“You speak like a Frenchman.”

“I am an old student here.”

“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”

“Good night, citizen.”

“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling

after him. “And take a pipe with you!”

Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the

middle of the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his

pencil on a scrap of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step

of one who remembered the way well, several dark and dirty

streetsmuch dirtier than usual, for the best public thoroughfares

remained uncleansed in those times of terrorhe stopped at a

chemist’s shop, which the owner was closing with his own hands.

A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill

thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.

Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his

counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew”; the

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chemist whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi, hi!”

Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:

“For you, citizen?”

“For me.”

“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen. You know

the consequences of mixing them?”

“Perfectly.”

Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put

them, one by one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the