about. The day was very hot, and heaps of flies, who were
extending their inquisitive and adventurous perquisitions into all
the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell dead at the bottom.
Their decease made no impression on the other flies out
promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until
they met the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies
are!—perhaps they thought as much at Court that sunny summer
day.
A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame
Defarge which she felt to be a new one. She laid down her
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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 ma"};
