We Journey Together
The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely saying, "Follow me, Evrémonde!" and he followed into a large dark room, at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion; but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking fixedly at the ground.
As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him, as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
"Citizen Evrémonde," she said, touching him with her cold hand. "I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force."
He murmured for answer: "True. I forget what you were accused of?"
"Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me?"
The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears started from his eyes.
"I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evrémonde, but I have done nothing. I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evrémonde. Such a poor weak little creature!"
As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
"I heard you were released, Citizen Evrémonde. I hoped it was true?"
"It was. But, I was again taken and condemned."
"If I may ride with you, Citizen Evrémonde, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage."
As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment.
"Who are you?" she gasped.
"It doesn't matter." Carton paused. "I'm your friend."
"Are you dying for him?" she whispered.
"And his wife and child. Hush! Yes."
"Don't you want your own life?"
"I've no wish to return to that."
"O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?"
"Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last."
As if on sudden impulse, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
"Stay with me," she whispered.
Startled a moment, Carton looked down at her, then gathered her in his arms and held her close.
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 license 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. Honore, 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.
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 tumbril stops before the frightening instrument of death, towering greedily above the heads of its victims.
"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." the girl murmured as she looked up at him.
"Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. "don't look at anything else. Keep your eyes on me," he adds as she glances, frightened, towards the guillotine.
"I am not afraid of anything while I hold your hand," the fear suddenly disappears from her eyes, replaced by a shining trust and love. "When I let it go," she adds slowly, "Will they be quick?"
"Yes." Sydney smiles, something deep inside him stirring that he has never felt before. In his own eyes is the look of sweet sorrow. Joy and love-even in the face of death. "There's nothing can harm you now. If we have no fear--we can make our journey and be at peace."
Again the heavy, bloodstained blade of the guillotine crashes down, ending yet another innocent life. The little seamstress draws nearer Sydney, eager and happy.
"We journey together!" she cries softly. "In our hearts!"
"Yes," Sydney's eyes fill with tears yet still he smiles. "We go together."
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 write—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."
Twenty-one victims now having been disposed of, a change of executioners is made. Some wonder at this, for not often does the executioner tire so easily, but it has been a long day. The change is made swiftly, a fresh basket placed at the head of the evil monster, and the dirty work resumes.
"Evremonde!" the harsh command is given. Neither of the pair moves their eyes from the others but a shadow of inevitable sorrow swiftly passes over the girl's face.
"Is it time?"
"Yes," Sydney answers.
"Will they let me be first?" she falters. "So you're still with me?"
"Citizen?" Sydney calls, his eyes still riveted on the girl. "Can she be first?"
"Yes, alright, quick now," the guard replies, not without annoyance.
"Goodbye, thank you," the girl murmurs, her eyes filled with tears though she smiles without hesitation now. "God bless you."
Without a word, Sydney leans down and kisses her, holding her close one last time, wishing he could keep her always near him. But the guard comes and pulls her away. He turns slowly, watching as she walks toward the scaffold. As she nears the steps, she turns back and smiles. A bright ray of love shines for a moment across the dismal scene as they share one last glance. Then she turns back and mounts the scaffold.
"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." Sydney murmurs as he watches the seamstress climb the steps. As she reaches the platform, he turns away, her quick smile and shining eyes all he can see in his mind. Never before was Lucy Manette-the woman for which he was dying-so far from his mind-and heart. It pained him, for just as he was prepared to die, this little seamstress-whose name he never knew-made him want to live again. Yet he hears the blade fall and knows it is over. He will follow her to the grave and they shall be reunited in eternity. All regrets fade away.
"It is a far better thing I do now, than I have ever done. It is a far better rest I go to, than I have ever known," he whispers, smiling.
"Evremonde!" the voice comes again.
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.
Slowly he moves forward, is dragged roughly from the tumbril by the guards. A sea of angry faces confronts him but he moves past them unseeingly. The guillotine looms before him but he mounts the steps willingly. The executioner seizes him, binds him to the plank. The plank is lowered. He hears the blade secured. Beside the platform, the coffin waits. It is a large coffin, designed for more than one body. The revolutionaries are resourceful.
Sydney hears the lever pulled swiftly back. It seems to be moving slowly, as if in a dream. He hears the blade slide rapidly down the rope. He thinks still of the little seamstress, her face all he sees, her voice, her last words all that matter. The blade crashes down and Sydney realizes, suddenly, that he feels no pain. More surprising still, the noise does not cease. Where is the peaceful rest he anticipated? Was he not already in eternity? He feels his hands cut free from the plank, his body kicked from the scaffold, landing with a heavy thud on the rough boards of the coffin. It is then he realizes... he is not dead.
The lid of the coffin is swiftly lifted on and nailed down tightly. Sydney lays still, hardly daring to breathe. Close to his side, he feels the body of the little seamstress and his heart suddenly beats swiftly with joy as he realizes that she, too, is still alive! Yet, perhaps from fright, she has fallen unconscious and lays without moving. Perhaps it is a mercy for the dark confines of the coffin may have caused her to panic and thus reveal this unbelievable secret--life in the very face of death!
Outside, in the gloomy grey light, the executioner triumphantly lifts a head, still dripping with blood. The motion is swift and the grisly spectacle displayed only an instant. Below, the Vengeance shakes her head with dissatisfaction. She has not viewed long enough the head of her friend's sworn enemy. And now what may she tell Madame Defarge?
A new coffin is laid beneath the scaffold, the twenty-fourth prisoner mounts the steps. The previous coffin is carried to a waiting cart and thrown into the back.
In the dark, close atmosphere of this strange hiding place, Sydney feels the coffin lifted. He anticipates the movement and moves slightly so as to shield the girl from the impact of the coffin landing heavily on the cart. She stirs slightly but does not waken. Loud thuds and the grunts of workmen are heard as the rude coffins are piled onto the cart, further concealing the fugitives.
With a lurch, the cart moves forward, rattling uncertainly over the rough cobblestones. Without respect even for the dead, the peasants jeer, laugh, and applaud as the death cart moves slowly through the streets. On and on it moves, every moment seemingly stretched into an hour. Every pothole, every bump in the road seems magnified tenfold as the rickety cart slowly rolls onward, towards the nearly impenetrable gates of Paris.
Slowly the roar of the crowd morphed into a far-off murmur, and then silence. Sydney could feel the cobblestones turn to a smoother dirt road and realized they had passed safely out of Paris. He had felt the cart stop a moment, heard indistinguishable voices somewhere above him and realized that must have been when they passed the guard. Beside him, the little seamstress stirred suddenly.
"We... journey... together," she mumured softly, before lapsing again into insensibility. Shifting sideways, Sidney pressed her to him, tears suddenly in his eyes. She sighed as if sleeping peacefully and he smiled. He could feel himself growing lightheaded, as if from lack of air. Although air filtered in through the cracks in the boards, it was barely sufficient and he slowly drifted into unconsciousness.
Sydney started at the sound of banging on the lid of the coffin. For a moment he lay paralyzed with fear, not for himself, but the girl at his side. One by one the nails in the lid were drawn out and slowly the lid was lifted. The brilliancy of the light blinded him as he struggled in his efforts to rise. Helping hands pulled him to his feet. He wavered a moment, but soon regained his balance and stooped to help his little friend. But his unknown rescuers had already lifted the unconscious girl from the coffin and laid her down gently on a shabby couch in one corner of the squalid little room. Stumbling, he made his way to her and knelt at her side, taking her cold hands in his.
"Well, my friend," a deep, laughing voice spoke behind him. "How does it feel to be alive?"
Sydney turned, for the first time seeing the two men who had brought them there. Both were tall, one with fair hair and the other dark. They were Englishmen, from the sound of their voices, and dressed in the most miserable of dirty rags with wooden sabots and ragged red caps. It was the taller of the two, the one with light hair, that had addressed him.
"I-I hardly know what to say," he hesitated. "I have hardly realized the fact that I am alive."
The man laughed again-a lazy, good-humored laugh. "You will realize it soon enough," he added, "when she wakes up again."
"Who are you?" Sydney asked, eagerly.
"We are known as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel," the lighter man replied, for still the dark one remained silent. "Pledged to rescue as many of our fellow man from Madame la Guillotine as possible."
"God bless you for it," Sydney answered fervently. "But your names...?"
"We can tell you only if you promise absolute secrecy. For our safety and the safety of those who depend on us, we must have this promise. Can you?"
"I can."
"Then I am Sir Percival Blakeney and this here," he motioned to his silent companion, "is Fitzwilliam Darcy. But we are known here as Percy and Darcy."
Sydney nodded. "I've heard of you both. And you do this alone?"
"Not alone, certainly." the man called Darcy spoke for the first time. "There are twenty of us, one to command and nineteen to obey. Percy here commands us all."
"I am forever in your debt." Sydney turned back to the still form of the girl. She stirred then, murmuring softly, though she did not yet open her eyes.
"We journey together," she repeated. "You will... stay with me."
" Yes," Sydney answered. "I will stay with you."
"We... are together," she whispered. "In eternity."
"We are together. But not in eternity."
Slowly she opened her eyes and looked up at him. "Not... in eternity?" she murmured. "Where are we? Are we not... dead?"
"No." he smiled, leaning closer. "We are not dead. We are alive."
"Alive?" she gasped, her eyes wide. "Alive?" she sat up abruptly, then fell back again. "We are alive?" she repeated, incredulously.
"Rescued." he added.
"We are alive!" she cried again, reaching up to him. He took her in his arms as she sobbed. "We are alive... and together!"
"Yes, together."
"Will you stay with me?"
"Yes. We journey together."
It was nightfall when the fugitives slipped from the little inn into the waiting carriage. The driver was wrapped in a dark cloak, his face hidden. Percy spoke to him quietly but all Sydney could hear were the words, "Tomorrow", "More victims", and "God go with you, Brandon".
This second ride was much more comfortable than the first, but no less frightening. Both were acutely aware that at any moment the carriage could be stopped and its occupants delivered once more to the guillotine.
As the carriage rattled down the dirt road, the seamstress smiled at Sydney, her eyes ever trusting. "You never told me your name. If I may repeat what I asked this morning, who are you?" Sydney smiled back at her as he answered.
"My name is Sydney Carton."
"Sydney Carton..." she repeated softly. "A noble name... an English name."
"What is your name?"
"I am Aurelie. Aurelie Dufort." she answered.
"Aurelie. That means golden. And Dufort means strong."
"But I fear I do not live up to that name, for I am not strong."
"Yes, you are strong, little one. Strong and courageous." he took her hand in both of his. "'Twas Heaven that brought us together. Perhaps Heaven wills that we stay always together."
Aurelie looked up at him shyly. His meaning was not lost to her and her dark eyes opened wide as she caught her breath in a little gasp.
"And... what about... her?" she asked softly. "What is her name?"
"Lucie? Lucie Darnay?" the name, once so beloved seemed almost strange to him now. Somehow, in facing death, and then the joy of recovered life; in coming to love this little angel whom he never would have met outside the walls of that prison; through all they had been through together in such a short while, Lucie seemed hardly to matter any longer. Never mind that he had nearly died for her, that he had been willing to sacrifice his life for her happiness. There had been even a greater purpose in the Divine Will leading him to that gloomy scaffold than he could ever have known. God had meant to show him that there was another out there... another he could love and cherish and who could love and cherish him in return.
"Yes. You were going to die for her. Do you not love her still?" a tear glistened in Aurelie's eye but she looked up at him bravely.
"I loved her... once." Sydney sighed. How could he explain the rush of emotion now overwhelming him... the feelings in his heart that he never knew existed? "But that all seems so long ago and far away. Yes, she was dear to me," he continued, meditatively, as if speaking to himself. "But... everything has changed now." he shook his head and pressed Aurelie to his side.
"When first I saw you... this morning, little one... I felt something inside of me I've never known before. I can't explain it. But this I know. We journey together."
Aurelie did not answer. But she sighed happily and leaned her head on his shoulder as the carriage rolled on in the night.
The door to the carriage was opened suddenly and a swift, icy ocean breeze whipped through the interior.
"You're safe now," the driver spoke in a deep, low voice. "We're at the coast. There's a yacht here to take you to England."
"Will we be leaving right away?" Sydney answered.
"No. There are still a few rescues we're hoping to make before we set sail. Hopefully within the week."
"God bless you," Sydney murmured as he lifted Aurelie and stepped from the carriage.
"Blakeney's wife is aboard," the man continued. "She'll care for the girl."
The yacht sat at harbor a few days more and each day a new band of fugitives from Madame la Guillotine arrived. An elderly aristocratic couple in disheveled wigs and tattered silks and laces, a poor cobbler, his wife, and young son in dirty rags. A frightened young mother with a sickly infant in her arms, the next day, her husband with their older son. A proud duchess, a kitchen maid, a once-wealthy marquis, a blacksmith. Slowly they trickled in, so varied in station and age, yet brought together by their common misfortune and common joy.
Five days now had passed since Sydney and Aurelie left bloody Paris behind. Everyone by now was restless, too frightened to remain long in one spot. Even the members of the League itself were nervous. Only the leader and his courageous wife remained calm as, day after day, the rescue party slipped out, one by one and all in different directions, to Paris.
"Surely it is time to return to England, Blakeney," Sydney overheard one of the men speaking to the leader on the evening of the fifth day. "It has been nearly three weeks since we arrived and I assured Marianne it would be but a fortnight. I fear her anxiety."
"Patience, Brandon," Percy smiled. "Don't forget the promise you made when you joined us. The lives of these people are depending on us. One day more, and then I promise we'll return to England… I wager you'll be with your Marianne in no more than three days' time."
"You'll be returning soon?"
"Yes. Within a few days, with the rest of the League. It's a good idea Andrew had, to divide in two groups and take turns. Half of you can spend time with your family while the other half is at work here. Then the work never stops."
At that moment, the girl turned and caught Aurelie's eye. Surprise, shock, disbelief, and then joy flashed across her face as she cried out.
"Aurelie!"
"Marie!" the girls ran towards each other, arms outstretched, laughing, but with tears streaming down their cheeks.
"God has been merciful to us all," Sydney murmured. "I pray I won't fail in this second chance at life."
"No!" Aurelie cried with a smile. "We're together now! And now that Marie is with me again… well, there is nothing that could make me happier."
"Nor I," Sydney pulled her close. "I never would have dreamed that in going to my death, I would find my life."
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