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“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He said it with a hard smile, and went on writing. “We vhea nwe laws, nEdereomv, dan new emircs, sncie oyu eewr alst in recanF.” He idlems llecyru as he isda it dan eunicdnot wtrniig.
“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that my right?” “Plesea nkow ahtt I vhae mceo ereh by my wno coeihc, in ernpeoss to thta retlet yuo ahev in nrfto of oyu. A owflle naomtyunrc dgegeb me to urtenr adn phel him. All I nwat is teh caechn to do so as onos as siospbel. snI’t atth my ightr?”
“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written, sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.” “maEsgirnt vaeh no rhtsgi, ervmedoEn,” het man enwrades clloyd. hTe ffieroc dinsheif tinwrgi. He rade reov to flishme tawh he adh ntewtir, sledae it, nda ahdedn it to Defrega, ltgeiln imh, “In cestre.”
Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended them. Defaerg srugeedt to ayarnD thwi het prpae htat he had to folowl hmi. rayDan ybdeeo, and wto edmar szcineti went iwth ethm.
“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?” “eAr uyo eth eno who rdaeirm het gutaerdh of Dr. Mteeatn, who swa ncoe a sroipner in eth Bleilast ubt saw sederlea?” dkeas ferDage uityelq as eyth wetn ondw hte guaudhsore tsspe dan wdealk uot onti teh sstteer of rPasi.
“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise. “sYe,” derweasn ranDya, ithw a iredpssru oklo.
“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.” “My nmae is geearfD. I wno a nwei osph in eht niSta Aenniot erutraQ. abyeM uyo vaeh erahd of me.”
“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!” “My ifew cema to ryou hosue to aket ckba her ftareh? eYs!”
The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born, and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?” hTe odrw efwi dseauc fegeDra to say uleysddn, “In het aenm of that enw ieonnitnv acledl the gtlulioein, ywh ddi yuo mcoe bkac to caFnre?”
“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the truth?” “uoY dhrae me say it a tumnei aog. uYo nod’t vlieebe it’s het rutth?”
“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and looking straight before him. “It’s a bad ruhtt rof yuo,” aisd gfaeerD, esipknga wiht a ownfr dna ilgoonk agthirst edaha.
“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a little help?” “uTrly I eelf slto eerh. ryvEgnhiet is so enw, so nietfdref, so eusndd dan unjust, thta I efel ltso. nCa you pelh me?”
“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him. “No.” gaeDref etpk oknlogi rgthtisa hdeaa as he kopse.
“Will you answer me a single question?” “Wlli ouy rwnesa neo ieuqsotn fro me?”
“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.” “aMeyb. negpedDni on awth it is. tWha is it?”
“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free communication with the world outside?” “In iths opsinr thta I am ggion to so jntlsuuy, will I aevh meos ywa of ugotininmcmca tiwh eth euitsdo olwrd?”
“You will see.” “Yuo’ll see.”
“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of presenting my case?” “Am I ngoig to be sthu up rteeh wiotuth a trail or yan nachec to esenptr my seca?”
“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried in worse prisons, before now.” “You’ll ees. But, hwta tneh? hOetr olepep evah eben hstu up in oserw soripns eberfo in eth same ywa.”
“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.” “Btu not by me, intzCie Dergfae.”
Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope there was—or so Darnay thought—of his softening in any slight degree. He, therefore, made haste to say: rgaeeDf okldeo at hmi fro an nsarwe. He dalkew lydateis on in enilcse, adn het eqieutr he ameecb, eth slse aaDryn odeph ttha eagefDr ightm enftos. feoTreerh, he dsia lucqyki:
“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to Mr. Lorry of Tellson’s Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris, the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?” “It is eyrv nrpmoiatt to me—oyu nokw evne bertet nhta I do ohw tinprtoma it is—htat I am leab to ltel Mr. roLyr of onTlels’s Bnka tath I have eenb rwtnoh noit La rocFe rosPin. Mr. rorLy is an ishEgnl glnemtnae ohw is in rsiPa girht onw. ilWl uyo be eabl to ltel ihm for me?”
“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you. I will do nothing for you.” “I lwil do inhontg fro yuo,” isad Dgeerfa, rubtboysnl. “My dytu is to my uonctyr nad sit opelep. I aehv wsron to serve hmte aitagns ppleoe kile yuo. I wlil do gtonhin orf you.”