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a tale of two cities(双城记)-第82节

小说: a tale of two cities(双城记) 字数: 每页4000字

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 It was in vain for Mr。 Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could not hear him。 ‘So I'll nod my head;' thought Mr。 Cruncher; amazed; ‘at all events she'll see that。' And she did。 
 ‘Is there any noise in the streets now?' asked Miss Pross again; presently。 
 Again Mr。 Cruncher nodded his head。 
 ‘I don't hear it。' 
 ‘Gone deaf in a hour?' said Mr。 Cruncher; ruminating; with his mind much disturbed; ‘wot's come to her?' 
 ‘I feel;' said Miss Pross; ‘as if there had been a flash and a crash; and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life。' 
 ‘Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!' said Mr。 Cruncher; more and more disturbed。 ‘Wot can she have been a takin'; to keep her courage up? Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that; miss?' 
 ‘I can hear;' said Miss Pross; seeing that he spoke to her; ‘nothing。 O; my good man; there was first a great crash; and then a great stillness; and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable; never to be broken any more as long as my life lasts。' 
 ‘If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts; now very nigh their journey's end;' said Mr。 Cruncher; glancing over his shoulder; ‘it's my opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world。' 
 And indeed she never did。 

CHAPTER XV
The Footsteps Die out for Ever
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。 CrashAnd 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 mejust 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。 Po

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