Nor was this the end of the day's bad work，for Saint Antoine so shouted and danced his angry blood up，that it boiled again，on hearing when the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched，another of the people's enemies and insulters，was coming into Paris under a guard five hundred strong，in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes on flaring sheets of paper，seized him—would have torn him out of the breast of an army to bear Foulon company—set his head and heart on pikes，and carried the three spoils of the day，in Wolf-procession through the streets.
Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children，wailing and breadless. Then，the miserable bakers'shops were beset by long files of them，patiently waiting to buy badbread；and while they waited with stomachs faint and empty，they beguiled the time by embracing one another on the triumphs of the day，and achieving them again in gossip.Gradually，these strings of ragged people shortened and frayed away；and then poor lights began to shine in high windows，and slender fires were made in the streets，at which neighbours cooked in common，afterwards supping at their doors.
Scanty and insufficient suppers those，and innocent of meat，as of most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet，human fellowship infused some nourishment into the flinty viands，and struck some sparks of cheerfulness out of them.Fathers and mothers who had their full share in the worst of the day，played gently with their meagre children；and lovers，with such a world around them and before them，loved and hoped.
It was almost morning，when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last knot of customers，and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife，in husky tones，while fastening the door：
'At last it is come，my dear！'
'Eh well！'returned madame.'Almost.'
Saint Antoine slept，the Defarges slept；even The Vengeance slept with her starved grocer，and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed.The Vengeance，as custodian of the drum，could have wakened him up and had the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell，or old Foulon was seized；not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint Antoine's bosom.
XXIX.FIRE RISES
T here was a change on the village where the fountain fell，and where the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the high way such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the crag was not so dominant as of yore；there were soldiers to guard it，but not many；there were officers to guard the soldiers，but not one of them knew what his men would do—beyond this：that it would probably not be what he was ordered.
Far and wide lay a ruined country，yielding nothing but desolation. Every green leaf，every blade of grass and blade of grain，was as shrivelled and poor as the miserable people.Everything was bowed down，dejected，oppressed，and broken.Habitations fences，domesticated animals，men，women，children，and the soil that bore them—all worn out.
Monseigneur（often a most worthy individual gentleman）was a national blessing，gave a chivalrous tone to things，was a polite example of luxurious and shining life，and a great deal more to equal purpose；nevertheless，Monseigneur as a class had，somehow or other，brought things to this. Strange that Creation，designed expressly for Monseigneur，should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out！There must be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements，surely！Thus it was，however；and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the flints，and the lastscrew of the rack having been turned so often that its purchase crumbled，and it now turned and turned with nothing to bite，Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and unaccountable.
But，this was not the change on the village，and on many a village like it. For scores of years gone by，Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung it，and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures of the chase—now，found in hunting the people；now，found in hunting the beasts，for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces of barbarous and barren wilderness.No.The change consisted in the appearance of strange faces of low caste，rather than in the disappearance of the high-caste，chiseled，and otherwise beautified and beautifying features of Monseigneur.
For，in these times，as the mender of roads worked，solitary，in the dust，not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and to dust he must return，being for the most part too much occupied in thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if he had it—in these times，as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour，and viewed the prospect，he would see some rough figure approaching on foot，the like of which was once a rarity in those parts，but was now a frequent presence. As it advanced，the mender of roads would discern without surprise，that it was a shaggy-haired man，of almost barbarian aspect，tall，in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a mender of roads，grim，rough，swart，steeped in the mud and dust of many highways，dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds，sprinkled with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
Such a man came upon him，like a ghost，at noon in the July weather，as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank，taking such shelter as he could get from a shower of hail.
The man looked at him，looked at the village in the hollow，at the mill，and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects in what benighted mind he had，he said，in a dialect that was just intelligible：
'How goes it，Jacques？'
'All well，Jacques.'
'Touch then！'
They joined hands，and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
'No dinner？'
'Nothing but supper now，'said the mender of roads，with a hungry face.
