Book III - Chapter V. The Wood-Sawyer

by Charles Dickens

　　One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was neversure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off herhusband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, thetumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls;bright women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwartmen and old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for LaGuillotine, all daily brought into light from the dark cellars of theloathsome prisons, and carried to her through the streets to slakeher devouring thirst. Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--thelast, much the easiest to bestow, O Guillotine!

　　If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of thetime, had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result inidle despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many.But, from the hour when she had taken the white head to her freshyoung bosom in the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to herduties. She was truest to them in the season of trial, as all thequietly loyal and good will always be.

　　As soon as they were established in their new residence, and herfather had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged thelittle household as exactly as if her husband had been there.Everything had its appointed place and its appointed time. LittleLucie she taught, as regularly, as if they had all been united intheir English home. The slight devices with which she cheatedherself into the show of a belief that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy return, the setting aside ofhis chair and his books--these, and the solemn prayer at night forone dear prisoner especially, among the many unhappy souls in prisonand the shadow of death--were almost the only outspoken reliefs ofher heavy mind.

　　She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses,akin to mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neatand as well attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days.She lost her colour, and the old and intent expression was a constant,not an occasional, thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty andcomely. Sometimes, at night on kissing her father, she would burstinto the grief she had repressed all day, and would say that her solereliance, under Heaven, was on him. He always resolutely answered:"Nothing can happen to him without my knowledge, and I know that Ican save him, Lucie."

　　They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks,when her father said to her, on coming home one evening:

　　"My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charlescan sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can getto it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he mightsee you in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain placethat I can show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poorchild, and even if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make asign of recognition."

　　"O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day."

　　From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours.As the clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turnedresignedly away. When it was not too wet or inclement for her childto be with her, they went together; at other times she was alone;but, she never missed a single day.

　　It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street.The hovel of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the onlyhouse at that end; all else was wall. On the third day of her beingthere, he noticed her.

　　"Good day, citizeness."

　　"Good day, citizen."

　　This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had beenestablished voluntarily some time ago, among the more thoroughpatriots; but, was now law for everybody.

　　"Walking here again, citizeness?"

　　"You see me, citizen!"

　　The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture(he had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison,pointed at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face torepresent bars, peeped through them jocosely.

　　"But it's not my business," said he. And went on sawing his wood.

　　Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment sheappeared.

　　"What? Walking here again, citizeness?"

　　"Yes, citizen."

　　"Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?"

　　"Do I say yes, mamma?" whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.

　　"Yes, dearest."

　　"Yes, citizen."

　　"Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw!I call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off hishead comes!"

　　The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.

　　"I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off her head comes! Now, a child.Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off its head comes. All the family!"

　　Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but itwas impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and notbe in his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she alwaysspoke to him first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readilyreceived.

　　He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quiteforgotten him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in liftingher heart up to her husband, she would come to herself to find himlooking at her, with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in itswork. "But it's not my business!" he would generally say at thosetimes, and would briskly fall to his sawing again.

　　In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter windsof spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, andagain in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours ofevery day at this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed theprison wall. Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) itmight be once in five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running:it might be, not for a week or a fortnight together. It was enoughthat he could and did see her when the chances served, and on thatpossibility she would have waited out the day, seven days a week.

　　These occupations brought her round to the December month, whereinher father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On alightly-snowing afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was aday of some wild rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses,as she came along, decorated with little pikes, and with little redcaps stuck upon them; also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with thestandard inscription (tricoloured letters were the favourite),Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!

　　The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its wholesurface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had gotsomebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death inwith most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayedpike and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he hadstationed his saw inscribed as his "Little Sainte Guillotine"--for the great sharp female was by that time popularly canonised.His shop was shut and he was not there, which was a relief to Lucie,and left her quite alone.

　　But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movementand a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A momentafterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner bythe prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand inhand with The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundredpeople, and they were dancing like five thousand demons. There wasno other music than their own singing. They danced to the popularRevolution song, keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing ofteeth in unison. Men and women danced together, women dancedtogether, men danced together, as hazard had brought them together.At first, they were a mere storm of coarse red caps and coarsewoollen rags; but, as they filled the place, and stopped to danceabout Lucie, some ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone ravingmad arose among them. They advanced, retreated, struck at oneanother's hands, clutched at one another's heads, spun round alone,caught one another and spun round in pairs, until many of themdropped. While those were down, the rest linked hand in hand, andall spun round together: then the ring broke, and in separate ringsof two and four they turned and turned until they all stopped atonce, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then reversed thespin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped again,paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width ofthe public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands highup, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terribleas this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something,once innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastimechanged into a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses,and steeling the heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it theuglier, showing how warped and perverted all things good by naturewere become. The maidenly bosom bared to this, the prettyalmost-child's head thus distracted, the delicate foot mincing inthis slough of blood and dirt, were types of the disjointed time.

　　This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened andbewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the featherysnow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.

　　"O my father!" for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyesshe had momentarily darkened with her hand; "such a cruel, bad sight."

　　"I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't befrightened! Not one of them would harm you."

　　"I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of myhusband, and the mercies of these people--"

　　"We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbingto the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see.You may kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof."

　　"I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!"

　　"You cannot see him, my poor dear?"

　　"No, father," said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,"no."

　　A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. "I salute you, citizeness,"from the Doctor. "I salute you, citizen." This in passing. Nothingmore. Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.

　　"Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulnessand courage, for his sake. That was well done;" they had left the spot;"it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow."

　　"For to-morrow!"

　　"There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there areprecautions to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actuallysummoned before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet,but I know that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, andremoved to the Conciergerie; I have timely information.You are not afraid?"

　　She could scarcely answer, "I trust in you."

　　"Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; heshall be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed himwith every protection. I must see Lorry."

　　He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing.They both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Threetumbrils faring away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.

　　"I must see Lorry," the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.

　　The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it.He and his books were in frequent requisition as to propertyconfiscated and made national. What he could save for the owners, hesaved. No better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had inkeeping, and to hold his peace.

　　A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denotedthe approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived atthe Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogetherblighted and deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court,ran the letters: National Property. Republic One and Indivisible.Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!

　　Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat uponthe chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he comeout, agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? Towhom did he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising hisvoice and turning his head towards the door of the room from which hehad issued, he said: "Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned forto-morrow?"