“Yes.”

The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all

aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!”

“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.

“And why not, citizen?”

“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes

more. Let him be at peace.”

But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the

face of Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him.

Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and

goes his way.

The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed

among the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of

execution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now

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crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all

are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in

a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily

knitting. On one of the foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance,

looking about for her friend.

“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her?

Therese Defarge!”

“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the

sisterhood.

“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance petulantly.

“Therese.”

“Louder,” the woman recommends.

Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely

hear thee. Lou