["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> XXI. Echoing Footsteps\n\n\nA wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where\nthe Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound\nher husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and\ncompanion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in\nthe tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of\nyears. At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,\nwhen her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be\ndimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,\nafar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much. Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:\ndoubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided\nher breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of\nfootsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would\nbe left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her\neyes, and broke like waves. That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the\nadvancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of\nher prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young\nmother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and\nthe shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of\nchildren, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take\nher child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred\njoy to her. Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,\nweaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all\ntheir lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the\nechoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's\nstep was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal. Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an\nunruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the\nplane-tree in the garden! Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not\nharsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a\npillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant\nsmile, \"Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to\nleave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!\" those were not\ntears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit\ndeparted from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and\nforbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words! Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other\nechoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath\nof Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were\nmingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed\nmurmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as\nthe little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or\ndressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of\nthe Two Cities that were blended in her life. The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some\nhalf-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in\nuninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once\ndone often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing\nregarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by\nall true echoes for ages and ages. No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a\nblameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,\nbut her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive\ndelicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in\nsuch a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton\nwas the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,\nand he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of\nhim, almost at the last. \"Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!\" Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine\nforcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in\nhis wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually\nin a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped\nlife of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and\nstronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made\nit the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his\nstate of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of\nrising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with\nproperty and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them\nbut the straight hair of their dumpling heads. These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most\noffensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three\nsheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to\nLucie's husband: delicately saying \"Halloa! here are three lumps of\nbread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!\" The polite\nrejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.\nStryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the\ntraining of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the\npride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of\ndeclaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts\nMrs. Darnay had once put in practice to \"catch\" him, and on the\ndiamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him \"not\nto be caught.\" Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally\nparties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the\nlatter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed\nit himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an\noriginally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried\noff to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way. These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes\namused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little\ndaughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her\nchild's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active\nand self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told. Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself\nwith such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any\nwaste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet\nin her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her\nmore devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the\nmany times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed\nto divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her \"What is\nthe magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,\nas if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to\nhave too much to do?\" But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly\nin the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about\nlittle Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,\nas of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising. On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.\nLorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and\nher husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were\nall three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the\nlightning from the same place. \"I began to think,\" said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, \"that\nI should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of\nbusiness all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way\nto turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a\nrun of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able\nto confide their property to us fast enough.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-03 The user is reading a book]\n<User> There is positively a mania\namong some of them for sending it to England.\" \"That has a bad look,\" said Darnay--\n\n\"A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason\nthere is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are\ngetting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course\nwithout due occasion.\" \"Still,\" said Darnay, \"you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.\" \"I know that, to be sure,\" assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade\nhimself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, \"but I\nam determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is\nManette?\" \"Here he is,\" said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment. \"I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by\nwhich I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without\nreason. You are not going out, I hope?\" \"No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,\" said the\nDoctor. \"I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be\npitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't\nsee.\" \"Of course, it has been kept for you.\" \"Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?\" \"And sleeping soundly.\" \"That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be\notherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out\nall day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,\ncome and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear\nthe echoes about which you have your theory.\" \"Not a theory; it was a fancy.\" \"A fancy, then, my wise pet,\" said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. \"They\nare very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!\" Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's\nlife, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the\nfootsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in\nthe dark London window. Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows\nheaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy\nheads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous\nroar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms\nstruggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:\nall the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a\nweapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off. Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what\nagency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the\nheads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could\nhave told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,\npowder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every\nweapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who\ncould lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to\nforce stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and\nheart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat. Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented\nwith a passionate readiness to sacrifice it. As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging\ncircled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron\nhad a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,\nalready begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,\nthrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm\nanother, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar. \"Keep near to me, Jacques Three,\" cried Defarge; \"and do you, Jacques\nOne and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these\npatriots as you can. Where is my wife?\" \"Eh, well! Here you see me!\" said madame, composed as ever, but not\nknitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,\nin place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol\nand a cruel knife. \"Where do you go, my wife?\" \"I go,\" said madame, \"with you at present. You shall see me at the head\nof women, by-and-bye.\" \"Come, then!\" cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. \"Patriots and\nfriends, we are ready! The Bastille!\" With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped\ninto the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on\ndepth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums\nbeating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack\nbegan. Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great\ntowers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through\nthe smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against\na cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the\nwine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours. Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,\ncannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! \"Work, comrades\nall, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques\nTwo Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all\nthe Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!\" Thus Defarge of the\nwine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot. \"To me, women!\" cried madame his wife. \"What! We can kill as well as\nthe men when the place is taken!\" And to her, with a shrill thirsty\ncry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and\nrevenge. Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single\ndrawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight\ndisplacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing\nweapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work\nat neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,\nexecrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the\nfurious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the\nsingle drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great\ntowers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot\nby the service of Four fierce hours. A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly\nperceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly\nthe sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the\nwine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer\nwalls, in among the eight great towers surrendered! So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to\ndraw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been\nstruggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the\nouter courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he\nmade a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;\nMadame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the\ninner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,\nexultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet\nfurious dumb-show. \"The Prisoners!\" \"The Records!\" \"The secret cells!\" \"The instruments of torture!\" \"The Prisoners!\" Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, \"The Prisoners!\" was\nthe cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an\neternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost\nbillows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and\nthreatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained\nundisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of\nthese men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his\nhand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the\nwall. \"Show me the North Tower!\" said Defarge. \"Quick!\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-03, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-06 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"I will faithfully,\" replied the man, \"if you will come with me. But\nthere is no one there.\" \"What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?\" asked\nDefarge. \"Quick!\" \"The meaning, monsieur?\" \"Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I\nshall strike you dead?\" \"Kill him!\" croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up. \"Monsieur, it is a cell.\" \"Show it me!\" \"Pass this way, then.\" Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed\nby the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,\nheld by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had\nbeen close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much\nas they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the\nnoise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and\nits inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around\noutside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,\noccasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the\nair like spray. Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past\nhideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,\nand again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry\nwaterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,\nlinked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and\nthere, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;\nbut when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a\ntower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls\nand arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible\nto them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had\ncome had almost destroyed their sense of hearing. The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung\nthe door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed\nin:\n\n\"One hundred and five, North Tower!\" There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,\nwith a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by\nstooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred\nacross, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes\non the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were\nthe four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them. \"Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,\" said\nDefarge to the turnkey. The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes. \"Stop!--Look here, Jacques!\" \"A. M.!\" croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily. \"Alexandre Manette,\" said Defarge in his ear, following the letters\nwith his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. \"And here he\nwrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched\na calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it\nme!\" He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden\nexchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and\ntable, beat them to pieces in a few blows. \"Hold the light higher!\" he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. \"Look\namong those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,\"\nthrowing it to him; \"rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the\nlight higher, you!\" With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,\npeering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,\nand worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar\nand dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and\nin it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney\ninto which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a\ncautious touch. \"Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?\" \"Nothing.\" \"Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light\nthem, you!\" The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping\nagain to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and\nretraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense\nof hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once\nmore. They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint\nAntoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard\nupon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people. Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for\njudgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's\nblood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be\nunavenged. In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to\nencompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red\ndecoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a\nwoman's. \"See, there is my husband!\" she cried, pointing him out. \"See Defarge!\" She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and\nremained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through\nthe streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable\nclose to him when he was got near his destination, and began to\nbe struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the\nlong-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him\nwhen he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot\nupon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head. The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea\nof hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint\nAntoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the\niron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the\ngovernor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge\nwhere she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. \"Lower\nthe lamp yonder!\" cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new\nmeans of death; \"here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!\" The\nswinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on. The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving\nof wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces\nwere yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,\nvoices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering\nuntil the touch of pity could make no mark on them. But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was\nin vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so\nfixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore\nmore memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly\nreleased by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high\noverhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last\nDay were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits. Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose\ndrooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive\nfaces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;\nfaces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped\nlids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, \"THOU DIDST\nIT!\" Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the\naccursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters\nand other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken\nhearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint\nAntoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven\nhundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,\nand keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,\nand dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask\nat Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once\nstained red. XXII.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-06, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-08 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The Sea Still Rises\n\n\nHaggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften\nhis modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with\nthe relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame\nDefarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers. Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of\nSpies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting\nthemselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a\nportentously elastic swing with them. Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,\ncontemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several\nknots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense\nof power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on\nthe wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: \"I know how\nhard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;\nbut do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to\ndestroy life in you?\" Every lean bare arm, that had been without work\nbefore, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike. The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that\nthey could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;\nthe image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the\nlast finishing blows had told mightily on the expression. Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was\nto be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her\nsisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved\ngrocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had\nalready earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance. \"Hark!\" said The Vengeance. \"Listen, then! Who comes?\" As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine\nQuarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading\nmurmur came rushing along. \"It is Defarge,\" said madame. \"Silence, patriots!\" Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked\naround him! \"Listen, everywhere!\" said madame again. \"Listen to him!\" Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open\nmouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had\nsprung to their feet. \"Say then, my husband. What is it?\" \"News from the other world!\" \"How, then?\" cried madame, contemptuously. \"The other world?\" \"Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people\nthat they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?\" \"Everybody!\" from all throats. \"The news is of him. He is among us!\" \"Among us!\" from the universal throat again. \"And dead?\" \"Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself\nto be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have\nfound him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have\nseen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have\nsaid that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?\" Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had\nnever known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he\ncould have heard the answering cry. A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked\nsteadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum\nwas heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter. \"Patriots!\" said Defarge, in a determined voice, \"are we ready?\" Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating\nin the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and\nThe Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about\nher head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to\nhouse, rousing the women. The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked\nfrom windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into\nthe streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From\nsuch household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their\nchildren, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground\nfamished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one\nanother, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions. Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant\nFoulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of\nthese, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon\nalive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon\nwho told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread\nto give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these\nbreasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our\nsuffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my\nknees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,\nand young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,\nGive us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend\nFoulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from\nhim! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,\nwhirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they\ndropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men\nbelonging to them from being trampled under foot. Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at\nthe Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew\nhis own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out\nof the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with\nsuch a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not\na human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the\nwailing children. No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where\nthis old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent\nopen space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,\nand Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance\nfrom him in the Hall. \"See!\" cried madame, pointing with her knife. \"See the old villain bound\nwith ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back. Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!\" Madame put her knife\nunder her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play. The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of\nher satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to\nothers, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the\nclapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,\nand the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent\nexpressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at\na distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some\nwonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture\nto look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a\ntelegraph between her and the crowd outside the building. At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or\nprotection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was\ntoo much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had\nstood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got\nhim! It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge\nhad but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable\nwretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned\nher hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and\nJacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows\nhad not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high\nperches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, \"Bring him\nout! Bring him to the lamp!\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-08, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-11 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on\nhis knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,\nand stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his\nface by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always\nentreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of\naction, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one\nanother back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through\na forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one\nof the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat\nmight have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him\nwhile they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately\nscreeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have\nhim killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope\nbroke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope\nbroke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and\nheld him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the\nmouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of. Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted\nand danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when\nthe day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the\npeople's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard\nfive hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes\non flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the\nbreast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on\npikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession\nthrough the streets. Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,\nwailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by\nlong files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while\nthey waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by\nembracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them\nagain in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and\nfrayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and\nslender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in\ncommon, afterwards supping at their doors. Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of\nmost other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused\nsome nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of\ncheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full\nshare in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;\nand lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and\nhoped. It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last\nknot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in\nhusky tones, while fastening the door:\n\n\"At last it is come, my dear!\" \"Eh well!\" returned madame. \"Almost.\" Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with\nher starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the\nonly voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The\nVengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had\nthe same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon\nwas seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint\nAntoine's bosom. XXIII. Fire Rises\n\n\nThere was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where\nthe mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the\nhighway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his\npoor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the\ncrag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,\nbut not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of\nthem knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not\nbe what he was ordered. Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation. Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as\nshrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,\ndejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated\nanimals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn\nout. Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national\nblessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of\nluxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;\nnevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought\nthings to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for\nMonseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must\nbe something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it\nwas, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the\nflints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that\nits purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing\nto bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and\nunaccountable. But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like\nit. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung\nit, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures\nof the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting\nthe beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces\nof barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in\nthe appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the\ndisappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and\nbeautifying features of Monseigneur. For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the\ndust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and\nto dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in\nthinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if\nhe had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,\nand viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on\nfoot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now\na frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern\nwithout surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian\naspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a\nmender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many\nhighways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled\nwith the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods. Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,\nas he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he\ncould get from a shower of hail. The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,\nand at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects\nin what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just\nintelligible:\n\n\"How goes it, Jacques?\" \"All well, Jacques.\" \"Touch then!\" They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones. \"No dinner?\" \"Nothing but supper now,\" said the mender of roads, with a hungry face. \"It is the fashion,\" growled the man. \"I meet no dinner anywhere.\" He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and\nsteel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held\nit from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and\nthumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke. \"Touch then.\" It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this\ntime, after observing these operations. They again joined hands. \"To-night?\" said the mender of roads. \"To-night,\" said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth. \"Where?\" \"Here.\" He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at\none another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge\nof bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village. \"Show me!\" said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill. \"See!\" returned the mender of roads, with extended finger.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-11, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-12 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"You go down\nhere, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--\"\n\n\"To the Devil with all that!\" interrupted the other, rolling his eye\nover the landscape. \"_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains. Well?\" \"Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the\nvillage.\" \"Good. When do you cease to work?\" \"At sunset.\" \"Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without\nresting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you\nwake me?\" \"Surely.\" The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his\ngreat wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He\nwas fast asleep directly. As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling\naway, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to\nby silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap\nnow, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the\nheap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used\nhis tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account. The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen\nred cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of\nbeasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen\nand desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender\nof roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were\nfootsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed\nwith leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long\nleagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into\nsores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at\nsecret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept\nwith his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips. Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and\ndrawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against\nthis figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and\nlooked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no\nobstacle, tending to centres all over France. The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of\nbrightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps\nof dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed\nthem, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,\nthe mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready\nto go down into the village, roused him. \"Good!\" said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. \"Two leagues beyond the\nsummit of the hill?\" \"About.\" \"About. Good!\" The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him\naccording to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,\nsqueezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and\nappearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village. When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,\nas it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A\ncurious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered\ntogether at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of\nlooking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,\nchief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top\nalone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his\nchimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to\nthe sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need\nto ring the tocsin by-and-bye. The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its\nsolitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened\nthe pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace\nflights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a\nswift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through\nthe hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the\nstairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis\nhad slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four\nheavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the\nbranches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four\nlights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all\nwas black again. But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely\nvisible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous. Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,\npicking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,\nand windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter. Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the\nstone faces awakened, stared out of fire. A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left\nthere, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was\nspurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the\nspace by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur\nGabelle's door. \"Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!\" The tocsin rang\nimpatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The\nmender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood\nwith folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the\nsky. \"It must be forty feet high,\" said they, grimly; and never moved. The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away\nthrough the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on\nthe crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;\nremoved from them, a group of soldiers. \"Help, gentlemen--officers! The\nchateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by\ntimely aid! Help, help!\" The officers looked towards the soldiers who\nlooked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting\nof lips, \"It must burn.\" As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the\nvillage was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and\nfifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of\nlighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in\nevery dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,\noccasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of\nMonsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on\nthat functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to\nauthority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,\nand that post-horses would roast. The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and\nraging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the\ninfernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising\nand falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in\ntorment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the\ntwo dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke\nagain, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake\nand contending with the fire. The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,\nscorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce\nfigures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten\nlead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran\ndry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the\nheat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and\nsplits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied\nbirds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures\ntrudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded\nroads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next\ndestination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,\nabolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-12, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-14 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and\nbell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with\nthe collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment\nof taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter\ndays--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his\nhouse, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,\nMonsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel\nwith himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again\nwithdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time\nresolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man\nof retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the\nparapet, and crush a man or two below. Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the\ndistant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,\ncombined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an\nill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,\nwhich the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour. A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of\nthe black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur\nGabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the\nrush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,\nand Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that\nwhile. Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were\nother functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom\nthe rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they\nhad been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople\nless fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the\nfunctionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up\nin their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,\nNorth, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned. The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,\nno functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate\nsuccessfully. XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock\n\n\nIn such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by\nthe rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the\nflow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on\nthe shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays\nof little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful\ntissue of the life of her home. Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in\nthe corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging\nfeet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of\na people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in\ndanger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted\nin. Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of\nhis not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as\nto incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and\nthis life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with\ninfinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could\nask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after\nboldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,\nand performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no\nsooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels. The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the\nmark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good\neye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,\nSardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped\nout and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its\noutermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was\nall gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and\n\"suspended,\" when the last tidings came over. The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was\ncome, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide. As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of\nMonseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to\nhaunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur\nwithout a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be. Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most\nto be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent\nhouse, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen\nfrom their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming\nstorm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made\nprovident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there\nby their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer\nfrom France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as\na matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that\ntime, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this\nwas so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in\nconsequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news\nout in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran\nthrough Temple Bar to read. On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles\nDarnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The\npenitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now\nthe news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an\nhour or so of the time of closing. \"But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,\" said Charles\nDarnay, rather hesitating, \"I must still suggest to you--\"\n\n\"I understand. That I am too old?\" said Mr. Lorry. \"Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a\ndisorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.\" \"My dear Charles,\" said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, \"you touch\nsome of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe\nenough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard\nupon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth\ninterfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a\ndisorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our\nHouse here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of\nold, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the\nlong journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit\nmyself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all\nthese years, who ought to be?\" \"I wish I were going myself,\" said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,\nand like one thinking aloud. \"Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!\" exclaimed Mr.\nLorry. \"You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You\nare a wise counsellor.\" \"My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the\nthought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through\nmy mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for\nthe miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,\" he spoke\nhere in his former thoughtful manner, \"that one might be listened to,\nand might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,\nafter you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--\"\n\n\"When you were talking to Lucie,\" Mr. Lorry repeated. \"Yes. I wonder you\nare not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to\nFrance at this time of day!\" \"However, I am not going,\" said Charles Darnay, with a smile. \"It is\nmore to the purpose that you say you are.\" \"And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,\" Mr. Lorry\nglanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, \"you can have no\nconception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and\nof the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-14, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-17 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The\nLord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers\nof people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they\nmight be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set\nafire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these\nwith the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise\ngetting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of\nprecious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall\nI hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose\nbread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about\nthe joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!\" \"How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.\" \"Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,\" said Mr. Lorry, glancing at\nthe House again, \"you are to remember, that getting things out of\nParis at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an\nimpossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought\nto us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to\nwhisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,\nevery one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed\nthe Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily\nas in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.\" \"And do you really go to-night?\" \"I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of\ndelay.\" \"And do you take no one with you?\" \"All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing\nto say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my\nbodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him. Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or\nof having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his\nmaster.\" \"I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and\nyouthfulness.\" \"I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little\ncommission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and\nlive at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.\" This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with\nMonseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he\nwould do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too\nmuch the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it\nwas much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this\nterrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under\nthe skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or\nomitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched\nmillions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that\nshould have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,\nyears before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such\nvapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the\nrestoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,\nand worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured\nwithout some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was\nsuch vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood\nin his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had\nalready made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so. Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his\nway to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching\nto Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating\nthem from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for\naccomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition\nof eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard\nwith a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between\ngoing away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his\nword, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out. The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter\nbefore him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to\nwhom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay\nthat he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right\nname. The address, turned into English, ran:\n\n\"Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of\nFrance. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,\nLondon, England.\" On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and\nexpress request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should\nbe--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate\nbetween them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no\nsuspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none. \"No,\" said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; \"I have referred it,\nI think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this\ngentleman is to be found.\" The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there\nwas a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He\nheld the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the\nperson of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at\nit in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,\nand The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in\nEnglish, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found. \"Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the\npolished Marquis who was murdered,\" said one. \"Happy to say, I never\nknew him.\" \"A craven who abandoned his post,\" said another--this Monseigneur had\nbeen got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of\nhay--\"some years ago.\" \"Infected with the new doctrines,\" said a third, eyeing the direction\nthrough his glass in passing; \"set himself in opposition to the last\nMarquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to\nthe ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.\" \"Hey?\" cried the blatant Stryver. \"Did he though? Is that the sort of\nfellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!\" Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on\nthe shoulder, and said:\n\n\"I know the fellow.\" \"Do you, by Jupiter?\" said Stryver. \"I am sorry for it.\" \"Why?\" \"Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these\ntimes.\" \"But I do ask why?\" \"Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to\nhear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,\nwho, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that\never was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth\nthat ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a\nman who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry\nbecause I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's\nwhy.\" Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and\nsaid: \"You may not understand the gentleman.\" \"I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,\" said Bully\nStryver, \"and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_\nunderstand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also\ntell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position\nto this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,\ngentlemen,\" said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,\n\"I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never\nfind a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such\nprecious _proteges_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair\nof heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-17, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-20 The user is reading a book]\n<User> With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver\nshouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of\nhis hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,\nin the general departure from the Bank. \"Will you take charge of the letter?\" said Mr. Lorry. \"You know where to\ndeliver it?\" \"I do.\" \"Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been\naddressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and\nthat it has been here some time?\" \"I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?\" \"From here, at eight.\" \"I will come back, to see you off.\" Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,\nDarnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the\nletter, and read it. These were its contents:\n\n\n\"Prison of the Abbaye, Paris. \"June 21, 1792. \"MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS. \"After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the\nvillage, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and\nbrought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a\ngreat deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the\nground. \"The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,\nand for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my\nlife (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against\nthe majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an\nemigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not\nagainst, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,\nbefore the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the\nimposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had\nhad recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for\nan emigrant, and where is that emigrant? \"Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that\nemigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he\nnot come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,\nI send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your\nears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris! \"For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of\nyour noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to\nsuccour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh\nMonsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me! \"From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and\nnearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the\nassurance of my dolorous and unhappy service. \"Your afflicted,\n\n\"Gabelle.\" The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life\nby this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose\nonly crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so\nreproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple\nconsidering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby. He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated\nthe bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his\nresentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his\nconscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,\nhe had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,\nhis renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own\nmind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have\nsystematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to\ndo it, and that it had never been done. The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being\nalways actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time\nwhich had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week\nannihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week\nfollowing made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of\nthese circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still\nwithout continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched\nthe times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled\nuntil the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from\nFrance by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of\nconfiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,\nwas as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in\nFrance that might impeach him for it. But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so\nfar from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had\nrelinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no\nfavour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own\nbread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate\non written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little\nthere was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have\nin the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in\nthe summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his\nown safety, so that it could not but appear now. This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,\nthat he would go to Paris. Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven\nhim within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him\nto itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted\nhim on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible\nattraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being\nworked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who\ncould not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,\ntrying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy\nand humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching\nhim, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the\nbrave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison\n(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,\nwhich had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were\ncoarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's\nletter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his\njustice, honour, and good name. His resolution was made. He must go to Paris. Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he\nstruck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention\nwith which he had done what he had done, even although he had left\nit incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be\ngratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert\nit. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the\nsanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even\nsaw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging\nRevolution that was running so fearfully wild. As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that\nneither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone. Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always\nreluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,\nshould come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in\nthe balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his\nsituation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety\nto avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not\ndiscuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence\nin his course. He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to\nreturn to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived\nin Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say\nnothing of his intention now. A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was\nbooted and equipped. \"I have delivered that letter,\" said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. \"I\nwould not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but\nperhaps you will take a verbal one?\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-20, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-22 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"That I will, and readily,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"if it is not dangerous.\" \"Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.\" \"What is his name?\" said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his\nhand. \"Gabelle.\" \"Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?\" \"Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'\" \"Any time mentioned?\" \"He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.\" \"Any person mentioned?\" \"No.\" He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,\nand went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the\nmisty air of Fleet-street. \"My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,\" said\nMr. Lorry at parting, \"and take precious care of them till I come back.\" Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage\nrolled away. That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote\ntwo fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation\nhe was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons\nthat he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no\npersonal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and\ntheir dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the\nstrongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters\nin proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival. It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first\nreservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to\npreserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious. But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him\nresolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,\nso strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and\nthe day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her\nscarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye\n(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise\nof clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy\nstreets, with a heavier heart. The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides\nand winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his\ntwo letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before\nmidnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey. \"For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of\nyour noble name!\" was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened\nhis sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and\nfloated away for the Loadstone Rock. The end of the second book. Book the Third--the Track of a Storm\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-22, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-22", "answer": "Lucie, Charles Darnay, little Lucie, Sydney Carton, Stryver, wealthy widow, Mr. Lorry, Tellson's Bank, social unrest, France, Saint Antoine, Defarge's wine shop, revolution, Bastille prison, Madame Defarge, pistols, saber, Monsieur Defarge, Doctor Manette, one-hundred-and-five north tower, A.M. initials, The Vengeance, Foulon, Hall of Examination, lamppost hanging, grass in mouth, Foulon's son-in-law, mender of roads, Marquis' chateau, conflagration, Monsieur Gabelle, exile in England, Jerry Cruncher, The Marquis St. Evrmonde, letter from Gabelle, charges of treason, Paris, letters for Lucie, letters for Doctor Manette, emotional attachment, companionship of the district, blight upon the lands, aristocracy fleeing, revolutionary Paris, July, three years pass, fountain, candle-lit houses, governor's death, heads on pikes, siege of Bastille, mob violence, prisoner release, aristocrats-in-exile, trip to France, defense of Evrmonde, letter delivery, decision to go to Paris, hope to help revolution"}]