第45章 BOOK THE SECOND：THE GOLDEN THREAD(28)

Now，the sun was full up，and movement began in the village. Casement windows opened，crazy doors were unbarred，and people came forth shivering—chilled，as yet，by the new sweet air.Then began the rarely lightened toil of the day among the village population.Some to the fountain；some，to the fields；men and women here，to dig and delve；men and women there，to see to the poor livestock，and lead the bony cows out，to such pasture as could be found by the roadside.In the church and at the Cross，a kneeling figure or two；attendant on the latter prayers，the led cow，trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its foot.

The chateau awoke later，as became its quality，but awoke gradually and surely. First，the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been reddened as of old；then，had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine；now，doors and windows were thrown open，horses in their stables looked round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at doorways，leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows，dogs pulled hard at their chains，and reared impatient to be loosed.

All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life and the return of morning. Surely，not so the ringing of the great bell of the chateau，nor the running up and down the stairs；nor the hurried figures on the terrace；nor the booting and tramping here and there and everywhere，nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away？

What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads，already at work on the hill-top beyond the village，with hisday'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 chateau，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 chateau.

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.'

XVI.TWO PROMISES

M ore 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 Teacher class，and no ruined nobility had dropped out of Tellson's ledgers，to turn cooks and carpenters.As a tutor，whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and profitable，and as an elegant translator who brought something to his work besides mere dictionary knowledge，young Mr.Darnay soon became known and encouraged.He was well acquainted，moreover，with the circumstances of his country，and those were of ever-growing interest.So，with great perseverance and untiring industry，he prospered.

In London，he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold，nor to lie on beds of roses；if he had had any such exalted expectation，he would not have prospered. He had expected labour，and he found it，and did it，and made the best of it.In this，his prosperity consisted.

A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge，where he read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a contraband trade in European languages，instead of conveying Greek and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in London.

Now，from the days when it was always summer in Eden，to these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes，the world of a man has invariably gone one way—Charles Darnay's way—the way of the love of a woman.