Chapter-11
After the fixer of roads was sent back to his village to spy for his new friends, Defarge learnt from one of his ‘Jacques’ on the police force that a new spy was being sent to Saint Antoine. He informed his wife of this immediately.
“He will be put on my list as soon as I see him,” she said, “What is his name?”
“John Barsad. An Englishman.”
The very next day, that Englishman entered the wine shop. Madame Defarge was knitting as usual.
“You knit very well, Madame!” said Barsad, after ordering some wine, “And an interesting design too. What are you making?”
“Nothing special. I knit just to keep busy.” And her fingers knitted J-0-H-N into the design.
“Business seems bad,” commented the spy.
“It is very bad,” said Madame Defarge.
“The people are so poor.” And the name B-A-R-S-A-D was knitted into the list.
“These miserable people are badly treated too, isn’t that so?”
“If you say so.”
“You don’t agree?”
“My husband and I have enough to do just to run this wine shop. We have no time to think of other people.”
This conversation was getting the spy nowhere. He tried another subject. “It’s too bad about poor Gaspard,” he said with a great sigh, “to be executed that way.”
“I’m sure he knew that if he killed someone, he in turn would be executed,” said Madame.
“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his voice, “that there is much pity and anger around here about Gaspard. Don’t you think so?”
“Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge, ignoring the question.
“Good day, Jacques!” said the spy, tipping his hat.
“You are mistaken, sir. That is not my name; I am Ernest Defarge.”
“Well, no matter! While talking with your wife, I remembered some interesting things connected with your name.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, when Dr. Alexandre Manette was freed, he was brought to you, his old house servant.”
“That is true,” said Defarge, whose wife gave him a look that said to answer the spy in as few words as possible.
“His daughter also came to you,” Barsad continued, “She was with a gentleman from Tellson’s Bank.”
“That is true,” repeated Defarge.
“You don’t hear from them anymore?”
“No,” broke in Madame, “We got a letter saying that they had arrived safely in England and then another letter, but not any more.”
“The girl is going to be married,” said Barsad. “Married to a Frenchman by birth. In fact, her husband-to-be is a nephew of the Marquis that Gaspard killed. In England, he goes under the name of Charles Darnay.”
Madame Defarge kept knitting, but the news had a strong effect on her husband, who trembled visibly as he lit his pipe. Having finally got some reaction, however small, from his day’s work, the spy paid for his wine and left the shop.
“Can what he just said about Lucie’s marriage be true?” Defarge whispered to his wife.
“What if it is?” she asked calmly.
“Well, if the revolution comes during our lifetime, I hope for Lucie Manette’s sake that fate keeps her husband out of France!”
“Fate will lead him where he has to go!” snapped Madame Defarge.
“But how strange it is that after we have felt so much sympathy for Dr. Manette and Lucie, you are now knitting the name of her husband into your list alongside that spy Barsad!”
One beautiful evening Dr. Manette along with her beautiful daughter was sitting in his garden. He was extremely happy that her daughter, “Dear are you happy with the marriage?”
Lucy replied, “Of course, my dear father. I am in live with Charles who is a fine gentleman. He too loves me from the bottom of his heart. Together, we make a fine couple who can live for a long time without separating from each other.”
Dr. Manette was more then happy and satisfied that her daughter had found a good lad in Charles. Then he raised his hand towards the moon and said, “Dear, I used to stare at the moon from my window cell. I used to imagine how my unborn child would be—would it be a baby boy or a baby girl. Those were the days that I spent with much trouble. If it was a baby-boy would he take revenge on the people who