A Tale of Two Cities - Dave Mckay, Charles Dickens (the kiss of deception read online .TXT) 📗

part of this earth. It has nothing in it for me -- apart from wines like this -- and I have nothing for it. So we are very different in that way. In truth, I am starting to think that we are not the same in anything, you and I."

Confused by all that happened that day, and feeling that his being there with this awful man was like a dream, Charles Darnay did not know how to answer. In the end, he did not answer at all.

"Now that your dinner is finished," Carton said after some time, why don't we drink to someone? You name it."

"Drink to someone? To whom?"

"Just say it. It's on the end of your tongue.”

"Miss Manette, then!"

"Miss Manette, then!"

Looking straight in the other man's face, while drinking to Miss Manette, Carton threw his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it broke into pieces. Then he shook the bell and asked for another.

"That was a beautiful young woman to give to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!" he said, filling his new glass.

A small look of anger and a smaller word, "Yes", were Darnay's answer.

"She's a nice young woman to be crying for you and feeling sorry for you! How does it feel? Is it worth the danger of almost losing your life to receive such love, Mr. Darnay?"

Darnay said nothing.

"She was very happy to hear what you said when I gave it to her. Not that she showed it, but I think she was."

This made Darnay remember that this man had freely helped to save his life. So he changed the talk to that, and thanked him for his help.

"I don't want thanks, and I have done nothing to receive it," was Carton's answer. "It was nothing to do, in the first place, and I don't know why I did it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question."

"Gladly. It is a small return for your help."

"Do you think that I like you?"

"Really, Mr. Carton," he answered, worried about where this was leading, "I have not asked myself this question."

"So ask yourself now."

"You have acted like you do, but I don't think you do."

"I don't think I do," said Carton. "But I do think you have understood me well."

"All the same," Darnay went on, reaching to ring the bell, "I hope there is nothing in that to stop me from paying for our drinks, and leaving without bad blood on either side."

"Nothing at all," Carton answered. "Are you going to pay for everything?” When Darnay said he was, Carton said to the servant,

"Then bring me another bottle of this same wine, and wake me at ten."

When he had paid the waiter, Charles Darnay stood up and wished Carton a good night. Without returning the wish, Carton stood up and with a touch of anger in his way of looking at Darnay, said, "A last word, Mr. Darnay; do you think I am drunk?"

"I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton."

"Think? You know I have been drinking."

"Since I must say so, yes, I know it."

"Then you shall also know why. I am a bored worker, sir. I care for no one on earth, and no one on earth cares for me."

"That is very sad. You might have used your abilities better."

"Maybe so, Mr. Darnay; maybe not. But don't let your serious face lift you up too much. You don't know what it may come to. Good night!"

When he was alone, this strange man took a candle, walked over to a mirror on the wall, and looked at himself closely in it.

"Do you like the man?” he whispered, looking at his own face. "Why should you like a man who looks like you? There is nothing in you to like; you know that. Ah, be gone with you! How you have changed! A good reason to like the man is that he has showed you where you have failed, and what you could have been. Change places with him, and would you have been looked at with as much love by those blue eyes as what he received? Come out with it and speak the truth. You hate him."

He returned to his wine, finished it all in a few minutes, and fell asleep on his arms with his hair hanging across the table.

5. The Wild Dog

In those days men were often given to drinking, and it is a sign of how much we have changed to say that what a man could drink in one night then without anyone thinking badly of him would greatly surprise a person today. Well educated lawyers were not one step behind people in any other job when it came to drinking, and Mr. Stryver was shouldering his way to the front in this part of being a lawyer as well as he had ever done in the drier parts of being a lawyer.

By winning cases at a number of courts, Mr. Stryver had been doing well on the lower steps of a ladder leading to a much higher target. In the garden of wigs that was his work place, he was like a great sunflower reaching to be taller than all around him, in the hope that one day he could take the place of the judge himself.

Some lawyers had once said that Mr. Stryver was able, willing, and brave enough to break any rule to get to the top, but that he did not have the ability to find the most important point in an argument when preparing a case. But of late, he had changed in a surprising way. The more business he got, the better he became at getting to the point that was most needed; and he could stay up as late as he liked partying with his friends, and still put his finger right on what was needed the next morning.

Sydney Carton, the laziest of men, was Stryver's great helper. The beer and wine that these two men went through would have been enough to sail a ship in, but Carton was always there with Stryver in any court he visited, with his hands in his pockets, looking at the roof of the court. They went to the same places, and would drink far into the night, with word being that Carton often walked home drunk well after the sun had come up, like a cat that had been out all night. For those who were interested in the man, word soon went around that Carton, who would never be a lion, had learned to be a wild dog, living off the work of his lion-like friend, Stryver.

"Ten o'clock, sir," said the man at the hotel when he had tried to wake him. "Ten o'clock, sir."

"What is that?"

"Ten o'clock, sir."

"What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?” "Yes, sir. You told me to call you."

"Oh, yes, I remember. Very well, very well."

After trying weakly a few times to get back to sleep, wisely made difficult by noises from the owner, who was at the fireplace pushing and pulling coals and pieces of timber, Mr. Carton got up, put his hat on, and walked out. He went through a few streets before coming to Mr. Stryver's rooms.

Mr. Stryver's office worker, who never helped at these late meetings, had gone home, and Stryver himself opened the door. He had open house shoes and a sleeping robe on, and no scarf around his throat. He had that wild burned look about his eyes, which can be seen in all those of his class who lived too freely.

"You are a little late, my rememberer," said Stryver.

"Close enough. I may be fifteen minutes late."

They went into a dark room with books covering the walls and papers everywhere, where a fire was burning, and a kettle was on it. In the middle of all the papers was a table with wine and spirits on it, as well as sugar and lemons.

"I see that you have had your bottle, Sydney."

"Two tonight, I think. I have been eating with our man from today, or watching him eat; it's all the same."

"That was a very good point, Sydney, that you brought up today. It helped us destroy the witness who said he had seen our man. How did you come by it? When did you see it?"

"I saw that he was very good looking, and I was thinking that I could have been very much like him with a little luck."

Mr. Stryver laughed until his big stomach was shaking. "You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work."

In a quiet, angry way, the wild dog opened his coat and went into the next room, returning with a pot of cold water, a bowl, and a cloth or two. Putting the cloths in the water and then squeezing them a little, he folded them on his head, sat down at the table, and said, "I'm ready now."

"Not much to work on tonight, my rememberer," said Mr. Stryver happily as he looked through his papers.

"How much?"

"Only two."

"Give me the worst first."

"There they are, Sydney. Fire away!"

The lion then rested back on the couch on one side of the drinking table, while the wild dog sat at his own paper-covered table on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses close at hand. They both went to the drinking table as often as they liked, but each in a different way. The lion, half lying down with one hand in his belt, and looking at the fire or at times looking with little interest at some paper; the wild dog with a knitted forehead and serious face, so deep into his work that his eyes did not even follow the hand that reached out for a glass and brought it to his lips. Two or three times the business was so difficult that the wild dog needed to get up and put more water on the cloths. From these trips to the pot and bowl, he would return with a strange wet hat that was made to look more foolish by the serious way that he went back to his work.

At last, the wild dog had fixed a small meal for the lion and he gave it to him. The lion took it with care, reading some parts and talking them over after the wild dog told him which parts he should study most seriously. When the meal was fully talked over, the lion put both hands in the belt of his pants and lay himself down to think. The wild dog then gave himself new life with a deep drink for his throat, and more water for the cloths on his head before starting to work on a second meal for the lion. By the time the lion had finished with that one, it was after three in the morning.

"And now that we've finished, Sydney, pour yourself a tall drink," said Mr. Stryver.

The wild dog took the cloths off his head, shook himself, exercised his arms and legs a little, and then did as he had been told.

"You were quite right, Sydney, with how to handle those crown witnesses today. Every question cut right to the root."

"I'm always right, am I not?"

"I won't argue that. But what has made your spirit so rough? Have another drink to smooth it."

"He made a sound to show he disagreed, but he obeyed when it came to having another drink.

"Good old Sydney Carton from Shrewsbury School," said Stryver, looking him over as he thought about him, past and present. "Good old Carton, up one minute and down the next. Now in high spirits; now wanting to die."

"Ah, yes!" the other returned, breathing out sadly. "The same Sydney with the same luck I have now. Even then I did exercises for the other boys, but not my own."

"And why not?"

"God knows. It was just my way, I think."

He sat with his hands in his pockets and his legs projecting out in front of him, as he looked at the fire.

"Carton," said his friend, squaring up with him as if the fireplace was where one learned to work hard, and the kindest thing he could do for Carton was to shoulder him into it. "Your way was always a crippled way. You never knew what you wanted. But look at me."

"Oh be gone with you!" returned Sydney with a lighter, more friendly laugh. "Don't you start preaching at me!"

"How have I done what I've done?” said Stryver. "How do I do what I do?"

"Partly by paying me to do it for you. But it is a waste of time to ask such foolish questions. You do what you want to do. And you always wanted to be the leader, while I was happy to be the follower."

"I had to get into the lead. I wasn't born there, was I?"

"I wasn't there when you were born; but I would say yes, you were born in the lead.” At this he laughed, and then they both laughed.

"Before Shrewsbury, at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury, you just dropped into your class, and I dropped into mine. Even when we studied together in Paris, you were