d the shop, close shut and surrounded by

so foul a neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge’s

olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the stock of wine

smelt stronger than it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and

brandy and aniseed. He whiffed the compound of scents away, as

he put down his smoked-out pipe.

“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she

knotted the money. “There are only the usual odours.”

“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.

“You are a little depressed too,” said madame, whose quick

eyes had never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a

ray or two for him. “Oh, the men, the men!”

“But my dear!” began Defarge.

“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my

dear! You are faint of heart tonight, my dear!”

“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his

breast, “it is a long time.”

“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long

time? Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the

rule.”

“It does not take a long time to strike a man with lightning,”

said Defarge.

“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to

make and store the lightning? Tell me.”

Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were

something in that too.