《A Tale of Two Cities》　Book2　CHAPTER III A Disappointment
　　　　by Charles Dickens

R. ATTORNEY-GENERAL had
to inform the jury, that the prisoner before them, though young in years, was old in the
treasonable practices which claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with
the public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or even of last
year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the prisoner had, for longer than that,
been in the habit of passing and repassing between France and England, on secret business
of which he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of traitorous
ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real wickedness and guilt of his business
might have remained undiscovered. That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a
person who was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the prisoner's
schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his Majesty's Chief Secretary of
State and most honourable Privy Council. That, this patriot would be produced before them.
That, his position and attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the
prisoner's friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his infamy,
had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish in his bosom, on the
sacred altar of his country. That, if statues were decreed in Britain, as in ancient
Greece and Rome, to public benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one.
That, as they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue, as had
been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well knew the jury would have, word
for word, at the tips of their tongues; whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty
consciousness that they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of

country. That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness for the
Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had communicated itself to the
prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him a holy determination to examine his master's
table-drawers and pockets, and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was
prepared to hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that, in a
general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's) brothers and sisters, and
honoured him more than his (Mr. Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called
with confidence on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
witnesses, coupled with the

documents of their discovering that would be produced, would show the prisoner to have
been furnished with lists of his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and
preparation, both by sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually
conveyed such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be proved to be
in the prisoner's

handwriting; but that it was all the same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the
prosecution, as showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged in these pernicious
missions, within a few weeks before the date of the very first action fought between the
British troops and the Americans. That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury
(as he knew they were), and being a responsible jury (as they knew they were), must
positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether they liked it or not.
That, they never could lay their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could tolerate
the idea of their wives laying their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could
endure the notion of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon pillows at all,
unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head Mr. Attorney-General concluded by
demanding of them, in the name of everything he could think of with a round turn in it,
and on the faith of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
good as dead and gone.



When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if a cloud of great
blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in anticipation of what he was soon to
become. When toned down again, the unimpeachable patriot appeared in the

witness-box.



Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the patriot: John
Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was exactly what Mr.
Attorney-General had described it to be-perhaps, if it had a fault, a little too exactly.
Having released his noble bosom of its burden, he would have modestlywithdrawn himself,
but that the wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry,
begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting opposite, still looking at
the ceiling of the court.



Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation. What did he live
upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't precisely" title="ad.精确地；刻板地">precisely remember where it was.
What was it? No business of anybody's. Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom?
Distant relation. Very distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a
debtors' prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three times. Not five or
six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever been kicked? Might have been.
Frequently? No. Ever

kicked down-stairs? Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and
fell down-stairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at dice?
Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who committed the

assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by cheating at
play? Never. Ever live by play? Not more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the
prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw
the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the lists? No. Had not procured
them himself, for instance? No. Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in
regular government pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh
dear no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer patriotism? None
whatever.



The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a great rate. He had
taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and simplicity, four years ago. He had
asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the
prisoner had engaged him. He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act
of charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of the
prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging his clothes, while
travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the prisoner's pockets, over and over
again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put
them there first. He had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and Boulogne. He loved
his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given information. He had never been suspected
of stealing a silver tea-pot; he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned
out to be only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years; that was
merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious coincidence; most
coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true
patriotism was his only motive too. He was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like
him.



The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis Lorry.



`Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?'



`I am.'



`On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, did
business occasion you to travel between London and Dover by the mail?'



`It did.'



`Were there any other passengers in the mail?'



`Two.'



`Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?'



`They did.'



`Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?



`I cannot undertake to say that he was.'



`Does he resemble either of these two passengers?'



`Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so reserved, that I
cannot undertake to say even that.'



`Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as those two passengers
were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was one of
them?'



`No.'



`You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?'



`No.'



`So at least you say he may have been one of them?'



`Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like myself--timorous of highwaymen,
and the prisoner has not a timorous air.'



`Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?'



`I certainly have seen that.'



`Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your certain
Knowledge, before?'



`I have.'



`When?'



`I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the prisoner came on
board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the voyage with me.'



`At what hour did he come on board?'



`At a little after midnight.'



`In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board at that untimely
hour?'



`He happened to be the only one.'



`Never mind about "happening," Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who came on
board in the dead of the night?'



`He was.'



`Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?'



`With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.'



`They' are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?'



`Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and I lay on a sofa,
almost from shore to shore.'



`Miss Manette!'



The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now turned again, stood
up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn through his arm.



`Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.'



To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was far more trying to
the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd. Standing, as it were, apart with her
on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the
moment, nerve him to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden: and his efforts to control and
steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour rushed to his heart. The buzz of
the great flies was loud again.



`Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?'



`Yes, sir.'



`Where?'



`On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same occasion.'



`You are the young lady just now referred to?'



`O! most unhappily, I am.'



The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice of the Judge, as
he said something fiercely: `Answer the questions put to you, and make no remark upon
them.'



`Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that passage across the
Channel?'



`Yes, sir.'



`Recall it.'



In the midst of a profoundstillness, she faintly began: `When the gentleman came on
board'



`Do you mean the prisoner?' inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.



`Yes, my Lord.'



`Then say the prisoner.'



`When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,' turning her eyes lovingly to
him as he stood beside her, was much fatigued and in a very weak state of health. My
father was so reduced that I was afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed
for him on the deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take care
of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four. The prisoner was so good
as to beg permission to advise me how I could shelter my father from the wind and weather,
better than I had done. I had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind
would set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed great gentleness
and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he felt it. That was the manner of our
beginning to speak together.'



`Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?'



`No.'



`How many were with him?'



`Two French gentlemen.'



`Had they conferred together?'



`They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was necessary for the French
gentlemen to be landed in their boat.'



`Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?'



`Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what papers.'



`Like these in shape and size?'



`Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very near to me:
because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the light of the lamp that was
hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they spoke very low, and I did not hear what they
said, and saw only that they looked at papers.'



`Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.'



`The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me-which arose out of my helpless
situation-as he was kind, and good, and useful to my father. I hope,' bursting into tears,
`I may not repay him by doing him harm to-day.'



Buzzing from the blue-flies.