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It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted, were a
rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young Devil, and was
put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed the eloquent, struck
down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and good. Twenty-two friends of high
public mark, twenty-one living and one dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one
morning, in as many minutes. The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had
descended to the chief functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger
than his namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God’s own Temple
every day.
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It cut off so many heads that it was stained red along with the ground
underneath it. It was taken apart and put together again when it was needed,
like a puzzle for a terrible young child. It silenced those who spoke well,
knocked down those who were powerful, and eliminated those who were beautiful
and good. It had cut off the heads of twenty-two respectable people—twenty-one
of them were alive and one was already dead—within twenty-two minutes on one
morning. The executioner who operated it had been nicknamed Samson after the
strong man of the Old Testament. But with the guillotine, he was stronger than
Samson, and more blind, and he tore down the gates of God’s own temple every
day.
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Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked with a
steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his end, never
doubting that he would save Lucie’s husband at last. Yet the current of the time
swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time away so fiercely, that
Charles had lain in prison one year and three months when the Doctor was thus
steady and confident. So much more wicked and distracted had the Revolution
grown in that December month, that the rivers of the South were encumbered with
the bodies of the violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines
and squares under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at that day;
no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable in hospital and
prison, using his art equally among assassins and victims, he was a man apart.
In the exercise of his skill, the appearance and the story of the Bastille
Captive removed him from all other men. He was not suspected or brought in
question, any more than if he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen
years before, or were a Spirit moving among mortals.
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Dr. Manette moved through these dangers and among the dangerous people with a
clear head. He was confident and remained cautiously persistent. He never
doubted that he would eventually save Charles Darnay. Yet, time passed so
quickly that Charles had now been in prison for a year and three months. That
December, the Revolution had grown so much more violent and out of control that
the rivers in the south of France were filled with bodies of people who had been
drowned at night, and prisoners were shot in groups in broad daylight. Still,
Dr. Manette viewed all these terrors with a clear head. There was no one as well
known in Paris at the time and no one in a stranger situation. He was quiet,
kind, and essential in the hospitals and prisons, and he treated killers and
victims the same. He was neutral, and when he was treating patients, the fact
that he had once been a prisoner in the Bastille set him apart from everyone
else. He was not suspected or questioned any more than he would have been if he
really had been brought back to life eighteen years earlier and was a ghost
wandering among the living.
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