第96章 BOOK THE THIRD：THE TRACK OF A STORM(11)

Among these terrors，and the brood belonging to them，the Doctor walked with a steady head；confident in his power，cautiously persistent in his end，never doubting that he would have Lucie's husband at last. Yet the current of the time swept by，so strong and deep，and carried the time away so fiercely，that Charles had lain in prison one year and three months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident.So much more wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month，that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the violently drowned by night，and prisoners were shot in lines and squares under the southern wintry sun.Still，the Doctor walked among the terrors with a steady head.No man better known than he，in Paris at that day；no man in a stranger situation.Silent，humane，indispensable in hospital and prison，using his art equally among assassins and victim，he was a man apart.In the exercise of his skill，the appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all other men.He was not suspected or brought in question，any more than if he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before，or were a spirit moving among mortals.

XXXV.THE WOOD-SAWYER

O ne year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never sure，from hour to hour，but that the Guillotine would strike off her husband's head next day.Every day，through the stony streets，the tumbrils now jolted heavily，filled with Condemned.Lovely girls；bright women，brown-haired，black-haired，and grey；youths；stalwart men and old；gentle born and peasant born；all red wine for La Guillotine，all daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons，and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.Liberty，Equality，Fraternity，or Death；—the last，much the easiest to bestow，O Guillotine！

If the suddenness of her calamity，and the whirling wheels of the time，had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle 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 fresh young bosom in the garret of Saint Antoine，she had been true to her duties.She was truest to them in the season of trial，as all the quietly loyal and good will always be.

As soon as they were established in their new residence，and her father had entered on the routine of his avocations，she arranged the little household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had its appointed place and its appointed time.Little Lucie she taught，as regularly，as if they had all been united in their English home.The slight devices with which shecheated herself into the show of a belief that they would soon be reunited—the little preparations for his speedy return，the setting aside of his chair and his books—these，and the solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially，among the many unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death—were almost the only outspoken reliefs of her 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 neat and 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 and comely.Sometimes，at night on kissing her father，she would burst into the grief she had repressed all day，and would say that her sole reliance，under Heaven，was on him.He always resolutely answered：'Nothing can happen to him without my knowledge，and I know that I can 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 Charles can sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to it—which depends on many uncertainties and incidents—he might see you in the street，he thinks，if you stood in a certain place that I can show you.But you will not be able to see him，my poor child，and even if you could，it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.'

'Oh 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 child to 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 only house at that end；all else was wall.On the third day of her being there，he noticed her.

'Good day，citizeness.'

'Good day，citizen.'

This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been established voluntarily some time ago，among the more thorough patriots；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 to represent 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 she appeared.

'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 his head comes！'

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