that bad aims were being worked out in his own unhappy land by

bad instruments, and that he who could not fail to know that he

was better than they, was not there, trying to do something to stay

bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy and humanity. With this

uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching him, he had been

brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the brave old

gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison

(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of

Monseigneur, which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver,

which above all were coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

those, had followed Gabelle’s letter: the appeal of an innocent

prisoner, in danger of death, to his justice, honour, and good

name.

His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.

Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail

on, until he struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger.

The intention with which he had done what he had done, even

although he had left it incomplete, presented it before him in an

aspect that would be gratefully acknowledged in France on his

presenting himself to assert it. Then, that glorious vision of doing

good, which is so often the sanguine mirage of so many good

minds, arose before him, and he even saw himself in