Chapter-20
“Charles St. Evremonde, known as Darnay,” announced the prosecutor, “Freed and retaken. Denounced as an enemy of the Republic, a nobleman, one of a family of tyrants that lived off the blood of the people!”
“Who denounced the prisoner?” the president of the tribunal asked the prosecutor.
“Three people. Ernest Defarge, owner of the wine shop in Saint Antoine.”
“Who else?”
“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
“Who else?”
“Alexandre Manette, a doctor!”
A great uproar filled the courtroom, and Dr. Manette, pale and trembling, slumped in his seat.
Ernest Defarge was called to the witness box. He told of his youth, serving Dr. Manette, and later of sheltering the doctor after his release from the Bastille.
“What did you do the day that the Bastille fell to the people? the president asked.
“I ordered a jailer to take me and a fellow citizen, who now sits on the jury, to 105 North Tower, where Dr. Manette had said he lived as a prisoner. In a hole in the chimney of the cell, behind a stone, I found this paper in Dr. Manette’s handwriting.”
The president read the paper:
“I, Alexandre Manette, write this sad note secretly in my cell in the Bastille, in December, 1767. I will hide it in the chimney, hoping some pitying soul will find it after my death. I write it now, in the tenth year of my imprisonment, for there is no hope of my ever being freed, and I fear that I will soon lose my mind. But for now, I have all my wits with me, and I swear that my story is the truth.”
“On December 22, 1757, I was walking near my house when a carriage drew up behind me and a voice called out my name. Two gentlemen—twin brothers as I later realized—stepped out. They were wrapped in cloaks and carrying weapons. They told me politely but firmly to enter the carriage, and since I was unarmed, I had to obey. I was driven to a house on a lonely country road, where I found a beautiful young woman with brain fever lying on a bed. To keep her from injuring herself in her ravings, her arms were tied to her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs that belonged to a gentleman’s wardrobe. They bore the coat of arms of a noble family and the letter ‘E’.
“The patient kept shouting, ‘My husband, my father, my brother!’ and then counting up to twelve and saying, ‘Hush!’
“Since I had left my medicine bag at home when I went for my walk that night, the brothers gave me some drugs with which to quieten the patient.
“Does she have a husband, a father, and a brother?” I asked one of the twins.
“A brother,” he answered, “who is also a patient here for you to see. And he led me to a loft by the stable, where I found a handsome peasant boy, about seventeen years old, lying in some hay.”
“The boy was dying of a stab wound, and although he gritted his teeth in pain, he wouldn’t let me examine the wound. But it was too late to save his life anyhow.”
“ ‘How did this happen?’ I asked one of the twins, whom I shall call the younger.”
“ ‘A crazy young common dog!’ he spat, ‘A slave! He forced my brother to stab him!’
“ ‘These noblemen rob us, beat us, and kill us!’ gasped the boy, gathering his strength, so he could tell his story before he died. ‘But we have our pride. Have you seen my sister, doctor?’ ”
“ ‘Yes, ‘I answered’.”
“ ‘She was a good girl. She was engaged to marry a nice young man, a tenant of these two noblemen. We were all tenants—almost slaves. They taxed us, forced us to work without pay, took our crops for their animals, and barely fed us enough to keep us alive! But even worse, they took our young women for their own pleasure.
“Right after my sister had got married, that man’s twin brother ordered her husband to give her to him for a while. But my sister refused to go with him. And her husband refused to persuade her to do so. That noble man harnessed her husband to a cart like an animal and drove him over the estate day after day, beating him to keep him moving. When he was finally taken out of the harness one day at noon to look for something to eat, he sobbed twelve times—one for every stroke of the bell then collapsed and died in my sister’s arms.
“Then that man’s brother took my sister away for his pleasure. When I told my father, it broke his heart. I immediately took my younger sister—for I have another—to a place beyond the reach of this man. Last night, I tracked the older brother here and climbed in the window, sword in hand. He came at me with his whip, and my sister ran to us. I told her not to come near us until he was dead.
“ ‘I struck at him to make him draw his sword. Lift me up now, doctor, so that I may see this evil man’.”
“I raised him in my arms. He turned to the younger twin and said, ‘Marquis, when the time comes that your crimes will be answered for, I call upon you and your brother, the last of your evil race, to answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon both of you as a sign’.”
“The dying boy put his hand to his wound and with his bloody forefinger drew a cross in the air. Then his finger dropped, his body went limp, and I laid him down dead.”
“When I returned home, I had to unburden myself of the terrible secret, and I decided to write to the minister at the king’s court, explaining what had happened.”
“I had just finished the letter when a beautiful young lady, looking ill and very upset, came to my door. She said she was the wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected that name with the name by which the dying boy addressed one of the twinbrothers and with the initial ‘E’ on the handkerchief.”
“The lady had discovered her husband’s part in the story I have just written down. She felt pity for the dead girl and not only wanted to help her family, but also turn the anger of Heaven away from the Evremonde family, which was so hated by the people of France.”
“She also wanted to reach the younger sister, but I could not tell her the girl’s name or address, for the wounded boy never revealed it before he died.”
“The lady had a pretty child with her—a boy about two or three years old.”
“ ‘For his sake, doctor,’ she begged, ‘for the sake of little Charles, I want to do anything I can to make up for my husband’s evil deeds. For I fear if I do not, one day Charles may have to pay for his father’s crimes. What I have left in this world to call my own—only a few jewels—I would like to give the injured family, if the sister can be found’.”
“After she had left, I delivered my letter to the king’s court. That very night, December 31, a man in black rang my doorbell and told my young servant, Ernest Defarge, that there was a medical emergency and that he had brought a coach to take me to the patient. Ernest summoned me, and I agreed to go.”
“As soon as I was out of the house, the man in black tied a black muffler over my mouth and pinned my arms to my sides. The brothers Evremonde ran out from a dark comer and with a nod, identified me. One of them was holding the letter I had written to the king’s court.”
“The coach brought me here to the Bastille—to my living grave. And in all these years, the brothers never found it in their hearts even to bring me news whether my dear wife was alive or dead. For this I denounce them and their heirs, to the last of their race. I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, on this last night of the year 1767, do denounce them until the time when all these crimes shall be answered for!”
A dreadful roar arose in the courtroom when the president of the tribunal finished reading. The vote of the jury was as solidly against Charles Darnay as it had been in his favour the last time. Death by the
