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"It is what I meant to say." Her father considered a little before he answered: "You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too, occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these." "Or both," said Darnay. "I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want a promise from me. Tell me what it is."
In Sydney Carton at least, Dickens shows none of that dreary submission to the environment of the irrevocable that had for an instant lain on him like a cloud. On this occasion he sees with the old heroic clearness that to be a failure may be one step to being a saint. On the third day he rose again from the dead.
Carton turned out a capital fellow; Rathson, the small, sandy-haired boy mentioned in the previous chapter, and who generally went by the name of "Rats," took a great fancy to Jack; while Maxton repeated his assertion that young Trevanock was "the right sort," and as a further mark of his favour presented the new-comer with a moleskin of his own curing, which looked very nice, but, as "Rats" put it, "smelt rather fruity."
Thermopylæ will become a new story, while William Tell and Arnold Winkelried will take rank among the demigods. Sidney Carton will become far more than a mere character of fiction, for on his head we shall find a halo, and Horace Mann will become far more than a mere schoolmaster.
The man who sidled deferentially into the room, a moment after Carton had said he would see him, was a middle-sized fellow, with a high, slightly bald forehead, a shifty expression in his sharp ferret eyes, and a nervous, self-confident manner that must have been very impressive before the ignorant. "My name is Kahn," he introduced himself. "I'm a lawyer." Carton nodded recognition.
Carton was shabbily dressed, and did not appear to be quite sober. "This must be a strange sight to you," said Carton, with a laugh. "I hardly seem yet," returned Darnay, "to belong to this world again." "Then why the devil don't you dine?" He led him to a tavern, where Darnay recruited his strength with a good, plain dinner. Carton drank, but ate nothing.
I admit that I am a spy, and that it is considered a discreditable station though it must be filled by somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean himself as to make himself one?" "I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad," said Carton, taking the answer on himself, and looking at his watch, "without any scruple, in a very few minutes."
There is a letter, you see, which the clerk has tucked under the string." The package was a florist's carton, wide and deep, with the name Hollywood Gardens printed across the violet cover, but the letter was postmarked Washington, D.C. "Violets!" she exclaimed softly, "'when violet time is gone."
"As nearly as Carton can find out," said Kennedy quickly, "Marie is Madame Margot herself." "I want to go to Margot's again to-day," volunteered Miss Kendall the following morning, adding with a smile, "You see, I've got the habit. Really, though, there is a mystery about that place that fascinates me.
"No," he exclaimed, and we could almost hear his jaw snap as if it had been a trap. "No I'll not think it over. I'll not yield an inch. Dopey Jack goes to trial before election." As Carton bit off the words, Murtha became almost beside himself with rage and chagrin. He was white and red by turns. For a moment I feared that he might do Carton personal violence.
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