A/N: Hello! I should probably be writing my finals paper for history, but instead I'm writing this and watching the Blackhawks game. So, go figure. BTW, I do not own many of these characters, nor A Tale of Two Cities. They were created by Mr. Charles Dickens-OMG THE BLACKHAWKS JUST WON! 2-1! YEAH! But I digress. Anyway, this story is dedicated in part to Charles Dickens, for his incredible literary prowess, to Monsieur Gabelle, who I think never got enough recognition in the book (yes, I know he's a fictional character, but don't judge me!) to RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow, who was the first person EVER to review one of my Tale stories (Thanks! ;)), and to my English teacher, who convinced me that writing was the best way to go. :)
You may review at your leisure.
Chapter 1: The Death of the Gorgon
"Death!" They chanted. " Death to the enemies of the Jacquerie! Death to the aristocrats! Death to the château, and all the race!" How they shouted. How they called for my death, for me to die as brutally as my old master. They wanted all of the family dead, including me, though Evrémonde is not my name. My name is Gabelle, and for the time being, it is the only thing on this earth that I truly own.
I sit here in this black cell, scribbling on what paper my guards have relinquished to me. Every day, I hear them speak of more things-France rising up like a tide against the nobles, nobles fleeing for the shores of England, and always the mention of a name that is not familiar to me; La Guillotine.
A week ago, the ancestral house of the St. Evrémonde family was burned; the house that I have called my home for the past three score years. Even now, I know not whether to feel remorse for a lost sanctuary, or satisfaction for the vengeance that has been exacted upon that wicked place. But oh! If only that vengeance had not been delivered in my lifetime.
I may have had little news of the outside world, but I am not unacquainted with the new feelings of the people towards the aristocrats. My treatment in this foul garret is sufficient proof of that. But if these are their emotions, why am I still alive?
Perhaps it is because this is not yet a nation of radicals. Master Charles always spoke of how the wisdom and practicality of Voltaire and Rousseau would be the guiding hand for the peoples' revolt. It was so easy to believe him then, sitting comfortably by his writing desk in the safety of the château. But who needs Voltaire when there is Robespierre? What are the words of Rousseau when compared to the oratory of Danton and Marat? Nothing. They are nothing. Relics of an age that belonged to the noble and to the bourgeois. But this new age belongs to the peasant, and in this new, red age, he has little tolerance for old men with wise words.
Rather like me.