The happiness of his own chosen English home，the necessity of being always actively employed，the swift changes and troubles of the time which had followed on one another so fast，that the events of this week annihilated the immature plans of last week，and the events of the week following made all new again；he knew very well，that to the force of these circumstances he had yielded：—not without disquiet，but still without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched the times for a time of action，and that they had shifted and struggled until the time had gone by，and the nobility were trooping from France by every highway and byway，and their property was in course of confiscation and destruction，and their very names were blotting out，was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in Francethat might impeach him for it.
But，he had oppressed no man，he had imprisoned no man；he was so far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues，that he had relinquished them of his own will，thrown himself on a world with no favour in it，won his own private place there，and earned his own bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate on written instructions，to spare the people，to give them what little there was to give—such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have in the winter，and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in the summer—and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof，for his own safety，so that it could not but appear now.
This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make，that he would go to Paris.
Yes. Like the mariner in the old story，the winds and streams had driven him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock，and it was drawing him to itself，and he must go.Everything that arose before his mind drifted him on，faster and faster，more and more steadily，to the terrible attraction.His latent uneasiness had been，that bad aims were being worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments，and that he who could not fail to know that he was better than they，was not there，trying to do something to stay bloodshed，and assert the claims of mercy and humanity.With this uneasiness half stifled，and half reproaching him，he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong；upon that comparison（injurious to himself）had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur，which had stung him bitterly，and those of Stryver，which above all were coarse and galling，for old reasons.Uponthose，had followed Gabelle's letter：the appeal of an innocent prisoner，in danger of death，to his justice，honour，and good name.
His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him，and he must sail on，until he struck.He knew of no rock；he saw hardly any danger.The intention with which he had done what he had done，even although he had left it incomplete，presented it before him in an aspect that would be gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert it.Then，that glorious vision of doing good，which is so often the sanguine mirage of so many good minds，arose before him，and he even saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
