each with his chin resting on his hand, and his eyes intent on the

road-mender; Jacques Three, equally intent, on one knee behind

them, with his agitated hand always gliding over the network of

fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge standing between

them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the light of the

window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to

him.

“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.

“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

looks at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But always looks up, from a

distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the

work of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the

fountain, all faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they

were turned towards the posting-house; now, they turned towards

the prison. They whisper at the fountain, that although

condemned to death he will not be executed; they say that

petitions have been presented in Paris, showing that he was

enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say that a

petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?

It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”

“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly

interposed. “Know that a petition was presented to the King and

Queen. All here, yourself e