“I tell you,” shouted Denisov, “he’s a capital fellow.”

Denisov still did not speak or stir; his gleaming black eyes glanced now and then at Rostov.

“Your pride is dear to you, you don’t want to apologise,” continued the staff-captain, “but we old fellows, as we grew up in the regiment and, please God, we hope to die in it, it’s the honour of the regiment is dear to us, and Bogdanitch knows that. Ah, isn’t it dear to us! But this isn’t right; it’s not right! You may take offence or not; but I always speak the plain truth. It’s not right!”

And the staff-captain got up and turned away from Rostov.

“That’s the truth, damn it!” shouted Denisov, jumping up. “Come, Rostov, come!”

Rostov, turning crimson and white again, looked first at one officer and then at the other.

“No, gentlemen, no … you mustn’t think … I quite understand, you’re wrong in thinking that of me … I … for me … for the honour of the regiment I’d … but why talk? I’ll prove that in action and for me the honour of the flag … well, never mind, it’s true, I’m to blame!” … There were tears in his eyes. “I’m wrong, wrong all round! Well, what more do you want?” …

“Come, that’s right, count,” cried the staff-captain, turning round and clapping him on the shoulder with his big hand.

“I tell you,” shouted Denisov, “he’s a capital fellow.”

‘That’s better, count,” repeated the captain, beginning to address him by his title as though in acknowledgment of his confession. “Go and apologise, your excellency.”

“Gentlemen, I’ll do anything, no one shall hear a word from me,” Rostov protested in an imploring voice, “but I can’t apologise, by God, I can’t, say what you will! How can I apologise, like a little boy begging pardon!”

Denisov laughed.

“It’ll be the worse for you, if you don’t. Bogdanitch doesn’t forget things; he’ll make you pay for your obstinacy,” said Kirsten.

“By God, it’s not obstinacy! I can’t describe the feeling it gives me. I can’t do it.”

“Well, as you like,” said the staff-captain. “What has the scoundrel done with himself?” he asked Denisov.

“He has reported himself ill; to-morrow the order’s given for him to be struck off,” said Denisov.

“It is an illness, there’s no other way of explaining it,” said the staff-captain.

“Whether it’s illness or whether it’s not, he’d better not cross my path—I’d kill him,” Denisov shouted bloodthirstily.

“Quite so, and you talked nonsense to him, and you must apologise.”

“I permit no one to tell me I’m lying!” cried Rostov. “He told me I was lying and I told him he was lying. And there it rests. He can put me on duty every day, he can place me under arrest, but no one can compel me to apologise, because if he, as the colonel, considers it beneath his dignity to give me satisfaction, then …”

“But you wait a bit, my good fellow; you listen to me,” interrupted the staff-captain in his bass voice, calmly stroking his long whiskers. “You tell the colonel in the presence of other officers that an officer has stolen—”

“I’m not to blame for the conversation being in the presence of other officers. Possibly I ought not to have spoken before them, but I’m not a diplomatist. That’s just why I went into the hussars; I thought that here I should have no need of such finicky considerations, and he tells me I’m a liar … so let him give me satisfaction.”

“That’s all very fine, no one imagines that you’re a coward; but that’s not the point. Ask Denisov if it’s not utterly out of the question for an ensign to demand satisfaction of his colonel?”

Denisov was biting his moustache with a morose air, listening to the conversation, evidently with no desire to take part in it. To the captain’s question, he replied by a negative shake of the head.

“You speak to the colonel in the presence of other officers of this dirty business,” pursued the staff-captain. “Bogdanitch” (Bogdanitch was what they called the colonel) “snubbed you …”

“No, he didn’t. He said I was telling an untruth.”

“Quite so, and you talked nonsense to him, and you must apologise.”

“Not on any consideration!” shouted Rostov.

“I shouldn’t have expected this of you,” said the staff-captain seriously and severely. “You won’t apologise, but, my good sir, it’s not only him, but all the regiment, all of us, that you’ve acted wrongly by; you’re to blame all round. Look here; if you’d only thought it over, and taken advice how to deal with the matter, but you must go and blurt it all straight out before the officers. What was the colonel to do then? Is he to bring the officer up for trial and disgrace the whole regiment? On account of one scoundrel is the whole regiment to be put to shame? Is that the thing for him to do, to your thinking? It is not to our thinking. And Bogdanitch did the right thing. He told you that you were telling an untruth. It’s unpleasant, but what could he do? you brought it on yourself. And now when they try to smooth the thing over, you’re so high and mighty, you won’t apologise, and want to have the whole story out. You’re huffy at being put on duty, but what is it for you to apologise to an old and honourable officer! Whatever Bogdanitch may be, any way he’s an honourable and gallant old colonel; you’re offended at that, but disgracing the regiment’s nothing to you.” The staff-captain’s voice began to quaver. “You, sir, have been next to no time in the regiment; you’re here to-day, and to-morrow you’ll be passed on somewhere as an adjutant; you don’t care a straw for people saying: ‘There are thieves among the Pavlograd officers!’ But we do care! Don’t we, Denisov? Do we care?”

"Give them to me," replied the Bishop.

What are you thinking about?"

　　"I am thinking," replied the Bishop, "of a singular remark, which is to be found, I believe, in St. Augustine,--`Place your hopes in the man from whom you do not inherit.'"

　　At another time, on receiving a notification of the decease of a gentleman of the country-side, wherein not only the dignities of the dead man, but also the feudal and noble qualifications of all his relatives, spread over an entire page:

　　"What a stout back Death has!" he exclaimed.

　　"What a strange burden of titles is cheerfully imposed on him, and how much wit must men have, in order thus to press the tomb into the service of vanity!"

　　He was gifted, on occasion, with a gentle raillery, which almost always concealed a serious meaning.

　　In the course of one Lent, a youthful vicar came to D----, and preached in the cathedral. He was tolerably eloquent.

　　The subject of his sermon was charity. He urged the rich to give to the poor, in order to avoid hell, which he depicted in the most frightful manner of which he was capable, and to win paradise, which he represented as charming and desirable. Among the audience there was a wealthy retired merchant, who was somewhat of a usurer, named M. Geborand, who had amassed two millions in the manufacture of coarse cloth, serges, and woollen galloons. Never in his whole life had M. Geborand bestowed alms on any poor wretch. After the delivery of that sermon, it was observed that he gave a sou every Sunday to the poor old beggar-women at the door of the cathedral. There were six of them to share it.

　　One day the Bishop caught sight of him in the act of bestowing this charity, and said to his sister, with a smile, "There is M. Geborand purchasing paradise for a sou."

　　When it was a question of charity, he was not to be rebuffed even by a refusal, and on such occasions he gave utterance to remarks which induced reflection.

　　Once he was begging for the poor in a drawing-room of the town; there was present the Marquis de Champtercier, a wealthy and avaricious old man, who contrived to be, at one and the same time, an ultra-royalist and an ultra-Voltairian. This variety of man has actually existed.

　　When the Bishop came to him, he touched his arm, "You must give me something, M. le Marquis." The Marquis turned round and answered dryly, "I have poor people of my own, Monseigneur."

　　"Give them to me," replied the Bishop.

　　One day he preached the following sermon in the cathedral:--

　　 "My very dear brethren, my good friends, there are thirteen hundred and twenty thousand peasants' dwellings in France which have but three openings; eighteen hundred and seventeen thousand hovels which have but two openings, the door and one window; and three hundred and forty-six thousand cabins besides which have but one opening, the door.

　　And this arises from a thing which is called the tax on doors and windows.

　　Just put poor families, old women and little children, in those buildings, and behold the fevers and maladies which result!

　　Alas!

　　God gives air to men; the law sells it to them. I do not blame the law, but I bless God.

　　In the department of the Isere, in the Var, in the two departments of the Alpes, the Hautes, and the Basses, the peasants have not even wheelbarrows; they transport their manure on the backs of men; they have no candles, and they burn resinous sticks, and bits of rope dipped in pitch. That is the state of affairs throughout the whole of the hilly country of Dauphine.

　　They make bread for six months at one time; they bake it with dried cow-dung. In the winter they break this bread up with an axe, and they soak it for twenty-four hours, in order to render it eatable.

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There was a blank silence.

CHAPTER X

Two Promises

MORE months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were to be, were not yet of the

That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation, he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.

He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a very energetic man indeed with great firmness of purpose, strength of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.

He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.

`Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.

`I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,' he answered, a little coldly as to chem, though very warmly as to the Doctor. `Miss Manette---'

`Is well,' said the Doctor, as he stopped short, `and your return will delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will soon be home.'

`Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her being from home, to beg to speak to you.'

There was a blank silence.

`Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from JACQUES.'

What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life, down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the fountain.

All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of the people of the chaateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend, and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle (double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of the German ballad of Leonora?

It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chaateau.

The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited through about two hundred years.

It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:

`Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from JACQUES.'