le

shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every vice and

virtue, of every responsible creature on it.

The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the

starlight, in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto

their journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at

the barrier guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing

forth for the usual examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge

alighted; knowing one or two of the soldiery there, and one of the

police. The latter he was intimate with, and affectionately

embraced.

When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his

dusky wings, and they, having finally alighted near the Saint’s

boundaries, were picking their way on foot through the black mud

and offal of his streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:

“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”

“Very little tonight, but all he knows. There is another spy

commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all

that he can say, but he knows of one.”

“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eye brows with a

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cool business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call

that man?”

“He is English.”

“So much the better. His name?”

“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation