Chapter-4
The attic was small and dark. A white-haired man was sitting on a low bench, his back to the door, facing the room’s only window. He was stooped over a pair of shoes that he was making.
“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, walking towards the window. I see you are still working hard.”
The white head was raised for a moment, but did not turn towards the doorway. “Yes, I am working,” said a weak, pitiful voice.
An unfinished shoe was in the old man’s hand, and some simple tools and scraps of leather were on the bench before him.
You have a visitor,” said Defarge, pointing to Mr. Lorry, who now joined him at the window, leaving Lucie by the door, still out of the shoemaker’s sight. The shoemaker turned and stared blankly at Mr. Lorry. The old man’s bright eyes stood out in his hollow face, and his ragged white hair and beard contrasted sharply with his dark eyebrows. His shirt, yellowed with age, was in rags. The hand that he raised to shield his eyes from the light coming through the door was as withered and worn as the rest of his body.
“Tell the gentleman what kind of shoe you are working on,” prodded Defarge.
After a long pause, the old man replied, “It is a lady’s shoe. A young lady’s walking shoe.”
“And what is the shoemaker’s name?”
“My name? One hundred and five, North Tower.” And that was all the old shoemaker said. Then he bent over his work once more.
“Dr. Manette, don’t you remember me?” asked Mr. Lorry, breaking the silence.
The shoemaker turned again and stared at the visitor, the half-finished shoe falling to the floor.
“Don’t you remember this man either?” asked Mr. Lorry, pointing to Defarge, “I was your banker, and he was your trusted servant. Don’t you remember that?”
The old man stared blankly in turn at Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge. A glimmer appeared in his eyes, then they clouded over again. With a deep sigh, he went back to his shoemaking.
Meanwhile, Lucie had crept along the wall until she could fully see the shoemaker. Her first fears had given way to sorrow, pity and love. She moved softly to her father’s side.
Dr. Manette, not seeing her, put down the tool in his hand and picked up his shoemaker’s knife. As he did so, he caught sight of Lucie’s skirt. He raised his head slowly until he was looking into her face. Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge took a step forward as if to protect Lucie from the knife in the old man’s hand, but she motioned them away.
“What is this?” the shoemaker gasped in a voice that could be scarcely heard.
Without answering, Lucie put her hands to her lips and kissed them to him. Tears streamed down her face.
“You are not the jailer’s daughter?” asked the old shoemaker.
“No,” whispered Lucie.
“Then who are you?” he gasped weakly. Lucie could not trust herself to speak yet, but she sat down next to him on the bench and laid her hand on his arm.
A shiver went through the old man’s thin frame and he drew back. But then he put the knife down and slowly lifted a few strands of the girls’ long golden hair and held it gently between his bony fingers. Then, dropping the hair just as gently against Lucie’s slim shoulder, he untied a piece of folded rag from around his neck and opened it carefully. Inside were several strands of long golden hair.
Picking up Lucie’s hair again and looking at it closely, the old man gasped, “It is the same. How can it be? When was it?”
Then he gently turned the girl’s face fully toward the light, and the words came out, “I remember it very well That night long ago, when I was called out of the house. She had laid her head on my shoulder. She was afraid for me to go. Then, when I was brought to my prison cell in the North Tower, they found these strands of hair on my sleeve where my daughter had laid her head. The jailer let me keep them, for surely they could not help me escape. But whose hair was it? Was it yours? No, no, it cannot be Tell me, what is your name, gentle angel?”
Grateful for his softened tone, Lucie fell to her knees before him and reached her arms out towards him, cradling his cold white head among her warm, shining curls. “Oh, dear sir,” she whispered through her tears, “you will learn my name at another time. All I can tell you now is that your misery is ended. I will take you to England and make you well and make a home for us.”
The sight of the pitiful man, sunk in his daughter’s arms, so touched Lorry and Defarge that they looked away, fearful that unmanly tears would reach their own eyes as well.
Soon after, the two men left to make all the travel arrangements. Lucie stayed with her father, cradling his limp form in her arms.
When all the preparations had been made, Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge returned with hot food and warm travelling cloaks. His face blank with confusion and wonder, Dr. Manette ate and drank as he was told, and allowed Lucie to wrap him in the cloak. He had been confined in prison and in the attic room for so long that he was barely able to walk.
As Mr. Lorry helped him down the stairs, Dr. Manette steadfastly clung to Lucie’s hand. Monsieur Defarge picked up the shoemaker’s bench and tools and followed them down into the street.
Reaching the courtyard, Dr. Manette looked around, searching for the towers of the prison and the guards at their posts. But only one lone figure was in view—Madame Defarge, who leaned against the door of the wine shop, knitting by the light of the lamp post.
The horses and carriage were waiting. Dr. Manette, Lucie and Mr. Lorry climbed inside.
As the carriage pulled away, Defarge stood looking after it. “I hope he won’t regret being ‘RECALLED TO LIFE’,’’ he whispered into the night.
The Marquis of Evremonde, one of the great louds of France, was an old men of sixty years. He was arrogant in manner and had a face like a fine mark. He had good sartorial sense. He was fond of putting on new clothes every day. Not a single day passed when he did not put of the finest latest clothing. Let us have a look at his clothing—
His coat of dove-coloured cloth was richly laced with gold. His waistcoat of white brocade was laced with a row of jeweled buttons. In fact, he had great tastes and preferences. He lived life king size, is great style and luxury. In order to give him mere a glass of chocolate he required four servants.
