。”

她吻吻他的嘴唇，他也吻吻她的嘴唇，两人彼此郑重地祝福。他松了手，那消瘦的手没有颤抖。在那无怨无尤的脸上只有甜蜜的光明的坚韧，没有别的。她在他前面一个——她去了；打毛线的妇女们数道，“二十二。”

“主说，复活在我，生命也在我，信仰我的人虽然死了，也必复活着；凡活着信仰我的人，必永远不死。”

一大片语声唧唧哝哝；一大片面孔抬了起来；许多脚步从外围往里挤，人群往前涌动，有如潮水兴起。一切如闪电般消失。二十三。

那天晚上城里的人议论起来，说他的面孔是在那儿所见到的最平静的面孔。不少的人还说他显得崇高，像个先知。

死在同一把利斧之下的引人注目的受难者中有一个妇女，不久前曾在同一个刑架的脚下要求准许写下激荡在她胸中的思想。若是卡尔顿能抒发他的感想，而他的感想又出自先知之口，那么，他的想法会是这样：

“我看见巴萨、克莱、德伐日、复仇女神、陪审员、法官，一长串新的压迫者从被这个惩罚工具所摧毁的老压迫者们身上升起，又在这个惩罚工具还没有停止使用前被消灭。我看见一座美丽的城市和一个灿烂的民族从这个深渊中升起。在他们争取真正的自由的奋斗中，在他们的胜利与失败之中，在未来的漫长岁月中，我看见这一时代的邪恶和前一时代的邪恶（后者是前者的自然结果）逐渐赎去自己的罪孽，并逐渐消失。

“我看见我为之献出生命的人在英格兰过着平静、有贡献、兴旺、幸福的生活—一我是再也见不到英格兰了。我见到露西胸前抱着个以我命名的孩子。我看见露西的父亲衰老了、背驼了，其它方面却复了原，并以他的医术忠实地济世救人，过着平静的生活。我看见他们的好友，那个善良的老人，在十年之后把他的财产赠送给了他们，并平静地逝世，去接受主的报偿。

“我看见我在他们和他们无数代后裔心里占有神圣的地位。我看见露西成了个龙钟老妇，在我的祭日为我哭泣。我看见她跟她的丈夫正结束生命的历程，并排躺在弥留的榻上。我知道他俩彼此在对方的灵魂中占有光荣崇高的地位，而我在他俩灵魂中的地位则更光荣、更崇高。

“我看见躺在她怀里的以我命名的孩子长大成人，在我曾走过的道路上奋勇前行。我看见他业绩优异，以他的光耀使我的名字辉煌。我看见我染在那名字上的污迹消失。我看见他站在公平正直的法官和光明磊落的人们的最前列。我看见他带了一个又以我命名的孩子来到这里。那时这里已是一片美景，全没了今天的扭曲和丑恶。那孩子长了个我所熟悉的前额和一头金发。我听见他告诉孩子我的故事，声音颤抖，带着深情。

“我现在已做的远比我所做过的一切都美好；我将获得的休息远比我所知道的一切都甜蜜。”