《A Tale of Two Cities》　Book3　CHAPTER
VIII A Hand at Cards
　　　　by Charles Dickens

HAPPILY unconscious of
the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed
the river by the bridge of the Pont-Neuf reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable
purchases she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They both
looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they passed, had a wary eye for
all gregarious assemblages of people, and turned out of their road to avoid any very
excited group of talkers. It was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye
with blazing lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the Republic. Woe to the
man who played tricks with that Army, or got undeserved promotion in it! Better for him
that his beard had never grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.



Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss
Pross bethought herself of the wine

they wanted. After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of The Good
Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace, once (and twice) the
Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather took her fancy. It had a quieter look than
any other place of the same description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic
caps, was not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her opinion,
Miss Pross resorted to The Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, attended by her cavalier.



Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth, playing with limp
cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman
reading a journal aloud, and of the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid
aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
popular high- shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude, like slumbering
bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and showed what they
wanted.



As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a comer, and rose to
depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross
uttered a scream, and clapped her hands.



In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was assassinated by
somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody
looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and a woman standing staring at each
other; the man with all the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republicans the
woman, evidently English.



What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the Good Republican
Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very voluble and loud, would have been
as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her protector, though they had been all
ears. But, they had no ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but, Mr. Cruncher--though it
seemed on his own separate and individual account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.



`What is the matter?' said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream; speaking in a
vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in English.



`Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!' cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again. `Alter not
setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time, do I find you here!'



Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?' asked the man, in a furtive,
frightened way.



`Brother, brother!' cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. `Have I ever been so hard with
you that you ask me such a cruel question?'



Then hold your meddlesome tongue,' said Solomon, `and come out, if you want to speak to
me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?'



Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected had at her by no means affectionate brother,
said through her tears, `Mr. Cruncher.'



`Let him come out too,' said Solomon. `Does he think me a ghost?'



Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a word, however, and
Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty,
paid for her wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican
Brutus of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which
caused them all to relapse into their former places and pursuits.



`Now,' said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, `what do you want?'



`How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from!' cried Miss
Pross, `to give me such a greeting, and show me no affection.'



`There. Con-found it! There,' said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's lips with his
own. `Now are you content?'



Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.



`If you expect me to be surprised,' said her brother Solomon, `I am not surprised; I knew
you were here; I know of most people who are here. If you really don't want to endanger my
existence--which I half believe you do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go
mine. I am busy. I am an official.'



`My English brother Solomon,' mourned Miss Pross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, `that
had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an
official among foreigners, and such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear
boy lying in his---'



`I said so!' cried her brother, interrupting. `I knew it. You want to be the death of me.
I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just as I am getting on!'



`The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!' cried Miss Pross. `Far rather would I never
see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but
one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us,
and I will detain you no longer.'



Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers.
As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that
this precious brother had spent her money and left her!



He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging condescension and
patronage than lie could have shown if their relative merits and positions had been
reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching
him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
question:



`I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon, or Solomon John?'



The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not previously uttered a
word.



`Come!' said Mr. Cruncher. `Speak out, you know.' (Which, by the way, was more than he
could do himself.) `John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and she must
know, being your sister. And I know you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first?
And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.



`What do you mean?'



`Well, I don't know all I mean,, for I can't call to mind Mat your name was, over the
water.



`No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.'



`Indeed?'



`Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You wa, a spy-witness at the Bailey.
What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to yourself was you called at that
time?'



`Barsad,' said another voice, striking in.



`That's the name for a thousand pound!' cried Jerry.



The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts
of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's elbow as negligently as he might have
stood at the Old Bailey itself.



`Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his surprise,
yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself elsewhere until all was well,
or unless I could be useful; I present myself here, to beg a little talk with your
brother. I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake
Mr. Barsad was not a Sheep of the Prisons.



Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale,
turned paler, and asked him how he dared---



`I'll tell you,' said Sydney. `I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out of the prison of
the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago. You have a face
to be remembered, and I remember faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that
connection, and having a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your direction. I walked
into the wine-shop here, close after you, and sat near you. I had no difficulty in
deducing from your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your
admirers, the nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed to
shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.'



`What purpose?' the spy asked.



`It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the street. Could you
favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your company--at the office of
Tellson's Bank, for instance?'



`Under a threat?'



`Oh! Did I say that?'



`Then, why should I go there?'



`Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.'



`Do you mean that you won't say, sir?' the spy irresolutely asked.



`You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.'



Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and
skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to
do with. His practised eye saw it, and made the most of it.



`Now, I told you so,' said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his sister; `if any
trouble comes of this, it's your doing.'



`Come, come, Mr. Barsad!' exclaimed Sydney. `Don't be ungrateful. But for my great respect
for your sister, I might not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to
make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?'



`I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I`ll go with you.'



`I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her own street. Let
me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in,
unprotected; and as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with
us. Are we ready? Come then!'



Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life remembered, that as she
pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt
to Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes,
which not only contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was too
much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection, and
with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she observed.



They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr. Lorry's, which
was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side.



Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery little log or two
of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the picture of that younger elderly
gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover,
now a good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise
with which he saw a stranger.



`Miss Pross's brother, sir,' said Sydney. `Mr. Barsad.'



`Barsad?' repeated the old gentleman, `Barsad? I have an association with the name-and
with the face.'



`I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,' observed Carton, coolly `Pray sit
down.'



As he took a chair himself he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted, by saying to him
with a frown, `Witness at that trial.' Mr. Lorry immediately remembered, and regarded his
new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence.



`Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate brother you have heard
of' said Sydney, `and has acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has
been arrested again.'



Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, `What do you tell me I left him
safe and free within these two hours, and am about to return to him!'



`Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?'



`Just now, if at all.'



`Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,' said Sydney, `and I have it from Mr.
Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep over a bottle of wine, that the
arrest has taken place. He left the messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the
porter. There is no earthly doubt that he is retaken.'



Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss of time to dwell upon
the point. Confused, but sensible that something might depend on his presence of mind, he
commanded himself and was silently attentive.



`Now, I trust,' said Sydney to him, `that the name and influence of Doctor Manette may
stand him in as good stead to-morrow you said he would be before the Tribunal again
to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?---'



`Yes; I believe so.'



`--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own to you, I am shaken,
Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the power to prevent this arrest.



`He may not have known of it beforehand,' said Mr. Lorry. `But that very circumstance