'Yes，Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman；to one who，like herself，is French by birth.And speaking of Gaspard（ah，poor Gaspard！It was cruel，cruel！），it is a curious thing that she is going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis，for whom Gaspard was exalted to that height of so many feet；in other words，the present Marquis.But he lives unknown in England，he is no Marquis there；he is Mr.Charles Darnay.D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.'
Madame Defarge knitted steadily，but the intelligence had a palpable effect upon her husband. Do what he would，behind the little counter，as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe，he was troubled，and his hand was not trustworthy.The spy would have been no spy if he had failed to see it，or to record it in his mind.
Having made，at least，this one hit，whatever it might prove to be worth，and no customers coming in to help him to any other，Mr. Barsad paid for what he had drunk，and took his leave：taking occasion to say，in a genteel manner，before he departed，that he looked forward to the pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again.For some minutes after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine，the husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them，lest he should come back.
'Can it be true，'said Defarge，in a low voice，looking down athis wife as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair：'what he has said of Mam'selle Manette？'
'As he has said it，'returned madame，lifting her eyebrows a little，'it is probably false. But it may be true.'
'If it is—'Defarge began，and stopped.
'If it is？'repeated his wife.
'—And if it does come，while we live to see it triumph—I hope，for her sake，Destiny will keep her husband out of France.'
'Her husband's destiny，'said Madame Defarge，with her usual composure，'will take him where he is to go，and will lead him to the end that is to end him. That is all I know.'
'But it is very strange—now，at least，is it not very strange'—said Defarge，rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it，'that，after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father，and herself，her husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment，by the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us？'
'Stranger things than that will happen when it does come，'answered madame.'I have them both here，of a certainty；and they are both here for their merits；that is enough.'
She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words，and presently took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head. Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable decoration was gone，or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its disappearance；howbeit，the Saint took courage to lounge in，very shortly afterwards，and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
In the evening，at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned himself inside out，and sat on doorsteps and window-ledges，and came to the corners of vile streets and courts，for a breath of air，Madame Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place to place and from group to group：a Missionary—there were many like her—such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women knitted.They knitted worthless things，but，the mechanical work was a mechanical substitute for eating and drinking；the hands moved for the jaws and the digestive apparatus：if the bony fingers had been still，the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
But，as the fingers went，the eyes went，and the thoughts. And as Madame Defarge moved on from group to group，all three went quicker and fiercer among every little knot of women that she had spoken with，and left behind.
Her husband smoked at his door，looking after her with admiration.'A great woman，'said he，'a strong woman，a grand woman，a frightfully grand woman！'
Darkness closed around，and then came the ringing of church bells and the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard，as the women sat knitting，knitting. Darkness encompassed them.Another darkness was closing in as surely，when the church bells，then ringing pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France，should be melted into thundering cannon；when the military drums should be beating to drown a wretched voice，that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty，Freedom and Life.So much was closing in about the women who sat knitting，knitting，that they their very selves were closing in around a structure yet unbuilt，where they were to sit knitting，knitting，counting dropping heads.
XXIII.ONE NIGHT
N ever did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in Soho，than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder radiance over great London，than on that night when it found them still seated under the tree，and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
Lucie was to be married tomorrow. She had reserved this last evening for her father，and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
'You are happy，my dear father？'
'Quite，my child.'
They had said little，though they had been there a long time. When it was yet light enough to work and read，she had neither engaged herself in her usual work，nor had she read to him.She had employed herself in both ways，at his side under the tree，many and many a time；but，this time was not quite like any other，and nothing could make it so.
'And I am very happy tonight，dear father. I am deeply happy in the love that Heaven has so blessed—my love for Charles，and Charles's love for me.But，if my life were not to be still consecrated to you，or if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us，even by the length of a few of these streets，I should be more unhappy and self-reproachful now than I can tell you.Even as it is—'Even as it was，she could not command her voice.
