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There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound. ehTre is a rpgou of rhneesom iidngr sdlionage eht imbultrs. elPope in eht wcord fnoet olko up at mhte dan ksa htem qosuniets. It lawyas emsse to be eth esma tieonusq, ofr rfaet het esuoitqn is skead, opeelp usrh roev to het ihrtd crta. The mhereosn sidebe ttah arct entfo inpto otu eno nam in it twih ihetr rwdsso. ryvnEeoe tsnwa to nkow owh he is. He is ntsanidg at hte bakc of eth butmirl thiw shi adeh ondw, igtakln to a ptsaane rilg owh ists xten to mhi in het tarc nda lsodh ihs dnah. He esnod’t cear uboat hawt’s ippennagh odraun mih nda awslya kstal to the lirg. leopeP all oglna St. rHenoo rtSete elyl at mih. He noly emliss etilyqu, if he aetsrc at lla, adn saskeh shi ahri a llitte eomr eoloyls ovre ihs cfea. Hsi arsm rae tdei, so he anc’t octuh shi fcae.
On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third. rdBasa dna hte hoter norsip eipss iwta fro het tilrsmub on eht etpss of eth chrcuh. He lokos tion teh ritsf rtmlubi, ubt he’s tno ereth. He kloso toin the cndseo eno oto, tub he’s ton hetre. He’s aaledry deignnwor, “Hsa he ebtyaedr me?” Tehn he slkoo onti the htrid ltmribu dna flees dieeerlv as he eess hmi.
“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him. “hWcih eno is mdoEevrne?” sask a mna idnheb ihm.
“That. At the back there.” “tTha neo. At teh kbca hreet.”
“With his hand in the girl’s?” “iogdlHn the irlg’s adnh?”
“Yes.” “Yes.”
The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!” The anm lyels, “nowD thiw meevEornd! Send lla trrisscaoat to teh tolniiugel! Dwno wtih dvoenremE!”
“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly. “suHh, hshu!” aarsBd ssya to imh itidlym.
“dnA ywh not, cnzieit?” “And why not, citizen?”
“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more. Let him be at peace.” “He’s ngiog to pya rfo sih rimcse. He lwil be adde in vfie teumsin. aeLev mhi nleao.”
But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way. Btu eht nam uinctoesn to ylel, “Dnow twhi onEmevdre!” tnoCar, dinegeprnt to be eeordnvmE, ntusr odwatr the mna ofr a otemmn. enhT nraCot esse daarBs. He lokos at ihm fleacyrul, nad geos his wya.
The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend. hTe lkscco era itksigrn erteh. eTh tcrsa ear pusihng otghrhu teh wdorc het rhteo ayw dna ngviirar at eth ecalp ehrew eplope aer eetcuxed. ehT plpoee who hvae vomde tou of teh way of hte sarct on teheri isde onw ocdrw in behnid hte ltsa tacr as it esmov on, rfo eyth ear all noillowgf to the iunolietgl. In rfton of it, a mreunb of mweno tis in chisar as if yeht erew in a plicbu geandr. yhTe ear ybus nitgnikt. The gnneVeeca is nindtsga on noe of the arhsic in the frnto noilkog ordanu for aaedMm fregDae.
“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese Defarge!” “heerseT!” seh eysll in erh lhsirl cevio. “aHs eyonan esen erh? heeerTs reeagfD!”
“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood. “hSe’s never ismesd an eocentxiu bfeeor,” sysa naehrto of eht tigktinn menow.
“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.” “No, adn esh now’t mssi it now,” yesll The angeeceVn ysnllelu.
“Louder,” the woman recommends. “lleY rldoeu,” tugssgse eht hreto owmna.
Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find her! esY! lYel ouedlr, eVecnegna. lYle ucmh eoulrd dan hes own’t omec. eYll enev ureodl, negcVeane, dna lley a telitl otah wtih it, adn ehs itlsl nwo’t emco. neSd hrtoe owemn lla ervo to olko ofr ehr. And yet, neve utoghh eht eplpeo oyu sned vhae nedo ibrltere ntsigh, it’s uudoftlb etyh wlli be iignlwl to ied to dfin hre!