“You don’t hear much about them now?” said the spy.

“No,” said Defarge.

“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and

her little song, “we never hear about them. We received the news

of their safe arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two;

but, since then, they have gradually taken their road in lifewe,

oursand we have held no correspondence.”

“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be

married.”

“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have

been married long ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”

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“Oh! You know I am English.”

“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame, “and what the

tongue is, I suppose the man is.”

He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made

the best of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his

cognac to the end, he added:

“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an

Englishman; to one who, like herself, is French by birth. And

speaking of Gaspard (ah, poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a

curious thing that she is going to marry the nephew of Monsieur

the Marquis, for whom Gaspard was exalted to that height of so

many feet; in other words, the present Marquis. But he lives

unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is Mr. Charles

Darnay.