A Tale of Two Cities, Dave Mckay, Charles Dickens [most inspirational books of all time TXT] 📗

and all the other poor things that made up a poor village. All of its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors preparing onions and the like for their evening meal, while others were at the fountain washing leaves and grasses and any other thing that they could eat. There were many signs to show what made them so poor. A tax for the government, a tax for the church, a tax for their village leader, a village tax and a country tax were all to be paid here or there, as the signs said, until one wondered if all the different taxes would one day eat up the whole village.

There were few children to be seen, and no dogs. As for the men and women, they had two choices: life that was little more than staying alive down in the village by the windmill, or prison and death up on the big, tall rock.

With a shouted warning from a man riding ahead of the coach, and the sound of the whips flying like snakes over the heads of the two men on the coach horses, the Marquis came into the village as if he was coming with the gods of anger at his side. The coach pulled up at the post office next to the fountain, to change horses, and the poor people stopped what they were doing to look at him. He looked at them and saw, without knowing it, the slow sure wearing away of their tired faces and bodies that would make people from England believe for the next hundred years that everyone from France was thin and hungry even when it was no longer true.

Sir the Marquis was looking at all the humble faces bowing in front of him like he and others like him had bowed in front of Sir the Governor at the hotel (but these bowed only to obey, not to ask for gifts), when a rough road worker joined the group.

"Bring that man here!" said the Marquis to the man who had just arrived on a horse, with the mail for the post office.

The man was brought, with his hat in his hand, and the other men closed around to look and listen, as the people had done at the fountain in Paris.

"Didn't I pass you on the road?"

"Sir, it is true. I was blessed to have you pass me on the road."

"First at the bottom of the hill, and again at the top of the hill. Is that right?"

"Sir, that is right."

"What were you looking at so seriously, when I passed you?"

"Sir, I was looking at the man.” He bent down a little, and with his rough blue hat he pointed under the coach. All of his neighbours bent down to look under the coach too.

"What man, you pig? And why are you looking there?”

"I'm sorry, sir. He was hanging by the brake chain.”

"Who?” shouted the traveller.

"Sir, the man."

"May the devil carry these stupid people away! What was his name? Surely, you know all the men in these parts. Who was it?"

"Mercy, sir! He was not from this part of the country. In my whole life, I have never seen him before."

"Hanging by the chain, you said? Was he dead?"

"If I may say so, sir, that was the strange thing about it. His head was hanging over... like this!"

He turned himself in line with the coach and leaned back with his face looking up at the sky, and his head hanging down, then he stood back up, almost dropping his hat, and bowed.

"What was he like?"

"Sir, he was whiter than the man who makes the flour. All covered in dust like a ghost!"

Talk of a ghost had a strong effect on the crowd, but, without looking at each other, all eyes stayed on the Marquis, to see if he had a reason to be afraid of ghosts too.

"Truly, you did well," said the Marquis sweetly. He must not let such dirty people see him acting in fear. "To see a robber trying to get into my coach and not even open that big mouth of yours. That's awful! Send him away, Mr. Gabelle!"

Mr. Gabelle was the owner of the post office and a tax collector as well, who had come out to help with the questioning. He had been holding the sleeve of the road worker's coat.

"Go on! Get out of here!" said Mr. Gabelle.

"Hold this stranger if he tries to stay in your village tonight, and find out what his reason is for being here, Gabelle."

"Sir, I am blessed to be able to help you."

"Did he run away, man? Where is that awful man?"

The awful man was under the coach with half a dozen friends, pointing to the chain with his blue hat. Some half a dozen other friends quickly pulled him out and held him up for the Marquis.

"Did the man run away, stupid? When we stopped to put the brake on? Did he run away?"

"Sir, he jumped over the side of the hill, head first, the way a person goes into the river."

"Do like I told you, Gabelle. Now, let's go!"

The half dozen who were looking at the chain were still in the way of the wheels, like stupid sheep. The wheels started to roll so quickly that they were lucky to save their skin and bones. They had little more than that to save, or they might not have been so lucky.

The coach raced out of the village, but slowed down when it came to the hill outside the village. Soon it was moving no faster than a person could walk, moving slowly from side to side as it pushed up the hill in the many sweet smells of a summer night. The two drivers, with a thousand little flies around their heads in the place of the gods of anger who had been riding with them earlier, worked on fixing the ends of their whips. The Marquis' servant walked by the horses, and the mail carrier walked ahead on his horse, but was close enough to talk with the other riders.

At the steepest part of the hill, there was a small piece of ground for burying people. A new cross had been put there, with a piece of timber that had been cut to look like Jesus hanging on it. It was rough, but one could see that the man who shaped it had shaped it from his own life, because it was very thin.

A woman was on her knees in front of this sign of great pain that had long been growing worse, but was not yet at its worst. She turned as the coach came closer, jumped up and went to the door of the coach.

"It is you, sir! Sir, I beg you."

With a word to show he was not happy, but with no change to his face, Sir looked out.

"How then! What is it? Always asking for something!"

"Sir, for the love of the great God! My husband, the forest worker."

"What of your husband, the forest worker? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something?"

"He has paid all, sir. He is dead."

"Well! He's quiet. Do you think I can bring him back for you?”

"Not now sir! But he's over there, under a hill of old grass.”

"So?"

"Sir, there are so many little hills of old grass."

"Again, so?"

She looked old, but was really young. Everything about her showed that her heart was breaking. She squeezed one rough hand in the other, and then put one of them on the carriage door, touching it lovingly, like it was a person.

"Sir, please listen to me! Sir, listen to what I am asking. My husband died without enough food. So many die without enough food. So many more will die without enough food."

"Again, I say, so? Can I feed them all?"

"Sir, the good God knows; but I'm not asking for that. What I am asking is only that a little piece of stone or timber, with my husband's name on it, be put over him to show where he is lying. Without it, people will soon forget where he is. They will never be able to find it after I die from the same thing. They will put me under some other hill of poor grass. Sir, there are so many, and the number is growing so quickly because there is so much hunger. Sir! Sir!"

The servant had pushed her away from the door, and the horses were made to move more quickly, until she was left far behind, and Sir, again travelling with the gods of anger, was quickly covering the short distance between there and his castle.

The sweet summer smells were all around him, and because smells are like the rain, falling on all equally, the dirty, tired group in rags at the fountain, not far away, were able to smell them too. The road worker, with the help of his blue hat, without which he was nothing, was still telling them about the man like a ghost, for as long as they would listen. One by one they lost interest and went to their houses, where little lights could be seen in the windows. As the night grew later, and the lights in the windows were put out, it was like they shot up into the sky to join the stars, and not like they were just put out.

The shadow of a big house with a high roof and many tall trees was on Sir the Marquis by that time; and the shadow gave way to the light of a torch, as his coach stopped, and the great door of his castle was opened to him.

"Has Mr. Charles arrived from England yet?” he asked. "No sir, not yet."

9. The Gorgon's Head

It was a heavy group of buildings, this castle of the Marquis', with a big yard of small stones in front of the two wide stone steps curving from opposite sides up to the stone verandah in front of the big front door. All in all, everywhere one looked there was stone work, with stone cylinders in the fence around the verandah, big stone pots, stone flowers, stone faces, and stone lion heads. It was like the head of the Gorgon had looked over the place after it was built, two centuries earlier.

(*Gorgon was a woman from an old Greek story, who had snakes for hair, and who was able to turn people into stone just by looking at them.)

Up the wide steps the Marquis walked, with a torch being carried in front of him. It was so quiet that even the flame on the torch (and on the other torch waiting for him at the door) burned like they were in a closed room, and not like they were burning in the open night air. The only sounds were the sound of a bird in the barn, and the sound of water from the fountain dropping into a big stone bowl. It was one of those nights when the air would stop breathing for a long time, then breathe out very slowly before stopping again.

The big door closed loudly behind Sir the Marquis, and he walked across a room that was far from friendly. Many hunting weapons were hanging on the wall: spears, swords, and knives. It was even less friendly when one saw that there were heavy whips and sticks for hitting horses, which had also been used to kill some poor people when they made their lord angry.

Passing by the bigger rooms, which were dark and closed for the night, the Marquis, with the torch carrier leading the way, climbed the steps to the second floor, where his rooms were. There were his bedroom and two other rooms. They were tall cool rooms with no rugs on the floor, and big dogs sleeping in front of the fireplaces. They had the best of furniture and everything that a rich marquis in a rich country could ask for. At this time in French

history, when Louis the Fourteenth was leading the country, beautiful French furniture was at its best.

A table was set for two in one of the side rooms, a round room in one of the castle's four covered towers. The windows had thin parallel stone-coloured boards turned at an angle to stop sun or rain from coming in, but they did not stop the cool night air.

"For my brother's son?” said the Marquis, looking at the food on the table. "They said he hasn't arrived."

But the servants had understood that he was coming with the Marquis.

"I see! I don't think he'll come tonight. But leave the table as it is, and I'll eat in about fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes later, Sir was ready. He sat down to the best of food, looking toward the window as he ate. He had just finished his soup and was putting a glass of wine to his lips when he put it down.

"What is that?” he asked quietly, looking seriously at the horizontal lines of black and grey stone.

"Sir? What is what?"

"Outside the window. Open the window."

It was done.

"Well?"

"Sir, it's nothing. The trees and the night are all