CHAPTER 5

The Wine-shop

A LARGE cask of wine had been dropped and broken, street. The accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled out with a run, the hoops¹ had burst, and it lay on the stones just outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.

All the people within reach had suspended their business or their idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have thought, expressly to lame² all living creatures that approached them, had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down, made scoops³ of their two hands joined, and sipped⁵, or tried to help women, who bent⁶ over their shoulders to sip⁴, before the wine had all run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in the puddles⁷ with little mugs of mutilated earthenware⁸, or even with handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants mouths; others made small mud embankments, to stem the wine as it ran; others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted⁹ here and there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new directions; others devoted¹⁰ themselves to the sodden¹¹ and lee-dyed pieces of the cask licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted fragments with eager relish¹². There was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up along with it, that there might have been a scavenger¹³ in the street, if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous¹⁴ presence.

A shrill¹⁵ sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women, and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There was little roughness in the spot and much playfulness. There was a special companionship in it, an observable inclination¹⁷ on the part of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome¹⁸ embraces, drinking of healths, shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these demonstrations¹⁹ ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in motion again; the woman who had left on a door-step the little pot of hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften²⁰ the pain in her own starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend²¹ again; and a gloom gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.

The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again. Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a tigerish smear²² about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched²³, his head more out of a long squalid bag of a night-cap than in it, scrawled²⁴ upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.

The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.

And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary²⁵ gleam had driven from his sacred countenance²⁶, the darkness of it was heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them; but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a terrible grinding and re-grinding in the mill, and certainly not in the fabulous²⁷ mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner, passed in and out at every doorway²⁸, looked from every window, fluttered in every vestige²⁹ of a garment that the wind shock. The mill which had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow³⁰ of age and coming up afresh, was the sign, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum³¹ of firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys, and started up from the filthy³² street that had no offal, among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription³³ on the baker³⁴'s shelves, written in every small loaf of his Scanty³⁵ stock of bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that was offered for sale. Hunger rattled³⁶ its dry bones among the roasting chestnuts³⁷ in the turned cylinder³⁸; Hunger was shred³⁹ into atomies in every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil.

Its abiding⁴⁰ place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding⁴¹ street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets diverging⁴², all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed⁴³ and slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted into the likeness⁴⁴ of the gallows-rope they mused¹⁶ about enduring, or inflicting⁴⁵. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops) were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops, croaked⁴⁶ over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were gloweringly⁴⁷ confidential⁴⁸ together. Nothing was represented in a flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers-were heavy, and the gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement, with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but broke off abruptly⁴⁹ at the doors. The kennel⁵⁰, to make amends⁵¹, ran down the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across the streets, at wide intervals⁵², one clumsy lamp was slung⁵³ by a rope and pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted, and hoisted⁵⁴ them again, a feeble grove⁵⁵ of dim wicks swung in a sickly manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and the ship and crew were in peril⁵⁶ of tempest.

For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare⁵⁷ upon the darkness of their condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of song and feather, took no warning.

The wine-shop was a comer shop, better than most other' in its appearance and degree, and the master of the wine shop had stood outside it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle for the lost wine. `It'' not my affair,' said he, with a final shrug<sup>58</sup> of the shoulders, `The people from the market did it. Let them bring another.

There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke, he called to him across the way:

`Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?'

The fellow pointed⁵⁹ to his joke with immense significance as is often the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is often the way with his tribe too.

`What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?' said the wine-shop keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating<sup>60</sup> the jest with a handful of mud, picked up for the purpose and smeared<sup>61</sup> over it. `Why do you write in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place to write such words in?'

In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally, perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joke rapped it with his own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his hand, and held out A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.

`Put it on, put it on,' said the other. `Call wine, wine and finish there.' With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's dress, such as it was--quite deliberately⁶², as having dirtied the hand on his account; and then re-crossed the road and entered the wine-shop.

This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked', martial-looking man of thirty, and he should have bean of a hot temperament⁶³, for, although it was a bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing down a narrow pass with a gulf⁶⁴ on either side, for nothing would turn the man.

Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he came in. Madame Defarge was a stout⁶⁵ woman of about his own age, with a watchful⁶⁶ eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment⁶⁷ of her large earrings⁶⁸. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but coughed Just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting of her darkly defined eyebrows⁶⁹ over her toothpick by the breadth of a line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while he stepped over the way.

The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing dominoes, three standing⁷⁰ by the counter lengthening⁷¹ out a short supply of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady `This is our man.

`What the devil do you do in that galley<sup>72</sup> there?' said Monsieur Defarge to himself; `I don't know you.'

But, he feigned⁷³ not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse⁷⁴ with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.

`How goes it, Jacques?' said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. `Is all the spilt wine swallowed?'

`Every drop, Jacques,' answered Monsieur Defarge.

When this interchange of christian⁷⁵ name was effected. Madame Defarge, picking her teeth with her toothpick coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.

`It is not often,' said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur Defarge, `that many of these miserable⁷⁶ beasts know the taste of wine, or of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?'

`It is so, Jacques,' Monsieur Defarge returned.

At this second interchange of the christian name, Madame Defarge, still using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.

The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty drinking vessel⁷⁷ and smacked⁷⁸ his lips.

`Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I right, Jacques?'

`You are right, Jacques,' was the response of Monsieur Defarge.

This third interchange of the christian name was completed at the moment when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and slightly rustled⁷⁹ in her seat.

`Hold then! True!' muttered her husband. `Gentlemen--my wife!'

The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three flourishes. She acknowledged their homage⁸⁰ by bending her head, and giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose⁸¹ of spirit, and became absorbed in it.

`Gentlemen,' said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly upon her, `good day. The chamber⁸², furnished bachelor-fashion, that you wished to see, and `were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little court-yard close to the left here,' pointing with his hand, `near to the window of my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!

They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.

`Willingly, sir,' said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to the door.

Their conference was very short, but very decided⁸³. Almost at the first word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive⁸⁴. It had not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then beckoned⁸⁵ to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.

Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus, joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his other company just before. It opened from a stinking⁸⁶ little black court-yard, and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable⁸⁷ transformation⁸⁸ had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret, angry, dangerous man.

`It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.' Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began ascending⁸⁹ the stairs.

`Is he alone?' the latter whispered.

`Alone! God help him, who should be with him?' said the other, in the same low voice.

`Is he, always alone, then?'

`Yes.

`Of his own desire?'

`Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be discreet--has he was then, so he is now.

`He is greatly changed?'

`Changed!'

The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand, and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his two companions ascended⁹⁰ higher and higher.

Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile⁹¹ indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation within the great foul⁹² nest of one high building--that is to say, the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides Ringing other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and hopeless mass of decomposition⁹³ so engendered⁹⁴, would have polluted the air, even if poverty and deprivation⁹⁵ had not loaded it wit!' their intangible impurities⁹⁶; the Mo bad sources combined made it almost insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft⁹⁷ of dirt and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance⁹⁸ of mind, and to his young companion's agitation⁹⁹, which became greater every instant, Mr. Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made at a doleful grating, by which any languishing¹⁰⁰ good airs that were left uncorrupted seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed to crawl in. Through the rusted¹⁰¹ bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were caught of the jumbled¹⁰² neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer or lower than the summits of the two-great towers of Notre-Dame, had any promise on it of healthy life or wholesome¹⁰³ aspirations¹⁰⁴.

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