hers? No, no.”

The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or

make, did not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister

face; but stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow

on Madame Defarge’s little counter, and occasionally sipping his

cognac.

“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard’s execution. Ah! the

poor Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.

“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use

knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew

beforehand what the price of his luxury was; he has paid the

price.”

“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone that

invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary

susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there is

much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the

poor fellow? Between ourselves.”

“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.

“Is there not?”

“Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.

As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy

saluted him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging

smile, “Good day, Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at