It was *so* hard finding stuff for this page. -_-;; And since I haven't specified what this page is actually about, I'll do that now. ^_^ This is an itty-bitty little shrine to Sydney Carton, the TRUE hero of Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities, and the overall coolest character ever in a book EVER. ^_^;; Sydney was waaaay cooler than Charles Darnay, the "other" hero of the book.  He's the one all of the lit. teachers push as the good guy.  Don't listen to them, it's really Sydney Carton all the way.  He'd be the perfect man if he actually existed. 0_o;;

REALLY Condensed Story Summary ^^;;
The story of A Tale of Two Cities starts when Charles St. Evremonde, an aristocrat in France, leaves his uncle/caretaker who's basically a rich jerk.  Charles, fed up with being a part of the stuck up and selfish French aristocracy, changes his name to Charles Darnay and heads to England to teach French and live on his own and stuff.  On the boat on the way over, he helps recently insane Dr. Manette and his pretty daughter Lucie who are on their way back to London after a short period in Paris.  Lucie falls for him HARD.  Also on the ship, Charles hands over the papers with his pedigree to some guys.  I forget who exactly they were, but it's not important. ^_^;;

Charles winds up on trial in London, because his jerk-off uncle was pissed off and framed him.  See, at this time in history there was general anarchy an' stuff.  Charles' uncle sent a spy over to convince the British gov't that Charles was a French spy, and the papers that he handed over were important British documents.  With all the European anarchy, the gov't officials bought it pretty easily, and Lucie and her now-sane father are brought in to testify that Charles was on the boat and they saw him pass over some papers.  Lucie is heartbroken over having to testify against Charles, however this is all overshadowed by the first appearence of the ever incredible SYDNEY CARTON!!

Yes folks, Sydney is the assistant to Charles' defense lawyer.  He's lazy, unkempt, and often completely drunk, but he's also extremely clever and immediately notices that he's nearly identical to Charles in appearence.  Using this as a defense, he manages to convince the jury that it could have anyone on the ship that night, and so Charles gets to go free.  Sydney takes him out to eat, tells him that he doesn't like him, and leaves.  He's so cool. ^_^;;

So Charles loves Lucie, and they eventually get married and have a daughter also named Lucie. 0_o;; This sucks a great deal for our poor Sydney, since he also loved Lucie.  Honestly, I have no idea what they all see in her. -_-;;  At any rate, Sydney is exceptionally cool and tells Lucie that he loved her and he's glad that she's happy with Charles.  He also tells her that if they had been married instead, he probably would have only made her unhappy.  AND he says that he would give his life for her.  REMEMBER THIS. ^_^;;  Oh, and Sydney becomes best friends with her daughter, Lucie... Jr? -_-;; She's so cute with him. ^_^

But all is not well, since the revolution has started in France and Charles finds out that a family servant is to be executed unjustly.  Like a moron, he rushes off to Paris secretly even though there's nothing he can do but get his own ass in danger. -_-;; Lucie and her father, as well as their banker friend find out that Charles has been captured and put in jail in Paris, and rush over to... sit around and worry about his in Paris rather than in England.  I never understood that part. 0_o;; Seriously, Lucie's father manages to argue Charles free, but he gets captured and sentenced to execution AGAIN.  Sucks to be him.

And yet all is not lost, for here comes overly awesome Sydney Carton to save the day!!  He hears about Charles' plight, and secretly goes to Paris to help him for Lucie's sake.  Using a spy to gain entrance to the prison Charles is kept in, he switches places with him the night before he goes to the guillotine.  WHY?  Poor Sydney is now doomed, and loser Charles gets to go free all for the sake of moron Lucie's happiness.  Bah. -_-;; But in Charles' defense, he didn't go willingly and Sydney had to knock him unconscious to get him out. Damn he's cool. ^_^;;

So the Darnays escape back to London, and the best part of the story starts.

 Sydney, on the way to have his head off in Charles' place, meets a pretty young seamstress, also unfairly accused and sentenced to death.  She's understandably scared, but she's fallen in love with Sydney and tells him that she thinks she can be brave if she can hold his hand.  So he lets her, and then as they wait for their turn at the guillotine, he makes her face him so she won't be frightened by the blood.  Before they both die, she kisses him.  Now come on, you can't deny how utterly *cool* Sydney Carton is after all that. ^_^;;

There's lots of other little plot thingys, but they mostly don't involve Sydney so who the Hell cares? ^v^;;

I've read the book, and seen the Tv movie version with Chris Sarandon as both Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton.  I really recommend this movie to anyone who likes the book - Chris is hot (Or was, since he's old now...), and really cool in the role as Sydney.  The chick who played Lucie annoyed me, but Lucie always annoys me.  She's just.... annoying. Yeah. There ya go. 0_o;;  Oh, For those of you who've seen The Princess Bride, Chris Sarandon plays Prince Humperdink. ^_^;;  I first saw that movie when I was, like, five and the prince was my first crush. ^^;;

Spiffy-riffic (Long!) quotes by/about Sydney from the book
The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great attention and curiosity at the prisoner. -- Sydney is the wigged gentleman who was staring at the ceiling. This is him saving Charles' ass the first time. ^_^ -- sorellie

`You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?' The witness was quite sure. `Did you
ever see anybody very like the prisoner?' Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken. `Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,' pointing to him who had tossed the paper over, `and then look well upon the prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?'
Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise, not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which was, to smash this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to useless lumber. -- So... to make a REALLY long story short, Sydney looks like Charles. ^_^;; -- sorellie

Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court, changed neither his place nor his
attitude, even in this excitement. While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before
him, whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself
arose from his seat, and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion in
the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man sat leaning back, with his torn
gown half off him, his untidy wig put on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness, when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the observation to his next neighbour, and added, `I'd hold half a guinea that he don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one to get any, do he?' -- To translate, Sydney is a slob and Charles isn't. ^_^;; -- sorellie

Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he appeared to take in; for now,
when Miss Manette's head dropped upon her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say
audibly: `Officer! look to that young lady. Help, the gentleman to take her out. Don't you see she will fall!'

Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood, half turned from the
prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar. `I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.' `What,' said Carton, still only half turned towards him, `do you expect, Mr. Darnay?' `The worst.'
`It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their withdrawing is in your favour.

Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back to the robing-room. Another
person, who had not joined the group, or interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had
been leaning against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled out after the rest,
and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr.
Darnay stood upon the pavement. `So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?'
Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's proceedings; nobody had
known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the better for it in appearance. `If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.' Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, `You have mentioned that before, sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We have to think of the House more than ourselves.' `I know, I know,' rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. `Don't be nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better, I dare say.' `And indeed, sir,' pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, `I really don't know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very much your cider, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your business.' `Business! Bless you, I have no business,' said Mr. Carton. `It is a pity you have not, sir.' `I think so, too.' `If you had,' pursued Mr. Lorry, `perhaps you would attend to it.' `Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,' said Mr. Carton. `Well, sir!' cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference, `business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir, if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr. Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good-night, God bless you, sir! I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy life.--Chair there!' Perhaps' a little angry with himself as well as with the barrister, Mr. Lorry hustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton, who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed then, and turned to Darnay: `This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on these street stones?' `I hardly seem yet,' returned Charles Darnay, `to belong to this world again.' `I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.' `I begin to think I am faint.' `Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself while those numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.' -- This whole scene is basically Sydney being a drunken smartass ^_^;; -- sorellie

Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to Fleet-street, and so, up a
covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was
soon recruiting his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him. `Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr. Darnay?'
`I am frightfully confused regarding time and' place; but I am so far mended as to feel that.'
`It must be an immense satisfaction!' He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large one. `As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it. It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are not much alike in any particular, you and I.' Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all. `Now your dinner is done,' Carton presently said, `why don't you call a health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?' `What health? What toast?' `Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll swear it's there. `Miss Manette, then!' `Miss Manette, then!' Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another. `That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!' he said, filling his new goblet. A slight frown and a laconic `Yes,' were the answer. `That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?' Again Darnay answered not a word. `She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.' The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him for it. `I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,' was the careless rejoinder. `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.' `Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.' `Do you think I particularly like you?' `Really, Mr. Carton,' returned the other, oddly disconcerted, `I have not asked myself the question.' `But ask yourself the question now.' `You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.' `1 don't think I do,' said Carton. `I begin to have a very good opinion of your understanding.' `Nevertheless,' pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, `there is nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our parting without ill-blood on either side.' Carton rejoining, `Nothing in life!' Darnay rang. `Do you call the whole reckoning?' said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, `Then bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at ten.' The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good-night. Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat of defiance in his manner, and said, `A last word, Mr. Darnay: 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, I know it.' `Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.' `Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.' `May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you, however; you don't know what it may come to. Good-night!' When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it. `Do you particularly like the man?' he muttered, at his own image; `why should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.' He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him. -- So to summarize, Sydney goes to eat with Charles, gets drunk, pisses Charles off, decides that he hates Charles because Lucie loves him, gets drunk again, and falls alseep. Yeah! ^_^;; -- sorellie

Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great ally. What the two drank
together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas, might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had
a case in hand, anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling
of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about, among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.

`You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.' `Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or seeing him dine--it's all one!' `That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?' `I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.'

`You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses to-day. Every question told.'
`I always am sound; am I not?' `I don't gainsay it. What has roughen'ed your temper? Put some punch to it and smooth it again. With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied. `The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,' said Stryver, nodding his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, `the old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and now in despondency!' `Ah!' returned the other, sighing: `yes! The same Sydney, with the same luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.' `And why not?' `God knows. It was my way, I suppose.' He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before him, looking at the fire. `Carton,' said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air, as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, `your way is, and always was a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look at me. `Oh, botheration!' returned Sydney, with a lighter and more good-humoured laugh, `don't *you be moral!'

IF Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone the house of Doctor Manette. He
had been there often, during a whole year, and had always been the same moody and morose
lounger there. When he cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing, which
overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely pierced by the light within him.

`I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!' `No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What is to be expected of or by, such profligates?' `Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to live no better life?' `God knows it is a shame!' `Then why not change it?' Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he answered: `It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall sink lower, and be worse.' He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The table trembled in the silence that followed.

He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so sad to think how much he had
thrown away, and how much he every day kept down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept
mournfully for him as he stood looking back at her. `Be comforted!' he said, `I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted But, within myself, I shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make to you, is, that you will believe this of me.' `I will, Mr. Carton.' `My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!' He said, `Farewell!' said a last `God bless you!' and left her.

WHEN the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home many hours, when he presented
himself. He was not improved in habits, or in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air
of fidelity about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay. He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of speaking to him when no one overheard. `Mr. Darnay,' said Carton, `I wish we might be friends.'  `We are already friends, I hope.' `You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.' Charles Darnay--As was natural--Asked him, in all good-humour and good-fellowship, what he did mean?
`Upon my life,' said Carton, smiling, `I find that easier to comprehend in my own mind, than to
convey to yours. However, let me try. You remember a certain famous occasion when I was more
drunk than--than usual?' `I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that you had been drinking.' `I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day, when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to preach.'`I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you is anything but alarming to me.' `Ah!' said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that away. `On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I wish you would forget it.' `I forgot it long ago.'
`Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to me, as you represent it to be
to you. I have by no means forgotten it, and a light answer does not help me to forget it.' `If it was a light answer,' returned Darnay, `I beg your forgiveness for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you on the faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to remember, in the great service you rendered
me that day?' `As to the great service,' said Carton, `I am bound to avow to you, when you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap. I don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered It.--Mind! I say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.' `You make light of the obligation,' returned Darnay, `but I will not quarrel with your light answer.' `Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose; I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it, ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.' `I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.' `Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog who has never done any good, and never will.' `I don't know that you "never will."' `But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the resemblance I detected between you and me), an unornamental, piece of furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I dare say, to know that I had it.' `Will you try?' `That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?' `I think so, Carton, by this time.' They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.

The echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by all true echoes for ages and ages. No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother, but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms, and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little girl had spoken of him, almost at the last. `Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!'

Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye
saw it, and made the most of it.

`I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold.--Mr. Lorry, you know what a brute I am; I wish you'd give
me a little brandy.' It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.

As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him with her hands touching
one another in the attitude of prayer, and with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his feet. Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved, Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head. Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a flush of pride in it. `Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.' He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat beside the driver.
When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not many hours before, to
picture to himself on which of the rough stones of the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where her child and Miss Pross wept over her. `Don't recall her to herself,' he said, softly, to the latter, `she is better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.' `Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!' cried little Lucie, springing up and throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. `Now that you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to save papa!  O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who love her, bear to see her so?'
He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother. `Before I go,' he said, and paused--'I may kiss her?' It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome old lady, that she heard him say, `A life you love.'

Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it. `Don't despond,' said Carton, very gently; `don't grieve. I encouraged Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think "his life was wantonly thrown away or wasted," and that might trouble her.' `Yes, yes, yes,' returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, `you are right. But he will perish; there is no real hope. `Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,' echoed Carton. And walked with a settled step, down-stairs. -- For those who haven't caught on yet... This part is especially cool because Lorry is talking about Charles, and Sydney is talking about himself. ^_^;; -- sorellie

 The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton. There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's hand, and it was his real grasp. `Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?' he said. `I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You are not'--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--`a prisoner?' `No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your wife, dear Darnay.' The prisoner wrung his hand. `I bring you a request from her.'  `What is it?' `A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well remember.' The prisoner turned his face partly aside. `You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you wear, and draw on these of mine.' There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner. Carton, pressing forward, had
already, with the speed of lightning, got him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot. `Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to them. Quick!' `Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You will only die with me. It is madness.' `It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I?  When I ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like this of mine!' With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young child in his hands. `Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you not to add your death to the bitterness of mine. `Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand steady enough to write?' `It was when you came in. `Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!' Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table. Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him. `Write exactly as I speak.' `To whom do I address it?' `To no one.' Carton still had his hand in his breast. `Do I date it?'  `No.' The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with his hand in his breast, looked down. ```If you remember,''' said Carton, dictating, ```the words that passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it. You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.''' He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon something. `Have you written ``forget them!'' Carton asked. `I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?' `No; I am not armed.' `What is it in your hand?' `You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.' He dictated again. ```I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.''' As he said these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly moved down close to the writer's face. The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about him vacantly. `What vapour is that?' he asked. `Vapour?' `Something that crossed me?' `I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry!' As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him. `Hurry, hurry !` The prisoner bent over the paper, once more. ```If it had been otherwise;''' Carton's hand was again watchfully and softly stealing down; ```I never should have used the longer opportunity. If it had been otherwise;''' the hand was at the prisoner's face; ```I should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been otherwise---''' Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into unintelligible signs. Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on the ground. Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he softly called, `Enter there! Come in!' and the Spy presented himself. `You see?' said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: `is your hazard very great?' `Mr. Carton,' the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, `my hazard is not that, in the thick of business here, if you are true to the whole of your bargain.' `Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.' `You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear. `Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and take me to the coach.' `You?' said the Spy nervously. `Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which you brought me in? `Of course.' `I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands. Quick! Call assistance!' `You swear not to betray me?' said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a last moment. `Man, man!' returned Carton, stamping his foot; `have I sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious moments now? Take him yourself to the court-yard you know of, place him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!'  The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men. `How, then?' said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. `So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of Sainte Guillotine?' `A good patriot,' said the other, `could hardly have been more afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.' They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away. `The time is short, Evrémonde,' said the Spy, in a warning Voice. `I know it well,' answered Carton. `Be careful of my friend, I entreat you, and leave me. `Come, then, my children,' said Barsad. `Lift him, and come away!' The door closed, and Carton was left alone. -- I think that's the longest one. -_-;; Anyway, this is Sydney switching places with Charles. So brave! -- sorellie

The supposed Evrémonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next after him. He has not
relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him. `But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven.
`Or you to me,' says Sydney Carton. `Keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other
object.' `I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid.' `They will be rapid. Fear not!' The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom. `Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.' `Tell me what it is.' `I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate--for I cannot writ--and if I could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is.' `Yes, yes; better as it is.' `What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support, is this:--if the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old.' `What then, my gentle sister?'
`Do you think:' the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much endurance, fill with tears, and the
lips part a little more and tremble: `that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?' `It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.' `You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?' `Yes.' She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before him-is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two. `I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.' -- This is THE most beautiful part of this book, or any other.  And remember that Sydney is the "supposed Evremonde." -- sorellie

`It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.' -- One of the most famous lines in literature, and it's Sydney's!! ^_^;; -- sorellie