Chapter-3
Saint Antoine was a poor section of Paris with houses so run-down that the people spent most of their time on the street. Saint Antoine was also filled with hunger, and because of it, the ragged people were filled with hatred toward the wealthy and noble classes of Paris, who cared nothing for their misery. And so it was that Saint Antoine was rapidly becoming a centre of unrest—unrest which would soon explode in the French Revolution.
It was in a narrow Saint Antoine street one day that a large cask of wine dropped from a cart and shattered on the rough stones outside a wine shop. All the people on the street stopped what they were doing to run over and drink the wine. Some knelt down, scooped their hands together, and sipped every drop they could find. Others licked the wine from the stones. Mothers dipped rags into the wine and squeezed drops into infants’ mouths. Children built little mud walls to trap puddles of wine and drank mixtures of wine and mud.
The wine stains left the street looking bloodstained. And, indeed, it wouldn’t be long before blood would flow in these very streets.
The owner of the wine shop, a fierce-looking, dark-haired man of about thirty, stood watching the mad scramblings on the street. “It is not my problem,” muttered Ernest Defarge with a shrug, “Let the people from the market bring another cask. It’s their fault.” And with that, he turned and went into his shop.
Therese Defarge, his wife, looked up from her seat behind the counter in the wine shop when her husband entered. Although her hands were busy knitting, a lift of her eyebrows and a slight nod of her head indicated to her husband that he should notice the elderly gentleman and the young lady seated at a corner table sipping some wine.
Jarvis Lorry and Lucie Manette had also noticed Ernest Defarge when he entered the shop. With a nod of his head, Mr. Lorry told Lucie, “This is our man.”
Monsieur Defarge pretended not to notice the elderly gentleman and the young lady as he went behind the counter to serve a customer.
Madame Defarge coughed and raised her eyebrows even higher, never losing a stitch in her knitting.
As soon as the customer had left the shop, Mr. Lorry went up to the counter and spoke softly with Monsieur Defarge. After they had exchanged a few whispered words, Defarge nodded and headed for the door. Mr. Lorry beckoned to Lucie to follow them out of the shop. Although Madame Defarge continued to knit yet her eyes followed her husband and his two visitors out the door.
Defarge led Mr. Lorry and Lucie towards a narrow, winding, tiled staircase off a garbage filled dark courtyard, which was surrounded by high, rotting buildings.
“Is he alone?” whispered Mr. Lorry.
“Of course. He is always alone,” snapped Defarge.
“And he is in the same exact state he was in when his friends asked if I would risk taking him in and not breathe a word about the matter to anyone.”
They climbed the stairs, and when they reached the closed door at the top, Defarge inserted a key in the lock.
Mr. Lorry turned to Lucie. “Come child; we are going in to see your father,” he said, putting his arm around her waist to support her.
“I’m afraid to see him!” she cried, her knees weakening, “I’m afraid to see my father.”
