to himself what

he had written, sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the

words, “In secret.”

Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must

accompany him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed

patriots attended them.

“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the

guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

daughter of Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is

no more?”

“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.

“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter

Saint Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”

“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”

The word ‘wife’ seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to

Defarge, to say with sudden impatience, “In the name of that

sharp female newly-born, and called La Guillotine, why did you

come to France?”

“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is

the truth?”