A Revenge Poisoned Rose

by Hope x Honor

Once Ernest Defarge discovers his wife's death, he remembers the life he shared with her and realizes the cause of her animosity. A really long 'A Tale of Two Cities' oneshot. Ernest Defarge's POV.

A Revenge-Poisoned Rose

"All this senseless murdering. It must stop somewhere. This must stop."

Even in the darkness of the cellar I could still perceive the sounds. Terrible noises. Sounds I'd grown to detest. The clang of the steel-blade being dropped ceaselessly, relentless. Blood-curdling death-cries of the innocent. Sobbing, wailing. Countless pleas for mercy; all ignored. Screeching, banging, choking, struggling. The ovation of the throng; laughing, cackling, rejoicing, singing. The rivers of bloodshed flowing out among the delighted people as they wallowed in the red. All these noises perpetually reoccurring.

The din momentarily augmented as the door creaked open. Rising up from my wooden stool, I pivoted around to face those who entered, reckoning it was a Jacques inquiring about my absence. However, I had underestimated the sight that would welcome me. Jacques Three and The Vengeance stood before the doorway; clothes bedraggled, faces grimy and tear-stained. In their arms a lifeless figure was sprawled, pale and blood-stained. My heart stopped.

"Defarge," The Vengeance choked, struggling fruitlessly to regain her composure. She raised her trembling dirt-smeared hand to her moist red eyes and rubbed, her knee aiding in the balancing of the dead body. "Your wife." She and Jacques Three began approaching me, eyes mournfully fixed on what they held. I scarcely breathed.

After a few steps were taken, Jacques Three raised his head, meeting my gaze. "She was found in the Evrémonde apartment – the empty apartment – dead." He croaked out the last word in attempt to repress a sob.

Once they were before me I subconsciously held out my arms to receive the limp figure of my wife. After it had been deposited, The Vengeance vocalized an anguished shriek and turned for the door, black knotted locks flying about wildly. Jacques Three was soon to follow.

If it was not for the hushed atmosphere of reverie that encompassed me, if I had not plunged into an ambience of despair, I might have overheard The Vengeance and Jacques Three as they spoke of avenging Madame Defarge in snarling weeps. I could only manage to fall to my knees and clutch my cold pale wife securely before the rest of the world dissolved away into miniscule atoms and only her body and I were existent.

She was dead. The co-leader of the Revolution was dead. Thérèse Defarge…my wife…was dead.

How had it come to this? How had the nefarious vengefulness possessed my wife and brought her to an early demise?

She hadn't always been so terribly rancorous. As I cradled her lifeless body in my arms, the memories began cascading in. Memories of an era that hadn't always been so miserable.

The first reflection to settle over me was that of approximately thirty-four years ago. I was a young fellow of twenty at the time. Since my former employer had vanished, I had begun my own business of concocting wine. In my little beggarly wine-shop in the heart of St. Antoine was where I first met her – Thérèse. She was only eighteen at the time. She had recently set up residence in the district and was exploring its few local shops, or so I had gathered.

Behind the dingy counter of my shop, I sat cleaning a wineglass with a terrycloth rag. Hearing the footsteps of a prospective customer, I lifted my eyes from my work. It was at that moment my eyes beheld the splendor of a stunningly radiant woman. Charcoal curls cascaded down her shoulders and framed the purest alabaster face. Ocean blue eyes gazed up at me, reflecting the dazzling sea she had grown up by. A dress of fine teal adorned her, fitting her in all the right places. I saw not that her face was actually smeared with dirt, her hair was deeply in need of an extensive combing, or that the gorgeous dress she wore was actually made of rags. In my eyes, she could have been the queen of France. When her voice reached my ears for the first time, my heart rate rapidly excelled. It was the softest, gentlest, sweetest voice I had ever known, and I came to the conclusion that it belonged to an angel. The tone was too celestial to be reality. And yet she spoke so crisp, so clear.

"Defarge is what you are called?" she inquired with a small head tilt, azure eyes boring into mine.

My gaze ever affixed on her, I managed to answer, "Yes, mademoiselle. Ernest Defarge. I own this wine-shop."

"Good," she said, her tone so delicate it could have been classified as a whisper. I was taken aback by her following action; rather than taking a place at one of the many empty tables of my shop, she settled down on the stool in front of my counter. In response, my heart was pounding at incalculable speeds. Placing her elbows on the counter and propping up her chin, she leaned in slightly. "I'll have a small glass of cognac."

I could scarcely turn away to retrieve the bottle. The woman was virtually hypnotizing as we exchanged gazes. But I complied, soon returning with the bottle and pouring some of its liquids into the freshly-cleaned glass. "Here you are, mademoiselle." My lips curved into the most charming smile I could manage as I set the glass in front of her. While she gingerly took a sip I was submerged in an internal conflict of curiosity. Eventually the inquisitive side prevailed and the question slipped out. "May I ask your name, fine lady?"

Her expression was unreadable as she peered up at me. "You may," she said at length, placing her glass down on the counter. She situated herself more comfortably in her seat before speaking further. "My name is Thérèse."

Thérèse. I cherished the sound of such an elegant name. I remained motionless for a moment just reveling in the sight of her before noticing the curious expression on her face. Realizing that I was ogling, I shook myself out of the daze and quickly compensated. "Ah yes," I said, clearing my throat. "It is quite a pleasure to meet you."

Thérèse took a final sip of her cognac before abandoning the glass and refocusing her attention on me. "Likewise." Her eyes glistening in the sunlight that permeated through the grime-covered windows, we shared another gaze for what felt like eternity; that is, until it ended. "Yes, I must pay you now," she reminded herself, her eyes leaving mine. I observed her producing but an empty hand out of her dress pocket and proceeding to search elsewhere for a spare coin. She felt about her girdle and bosom before concluding that she had not any currency on her. The light in her blue orbs dimmed, she raised her head back up. "I'm terribly sorry, Monsieur, but I have not the money to pay. I will willingly work around your shop to pay off what I have consumed."

Only a moment of thought was necessary before I decided how to resolve the issue. "No, that won't be necessary. But you can do me a favor, Thérèse." My face began to warm, conceiving the fact that there was no turning back now.

With the same head tilt from earlier, Thérèse asked, "And what is that?"

Swallowing the block that had welled up in my throat, I mustered the courage to elaborate. "There will be a gathering in the center of St. Antoine tomorrow night – right outside this shop. It will be but a small affair with minimal food and drink, for that is all we can afford, but would you allow me the honor of escorting you?" I held my breath, awaiting her reply.

Thérèse leaned in closer, again propping her elbows up on the counter. It wasn't until I felt her warm breath on my face that I realized the proximity of the situation. I stood paralyzed, praying that she couldn't hear the pounding of my heart. "That sounds like an excellent idea," she breathed. My heart fluttered. Before my mind could make sense of all that happened, she was off the stool and heading for the doorway. Before exiting, however, she paused and looked over her shoulder. "I'll meet you here tomorrow evening. Until then, Ernest." Her lips formed the most gorgeous smile ever bestowed upon me.

A tear rolled down my cheek as I compared the vision of her face to the pale deadpan one before me.

Consequently the first memory triggered the reminiscence of my first date with Thérèse. All was remarkably blithesome back then; animosity was absent and not yet corroding St. Antoine. Albeit we the peasants were just as impecunious and disdained, no severe discontent had risen. Perhaps madame and I were the sole sparks that instigated the uproar. Though while reflecting back, I could not imagine where the peasants had acquired any means in which to host a function, somehow they managed on that one occasion. And I was grateful for it, for it brought me closer to Thérèse.

As recollections swirled through my contemplative mind, I could not recall many details about the social gathering. Other than the fact that it was simple and had scarcely enough food to feed any who attended, what my mind envisioned most was the woman alongside me.

Her flawless smile radiated warmth as she hooked her arm in mine. I found myself mesmerized by her appearance - even more paradisiacal than my first encounter. We processed down the filthy cobblestone street together as Gaspard elevated himself on an old cask and started a tune on his fiddle. A woman with hair black as night and a chiseled face commenced a lively beat on her drum as the peasants about us danced clumsily but passionately. Once I had completed introducing Thérèse to my few companions, we found ourselves near a few wooden crates where the meager food was laid out.

"Would you care for anything to consume?" I asked, giving the pitiful cuisine an apprehensive glance. I was accustomed to that impoverished lifestyle, but was she? I knew nothing of her past.

Thérèse surveyed the assortment of miniature potatoes, hard lumps of bread, tough grimy morsels of lean pork, and bottles of weak wine. "Yes," she replied, her lovely hand reaching for a small piece of bread. I was unaware of my intent gaze as I viewed the maiden nibbling the bread. In years to come I would realize that she was actually gnawing, not nibbling, for she had never been as ladylike as I had conceived her to be. After swallowing, her hand temporarily retreated to her side and she gave me her attention. "From your wine-shop, I presume?" Her articulation was flawless.

"Yes," was my answer, eyes glued on her a moment longer before taking up a glass. "I provided the bread and wine." I offered her the glass in my possession which she received with her other hand. As I took hold of the wine bottle and removed its loose cork, I took note of a dog lying adjacent to the table. It was a piteous sight with its flea-bitten and mangy fur fitting loosely about its bony frame. We didn't look much different from that dog, but in those days we still had spirit that wasn't utterly hate-encompassed. My compassion for the creature lasted but a moment as I refocused my concentration on Thérèse. Supporting the bottle with both hands, I vigilantly filled the glass she held, straining to keep my hands from quivering. In the midst of the pouring, I glanced up at her with a smile. "There you are."

"Thank you," she expressed, the corners of her lips curved slightly upward. She commenced to sip the wine while I poured some of the liquid into a glass of my own.

Once I replaced the bottle, I fixed my undivided attention on Thérèse. "I hope you're enjoying yourself. An event like this is quite a rarity in St. Antoine." I cast an ephemeral glance at the sights. Dirt-covered, greasy-haired, scrap-adorned folk frolicked merrily about the candle-lit streets, paying no mind to the sporadic puddles of mire their feet may tread.

"It is quite pleasing," Thérèse responded, the wine-glass departing her lips. "And the company is most satisfying." My heart skipped a beat as she returned the glass to her lips, gazing ever at me. I watched intently, my own glass long forgotten in my hand. When finished, she set the glass back down on the crate. No words passed from her lips but the enchanting gleam in her eyes was beckoning me. In compliance I took a step forward and my hand slowly began to rise, its destination being her cheek. The world seemed leagues away at that moment. However, it wasn't given an adequate amount of time to escalate, for soon the moment was shattered. The next thing I was conscious of was the lump of bread once held by Thérèse being in the possession of the beggarly dog. It swiftly made its flight, weaving its way through the throng of merry peasants before vanishing into the dark suburban streets. Returning my sights to Thérèse, I witnessed her reaction. Staring downward at her now-empty hand, she wore not a look of resentment or abhorrence, but one of mere puzzlement.

"I apologize acutely for what that creature did!" I exclaimed in an almost pleading manner. I had not an inkling of how she would react, but feared the worst.

My apprehensions were condoled, however, when I detected a small smile forming on her face. "Don't trouble yourself; it was but a light crime. The dog meant no harm. It doesn't have the discernment we humans should possess." Though practically all of her tone was reassuring and soft, I detected its sharpening during the finishing sentence. Perhaps she too knew the affliction of our class.

Irresolute on how to respond, I reached for another lump of bread. "Here, mademoiselle, allow me to…"

But prior to any completion of that sentence, Thérèse interjected. "I fancy no more. Let someone else feed on what meager supplies St. Antoine possesses." Pausing momentarily, she conducted her own survey of the unsanitary mass. "There are more hapless souls here than I."

I pondered for a brief length of time before speaking. "That's very noble of you, Thérèse." I attempted again an attractive smile, but proving ineffective, I simply allowed my admiration to permeate into a tender facial expression. All of a sudden I was hyperaware of the vivacious tune from Gaspard's fiddle reverberating throughout the street and providing me an idea. "Thérèse, would you care to dance?" Discarding my glass, I braced myself with held breath.

Redistributing her weight on both feet, she seemed to brighten. "I would be delighted," she replied, presenting me a grin that caused my knees to lock. "Oh, and Ernest…" Her ocean eyes were shimmering.

Enamored by the woman before me, all I could release was a hushed "yes?"

"Don't forget to exhale." Thérèse worded it in such a simple manner that I felt quite idiotic for my body's reactions. Hastily I released the air that had slipped my mind. With cheeks as red as the caps we would years later sport, I offered her my hand. Once she had willingly accepted it, she and I joined the multitude in their merriment.

The recollections of that eve, eminently the dance we together partook, would haunt my reveries for countless nights to follow. They were never distinct; just a jumble of jubilant imagery. I was far from adept in the art of dancing and especially nervous at the time, but somehow Thérèse didn't deplore. Graceful and resplendent she was, as was the simple dance we preformed. Dances had been much more humane in those days.

I cringed, recalling a devilish dance that had once stirred my 'patriotic' spirit – the Carmagnole.

One glance at the deceased woman in my arms brought my thoughts back to the matter at hand. All that my ears detected was the sound of my own heavy heartbeat while yet another fond memory floated back.

That festivity was the earliest of innumerable enchanting occasions spent with Thérèse. Whether it was a tranquil eve in my wine-shop familiarizing ourselves with one another, a moon-lit stroll through the grungy St. Antoine streets, an informal encounter among the townsfolk, or other various rendezvous, every second spent with Thérèse was magical.

And so more frequent appointments of that sort ensued and continued on for three years. Nothing much had changed in St. Antoine; it was the same quiet poverty-stricken enclave. But those three years that elapsed allowed me the time to muster up enough courage to implement what had constituted my dreams. It was on a blustery November eve of the year 1762 when those dreams were finally realized.

Thirty minutes had rolled by since Thérèse had departed from my wine-shop. It had been a pleasant evening, like all were, but something stirred in my mind. I couldn't quite pinpoint it; but there was a certain feeling of lack. As I sat in the dark cellar of my shop polishing a wine bottle, I pondered. Mind as swirling as a philosopher, I reflected upon my life. Nothing seemed of any accomplishment yet. I had always had this feeling of anticipation; that I was on the edge of something momentous that had yet to arrive.

Before I was conscious of what was occurring, I found myself on a path towards Thérèse's dwelling. With a heart rate as quick as my footsteps, I somehow managed to arrive at my destination without passing out. Though physically strong enough to remain conscious, the anxieties welling up inside were more than capable of overtaking me.

Soon I found myself lifting my ground-fixed gaze to find Thérèse sitting on the front steps of her small house.

For reasons still unbeknownst to me, I could even now recall the attire she wore. Not many of her other garments did I still store memories of (for I seldom paid excessive attention), save her wedding dress.

Thérèse was lounged comfortably on the front step, adorned in a blouse so white it shined in the darkness, a long plaid skirt of dark purples and browns, a beige sleeveless vest, and a brown belt with a round buckle.Her hands were occupied with the careful art of knitting, weaving strands of burgundy yarn together, but her eyes needed not to aid her hands, for her gaze was fixed star-ward. She seemed in a profound state of thought, possibly parallel to the state I was previously immersed in. View of the swirling stars interrupted by the lofty figure of my silhouette, her azure eyes acknowledged me.

"You look quite familiar," she remarked in a jocular tone. "Surely I've seen you before somewhere…and roughly five-and-forty minutes ago."

I released a chuckle, my expression morphing into a smile. Her use of humor lightened the situation, helping relieve me of some of my burden and making me feel more at ease. But I was very much aware of what had to be done that evening, and no jest would entirely soothe my pounding heart. Even as I sat next to her and brought her close with one arm, an action many times preformed over the last three years, my insides felt like they were being brutally beaten by a cudgel. I should have been used to such an overwhelming feeling of nervousness, for once Thérèse entered my life I had acquired it. Attempting to overcome it and behave normally, I spoke, "I got lonesome. Do enlighten me on your current activity."

Restraining herself from meeting my gaze, possibly to appear apathetic, she shrugged simply. "I am knitting. The night air is so fresh and pure, and occasionally starlight proves more sufficient than candlelight." Then her moonlit eyes locked onto mine, her fingers never wavering. "And this is a splendid spot for contemplation." The bright flicker in the swirling blue pools of her irises astounded me.

With a gulp of the saliva I had previously forgotten to swallow, I aimed to maintain my steadiness – a great challenge when in Thérèse's presence. "Perhaps that is why I too wound up here."

With another simple shoulder shrug, she regarded her knitting again. My gaze was soon drawn to the delicate slender form of her fingers as she skillfully maneuvered the needles in the moonlight. Gracefully and precisely, with much accuracy she wove the filaments together, sometimes in certain designs, sometimes plainly. Most experienced she was, as if she had been practicing the art throughout the whole of her twenty-one years.

How much time elapsed during my focus of Thérèse's avocation, I knew not. But the mesmerizing and rhythmic movements were enough to distract me from my original purpose. I had heeded her act of knitting before, but never had I witnessed it up close. It then dawned upon me that I understood not what she was creating with her adept knitting. "Thérèse, what are you knitting there?" I asked, the preceding silence only broken by my fragment of a whisper.

Much to my surprise, Thérèse halted her knitting, drew closer, and rested her arm upon mine. "I am not sure," was her simple answer. "Currently it's just to pass time. Perhaps one day I will have use for what I knit."

…And did she ever. Repressing a sob, I turned my mind back to the sacred memory.

Not making much of it, I nodded in response and closed the topic. An uncomfortable silence prevailed again when Thérèse said nothing more, drew back, and returned to her knitting. This time though, I paid no mind to her fingers, or even to her; my mind was elsewhere. A reminder came upon me; a reminder of what I needed to do, though I knew not how to word it, even in the confines of a brain where in an instant one can think a thousand thoughts unintended. I permitted my emotions an unknown amount of time to swirl before I finally came to a resolution – I would merely plunge myself in. The only other option was rendering my bachelorhood eternal. Altering my position slightly to face her more, I cleared my throat before speaking. "Thérèse, there's something on my mind." I started out with confident articulations, but as soon as her hypnotizing eyes met mine, I began to falter. "I-it's been lying heavily on my mind…yes. I was wondering if I could c-confide in you…"

"Of course," Thérèse answered with a little tilt of her chin. "What is it?"

Knowing very well that since I started I must continue, I did. "I have tremendously enjoyed these three or so years in your splendid company..."

The pause I took in order to muster more courage gave Thérèse the time to put in a word. "And I have found your company most pleasing, Ernest." Though her eyes were ever on me, her fingers continued with her work.

With only a happy thought in response to her statement, I continued. "And you know how much I love you…"

At this, Thérèse's knitting ceased. "And I love you," she expressed softly. A faint hint of rose on her cheeks I perceived in the night.

Although I had heard words of that nature pass her lips before, it still affected my joyous heart. Once my heart rate returned to its previous pace, which was considered normal for that evening, I went on with determination to minimize any more pauses. I would finish this now or never at all. Though my speech was still nervous and hesitant, somehow I managed an adequate amount of it. "Thérèse…I…I really don't know how to verbalize this. It's been on the forefront of my mind for but a few hours, but believably in my being for quite some time." Sitting sideways on the step to face her completely, my hand found its way to her delicate cheek, wiping away a dirt smudge with my thumb. "There's something remarkably different about you. You're so dissimilar to any soul I've been acquainted with. You're independent, strong-willed, yet soft, gentle…beautiful. And well…would…" My mouth, brain, and heart froze concurrently, though, when Thérèse's shimmering ocean eyes penetrated my soul. Oh, how much love I perceived in those then-pure orbs. Time again was stilled.

"Ernest, your faltering speech is like that of the night you confessed your love to me," pointed Thérèse with a small smile. "What are you trying to say?" Both confusion and anticipation were worn on her face.

Before speaking again, I inhaled a deep breath of cool night air. "Well…you're a great aid for my commerce when present. My customers admire you…"

"I'm certain it's a great honor to be held in such admiration by a faction of greasy drunks," Thérèse interposed in a good-humored tone.

"And the assistance you've furnished me with is more than beneficial. The advertising sign out front has multiplied the consumers, and I've been able to afford more luxuries for the interior, all thanks to your clever concepts. And well, we're at a ripe age; and living conditions aren't going to improve the quality of life…so that task falls on a different aspect." When I was met with a confused expression from Thérèse, I knew my allusions to the subject weren't hitting home. There was but one tactic left – blurting. Grasping her hands that had been straying back to her knitting, I desperately exclaimed, "Thérèse, will you become Madame Defarge?"

For but a moment, the universe came to a halt. Not a movement, and not a sound, save the pounding of the blood in my ears. Thérèse was frozen; I sat almost lifeless. And as swiftly as the silence arrived, it departed. "Was…was that a marriage proposal?" the woman asked, perplexity and shock intermixed in her clear voice.

The cold night air suddenly blazed like a flaming furnace as my cheeks turned crimson. Embarrassed and anxious, my hands began subconsciously fiddling with the scarf that draped around my neck. "I…yes. It was. I apologize, I've never performed such a task, so I have no experience whatsoever in the wording…"

"Well I should hope not!" Thérèse exclaimed sternly, though she could not repress the smile on her lips. This only served to heighten my humiliation. But much surprisingly to me, she became suddenly quite warmer and drew nearer to me. It was as if a tidal wave of affection had crashed over her and she was not as foreign with her emotions as she could be at times. The next few actions were quite similar to those of an eve in the past when I professed my love. It opened with an arm link, which quickly morphed into a hug, which then continued to escalate into a kiss. I remember thinking 'well, I must have worded it right' in extreme relief.

The rest was a blur. Other than a gasping "yes!", hearts bursting with joy, excitement, and other such pleasant emotions, all between ardent kisses, it was foggy. Usually when reflected upon, my heart filled with warmth.

But not this time. All that was full were my eyes; of tears. Drops cascaded down my face like an impetuous waterfall, landing upon the lips of the one in my arms; lips once rosy and tender, now pale. Somehow my thoughts found their way back to a happier day.

The quantity of the days to follow that blessed occasion was not heeded to. They flew by, they dragged by, they were wonderful with excitement, they were dreadful with anxiety and impatience. The time of preparation seemed scores long, but it was necessary. Peasants did not have the luxury of bidding servants to gather the essential fixings for a wedding regardless to who was inconvenienced, nor could we go collect the fixings ourselves in a short amount of time. It was true that none of these were actually needed to marry Thérèse, but I longed to make the event more unique than just a stroll down to the nearest grimy church in nothing but ordinary rags. This exceptional ordeal called for at least a few flowers and things of the like. And Thérèse deserved something extraordinary.

In the spring of the following year we had finally organized it sufficiently, greatly indebted to our fellow folk of Saint Antoine, for their assistance was great. And at last, with much consolation to my heart, the nuptial day arrived. It shined its golden gleaming light over the newly-planted corn fields, over the grey forests and olive-colored hills. Sparkling streams welcomed it with applause, finches serenaded it. The day I was to marry Thérèse…it was here.

The small poorly-constructed brick church building now told of new life. Blooms of chicory, danewort, heather, thistle, and hawkweed enriched it, along with twisted twigs and dried ivy. The wooden benches were dusted; the windows had suffered a scrubbing and were open, allowing fresh air and sunlight to abide. Most of the attendees had surprisingly gone through some form of cleansing and didn't completely reek of their distasteful professions. As for myself, I washed thoroughly in the fountain multiple times before the adhesiveness and stench of wine and grease were removed. And whatever feat Thérèse went to, it certainly produced a stunning effect. My heart nearly stilled when my eyes took in the sight of her entrance. Her hair was more combed than it had ever been, her delicate face was literally spotless, and not in result of my clouded mind. The dazzling gown that draped on her was slightly off-white with a full skirt and a top that seemed only half-finished (though my young mind didn't protest). The thought crossed my mind, though, of where in the Heavens could someone of our social class obtain such a garment. Had she held up an aristocrats' carriage and looted it from some noblewoman's trunk? Or perhaps it was an old bed sheet transformed by a fairy with great magical capabilities. But however acquired, it certainly flattered her in every way conceivable.

The vows were rather nerve-racking in most respects, and with one-and-a-thousand thoughts circulating through my mind, I wasn't exactly a master of placidity. The dread of erring was ever-present throughout the whole ceremony, mingled with the fear of somehow dissatisfying or embarrassing Thérèse. But when the vows were actually spoken, and Thérèse and I were pronounced man and wife – Monsieur and Madame – my heart ascended and went soaring somewhere off into the fabled clouds of delicate white fluff. I felt like singing, even though a proper tune had seldom ever escaped my lips. Never in my four-and-twenty years hitherto had I experienced such untainted bliss. And it seldom occurred to that exact extent thereafter.

While a merry tune reverberated from Gaspard's fiddle and the female drummer commenced beating, the rest of the gathered folk, along with myself and my new bride, communed outside where a diminutive feast had been prepared. I had expected the popular festive courses – thin flavorless potato soup, lean pork slices, darkly-speckled greens, and hard black bread – except a dessert item laid out that was foreign to me. It was curious in appearance; of an oblong form, a toasty brown color, and perceivably some chocolate spread on the top. What mysteries it held within was unknown. But I was certain of one thing – chocolate was the victuals of aristocrats.

Observing my puzzlement, a companion took the liberty to elucidate. "An aristocrat's carriage was passing through Saint Antoine early this morn and young Marc came up with the idea to get you and your bride something. Call it a wedding present." He paused, evidently expecting some response from me.

"Yes…" I spoke with unease. I had a speculation as to where the pastries had originated. "Go on."

With a nod, the man continued. "So with great tact and skill, good ol' Marc hopped into the back to see what goods could be found. The painted-face foo-" he quickly caught himself, "-aristocrats were too occupied pretending they did not have to lay eyes on our beloved district that they paid no mind. Marc got off with these pastries before the carriage even went through that gate!" He pointed vaguely in the direction of St. Antoine's gate.

"But that's aristocratic food!" I protested. "We're of a much different class – a much nobler class at heart, I perceive – so I cannot –" But I was cut short by the collision of Thérèse into my backside. She had not been with me beforehand when discussing the elite pastry, and evidently some character was subtly coaxing us together (not that I bore any malice towards such a proposition). Turning around to receive her, I became aware of the amount of eyes that watched us keenly – that characteristic intensified in the faces of my companion and Marc. Heaving a sigh, I swiftly took one of the desserts from the wooden plate and offered it to Thérèse. Though my conscience and intellect advised against it, it was an exceptional occasion, and Thérèse had no knowledge of its origin. Actually, she seemed to have no knowledge of it whatsoever, as told by the confused expression she exhibited. With a slight chuckle, I whispered, "You're supposed to eat it." Obviously a little humiliated, her brow furrowed and the creases between her eyebrows hinted at frustration. Quick to compensate, I grabbed the remaining pastry and drew nigh to her. With but a little aid, we intertwined our arms together and fed each other the noble delicacy. Initially afterwards only my sense of taste was prevalent, detecting the dessert to be filled with a sort of custard; but when I gave heed to my hearing, I realized the crowd was cheering and a red-haired woman close by was giggling uncontrollably. The result, in turn, was the reddening of our faces as Thérèse and I shared an embarrassed glance. Because of the lack of exhilarating entertainment in Saint Antoine, the townsfolk took great delight in observing us, and continued to partake in it until we vanished in our carriage, bound for a small countryside village.

Our celebratory vacation in an undersized village outside of Paris was regrettably for but five days, in view of the business I managed. Though being shoddier than even Saint Antoine in regards to the condition of its inhabitants, buildings, and roads, the rural landscape proved quite pleasant and tranquil. Although short in days, the honeymoon almost certainly held the title of being the most euphoric and blithe period of my life, in conjunction with the year succeeding. For a while I couldn't even fathom that my marriage to the gorgeous angel was anything but a stupendous reverie.

Countless waking hours were leisurely spent strolling among the wildflowers and pastures. The air breathed about us at intervals, rustling Thérèse's skirts and causing her silky locks to flow about her in a celestial manner, leaving me flabbergasted. In fresh country air we meandered in meadows, lounged among rustling emerald leaves in groves of birch, bathed in the glimmering brooks, and gazed at the golden sun descending behind patterned hills amidst saturated hues of orange and purple while sweet lullabies of crickets filled the air. In those days the streams were never barren and the fountain in the village was still brimming with life.

One particular midweek eve, after running various errands, I entered the antiquated inn room we occupied to find Thérèse in an aberrant mood. Prior to the occasion, I had known my wife to be quite warm and welcoming; but currently she sat by the window with an unreadable expression set heavy upon her features, illuminated by the orange glow of the sunset. She hardly regarded me until I had removed my dingy boots and had positioned myself before her. "Isn't this nice, my dear?" I asked jocundly. If something was disquieting her, I concluded that she would speak her mind.

"Yes, Ernest," she answered delicately. A little smile presented itself upon her lips, which was some consolation to me. Taking a seat behind her on the windowsill, I wrapped my arms around her and inhaled the intoxicating lavender scent of her hair. Leaning back, she welcomed the touch, nestling into me. She laid her velvety hands over my calloused ones as a contented sigh escaped her lips.

And so was our position for a lengthy stretch of time. No words were required, as they rarely were in our intimacies. The sun set on the sight of us, with me trailing feathery kisses down the satiny flesh of her neck. Only after darkness fell and I was deliberating the idea of abandoning my cozy perch to light some candles, did Thérèse break the silence.

"It's so nice to have a family again," she murmured, attempting to nestle into me further.

Without much scrutiny, I replied, "Yes. And we will be adding to it in the future, I hope." At that instant, a thought dawned upon me, and I quickly added, "That is, if it's desirable to you."

"Of course," Thérèse said simply with a small shoulder shrug. Then, with a little laugh, "If you had had any doubts on whether I wanted to bear children, you should have proclaimed them days ago."

Struggling to banish the embarrassment that had been caused by that evident observation, I proceeded to smell her hair once more. As silence fell over us like a blanket of velvet, the mechanisms in my mind began rotating. The mention of Thérèse's family brought about the inquiry in head – what was of it? I was aware that she had no relations in Saint Antoine, but knew nothing of her past. She had invited no one to our wedding, save the people from our impoverished suburb. If she had any living relatives, would they not have attended the wedding? Overcome with curiosity, I allowed the question to voice itself. "Dearest, you never mentioned your family…where are they?"

All at once Thérèse's body notably tensed and she shrugged me away. It was as if a dark cloud had encompassed her, as she leaned towards the window. I was left in a silent shock, utterly perplexed on my fault in the matter. At length, a response came from her, barely audible. "I don't want to talk about it…" Her silhouette in the moonlight seemed to shake with a hidden malice.

I was at a loss for words, actions, and thoughts. I had never witnessed Thérèse in such conduct, even when afflicted. I had not an inkling of any manner in which I should respond. It was perceptibly a delicate situation and required tact, yet I was irresolute on how to react. After another moment of apprehension, I slowly began drawing her back into my arms. Quite solaced as she relaxed and permitted to be embraced, I tightened my grip. In soothing undertones, as ethereal as I could achieve, I whispered, "It's all right, dear. We don't have to. But whatever is disquieting you…please…remember I'm here for you."

With but a sigh, Thérèse inclined back into me with a soft, "I will. Always." The dreadful air had passed.

Much to our crestfallen hearts, our honeymoon drew to a close in no long length of time, and we returned to the feculent streets of Saint Antoine. Although the village of our honeymoon had been more impecunious than our suburbs, it was exposed to more beautiful landscapes, which were missed for some time ensuingly. But my trade drew us back, and soon it became our trade.

Because of her reliability, ingenuity, assiduity, and (of course) her standing with me, I gave Thérèse Defarge a share in my business. Now, not only was she my partner in domestic affairs, but in business as well, and she performed her duties incomparably. At first she operated in the same manner as before our marriage – attracting customers with ingenious business tactics and slogans – but ere long she was assisting in the distribution of the food and drink, the pressing of grapes into wine, the accounting, and whatever else under the Heavens that needed attending. My wife was quite a blessing and it was to my utter disbelief that the beauteous and proficient woman could possibly belong to me. Yet she did, and she reminded me of that fact almost nightly.

One could compare the following years of our marriage to living in a utopia and be not far from speaking the truth. The era, in our point of view, was one of magnificent radiance. When our impoverished lives brought any trace of the shadow of pain or bitterness, the other's company would cast a gleaming light, banishing away the dark mist. All the complications our social class bestowed upon us were tremendously eclipsed by the new joy discovered in each other. The streets seemed less dingy and littered, the food a little more nourishing, the money a little more substantial, our neighbors a little more plump. Our lives were not perfect, as none are, and we did intermittently have disputes, as all beings do, but it was nothing to rent our blissful life.

Reflecting back upon our years of marital bliss, I saw all too well the true reality – we were merely existing in a temporary daze, wandering blindly through a hallucinatory Eden. I had oft pondered that topic once the magic had faded, but only now, as I held Thérèse's deceased form, did I fully comprehend the finality of its end; never again would my heart experience such emotions. The dream had died…permanently. Stroking the dear pale face, a memory stirred within me, one oh-so proving of the youthful immaturity of my early years.

Amidst the euphoric years, Thérèse and I sat together in our bedroom atop the wine-shop. Only ten minutes previously we had closed up the shop, stirring the last drunken pass-out and bidding him goodnight. Presently we sat closely with our arms entangled about each other, discussing the proceedings of the day. Well, it had originated with that, but soon our lips were too engaged for coherent speech. Once we ran out of breath and things mellowed, we sat just listening to the other's breath. Tenderly I ran my fingers through her luscious locks, which wasn't much of a challenge considering that they had veritably been brushed earlier. After giving the silence adequate time to abide, I disturbed it with gentle words in my wife's ear. "I love you."

Stirring slightly, as if awoken from a doze, Thérèse raised her head to reciprocate my loving gaze. "I love you too, dear Ernest," she answered in a sweet undertone. We shared a number of tender kisses before settling back into a comfortable embrace.

"Darling, ever since you sauntered into my life, every day and the next has been purely delightful. And I do believe these days will never cease. Why, with love such as ours, how could they ever?" I spoke again in a soft tone, pausing now and again to plant kisses on her cheek. "I have a bright future ahead of me, now that you're here."

A slight pause there was before Thérèse's response. "Yes, I believe the same. And…" She raised her head again and gazed at me with such affection and earnestness. "I can forget all the past, all the wrongs, all the injustice, all the poverty, because I have you…how I love you so!"

Those words were possibly the sweetest and sincerest I had ever heard from her, and I cherished them in my heart.

How I wished that those words were not mere words of emotional whim! But Thérèse was not alone; when calamity came, I too forgot what loveliness was found in our marriage. The ensuing reminiscence was neither calamity nor acutely meaningful, but it was one of the specific turbulence of our young lives that I still could recount, and was an example of the imperfection that seeped into our fantasy.

It proved a busy bustling day at my wine-stop as customers occupied every last wooden chair and well-nigh all the standing room – drunk and sober, awake and somnolent, dirt-coated and decently presentable. Along with the usual clientele – the citizens of our quarter – it was rumored that gentlemen from a more opulent neighborhood tarried about, which produced some puzzlement on my behalf. Why, I had asked myself, would those types 'bother' themselves with such a trivial place, where, when it came to culinary excellence, the wine and other liquor were quite lacking? It satisfied peasants, but the affluent? I highly doubted that.

Due to the heavy business, Thérèse and I were separated by quite a multitude. Just having completed another batch of wine, I stood behind the wine-stained front counter where my red hands had barely a sufficient amount of time to take orders and receive coins. Thérèse had been weaving her way between tables and the counter to distribute the orders, and because we had never been granted such a great number of customers, she was the sole waitress of a cranky, drunk, unwashed mass. When given the proper amount of time to survey the noisome scene, I took into account the rumor of rich. If they, for such an odd reason, were actually present, it would make some sort of sense. It would account for the number of customers, nonetheless, inasmuch as Saint Antoine probably didn't even possess that many souls at the current time. The only people in my view were familiar or too plain-looking to be the fore mentioned.

After the shop was wholly congested, the flow of incomers finally ceased, like a stream choked by a large boulder. The orders were yet to be completely delivered, and the drunk bellowing for more liquor created additional chaos. As a wine-shop owner for some nine years, I had acquired the patience for associating with demanding dipsomaniacs, and could retain the tolerance for quite a long while; but as my wife approached me with a sweaty, furrowed brow, I knew her patience was running thin. She was fatigued, undoubtedly, never having dealt with such a madhouse before, and considerably testy. Once she had slammed her fist on the counter, I ceased depositing coins into my cash box and gave her my undivided attention.

"No," was what she repeated initially, through shallow breaths. Then, piercing me with an infuriated gaze, she said, "I can cope with Saint Antoine's foulest, I can tolerate their intoxicated remarks, I can stand feeding them, drinking them, walking them, burping them, whatever else in God's name they need!" As she spoke, her tone accelerated and increased with snarls. Then, with quite suddenness, her voice dropped and she brought her head closer, ocean eyes still sharp and piercing. "But I will not tolerate these bloated, insolent, philandering swine!" Such a loud whisper it was that it rattled my ear drums. Studying my wife for but a moment, I took note of her boiling-red face, a sign of near-explosion.

The first response that passed my lips was, "So there are wealthy people here…"

"Yes," Thérèse grunted. "From the Saint Germain Quarter. Apparently they came here to inspect our 'stock!'"

"Stock?" I asked, puzzled as to what she meant. Wine tasters? But the way she uttered the word implied anything but the literal sense. But Thérèse did not answer, instead turning away slightly, her staggered breathing, clenched fists, and white knuckles perceptible to me. Resolving to attempt a soothing method, I left my place behind the counter and stood before her. Placing my hands on her shoulders, I steadied her quaking frame. "My dear, please calm yourself," I spoke in pleading, affectionate tones. "I'll take over the table-waiting. Why don't you busy yourself? Knit, perhaps."

Thérèse stood silent and motionless for a moment, avoiding my eyes. Then, looking up, her eyes held the same volatile look. "Such abominations" – she spat the word – "are not so easily forgotten, Ernest."

Heaving a sigh, I racked my brain for another method of tranquilizing. "Yes, darling, I'm not fond of those sorts of pompous folk myself, but so far they've proved honest customers, and are just susceptible to drunken frenzies as any old fellow…"

Thérèse cut me short. "A fully drunken peasant has more manners than a sober aristocrat!" she shouted. Concerned that my clientele became aware of our little dilemma, I looked about, but the only person who regarded us was a grizzly man singing 'RemplirMa Bouteille.'

The fuming fire in her eyes told me that the men from Saint Germain's mere company was not what incensed her, nor was it their drunkenness. Something else had occurred that made Thérèse lose her temper. "Dear, what exactly happened?" I ventured.

Stepping even closer, Thérèse lowered her voice again. "Those men 'honestly mistook' me for a whore!" she sneered, her breaths becoming shallow again.

Taking a step back slightly to survey her attire mindfully, I mused, "Hm…and you're not even wearing that lovely dress with the unfinished top…" I had said it with a little humor in my voice, but by the ever-hardening features of Thérèse, I perceived that it had not aided to lighten the mood. Suddenly, putting all jests aside, my brain finally absorbed what my lovely wife had said. "Wait…those men…" I stumbled on my words, eyes fixed ahead on who-knows-what. "They thought you were a whore? They…" My voice intensified and became less perceivable as my fury grew. "What did they do to you?" I demanded, grabbing hold of her shoulders with a grip more tight than intended.

Thérèse avoided my eyes and turned her head, as if trying to repress something. Tears? No, my wife hardly cried. "I didn't allow those fools to do anything! But they tried…" Her voice fell hushed. "And they weren't all inebriated, they're just revolting aristocratic barbarians!" The volume of her voice dropped another half-step. "But…I will not let them take advantage of me." Turning her head even further, she muttered a nearly inaudible phrase, one of which the only word I could identify was 'sister.' A shadow seemed to encompass her, mirroring a previous occurrence during our honeymoon.

Shaking off my momentary confusion, I decided it was time to act. Those debauchees would never be permitted to use my wife (she was mine, yes!) as an object of their fancies, and would not leave my wine-shop until I had spoken my mind. Because of the hands that still rested heavy on Thérèse's shoulders, she could sense when my anger caused me to quiver. She raised her eyes to meet mine, both mirroring passion for justice, just as I began to speak. "Thérèse, you are beautiful, but that beauty is for my eyes alone." She nodded. "Where are those men? I will beat some sense, some conviction, some justiceinto their skulls! Lead me to them!" By now I was sure the folk in my general vicinity could hear me.

Thérèse appeared at first as if she was going to protest, probably confident in her own strength against such brutes, but then the words on her tongue ran dry, and she silenced. Taking my hand in her firm grasp, she began leading me – almost dragging me – through a little path she cleared with her elbows. As we hustled, she spoke over the din of drunken laughter, "You'll recognize them with this – one's nose should still be bleeding, and they all sport sick powdered faces."

When we came to a small clearing, where only minimal space was provided, we halted. Without even a single gesture I recognized the men who were the objects of my detest. Four in number they were, all wealthy and bejeweled, yet not as elegant-looking as some heartless nobles who had passed through St. Antoine before. Painted their faces were, so painted that it was disgusting to view. Only one appeared heated with wine, as Thérèse had informed, and that fellow was a portly man who slumped in his chair, tapping his fingers on his potbelly. His three companions were discussing odd things in a jovial attitude; but that was soon interrupted when one detected my wife. "My, my… why if it isn't our little friend. Hey honey, are you sure we can't compromise a deal?" At that, his friends burst out into a wicked cackle, the drunken one proving the loudest.

The intoxicated one attempted to straighten up in his chair, grasping his bottle for support. "Baby, I'll make you a deal. Fifteen coins for your services, and that's as high as I'll go." He spoke in such a slurred lethargic tone that it was difficult to comprehend him. It was at that moment I noticed a little blood on his nose.

My wife raised her hand, preparing to strike, when I stepped in. "Messieurs, you deceive yourselves. This is my wife, Madame Defarge." If my words seemed at all courteous, the aggravated tone in which they were spoken eclipsed it. "She is not any sort of…whore."

The paunchy wino abruptly stood up and clumsily shoved a finger into my chest. "Oh yeah, and who are you, bub?" he demanded, interrupted midway by a hiccup.

Stretching tall in hopes of looking more intimidating, I replied, "Ernest Defarge, owner of this wine-shop. And owner of a pistol!" By this time, my blood was so boiling, my rage was so kindled, that I doubted I could calm myself, even if willing. At that time, it was the angriest I had probably ever been, so I thought much of it, but that time would be so superseded by more extreme instances by-and-by, that it was almost ironic.

Realizing how livid I was, the men were taken aback. One of the sober ones rose gradually and stepped towards me. "Hey, no need to get your boilers burning, we meant no harm," he said calmly, though I detected a caustic undertone. "Why get so offended?"

My breathing evened out only to the slightest degree as I took a step closer, ever mindful to keep myself between Thérèse and the foul men. "I'm very protective of my private property," I returned through gritted teeth. Feeling a defensive air, my hand reached behind me to grasp my wife's, but my eyes were watching the men warily.

With a sickening chuckle – perhaps this man was a little tipsy – he took yet another step forward. "Fool!" he spat. "Peasants have no 'private property!'" If my eyes had not been so fixed in hatred on that man, I might have witnessed the dilation of my wife's eyes, along with a look of boorish rage.

The consecutive events occurred asudden and in such abrupt subsequent order, creating confusion and lack of specific details to recount. Thérèse had stepped out beside me so briskly, and in the next moment my eyes beheld the collision of her fist with the speaker's refined features, which prompted the man's companions to jump up, which in turn caused me, inspired by the audacity of my wife, to smote the fat drunk, rousing a brawl. Ernest and Thérèse Defarge versus four haughty noblemen, in a fight of fists. Much to my surprise (when recalled later), the fight did not evolve into a full wine-shop melee, nor did any unconcerned party enter for the pleasure. The others speculated about us, cheers arising particularly from the drunken, and a few extremely intoxicated broke out into song only minutes before dropping insensible on the ground. Later I mused about how irresponsible it was of me to engage in a scuffle, for as the wine-shop keeper it was my duty to mediate; but during those moments of releasing my indignation on the deserving, that thought was furthest from my mind. Due to the fact that it was I who was the sole interceder of the wine-shop, the fray did not dissipate until the four men were dispelled from the shop, never to return.

It was a victorious night for my wife and I, proud to have exhibited the strength and dignity of our class; but it was unbeknownst to me at the time that the little warmth in my breast was the first flicker of my revolutionary spirit. And as for Thérèse, the thoughts and inner-workings of her mind were always a mystery to me when not divulged, but the spirit she displayed both astonished and pleased me; she wasn't always the delicate angel I had fantasized her to be.

No other particularly memorable mishaps occurred during the young years of our marriage – not to say they were lacking of trials, but none stood out distinctly in my mind. We had had our minor quarrels, trivial and foolish as they were, but the settlement always brought us closer. Such adolescent problems were they – I, in clinging to her a little too closely when she wished to socialize with friends; and she, allowing jealousy to fester when a certain plump woman by the name of Olivié seemed to take an odd interest in me (which indubitably was not reciprocated; I had eyes only for Thérèse). Other than the fore-mentioned and the slight matter I had with striving to be the leader of my household, things were still undoubtedly superb.

Another modest detail blighted our happy lives at times, though. I yearned for a family –offspring who I could love, cultivate, cavort with; little miniature versions of Thérèse and myself; children who would one day grow up and carry on the name of Defarge. Thérèse paralleled the dream, and she possessed all the desire to realize it, but there was a certain complication. No matter how exhaustively we attempted, it seemed futile – Thérèse just would not become pregnant. Saint Antoine's doctor (an obliging man, yet no comparison to a doctor of Beauvais I had once served) could not discern what the trouble was, and his incessant response to our inquiries was to further our attempts.

Thérèse's spirit was, and quite understandably, dampened. After our efforts proved fruitless by another medical exam, she would seemingly fade off into the distance, perceiving nothing about her. Brooding silently was her method of overcoming grief, and it pained me to witness her undergo it. A fiery temper she usually had when distressed, but during those times she would even disregard the passing of an aristocrat's carriage, which ordinarily peeved her. Another strange point was her submissiveness to me – admittedly it filled me with a power of command, but the means by which it was achieved depressed me. Finally when she snapped out of that phase, we would continue trying, but an identical incident at the doctor's would cause a relapse. Soon we both agreed it was time to give up and just accept the facts.

We were still discontent, however, as proved by wistful glances at other joyful parents as they played with their children in the street; and regardless of the termination of those disappointing doctor visits, Thérèse would periodically drop into her crestfallen mood, which I couldn't help but join. Howbeit, we were still a blithe young couple, which occasionally provided a problem to our resolution to discontinue all efforts of conception.

Another blessed memory – another crest of my life – floated back, delivering me from the bleakness and smell of death. I even managed a smile as the recollection of Thérèse's joyous face appeared before me, and before I was aware, I was plunged completely into that remembrance. After roughly seven long years…Thérèse was finally pregnant.

The clear baritone voice of the doctor that had many a time borne ill news now spoke in the sweetest melodious sort of way. "Congratulations, Madame Defarge. You are pregnant." In reality it had been quite monotone, but the words which it presented livened it to my ear.

The disquieted creases on Thérèse's features instantly morphed into ones expressing pure astonishment and elation, and judging by the way I felt, undoubtedly my expression was a perfect replica. The whole occurrence seemed surreal at the time.

A few days following, we held a merry gathering at my wine-shop in honor of the joyous occasion. After the merriment drew to a close, we braced ourselves for the impending nine months, uncertain of what to expect.

The nine month period of her pregnancy was spent preparing industriously. While I constructed a cradle and other furniture for the spare room we were converting, Thérèse concentrated on knitting the clothes, blankets, and other like objects. Since the gender of our little baby was unknown, she knitted the clothes in a pattern of alternating pink and blue stripes. Much of our hours were filled with glee, and Thérèse was her usual agreeable self; but when pregnancy hormones took its toll…it was quite frightening. Instead of the affectionate wife I had known her to be, there were times when she was absolutely terrifyingly infuriated at the most insignificant things. She shouted at me, ordered me about (which actually wasn't exceedingly unusual), accused me of crimes I had never committed, and knitted with furious fingers. Once she even drove away customers by threatening to decapitate them for nonexistent offences, which was quite ironic seeing that one of her main roles in my trade was promotion. But when those storms passed, she fell back into her customarily pleasant mood and was quite a joy to be around. I simply had to learn how to manage her when in those dreadful moods.

Along with construction and knitting, one of the many other preparations that were made was the selection of names (she and I both decided one afternoon it was better than waiting until the last minute.) After much contemplation and listening to friends suggesting their own beloved names, we decided upon two. If our child was to be female, we would name her Adrienne; and if male, Matthieu. These names bore no significance to us; we merely fancied the sound of them.

After such a brief and yet dreadfully long period of time the stork finally arrived. Surpassing the sun's awakening, little Adrienne Defarge was brought into the world on a July morning in 1770.

The moment my eyes beheld the sight of my daughter – a miniscule pink thing bundled in thin linen – I knew it was all worth it. Indubitably Thérèse had suffered greater than I, as was exhibited by the terrible shrieks she had released just minutes prior, which currently left her in a state of panting alleviation; but the last number of months had affected me as well. Thérèse's agitation, screams, and powerful grip that nearly crushed my hand all seemed to have occurred ages ago when I gazed at the newest member of my family.

Once the doctor had completed his examination of the baby, she was placed in Thérèse's arms. From the first glace at her expression I could perceive the great love she had for this creature that had hardly even been in the world for too long. It was evidently something related to motherhood, one of the many mysteries of women that perplexed me. Fatherhood was akin though, for I too felt some extraordinary connection with the baby, though possibly not as undeniably strong as Thérèse felt.

We, the proud parents of an adorable newborn daughter, watched Adrienne sleep with awestruck wonder, unable to imagine how such a thing came from us. Resting my hand on Thérèse shoulder, I smiled down at my wife who sat ever so motionless with the baby against her breast. "I'm so proud of you," I expressed, squeezing her shoulder gently. I leaned over and affectionately kissed her cheek. "Imagine…our own child."

When Thérèse lifted her head up to meet my gaze, her features were overflowing with expressions of joy that greatly concealed the sweat and fatigue. "Yes…finally…" she breathed, gracing me with her attention for but a moment longer before refocusing on little Adrienne.

I couldn't recall how long we remained in that position, just admiring the child we had yearned for for countless years. Quite similar to all joyous occasions of my happy life, it seemed dreamlike. I had just finally accepted the fact that the glorious news of Thérèse's pregnancy was reality when suddenly the product of that pregnancy had appeared, inflating my heart with such unexplainable bliss. I was a father…and Thérèse was a mother. It was so strange; yet so right.

Parenthood proved to be more demanding and frustrating than I had ever depicted in my fantasies. Adrienne forbade any sleep from day one, persistently wailing in the deepest of night. She was either hungry, cold, uncomfortable (in other words, required her diaper rags changed), or simply just lonesome. Her demand for attention (preferably from her mother) became a bothersome routine, rendering it necessary to move her crib into our bedroom for the first couple months to eliminate the excessive walking to her nursery with only the aid of candlelight (which usually resulted in a collision of some kind). Being deprived of our needed sleep, Thérèse and I were sometimes cantankerous during daylight hours; the irritability more prominent in Thérèse, for she received even less hours of sleep than I, for occasionally I slept through the baby's cries, which I was reprimanded for later (or sometimes I would be rudely awaken by the blow of a pillow). During the first months of Adrienne's life she would exclusively eat, sleep, cry, and release her wastes, the latter being the consequence Thérèse made certain I attended. In addition to prohibiting rest, Adrienne was acutely stubborn. If not being held constantly by her mother (only at odd intervals would she settle for me), she would throw a fit. This fatigued Thérèse additionally, allowing her little to no time for herself. My wife was innumerably more exhausted than I was, as could be discerned just from her appearance. But she was also very merry.

Yes, parenting was quite a challenge, as we both discovered, but it was also very paradisiacal. When I held the beautiful little bundle in my arms, her sparkling blue eyes so akin to her mother, as her pudgy inquisitive hands reached up and grasped the scarf that hung loosely around my neck, I knew that this child was worth it. With an expression of pure innocence and wonder she tugged gently, uttering a curious noise when in turn I smiled. Often a time I would look up from my financing work from where I sat behind the counter to see Thérèse cuddling little Adrienne close as she stood against a wall, surveying the wine-shop, or chatting with a customer, or introducing our buddle of joy to a friend. The sight of mother and child always warmed my heart, no matter how hectic the day had been. I seldom caught my wife in the act of knitting, for now her hands were quite full. On the atypical occasions when Adrienne was sleeping serenely or content in my arms, Thérèse would ever so often take up to knit the baby a little trinket.

One unforgettable instance occurred on a warm September eve. I had recently closed up for the night and had joined my wife upstairs, who had dismissed herself earlier to breastfeed Adrienne. I sat beside her on the bed in a similar fashion to most of the heart-to-heart discussions we had. On that particular eve, though, our mouths were closed as we gazed down at our daughter with love and wonder. Such a strange creature a baby is, I pondered. So weak, so dependent; yet I envisioned her one day growing up to be a strong self-sufficient woman like her mother, so beautiful and free-spirited. I could already distinguish some strong resemblances to my wife, namely the ocean-blue eyes, and the dark wisps of hair upon her head. The baby did bear my nose, however.

At length Adrienne had consumed her fill and raised her head. Once Thérèse had burped her, she lay close to us in the former's arms, watching us with silent baby-like interest. Thérèse began to speak to her, as one speaks to an infant, a grand smile upon her lips. It was beyond my capabilities to prevent it from appearing on my lips as well, moved by the genuine maternal affection Thérèse possessed. The sounds of her communication with Adrienne, especially when Adrienne responded in blabbering nonsense, would forever ring in my ears. I had previously witnessed this before, yet this time it was different. On Adrienne's face, effortlessly discernable in the candlelight, was a little smile, and her eyes were bright and merry. With astonishment I exclaimed, "She smiled at you, Thérèse!"

The smile was thenceforward the topic of conversation between Thérèse and her friends for quite some time. Whenever I overheard their feminine gossiping, my wife would never fail to mention the remarkable things her baby was doing, which usually consisted of smiling, prattling, and adorable expressions. After Adrienne was four months old, playing was added to that list, and soon afterwards, laughter. Once our daughter had become interested in the little toys Thérèse had skillfully knitted, I set off a special place in the nursery (by that time her bed had been moved back) where she would sit in Thérèse's lap and examine the toys. She hadn't yet learned to crawl and could barely remain in a seated position on her own, but we were looking forward to the day she would expand her skill set.

Many a time Thérèse and I were both too occupied – her with the baby and me with my twofold load of labor – to spend any intimate time together. Few of the times when we had assayed, Adrienne's cries for attention soon terminated them. But still we were sporadically able to spend some alone time together, which was still very enjoyable.

Periodically Thérèse would engage in a task that greatly amused me to observe. When the weather was favorable, my independent wife would dress Adrienne in the little pink-and-blue striped outfits she had knitted and take her out into the air. The streets were still pleasanter, it seemed, than before I had ever known such bliss, and mostly a safe atmosphere for child of infancy when protected by her mother. It seemed that as my life prospered into something so unexplainably wonderful, so did the rest of Saint Antoine. The harvests of summer and autumn were bountiful; they even seemed to bear more flavor, which was quite a minor miracle indeed due to the soil's quality. God seemed to be ever on my side; and everything I had was undeniably a blessing. My wife, my daughter, my business, my home – everything. I was quite eager to see how things would progress even more in happiness as Adrienne grew.

As winter loomed and the days and nights grew colder, the amount of outings Adrienne embarked upon decreased. Still, on days of fair weather Thérèse would bundle the darling up in as many knitted squares and rags that were procurable and carried her out into the crisp fresh air. A tiny knitted cap was set upon the infant's fragile head to prevent any warmth from escaping. Once and again I would accompany my dear family in a stroll about the neighborhood, the myriad of layers of my apparel equivalent to the rest of the quarter. Winter was by no means a hailed season in St. Antoine for two reasons: it grew immoderately frigid and generally food supplies were minimal. For that upcoming winter, however, Saint Antoine had still hope left in its bosom. As result of the exuberant summer and fall harvests, a large quantity of food was able to be squeezed into the storehouses in preparation for winter. We saw no justification for fretting.

Once Adrienne passed the age of six months she began rejecting breast milk. The doctor informed us that it was purely a sign of growing, which consoled our hearts immensely. She soon began to consume, along with regular milk, mashed carrots and other such products which caused her stool to become less runny, but still very unpleasant to clean.

Soon following the diet expansion, Adrienne was capable of sitting up in her playpen without any means of aid. Both thrilled and in wonderment at how, in what felt like no time at all, Adrienne was acquiring new skills, I watched as she sat inside the confined area garbed in a legless suit, sucking on a little knitted object. It was arduous to focus on my work when there was such an adorable scene to witness. Every so often the child would utter some gibberish and look up at either her father or mother. Thérèse unquestionably was in reach in case of an accident, always monitoring her daughter with a careful eye. It relieved me so to know of my wife's conscientiousness; and the pure innocence of my child frequently pierced the dark clouds of a stressful day with glorious rays of sunshine. Fatherhood was wondrous.

At seven months our beloved daughter began crawling. It was only to some degree, and only occurring when Thérèse would move her favorite toy just out of reach, but it again elated us. Our daughter was already developing mobility skills when it seemed like just yesterday she was birthed. Recurrently Thérèse and I discussed the sheer delight we experienced when watching our child perform the simplest of abilities.

Many a night my wife and I would lie awake in our bed envisioning Adrienne's future. Maybe it was foolish to even think that far down the line; but certainly every parent has thoughts and hopes about their child, even at infancy. What would we mold that little creature into? What would she become? Her likes, her dislikes? And how many traits would she have inherited from her parents? We even visualized the innocent baby one day marrying and producing a brood of her own, dubbing us Grandfather and Grandmother. Sometimes we contemplated the prospect of relocating my wine-shop to a better neighborhood; though it meant abandoning some old friends, perhaps Adrienne should blossom in a cleaner, less impoverished atmosphere. Although we had not, and never in the past had, possessed such wealth to realize that dream, we were optimistic.

The remembrance of this point in my life just intensified the massive anguish that was pulverizing me. I knew of what came next and beseeched myself not to mentally recount it. Yet still the memory ensued.

The horrendous inevitable law that all good dreams must end was no less correct in the life of me, Ernest Defarge. The first ill-fated event that inaugurated the collapsing of my enchantment dealt with the food storage. The hopes for a fair winter that had been thriving in the hearts of every resident of trivial Saint Antoine were ousted when the casualty occurred. At the onset of winter the storehouses that preserved our winter sustenance spontaneously burst into flames. The conflagration was instantly attended to, but the means of the peasants were not sufficient in preventing all loss. A great deal of food was destroyed, which resulted in the reduction of rations. The folk were soon sporting their unhealthy thin frames again, thus ending the prospering of our poverty-stricken suburb. The dismayed ash-smeared faces of the peasants all about me as we stood before the pitiful remains of the storehouses forever abode in my memory banks. Rumor had it that the unexplainable fire was sparked by the careless pipe of an aristocrat; and knowing the contempt aristocrats bore for us, such a thing seemed highly probable.

Our lack of food was not what troubled Thérèse and I, for we were quite accustomed to meager provisions; it was Adrienne's health that disquieted us considerably. A maturing baby required the proper amount of nutrients to survive past infancy, we were told. The constant question remained ever-present in our minds: would there be enough? We sacrificed much of what was presented to us to ensure her wellbeing (mashing it up into a digestible pulp), yet the doubt was still lurking in our minds.

Near the end of January of the year 1771 we began to detect abnormal behavior from Adrienne. She bawled profusely, which in of itself would not be uncharacteristic except that all our attempts to calm her were fruitless. She scarcely ate and appeared to be in great discomfort. What perturbed us even more than the dearth and Adrienne's strange conduct was the absence of a doctor. The doctor of Saint Antoine was on leave for a month, not being anticipated to return until late in February. If something was disturbing our baby, how would we attend to it?

It happened that early in the morning when I was dressing Adrienne (my wife demanded on being waked half an hour later) I noticed another odd sign – my daughter's chest was abnormally crimson. Once I had made this startling discovery my mind commenced churning with thoughts, apprehensions, and suggestions. The child obviously required medical attention but none currently existed within reach. Holding the title of Poorest District in Paris, we would not be permitted to seek the exclusive doctors that were in a day's reach. A doctor once known from Beauvais accepted all classes of patients, but a mystifying and unfavorable incident had swept him away long ago. The nearest doctor at our disposal would be one of a rural community, a three day's journey away. That fact disheartened me greatly. Too worried to hearken to my wife's request, I roused her to inform her of Adrienne's condition. I mentioned the possibility of the doctor in the country but without as much as a glance in my direction she said we would discuss it by-and-by. Currently she was too absorbed with tending to her daughter, undertaking to still the wailing infant and scrutinize her for herself.

At the fall of that day Thérèse and I sat together around a wooden table in the deserted wine-shop. It was not barred, for closing hours had not yet arrived, but business was poor. Since the tragedy with the storehouses it was with rarity a packed night came; and every now and then, like the current eve, barely any customers would appear. It was a marvel that Thérèse finally managed the lull Adrienne to sleep, and now we were sitting in the dark silent shop, consuming a few gulps of sour brandy. Adrienne's condition lay heavy on our minds. At length, I managed to voice a proposition.

"Perhaps we could depart at sunrise tomorrow. We should reach the Seine River in –" But Thérèse cut me short.

Setting down her glass, her eyes wandered about the room, a pondering expression upon her features. "I suppose it's the finest choice we can make; but traveling conditions, my dear, are very poor. Adrienne's ill enough as it is, freezing her won't improve anything."

I nodded solemnly. I was conscious of the flurry of bitter wind whirling outside, causing our little wine-shop to tremble before its might. "Still, there seems to be no alternative. Whatever disease Adrienne has, it's highly improbable it will vanish by its own means."As my somber words fell cold on the air, Thérèse turned her face away from me. It was difficult to perceive much of her face in the candlelight, but I thought I detected damp blue eyes. "Dear, if you are crying, you needn't conceal it. It's quite understandable for a mother –"

"I am not crying!" Thérèse asserted, turning her head swiftly back to glare at me. Her eyes betrayed her, however, for even as she tried to regain her steady composure tears were cascading.

Leaning forward, I decided upon a soft approach. I brought a finger to her cheek to catch one of the streaming tears, and in quiet tones I spoke. "Then why is your face wet?"

It appeared at that moment that Thérèse was going to allow her delicacy to show and cast off the pretence of tenaciousness that she for some reason felt necessary to exhibit. As the years of bliss had gone by, slowly she had formed that armor of strength, and only allowed me to penetrate it on occasion. In truth it somewhat saddened me. Did she not feel she could confide in me anymore? However, the rare moment was instantly interrupted by the sound of infant wailing. Adrienne had awoken. With haste Thérèse ascended from her chair and headed for the nursery, leaving me in silent solitude. As I swirled around the remaining brandy in my glass, my taste buds no longer desiring it, I mulled over the present dilemma with apprehension. With a night like the present it was exceedingly implausible the morrow's weather would be an improvement. The fate of our angelic little daughter was at stake and the dread was affecting both of us, as was told by Thérèse's emotional revelation.

My contemplations were interrupted presently by the creak of the front door. A customer entered, a man by the name of Raoul Aucoin. Raoul was about the age of fifty and had been dwelling in Saint Antoine ever since I set up residence. He bore the common Saint Antoine flavor – dirty face, raggedy clothes, round belly, taste for alcohol – the latter making him one of my best customers.

"Not a boisterous night I see, Defarge," he commented after surveying the empty shop. He removed his cap, shook off the snow, and replaced it on his head. "No matter. I'll have a bottle of your best wine."

I rose from my seat and walked to the counter. Forcing myself to displace my anxieties for a moment, I answered congenially, "Celebrating tonight, Aucoin?"

"No," Aucoin replied, plopping carelessly onto a chair. "That old nag is giving me troubles again. I'm drinking to find some reason to celebrate."

As I selected one of the pleasantest wines in stock, I said with a light chuckle, "Is your horse misbehaving again?"

"No." Raoul shook his head. "My wife is. And speaking of wives, here comes yours!"

I turned towards the stairwell entrance to see Thérèse entering. On her face was a look of anxiety and slight embarrassment, and in her arms was Adrienne, awake and silent. Disregarding Raoul's greetings she hastened up to me. "Ernest, she's burning up!"

Quickly but with caution I put my hand to the baby's forehead, her infant blue eyes, now glazed over, peering up at me. Thérèse was correct – she was burning up. "The rash was bad enough!" I muttered. "But now a fever? Oh, good Lord above, what are we to do?" It was with franticness I cried this to the ceiling. Things were really starting to darken; and I knew not how long this fever had been present.

It was at that moment, while we Defarges were looking over our daughter, that Raoul joined the conversation. "Does the child have a rash, Defarge?"

Turning my apprehensive gaze towards the man, I answered, "Yes…"

"How's her appetite been?"

"Poor."

"How red is her tongue?"

Thérèse gently forced Adrienne's mouth open and peered inside. The shadow over her face grew darker as she reported, "Abnormally."

"And you say she has a fever?" Raoul asked attentively, stroking his unshaven chin.

"That is correct."

Placing his hands on his knees in a deciding manner, Raoul said simply, "I'm no doctor, but it sounds to me like scarlet fever."

We were deeply taken aback by this, knowing all too well what sentence scarlet fever administered. While I stood dumb, my wife exclaimed, "Is this man drunk?"

Solemnly I shook my head. "No, dear, I haven't yet given him the wine he ordered."

"I saw such a case in a two year old," persisted Aucoin. "I was visiting a family in Rive Gauche. The child…" His tone suddenly fell grave and he removed his hat, pressing it to his bosom. "…didn't survive it."

I recalled that at that moment the world froze and an illusionary air settled in, quite like it had done now. It seemed impossible, unfathomable that the magnificent world of perfect bliss I had dwelt in with my family could possibly suffer such an end. Yet, even though the pronunciation told death, my young and foolish self clung onto a faint strand of hope.

It was then that Thérèse's last fragment of pretentious armor shattered and the tears flowed freely down her cheeks, falling on the precious child in her arms. The broken expression on her face was beyond description. I witnessed her as she hugged Adrienne close to her breast, allowing the sobs to become audible. Wrapping a comforting arm around her and pulling her close, I tried with all the might I possessed not to cry. I (supposedly) was the head of the household and at times of calamity I needed to remain calm. My daughter was in danger of death; I wasn't going to sit by idly and wait for it to overtake her. "Thérèse, at the break of dawn tomorrow we ride hard and swift for the village. We'll make it, I know we will…" But even in those words of assurance my voice faltered.

Thérèse straightened up slightly and rubbed her red eyes. "Yes, of course," she said with a sniffle, trying to regain her equanimity. But doubt was heavily in her voice.

The darkness of the following morning was evident. The sun did not rise, or if it did the heavy clouds eclipsed it. I found Thérèse seated by Adrienne's cradle in the nursery, her appearance that of one who received no rest, and indubitably her appearance did not lie. Soon after I had dosed, she enlightened me, she had taken up quarters by the cradle to insure that Adrienne was still breathing, and had not moved since.

I had been outside, bundled up in multiple layers of dress as the wind tore at me, readying a coach for our departure, when I entered back into my shop to be greeted with more bad news. "Adrienne's fever has worsened!" Thérèse cried. "There…" Quickly I was before her, grasping her arms and urging her to continue. "There doesn't seem to be much time left!"

I had scarcely enough time to react when a few men hustled into the wine-shop, Raoul at the head. "Defarge, an aristocrat's carriage has paused here to refresh its horses. Rumor has it that there are medical supplies on board! Come, quickly!"

Without as much as a reassuring word to my wife I swiftly followed the men outdoors. It was true that aristocrats loathed the residents of Saint Antoine, and we weren't too fond of the upper-class, for they oppressed us greatly, but now was not the time to take that into consideration. Though Adrienne seemed not long for this life, I would not give up and indolently wait for death to encompass her! I would not abandon my daughter! I would fight until the very last breath of my bosom failed me.

All rumination, logic, and thought process was abandoned as I stepped through the threshold out into the tempestuous winter streets. Before the fountain in the heart of St. Antoine a golden carriage was parked. On the front of the coach were initials of the aristocratic family name, whatever it might have been; and in the windows velvet curtains of royal red were drawn closed to shield the powdered faces from our grimy ones. Two young men in silvery uniforms – one fiddling with his scratchy powdered wig, and the other attending to the fatigued horses – stood outside the coach. A handful of peasants were gathered around, some with children, some with household occupations, straining to get a peek at the heartless glamour that sat within the ostentatious carriage. I heeded to none of this, my mind fixed solely on the task before me; nor did I heed to the two young guards attempting to hinder me as I rushed up.

Tearing open the curtains, which revealed a startled noble couple, I huffed out a petition. "Monsieur, Madame, a word with you, please!"

Disdain and repugnance were eminent in their finely-chiseled masks of alabaster. After a moment of silence the woman spoke, but her interest was fixed on the small mirror in her hand as she dabbed her nose. "Oh, all right, but do hurry it up." Her husband refused to make eye contact with me, save to repulse me with his sharp glare.

"Many thanks," I spoke graciously, in spite of the indignation I felt. "I have an infant child –"

"Many dogs do," muttered the gentleman, then sharing the mirror with his wife to examine his hair.

Impelling myself to disregard the offensive remark, I continued. "She is very ill, my nobles. Our doctor is dispatched at the moment and we bear no medicine. All I request is a small amount of medicine for my poor daughter. Or perhaps a doctor, if you have one to spare…"

Both man and wife turned their contemptuous gazes upon me, pompous faces creasing with detest. My breathing stilled as I awaited their response.

Then, all at once, the curtains drew closed, a driver's cry rang out, whips flashed, and the horses trotted briskly away. My initial instinct was to leap out of its way, lest my foot should be trampled. An instant later, however, I regretted the retreat and pursued the carriage, calling out entreaties; all ignored. I soon caught up to the end of the coach and was fixing to throw myself onto it when three strong men, fellow neighbors, later to be fellow Jacques, seized me and held me as I thrashed to get loose. "Have you gone mad?" I shouted. "I need to save my daughter!"

"The man was planning to shoot you the moment you stepped foot on that coach!" cried one, a fellow by the name of Gaspard.

"I saw his pistol!" inputted another.

My thrashing ceased, leaving me paralyzed for a moment as I watched the coach depart St. Antoine through the gate. My last hope for Adrienne, disintegrating before my eyes. By-and-by the men released me and stepped back, allowing me to fall to my knees in grief. "No!" was the only perceivable word that left my mouth in a mourning sob, and then I buried my face in my hands. What other noises I made, I couldn't say, for the world dissolved away at that second, and the only sound I heard was the pounding of blood in my ears, a familiar environment that was one day to be repeated. As I knelt in grief in the unheeded snow I realized there was never much hope. Aristocrats were affluent and gaudy, and as long as circumstances were favorable for them, they cared nothing. Why would the thought of one sacrificing a good to help commoners even pass through my mind? Aristocrats were capable of no earthly good – it was thus decided. Every day spent with little Adrienne flashed before my eyes, producing more tears, knowing I would never experience such a thing again. "How can such a thing happen?" I moaned, grasping my head. Hope was now futile. "…And why?"

Heaven knows the expanse of time I shriveled anguishing in the snow. I recalled no calculation of numbers, just the torment of my bitter and plaintive emotions. When I finally was immersed back into the noisy streets of Saint Antoine, I picked myself up, though still shattered, and staggered back to my wine-shop. There stood my wife outside the door, cursing every French imprecation known to man at the despicable aristocrats. She had witnessed the scene. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks were wet, and her breathing was shallow. But in her eyes, along with great sorrow, a malevolent fire blazed; and thus it was recorded: the first of many encounters I was to have with such an expression.

Though we were not very religious, Thérèse and I spent the day by Adrienne's cradle in fervent prayer, beseeching the Heavens to spare our innocent and beloved daughter. All through the night we continued our petition; sometimes audibly, but when tears overtook us, in our breaking hearts.

Nevertheless, on the subsequent morning, the thirtieth day of the first month in the year seventeen-seventy-one, Adrienne Defarge, dark-haired ocean-eyed adorable chattery infant, bearer of so much future potential, mother's joy and father's angel, departed this world and passed on into a better one.

I supposed it was all for the best; she never would have lived the life we longed for her to have in such streets as Saint Antoine. She dwelt now in a superior place where she could experience joy and tranquility. In such an impoverished life-style which was only capable of rapidly worsening, how could the child have ever received what she was so worthy of? She would be despised by the well-to-do and then witness the unspeakable horrors of the revolution and the role her parents played in it. And perhaps I was permitted to suffer the loss so I could later condole and empathize with Gaspard over the death of his son, also caused by the cursed aristocrats. I supposed that we should have felt emotions of happiness and contentment, knowing what our daughter must have been enjoying in heaven, and aware that she was receiving care we were incapable of delivering; but we were far from it. Depression captured our lives with an unrelenting grasp; depression and resentment.

Adrienne's death marked the official and agonizing conclusion of my blissful life. Not only had the love from my daughter vanished, but in addition the love from my wife diminished. Thérèse was never the same after the incident, and rightly so, I had thought, considering the incomprehensible feelings of a mother. It left such a mournful impression on me as well, and filled me with hate of aristocrats, but nonetheless I still wished to show affection towards my wife. The occurrences where she reciprocated such affection, however, grew quite rare. With every day that succeeded it appeared more and more that she was becoming numb to positive emotions.

It was a wonder that the scarlet fever Adrienne had did not spread to either me or Thérèse, but that hardly helped to sedate the pain of yielding our only child to the forces above. Days dragged on, weeks dragged on, months dragged on, all succumbing to the supremacy of heartache in our lives. No more did the wails of Adrienne resonate through the house, nor her boisterous laughter or babbling language. She never did learn to utter a proper word…why was she taken so young? So many things she could have done…so many things we could have taught her…so many possibilities…but now we would never have the opportunity. The first month after the tragedy felt like meandering through a hazy nightmare that would soon dissipate and we would awake to find Adrienne smiling up at us from her cradle. But alas, the cradle remained bare, our hearts were empty, and happiness was extinct.

Through the earliest of mourning months Thérèse still permitted me to embrace her when she was in tears and required solace. She still held conversations with me as well, though not as frequently. But aspects of her appearance were already starting to alter, and one of the primary signs, other than the constant dampness of eyes, was her lack of care for herself. Her hair scarcely received a decent combing and her face was rarely wiped. Perhaps my appearance was similar, but it was quite notable in her. But I wrote that off as the affects of grieving. Her hands also ceased knitting, her reason being she found no motive to knit any longer. In aguish she had burnt all apparel and toys she had knitted for Adrienne and even impelled me to board up the nursery, preventing any access. The poor brokenhearted mother was trying endlessly to remove all that reminded her of her grief.

Possibly the most noteworthy conversation during that period, which served as a turning-point in my life, took place on a March night while we sat in the basement. I was counting the revenue of the day while Thérèse sat idly, uttering no sound and staring into the abyss. All duties of business that we had previously shared fell on me again; Thérèse spent her days lamenting. I too was utterly crushed by Adrienne's death; but life was not going to pause because of what occurred. The nobilities' raise of taxes obliged me to work harder. But the months had come to a standstill for my wife.

At length the heavy silence was interrupted by mutterings from Thérèse. Inaudibly she murmured as she fiercely wrung her hands together, every syllable accented with pain. As I lifted my head to look at her in the candlelight, I perceived a sentence. "Those accursed aristocrats…they've stripped me of all but my husband…and how long until he perishes under their hand as well?" As the words left her lips her body grew ever tenser.

Cautiously I placed a hand on my trembling wife and ventured a question. "…Is that what happened to your family? The aristocrats…"

Thérèse fixed her piercing gaze on me and bore into my eyes. The flame was yet again in her eyes as an ominous shadow settled over her. As quickly as she had set her glare upon me she forced my hand off her shoulder. "I don't wish to speak of it!" she articulated with anger. Then slowly the shadow faded.

Her response was enough evidence to inform me that the aristocrats' dealings were at some point in time mingled with her family's and the result had been unfavorable.

Silence flooded the dark and dreary basement, prevailing for quite some time. Voiceless I sat tapping my fingers on the table, my previous activity forgotten. Thérèse continued staring into the abyss of despondency. Then, at last, words were finally on my tongue. "My dear, I miss Adrienne as much as you do…" Disregarding her glares I scooted closer. "And this has brought me an exceedingly high amount of grief as well. And I understand we could never replace the little darling…but perhaps if we had another child our hearts would be less devoid."

Without even considering the proposition, Thérèse shook her head. "No. Never again."

"Thérèse," I protested. "Another child could reintroduce happiness into our lives! It could be the object of your motherly love that currently has no place to pour out." Here I changed my tone to the most pleading I could muster. "Just mull it over for a while, all right?"

Again Thérèse tenaciously shook her head. "I will not expose myself to feeling this unbearable agonyagain! Never!" The shadows cast across the wall in the candlelight revealed her quivering frame.

Discerning her need for comfort at that time, I attempted again to extend my hand. When she didn't rebuff it, it rested gently upon her shoulder. I did not desire a reoccurrence of such misery, as I had never desired it in the first place, but there was no guarantee such a thing would occur again. "Dear, you don't know if that will reoccur!"

Suddenly she clutched my arm with a firm grip, her imploring eyes seemingly gazing into my soul. "Ernest, conditions in Saint Antoine are declining swiftly! As if we weren't in such an impoverished state in the first place, now the aristocrats must tax us unthinkable amounts! It…" Her volume plummeted. "It will never be the way it used to be. The way it ought to be…"

Witnessing a crack in the armor Thérèse had reapplied after Adrienne's death, I felt the audacity to take my wife in my arms. She melted further when in my grasp and my ears detected a soft mutter. "My heart is low."

"Yes," I whispered, tightening the embrace. "But I believe one day we will be with Adrienne again."

The oddest thing occurred subsequently that left me in a state of puzzlement and even fright. The woman in my arms, warm and submissive, suddenly grew remarkably cold and stiff. If the instantaneous and drastic transformation hadn't caused me to relinquish her, she probably would have removed me by force. Her eyes were greatly concentrating on me, boring into me, and there the flames of retribution flickered. "Ernest, these foul abominations known as aristocrats have made us suffer for too long! My parents, grandparents, and ancestors before were highly oppressed by their race! This quarter is greatly oppressed – we are greatly oppressed! How long will this be permitted to continue?" But before I was given sufficient time to answer she commenced. "All my life I have known of their cruelty, their malice, their narcissism! All my life I have simply sat aside and let such things continue! But no – not forever will my rage be contained! Not forever will I stay silent! One day, someday soon, Saint Antoine will make itself known! I will make myself known to those abhorrent aristocrats! Before I enter my grave, whether it be white-haired or rich-haired, I will have administered to them what they justly deserve! I will have avenged…Adrienne!"

Such passion, such pyre burning brightly, such roaring waves upon the swirling ocean were revealed in her eyes, that the revengeful fever spread to me. Her words were inspiring, stirring up the fury and hunger for justice I had once repressed. Throwing all wisdom and contemplation to the wind, I concurred wholeheartedly. My head rose as though it were just dawned upon me. "Yes…what accurate points you make, my wife! The aristocrats are very callous and egotistical! I grew up with such principals and experienced some when I began dwelling in poverty. But only now, after experiencing the fruits of their heartlessness, do I entirely comprehend the blight of such persons on our society! Yet they consider us to blight their society!" At this I grew so avid that I ascended from my chair. Thérèse's gaze was set intently upon me. "They despise us, imprecate us, and pray for our extermination! So unjustly they exercise their power – I've seen it. I'm still in the process of discovering the fate of my former employer, but most certainly aristocrats had a hand in it." Then I quieted down slightly and retook my seat. "And yes…if the aristocrats had been considerate enough to loan us a drop of medicine, Adrienne would still be with us today and the high class would not be so deserving of detestation. Life would still be enjoyable! But…" At this I finally paused a moment for consideration before verbalizing my next declaration. "Life will never again be enjoyable until Adrienne is avenged and that 'noble'" – I scoffed the word – "race will answer for its transgressions!"

At this my wife released an applauding cry, one my ears had not hitherto known the likes of. "Yes, my husband!" she agreed zealously. And as if orating to a multitude of mistreated peasants she exclaimed, "We – our class – our Saint Antoine will by-and-by execute justice so long entitled! We will avenge all the dead that fell at their putrid refined hand! One day…very soon, we will see a triumph!" Thus ended the conversation. And thus the first layer of the mercy-shielding blindfold was tied over me.

Many changes came to pass after that monumental epiphany – several of which weren't brightening. The basement conversation in essence launched the first phase of the French Revolution (to my knowledge at least; perhaps Thérèse had craved it prior) – conspiring. Initially I had regarded the conversation as stimulated by a pinnacle of fury that would be disregarded when our hearts quieted. But after a short amount of time it became evident that Thérèse was serious about formulating some sort of upheaval. "Even if it cannot be accomplished by our hands, Ernest, we will have at least made an effort; that alone will ease this mother's broken heart," she had told me. Thus, with some sparking from my wife, a revolutionary fire was entirely kindled within. Privately we discussed means of rebelling; and while I was keener about the force, Thérèse concentrated wisely on the correct moment. Timing, she said, was essential. We could not simply appear at an aristocrat's doorstep with knife and pistol – how utterly foolish that would be! Like all successful uprisings, patience was necessary.

Although such talk of avenging the daughter I loved so dearly thrilled me, such things the new attitude produced were not as favorable. Thérèse had ceased constant mourning, yes; but her careless appearance only seemed to worsen. No longer was she an innocent celestial woman with a pure face who only emitted love and endearment, as I in my immature years had perceived her. Every day that elapsed was slowly molding her into a tigress. In her eyes – once so portraying of the shimmering briny deep – hues of grey appeared, rendering them a stony slate blue. Though I had supposed it unfeasible, her hair, once cascading dark curls, became still the more unruly. Likewise, further dirt smears blighted her previously pure face. Perchance these were the effects of our miserable living conditions, perchance my appearance was similarly bedraggled; or perchance these were the results of her new devious passion. Initially I was ignorant of any other changes in my wife, until one night when they commenced becoming clear.

I sat at my bedroom desk before tattered parchment of an ochre color, musing over my writings by waning candlelight. I found it beneficial to record plans in writing, lest I should forget; such was the task currently before me. More discussion of the revolt we anticipated had passed between my wife and me, and I was recording some decisions we had made. Along with that, I intended to write the names of the men we had thus far recruited – which were originally scarce.

Footsteps on the stairs. Presently Thérèse entered the bedchambers and paused before me. I had sensed all this, for my mind was too focused on my work to observe it with my eyes. At length she spoke. "What are you doing?" she demanded in harsh tones.

Lifting my head, slightly startled by her tone, I replied, "I am merely recording what we discussed privately today, lest it should hereafter depart our memories."

In swift, precise motions, Thérèse seized the parchment and ignited it in the flickering flame of my candle. As she held it, the fire spreading and devouring my writing, her eyes reflected the ruthless pyre. "Fool!" she spat. "Where is such intelligence that was once present? Your method is not the least bit secure! If we are ever to succeed in what we afore contrived we must not be imprudent!" The latter word used was 'we' but I knew she meant 'you'. Leaning down to my seated level, she continued with intense articulation. "It makes no difference where you plan to conceal this!" The extinguished shriveled-up remains crumbled from her fingers. "It would never be safe! One has but to find such conspicuousness to gain knowledge of our exploits!" Much to my relief, her composure returned and she stepped away, stealing softly to another corner. "No. Such a form would never do."

Momentarily stunned by her outburst, I at length found my words. "What then, my dear, would you propose?"

First a peculiar sound of clicking was audible, and then she promptly returned to where she was visible. It was in shock my eyes beheld a sight I had not witnessed in five months – Thérèse was knitting. She made no indication that there was cause for alarm; nor did she decently regard me. After observing her for a few moments, I voiced my confusion. "Thérèse, you haven't knitted since –"

Before I could speak the words 'before Adrienne's death,' Thérèse interrupted. "Yes! I am aware!" Her hasty manner suggested that those words would have caused her pain if uttered.

"You told me you would never knit again…" I recalled, my puzzled gaze still fixed on her.

"I had no purpose," my wife answered with a shrug. Her eyes locked onto me, her skillful fingers never once faltering. "But now I do."

I concentrated briefly, trying to comprehend her; but when my efforts proved fruitless, I admitted it. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

At that moment, Thérèse's gaze grew keener. "I did not expect you to," she remarked nonchalantly, glancing down at her knitting hands for but an instant. "Observe, my husband." Not a trace of endearment was in her words. "This is what will record every little detail about what is forthcoming. This will record the name of every soul who will receive retribution!"

Addled as what to she was referring, for all I perceived about her was the knitting in her hands, I inquired, "Your knitting?"

"Yes, my knitting!" Thérèse confirmed, agitation in her voice. "My register! Every stitch of this holds significance to me!" Halting her knitting, she brought it closer to show me. "This pattern here" – she pointed to a specific red stripe, knitted in a stitch I was ignorant of – "holds the initials on the accursed carriage of those pitiless aristocrats!"

I brought my face closer and squinted, straining to discern any form of a perceptible character. Still, not a detail stood out to me. "Are you sure you won't forget their meanings?" I ventured.

"Infallibly certain!" she growled, appalled at such an insinuation. Taken aback by such a gruff reply, I observed her for a moment. Her behavior paralleled that of those months of pregnancy, but surely no physical irritation was triggering them presently. My thoughts ceased as she commenced once more. "Their meanings will be forever transcribed in my mind, such as their inequities are. Be quite certain of that, husband!"

From that moment on, it was recorded in my mind: do not question my wife in such a blunt manner. Attempting to compensate for how I had offended her, I decided to pay her a compliment. "Able to retain such complex things in your mind. I admire you, dear."

Thérèse only nodded in response, took a step back, and persisted knitting. Following her eyes, I observed that she was gazing at the flickering flame of the candle. I wondered what thoughts were floating through her puzzling mind. As I wondered, I watched her knit, transfixed by the motions of her hands. But there was one thing contrasting to the previous occasion I witnessed such an act – this time, instead of gracefully fluent movements, her fingers knitted relentlessly, swiftly connecting additional rows to the large square of knitting already done.

At length I broke the silence with a proposition. "My dear, the night is waning. Why don't we retire now?" I arose from my chair as I spoke and moved to her side.

Thérèse ceased knitting and shot me a wary glance as I drew nigh before indifferently replying, "I suppose."

Gently I brushed a few strands of her dark hair from her cheek. Though not as clean, her face was still as soft as I had recalled. "You look lovely in the candlelight," I murmured, lightly pressing my lips to her cheek.

A peculiar aspect that I noticed was her body was not pliable in my arms like it had once been. She stiffened notably and eased away. "Please, don't," she said somberly. "I am fatigued." With that, she set down her knitting and retired. Apparently she did not wish to partake in the affectionate mood I was in.

Though I tried to hold her in my arms that night while we awaited sleep, she would constantly edge out, her back always towards me. Eventually I ceased my attempts and fell into slumber with a dejected heart.

By this hour I was so engrossed in the memories of my life that I hardly regarded neither reality nor my separate world of anguish.

That was the first of many instances where she would shy away from my displays of fondness. She never provided an adequate justification for her hesitance around me. She hardly ever permitted any embracing or similar demonstrations of affection. Though she would still speak to me, her manner did not hold tenderness like it once had. Our conversations centered around the aspect that devoured our nights and days – revenge. Other topics were usually business-related or household-related, but any speech used profusely in the years of bliss was not repeated by her lips. Terms of endearment such as 'my dear' or 'my husband' were used only out of habit; no emotion emitted from them. I conceived not why this change in her mannerisms had occurred, nor was I fond of it. Questioning her on that matter was futile. I deduced that perhaps it was the result of a change in my mannerisms; perhaps I was not acting in a way she fancied – though I could never determine where I had changed. On very rare occasions, when Thérèse was in an especially good mood because of some talk of brutal vengeance, she was willing to partake in affectionate embraces and sporadic kisses; or perhaps when I had said a thrilling word about the mutilating of our enemies. Such were the things that excited her; wholesome things had no effect. She instigated a new law in our household – any affectionate displays were to be initiated by her. If I attempted anything she would push me away. We still slept in the same bed, but Thérèse was certain to be curled up on the furthest end from me. Most often her actions were cold – quite a drastic contrast to the years of bliss. She took up the mannerisms of the wife soured by an in argument from those years of bliss – yet now there was no argument and the sourness abode.

Most of the time I tried not to dwell on these changes, lest they should depress me. But one night after being rejected I paused to reflect. I truly did miss and yearn for the Thérèse I had once known – the warm, loving, pleasant woman, so radiant and beautiful. She was still beautiful, but the other characteristics had vanished. No longer did the sweet phrase 'I love you' pass from her lips. No longer did she welcome me home fondly when I returned from various and necessary trips. No longer did she do as much as bestow upon me a radiant smile. Now she was an utterly different woman. The more I reminisced, the more miserable I became. Without her affection to distract me, the terrible conditions of Saint Antoine were revealed to me in high degrees and the need for an uprising became more evident. I was anxious to commence; patriots we gathered under the name "Jacques" were increasing; but Thérèse wisely spoke against it. We needed to wait for the opportune moment, which thus far had not arrived.

Years passed. Conditions worsened yet; and while the wine soured, so Thérèse did ever the more. More and more I was noticing a dreadful shadow darkening her features; and the piercing glares she bestowed were frightening. Her slate-colored eyes grew extremely perceptive – she noticed my every fault and hesitation. She read me very clearly and precisely as if my very thoughts were recorded on parchment she possessed. Many meetings on strategies and plans were held with the Jacques and she was always present. I held the official title of the leader of the Jacquerie but my wife was the one who inspired and advised me.

Though the fact had not been divulged until a few days ago, Thérèse was truly behind it all. I had not even realized it until I contemplated the injustice of our 'just' revolution and its origin.

Gradually I became more accustomed to her cold attitude and tried to accept it. We acted only as partners in business and conspiring. Or perhaps one could say we acted like an old married couple whose flame had died. But we were not aged and there was no reason for the rapid extinguishing of the flame. Vengeance and sorrow played a role, but I was willing to forget it all for some intimate moments – why wasn't she? And I abandoned all of my secret hope that she would one day come to respect me in our marriage. She held respect for me as a leader of conspiring but not as a husband.

Though my wife had become distant, she had not lost any sagaciousness. During the rare moments Thérèse would suggest something in our planning that I feared too drastic and harsh (like sparing no aristocratic child when we finally seized control) and I would oppose, she would always sway me with the plea to 'ease this mother's broken heart.' Her tactics were flawless.

Another difference in conduct I observed was her physical cruelty. Not only were her words of malice cruel and graphic, but her actions were more vicious than I had known them to be. One particular instance I recalled was when an irritating rodent had infiltrated our bedroom. While I moved to pick it up by its tail and defenestrate it, Thérèse preceded me and eliminated it by her own method – hewing its head off with a cruel knife. I had been slightly disturbed at the time since it was the first life I had ever witnessed her take – the first of many to come.

Despite all these things, I remained loyal to her. She was still my wife no matter how radically her mannerisms were altered; and I loved her. No longer did she provide me with fondling, but now with inspiration and motivation. When I felt fatigued and impatient in our endeavors, she would remind me of the wrongs and what we were fighting for; and suddenly the long waiting felt worthwhile. An incredibly strong woman was she; while my desire for vengeance needed to be refreshed by the sight of the heartless aristocrats living in glory, she required none – her vengeance was always as acute. I greatly admired that quality in her.

The return of Dr. Alexandre Manette – my former employer – and his dwelling in the wine-shop garret in poor mental health proved more fuel for the justice-craving fire in Saint Antoine's bosom. In turn, recruiting passionate and trustworthy Jacques became easier and more successful, which delighted my wife and me. What did not delight us was the appalling condition Dr. Manette was left in, the harvest of the abominable seeds aristocrats had sown. It affected me personally, enraging me, because I was formerly his servant and was still devoted to him. Thérèse only seemed to sympathize with him as a fellow victim of injustice.

After a short amount of time Dr. Manette moved to England under the care of his daughter. Although now absent, the story of his imprisonment was still utilized effectively in stirring up patriots.

Five more years elapsed, our number of Jacques and thirst for revenge increasing rapidly. Hunger was rampant among our people. Death was rampant among our people. Oppression grew severer and men were anxious. But by then my wife had instilled in me a fraction of her perceptiveness, a wisdom mirroring hers only to the slightest degree. I could feel that the proper time had not yet come, and Thérèse concurred with gusto.

My impatience reemerged when an old compatriot of mine, Gaspard, lost his young son to the mercies of an aristocrat's coach. The sight of the child being grinded into the ground by the wheels would abide in my mind for years to come. The aristocrat's pathetic attempts to compensate for that life with a coin infuriated my wife and me. Witnessing Gaspard's sorrow, the anguish of a grieving father, awakened memories of Adrienne's death. I encouraged Gaspard to be strong, but I understood all too well how challenging that was in the loss of a child. I could empathize – we both had lost a child by the hand of the aristocracy – more the reason to abolish the wretched nobles. I grew quite restless.

That afternoon found me behind the counter of my wine-shop, pondering the events of the day. I had not spoken with Gaspard since immediately after his son's death, nor had I caught sight of him. A number of Jacques, drunk and sober, were sprinkled about the tables in my shop, but other than them, customers were not present. My wife, as traditionally, stood beside me with her knitting, staring off into oblivion. Her slate eyes were quite frightening when she fell into one of her distant gazes; it appeared as if her acute vision truly beheld things unseen to man. At length her friend, a woman of the knitting sisterhood of Saint Antoine (I never did learn her name, but she was later dubbed The Vengeance by my wife), entered and Thérèse moved to her table to converse. Initially I had been too absorbed in my contemplations that I did not heed their conversation, but at length my ears caught a few intriguing words that caused me to tune in.

"It's a shame about what happened to Gaspard's son," The Vengeance murmured, shaking her head. Her greasy black hair swayed as her head moved.

Thérèse's complete attention rested on her friend; she never once regarded her own swiftly-knitting fingers. "Yes," she agreed. "Child loss is always quite a shame." Her voice sounded indifferent, but I perceived she was concealing her personal pain. While she had grown to interpret me over the years, I too acquired a little knowledge of her own behavior.

The Vengeance nodded. "And such brutes those aristocrats are! We are merely rats to them!" she exclaimed resentfully with a furrowed brow.

"I've known this for quite some time, my sister," Thérèse said composedly. While what had occurred that day was deplorable, it had come as no shock to my wife and me. I hypothesized that The Vengeance had not yet become familiar with the taste of brutal pain. Not much I knew about her, other than her husband was a starved man who vended the poor crops our earth strained to yield. The question then crossed my mind: while her husband was so bony, why did she remain so plump? 'Twas a mystery.

The women fell silent for a moment before The Vengeance again spoke. "I have not seen Gaspard about since the tragedy, Thérèse. Do you know what has become of him?"

Thérèse surveyed her surroundings for but a moment (and such a short moment that it was difficult to perceive) before replying. "Yes. After Defarge, my husband, conversed with him, he came to me. In such a pitiable state he was, and so avid for revenge. He said unto me, 'I know you and your husband say to wait to retaliate, but I just can't bear it!' So I granted him a knife and he pursued the coach."

The Vengeance's eyes dilated in her excitement. "My, he is brave! I fervently hope he gets the aristocrat's blood!" she expressed in a shrill whisper. Such pleasure she got out of the thought.

My wife nodded firmly. "He must be artful if he hopes to succeed in this endeavor. That I do not know, but most certainly his anguish will empower him. He is trustworthy. He won't disclose our secret. That is the only reason why I allowed him the opportunity, save that the aristocrat did not deserve his own wretched life!" Her knitting hastened slightly.

I had not been conscious of my slow progression towards the women until I found myself standing beside my wife. She did not yet regard me, but sat in continuous knitting. "I commend you, my wife." When my pause was not consumed by any word from either of them, I continued. "It was very prudent of you. While Gaspard's heart will be alleviated, we are giving those nobles a precursor of what is to come. A little omen, perhaps." Yet still Thérèse did not speak. "It is coming soon, is it not?"

"Perhaps," replied Thérèse, her response punctuated by a click of her knitting needles. "Perhaps not. We must wait and observe."

"I want blood!" cried The Vengeance anxiously, abandoning all attempts to maintain a whisper. The various Jacques in the wine-shop turned their attention from their dominoes, drinks, and other occupations to look upon us. Shouts of approval rang out.

The shouts persisted only for another moment before Thérèse bellowed, "Hush, you men!" Their mouths closed rapidly and the air was silent. Casting a little irritated glance at The Vengeance, she rose to address the customers. "Do you want all of Saint Antoine to hear you?" she sneered.

There was a moment of intermingled murmuring before one man, a Jacques of five-and-forty, voiced his opinion. "Madame, Saint Antoine is with us!"

"The residents, yes," my wife swiftly responded. "But who knows what wolves may dwell among us." Her keen eyes glared at them.

The buzz of the Jacques ensued, but none dared to voice another opinion to Thérèse. Satisfied, she moved to retake her seat when I caught her by the arm. "How many more innocent children will have to die before we are ready to retaliate?" I asked in a beseeching manner, my voice loud enough for only her and The Vengeance to hear.

Thérèse's initial reaction was one of exasperation and she opened her mouth in preparation for harsh words. But quite shockingly she withdrew what she was on the verge of saying and took a moment to contemplate. Her features grew less cruel but still bore firmness. "My dear, we have discussed this many a time. We will know when the time is right." She drew closer to me and lowered her voice. The next words were spoken in an irate tone, but I perceived the anger was not directed towards me. "Don't be anxious. For I swear to you we will avenge our precious daughter and all other matters worthy of avenging." With that, she drew back and retook her seat.

Resting my arm on the back of her chair, I gazed down at her dark curly hair. "My brave wife," I spoke endearingly. Thérèse did not react.

The Vengeance praised Thérèse for her wisdom for a number of minutes before my wife brought up a topic that piqued my interest. "If Gaspard fails, the name of that aristocrat will be recorded in my register when it is disclosed." Her fingers knitted shrewdly. "Along with the oppressors of that doctor friend of yours, Ernest." Though she addressed me, she made no glance towards me.

And it came to pass that while Gaspard did succeed in murdering the aristocrat, nearly a year later he was arrested and executed, even though I petitioned against it. Further grave details were relayed to me by a simple mender of roads, native to a familiar countryside village. The mender of roads, proving his reliability, soon joined the Jacquerie. Incensed at how Gaspard was brought to death, Thérèse and I agreed it best to register all the residents and relatives of the château the dreadful aristocrat had dwelt in. However, the idea proved not so delightful to me when it was discovered that the nephew of the dead aristocrat was marrying Dr. Manette's daughter. The thought of afflicting the family of the doctor troubled me – yet there Charles Darnay's name was in the register and Thérèse refused to retract it; I dared not even ask. She perceived the effect the knowledge had on me and reproached me. I spoke no more of it, holding to the hope that the doctor's family would forever remain in England. Little did I realize that this matter would one day morph into a conflict that would try my loyalties.

More years of the like rolled by, so much in the fashion of tumbrils that would one day roll by. Ever conspiring, ever preparing.

At last the lightning was ready to strike. Finally, after eighteen years of endurance, St. Antoine was ready to retaliate. On July 14, 1789 it commenced: we took up all conceivable arms and stormed the Bastille. The thrill of revolution was upon us. The spirit of patriotism filled every breast. Cannons, guns, screams, shouts, cries – such was the din that encompassed the musty air. The imagery was indescribable. A sea of red flowed forth that day, never to be hindered. Relentlessly we assaulted the Bastille, my wife leading the women, and I at the cannon. Eventually the walls of tyranny and oppression could not withstand our wrathful fire any longer and collapsed. Our enemies were killed, our friends were freed, and valuable information was obtained. Victory was ours! Pride, joy, and elation bubbled inside every peasant; inside every maltreated, miserable, and forgotten common person. Withered and depressed expressions were no longer worn upon dirty faces. The day was ours! Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death! That was our cry.

Patriotic spirit still abode in the tranquil suburb of Saint Antoine as the sun fell behind the Paris buildings soon to be ours. The valiant peasants rested, and vengeance was still for a few hours. Satisfaction was in the air, at least during that time. Some, like I, could not consider attempting sleep while our hearts were so stirred from the day. My wife felt likewise.

After the last celebratory Jacques had departed from my wine-shop, my wife and I stood alone by the counter. Thérèse was not knitting, as she had not knitted at all that day. Instead she turned to me with an expression that lacked her usual somberness. As a matter of fact, it resembled a merry expression. "It has finally come to pass," she said lightheartedly. "Now we will see change. Now we will be free. And now you can ease that anxious heart of yours."

My features bent into a warm smile. "Yes. I am quite pleased. Oppression has ceased; now we enter into a new era." I laid a hand on her shoulder and strangely she did not refuse it.

"Those many years waiting, they were worth it, yes?" she asked. Her eyes were on mine, yet no dread was cast upon me.

"Yes," I answered resolutely. "Your wisdom was infallible. I never should have doubted you." My tone was quite apologetic.

"I concur." It was an odd manner in which she spoke those words; not stern or prideful. One could even consider it jovial. It was at that moment I noticed a smile forming on her lips.

Observing her favorable behavior, I decided to comment, "Well, you seem to be in a fine mood."

Thérèse rested an arm on the counter and then asked with a nostalgia-stirring head-tilt, "Well, why should I not be? Triumph, my dear, triumph! We have triumph, Saint Antoine has triumph, all peasants have triumph! And many more days of the like will ensue. I see a magnificent future ahead! All foul aristocrats shall be brought to judgment!" Now a complete smile shown upon her lips and her eyes were shining more than I had seen in eighteen years. Some of the grey had even vanished and the orbs were beginning to resemble the ocean again.

My heart pounded with excitement and thoughts swirled through my mind. Now that we had revolted, would my wife's initial disposition return? Little had I known that the poisoning had already begun during those eighteen years. "Such a turning point this is," I spoke, referring to our accomplishment of the day. "Can you imagine a world without injustice?"

"I have imagined it many a time," Thérèse answered simply. "Finally those dreams will be realized." The smile still remained upon her lips and her eyes were ever fixed on me. We remained in silence for a moment until she spoke again. "And you, my husband, my cannoneer, acted quite admirable today. You will gain renown for this storming; your part was played heavily in it. Already I have heard folk admire and praise you. And I am doing so now." Her smile increased by a few degrees.

A feeling inside me stirred, and I knew it not to be patriotic spirit. I recalled the emotion from what seemed like quite long ago, when love was young and we were young. "You were the brave one, my dear," I returned modestly, attempting to repress reddening of my cheeks. My hand squeezed her shoulder gently and she did not retreat.

"You are a leader of men, Ernest," Thérèse insisted fondly. In result of her affection that I rarely received anymore, I grew slightly uncomfortable and removed my red cap. I had become quite unaccustomed to it over the years. Thérèse then reached up, while I was ever the more stunned, and evened the hair my hat had displaced. All attempts at repressing the blush were fruitless.

As I gazed into her swirling eyes of blue and grey, pleasant memories flickered visibly in them. The memories transported me back to the years of bliss, when everything was seemingly right in the world. Sweet aromas of our country-side honeymoon filled the air and in Thérèse's eyes I saw younger versions of us, running barefoot in fields of green. I heard our laughter; I felt the lush grass between my toes. All this for but a moment. The memory diminished and revealed Thérèse and I standing in the dark dismal atmosphere of my wine-shop on the eve of July 14, 1789, having just stepped over the threshold into the French Revolution. Still, amidst the gravity of our situation, a new hope was kindled in my breast. Perhaps this revolution would bring more change than I had anticipated. Perhaps…it would reinstitute the years of bliss. Encouraged by these thoughts, I slowly leaned forward, bringing my free hand to rest upon her other shoulder. Then, as she stood motionless, I gently pressed my lips to hers and kissed her.

Heaven knows how long it had been since that action was last preformed. Such a wonderful feeling it was, something I had yearned for over the empty years. What made it even more superb was that it was reciprocated. It was not an emotionless, thoughtless act like Thérèse had ever so often bestowed on me for sake of tradition. It truly contained affection. Such a rarity that sort of thing was that it made my heart skip a beat. Emotions I had considered dead were being reborn. During those moments, a special feeling returned – a feeling of being loved by my wife.

When unhappily the moment passed and we separated, I gazed at her tenderly for an instant longer. She was still as attractive as when I had met her on that blissful day in 1759. Pure joy swelled in my breast as I recounted the thrill of the storming of the Bastille; and now this. Perhaps God had not forsaken me after all.

At length the silence was dismissed when Thérèse grabbed my arm warmly and expressed, "Come, let us celebrate the feat of today. Let us toast to the promise of tomorrow." She then released by arm and made for one of the tables.

"Excellent suggestion," I commended. "A little wine to celebrate?" I waited not for her to answer, for it was a rhetorical question, and turned to the bottles behind the counter. Selecting the preferred flavor, I took two glasses and joined my wife at the table. As I placed the contents down and moved to take a seat, I detected the presence of parchment in my waistcoat. The discovery prompted me to remember a very significant detail about the taking of the Bastille. Sitting down, I opened the wine bottle and spoke to my wife. "I found a paper in Doctor Manette's old cell, 105 North Tower, that could disclose the secret of his imprisonment. Perhaps we should examine it?"

Thérèse looked about warily for a moment before her eyes returned to me. "Not presently. Such confidential things must remain confident. Saint Antoine is not yet fully asleep. We shall read it in the dead of night."

I agreed with her judgment and subsequently filled our glasses. We drank to the revolution and then immersed ourselves in pleasant conversation. We discussed the events of the day, and even such humors as what became of the powdered wigs collected from the slain. Between commending each other on gallantry and dexterity, we sipped wine and even snacked a little on hard bread. Such was our supper. Nevertheless, that evening was considerably the most enjoyable evenings I had spent with my wife in many years. We even fell into fond reminiscence; and it was quite gladdening to hear Thérèse speak dotingly about something that did not pertain to revenge. We consumed a little additional wine than the norm, but not enough to intoxicate us. The recollections soon brought back to mind a certain conversation that had once occurred, and I took care to mention it.

"You know, dear," I commenced with an affectionate smile. "This brings to mind one particular night during those happy years of our marriage…before any of this." She looked at me questionably, suggesting that I had in some means insulted the revolution. "Before the sorrows, I mean," I quickly clarified. "We were discussing the future, declaring it bright and mirthful. True, it was all wistful and youthful thinking, but I remember words you spoke that were so dear to me. I can hear them clearly even now." Thérèse raised an eyebrow intently, evidentially unaware of the occasion I was referring to. "You told me that you could forget all the wrongs, all the injustice, and all the poverty…because I was there for you." I let out an anxious breath, anticipating her response. Those words had been long forgotten by her, it seemed. So ironic they were now.

A few minutes elapsed before Thérèse actually spoke. Her eyes scanned every corner of the room, though it was evident her mind did not go with them. Diverse expressions on her face came and went as though she were wrestling with a force within. At length she voiced her decision. "Yes, well, it was my immaturity that spoke," she answered hesitantly. Her voice then lowered. "I knew not what I was speaking of. I had no inkling."

The emotional struggle I had just witnessed her undergo nearly summoned tears. A hypothesis formed in my mind: her reason for hardening could have been some deep-seated injustice, perhaps even further than Adrienne. Unbeknownst to me, I was on the doorstep to discovering exactly what injustice had befallen her decades previous. The key rested in my pocket. And once all the lights in Saint Antoine had evanesced, by dim candlelight the parchment was produced and read.

Not much was to be recalled of the exact dialog that transpired. By now, the doctor's story was already known. Thérèse's involvement was already known. I did remember, as the graphic scenery of the memories waned for a moment, the mixture of anguish and fury related to the injustice, and the epiphany related to my wife's unfavorable metamorphosis.

Thérèse had suffered through more heartache and misery than I had ever been aware of. Not only had the accursed class of aristocrats been accountable for her daughter's death, but for her entire family likewise. Her father, her brother, her sister, her brother-in-law, her unborn niece. I was the only soul dear to her not yet exterminated by them. Such a realization put a few things into perspective. While I too underwent the agony of losing Adrienne, she had experienced such agony previously – and tenfold. She enlightened me that night of how she grew up by the sea with strangers and no family to love. I had never known such things had occurred hitherto and was quite flabbergasted by the whole ordeal. The fact that she even allowed our lovely marriage to eclipse the pain for a while proved her strength. Yet Adrienne's death was beyond bearing. She had not relayed this to me, but I made the assumption that her indifferent attitude towards me had stemmed from the fear that I too would be abstracted from her life. My poor wife…I lamented over her misfortune. Yes, and Dr. Manette's as well. But as much as I was loyal to the doctor, my devotion to Thérèse surpassed it.

Knowing of such intolerable injustice, the patriotic vengeful spirit within me augmented. During those dead hours of the night I was yearning to find an aristocrat and brutally slaughter him. Abhorrence consumed every corner of my mind. Only later would I realize with remorse that the Evrémondes, responsible for both my former-employer's and my wife's agony, was the noble family Charles Darnay belonged to. Only later would I feel conviction. At that moment, noble blood was what I craved.

In retrospect, my emotions of that night shamed me. Justice was already served to the men who had actually executed the felony; all other related parties were innocent. Including Charles Darnay.

Yet while I raged, Thérèse remained, in most aspects, composed. Remembering such events depressed her, causing her to shed a few tears, but she displayed not the impetuosity I expressed. Such a fact was quite odd when comparing our typical dispositions. The shadow had reappeared about her, however, coupled with the intense grey in her eyes. With her usual prudence, she calmed me and reminded me of our conquest – of the revolution. Tomorrow, she told me, I could have my vengeance. She was quite eagerly anticipating her own. The night was closed with a few additional words before we retired.

It was with uncertainty I fared through the first few weeks of the French Revolution. The uncertainty was not affiliated with the exploits of the revolution whatsoever. The revelation night when the paper was read caused me to speculate. Would Thérèse take interest in me again? She had no reason now, with all the power she accumulated, to fear any man, especially not aristocrats. If so desired, she could be intimate with me without an anxiety of ever losing me to such an end. Yet so far there were no major turnarounds in her conduct. The rarity of her affection and commendation grew less extreme, but in no major degree did it resemble the years of bliss. I supposed what once was could never return in such splendor. Yet I was making her proud, myself proud, my people proud, and true France proud with my achievements; that was what mattered. I was certain.

Customs in St. Antoine were in some aspects permanently altered by the revolution. When an enemy of the people, namely an aristocrat, was in a ten mile radius of the vicinity, we simple folk transformed into raging wolves and ferociously annihilated the adversary. When not occupied with such patriotic escapades (which were typically led by me), many contributed to the instating of Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death. Patriots were inaugurated in different positions, a loose tribunal was installed, a system of denunciation was established, traditions regarding the Republic (such as greeting everyone as Citizen or Citizeness, which subsequently became law) were instituted, and many prisons stood overflowing with noble prisoners. A war-like song and dance that filled me with much patriotic pride at the time was invented – the Carmagnole. It was performed many a time in the street, conjointly with spontaneous murdering of prisoners. Such was our vengeance. When a patriot craved the blood of an aristocrat, as many did (especially the third Jacques of the Jacquerie), they preyed upon almost any prisoner desired; and not an opposing word was uttered. (None dared, fearing being declared a conspirer against the Republic.) I was no exception to this behavior. Whether leading my compatriots in an assault, advising my Jacques, stirring patriotic spirits, or singlehandedly murdering, my soul was fixed on a sole driving force that impelled me: the remembrance of the injustice done to Thérèse and Adrienne. Such was also the repressor of my conscience and the obscurer of my sight. In my eyes, all aristocrats were responsible for my torment.

Another new marvel was established by our dear Republic. Initially knives, pistols, cannons, axes, gallows, fire, and the like were our brutal weapons of butchery. But that was before the birth of an exalted instrument, a new mode of execution – La Guillotine. The 'saint' instantly became celebrated among the populace. The sisterhood, Thérèse included, enjoyed spending an afternoon knitting and counting the heads fall. Thus new pastimes were born.

Amidst all Republican endeavors, I noticed a slight favorable change in Thérèse. It appeared to me that she was giving me a little more respect than the norm. She seemed pleased with my accomplishments and leadership, and it was with rarity that she ever criticized harshly. She was a leader herself, in charge of the women mainly, which I never stopped praising her for. During those few years, though stained with vengeance and blood, I felt a little closer to Thérèse than during the years of planning for the revolution. At times, I even deemed the revolution responsible for our restored relationship. However, the joy of it enhanced the blindfold that obstructed my vision from the realities of the French Revolution.

Such a truly selfish man I was!

Though many facets of Saint Antoine had been altered, a great number in turn remained the same. Poverty was still about us. Our provisions were tough and flavorless, our water soiled, our streets filthy, and our appearances not much different. Not many took into account these things, however, in admiration of all the social reform that had occurred.

All of the aforementioned and such likewise had occurred over the span of three years. During autumn of that third Republican year, a thin layer of my blindfold was finally removed. The realization manifested as a result of the arrest of Charles Darnay. I had feared his return to France, perceiving the consequences of such an arrival. My predictions were correct – he was pronounced an emigrant, aristocrat, and was sent to La Force prison. But though my conscience began to speak to me as I walked him to his fate and he requested my assistance, another little voice within me, known as Thérèse's influence, prevented me from administering aid to the innocent man. He was an accursed Evrémonde after all; my brain continued feeding me this until the desire to help had diminished. Yet after Doctor Manette and his daughter Lucie presented themselves in Paris, and I witnessed Lucie's pleas and sorrows responded to by my wife's pitilessness, my conscience resumed its whispers. Thérèse did make a strong point: that the women, namely herself, had not received mercy when going through their agonies. But somewhere within me a feeling of guilt abode.

Months passed while I wrestled with my conscience and Charles Darnay sat alone in a dark musty cell. Affairs of the Republic moved on as usual. But while Thérèse and I continued to gain power and influence among the people, so did Doctor Manette. My wife discerningly noticed this; yet while she held her undisclosed weapon, she did not fear. Only I knew of it – the paper found in 105 North Tower. She kept it safely concealed within the thick walls of our bedroom.

During an uneventful day in the winter, I resolved to ponder the situation my conscience nagged me about. Charles Darnay was an aristocrat, and aristocrats were a true Republican's enemy. He was related to the Evrémonde brothers, the most abominable creatures to ever walk the earth. Yet…he himself had committed no crime. He seemed to be the picture of innocence. And he was a father, a father dreaming of his child's future and desiring for her a happy, prosperous life. I could once relate. But such mercy on aristocrats was just not known to true Republicans! And certainly not to my wife! That would be weakness! What was I thinking?

…And yet my conscience gently suggested that perhaps my vengefulness was the result of my wife's influence. Perhaps she was thickening the blindfold that lay over my eyes…

It was at that moment that Thérèse entered the wine-shop, promptly followed by The Vengeance. Both women were boisterous, Thérèse carrying a bloodied axe and The Vengeance still beating on her drum. Patriotic spirit dwelt inside them. One of them chided me for not participating in the recent Carmagnole and informed on how magnificent it had been, but my mind was not hearkening much else. I was too engaged in the startled examination of Thérèse's appearance. Her hair was wildly unkempt, her ragged and torn dress hung loosely on her, and her entire being was covered with stains of blood and dirt. The axe held firmly in her hand, coupled with the pistol in her girdle, caused a frightening effect. Her breath was shallow and her skin was moist with perspiration. Among all those traits, the most prominent was her eyes. Savage they were, and cruel as a ravaging beast. Such a distinct blue-grey color emanated vengefulness and ruthlessness. Her eyes warned of a predatory pounce at any given moment. She no longer looked like an ordinary poverty-stricken woman; she resembled a barbarian! When had this happened? I had not recalled such previous enlightenment of these characteristics.

Thus the first and most conspicuous effects of her revenge-poisoning were observed. During the weeks that ensued, I became more conscious of how my wife appeared and behaved. Among her favorite topics of conversation – namely how many prisoners the guillotine devoured, how excellently gruesome one thing or another was, and how many more prisoners should be executed – her most preferred was what terrible vengeance she had planned for Evrémonde. Amid such discussions, I would interject a few apprehensive comments on how Doctor Manette's power would surely save him. She brushed these off, reminding me of the parchment we possessed. Again she emphasized the significance of patience.

Every day that dawned seemed to continually harden Thérèse to any trace of pity or mercy. Yet while she grew stronger, I grew weaker. Occasionally my affairs took me past a narrow street by La Force, where daily Charles Darnay's pining wife stood. I tried not to heed the emotions that swelled up within when I caught a glimpse of her face – a face filled with heartache and yet with hope. She had hope, I was sure of it, that her father would restore her dear husband to her. What caused me great remorse was the knowledge that her hopes were in vain; my wife would not rest until Evrémonde was brought to justice. Such encounters often brought the question back into the forefront of my mind: were we really doing the right thing? Would the release of Charles Darnay really mortally damage the Republic? If he was acquitted, he would certainly return to England and live a tranquil life! At times of questioning, I discovered how preposterous the whole ordeal was.

Yet when with Thérèse, the imprisonment of him made perfectly good sense again. He was an abominable Evrémonde! Evrémondes were reprehensible for the death of Thérèse's family! Evrémondes were reprehensible for Doctor Manette's eighteen-year captivity! And aristocrats were responsible for the loss of my only daughter, the sweet angelic infant Adrienne. And aristocrats were oppressors of the people! These were our reasons for instigating the revolution in the first place; I could not abandon them.

While my mind wavered between resoluteness in favor of Thérèse and in favor of Charles Darnay, still Doctor Manette toiled assiduously in hopes of rescuing his son-in-law from the grave my wife had already prepared for him.

When the day of Darnay's trial arrived in 1793, Thérèse and I were present in the front row, yet we never once laid eyes upon the prisoner. I kept my eyes fixed upon the jury, for fear that if I looked at either Darnay or his family, pity might be displayed that Thérèse would perceive. She had already accused me of such a few times prior, and I desired not to add any more suspicion.

While one would expect Thérèse to be anxious in wait of Darnay's sentence, she proved to be quite the opposite. She remained in her silent composure that was remarkably a prominent characteristic of hers. Attentively she knitted, her behavior indifferent in spite of Dr. Manette's growing support. An internal battle occurred within me as half of me wished for Darnay's acquittal and the other half for his end.

Promptly after Darnay had been declared a friend of the Republic and a free man, I turned to Thérèse, wondering when she would produce the parchment. She told me that the time was not yet right and directly we exited, as not to be swept away by the celebratory crowd.

That evening I sat solitarily beside the small fireplace in my bedroom, heeding again to my innermost thoughts. While I felt somewhat contented at Charles' exoneration, perceiving the great joy he and his family would experience, I knew Thérèse would not let it remain so. One way or another she would bring the Evrémonde to his grave. It was with curiosity I pondered the thought: Darnay's kin had been directly responsible for Dr. Manette's unbearable suffering, yet he was so willing to forgive the family that he allowed Charles to wed his beloved daughter. If the direct victim was willing to forgive, was it wrong that I was not?

My musings were suspended by the entrance of Thérèse. In the firelight I could not perceive as many visible signs of cruelty as I previously had, for perhaps she wore herself less bedraggled than usual. After seating herself beside me on the cushioned bench, no knitting present, I began the conversation.

"So Darnay – I mean Evrémonde – has been acquitted," I stated ponderously. "Are you still intending on exacting your revenge, my dear?"

"Most certainly," Thérèse responded, her expression seeming to say 'where is your brain? I was certain you had one.'

With uncertainty on how to voice any of my apprehensions, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. With my hands propping up my chin, I gazed into the fire. As I concentrated, the flames morphed into shapes of Thérèse ruthlessly battling an opponent. Promptly, Thérèse's voice stirred me from my reverie.

"An atrocious aristocrat does not deserve his head," she growled through her teeth. "I was under the impression you concurred!"

I lifted my head to meet her angered glare. "I do!" I defended fervently, determined not to appear weak before my beloved wife. "Verily I do!"

At first Thérèse eyed me distrustfully, but then the irritation on her features faded. Silence momentarily ensued before she spoke. "That gladdens me. You are a strong, useful man, my husband. And very wise." Her tone of admiration was never as affectionate as it had once been, but it stilled warmed my heart.

Foolishness clouding my judgment briefly, I felt the urge to impress her. "Evrémonde will pay for the sins of his wretched relations! His life shall be the atonement!" To emphasize my point, I slammed my hand down on my knee. I realized not what I was saying.

"Marvelous!" approved Thérèse, a cruel smile upon her lips. Unfortunately her fair lips never formed pure, innocent smiles any longer. Such was a thing of the past, long forgotten by most. I still nostalgically recalled them ever so often. After a moment, she scooted closer to me. This caused me to become slightly excited, anticipating eagerly a possible display of fondness. Such a solid, unimpressionable woman she had morphed into, but nevertheless I could sporadically cause a dent in that armor. "It delights me so to know you're in complete agreement with me." She spoke softly, almost tenderly. "Because…" As her eyes shown up at me, her finger found its way to my cheek and began lightly stroking. "I do require assistance, Ernest."

For a moment the verity that she used my first name diverted me. It was with infrequency that she even uttered the name anymore, and on this particular utterance it was articulated with such an endearing tone. Subsequently I focused on her finger's stroking, realizing how foreign such a sensation felt. "You do?" I inquired, slightly startled.

"Yes," Thérèse replied, her finger perpetually in motion. "In the denunciation of Evrémonde. The greater the voice, the higher the probability of success is." Every syllable was articulated with much care and precision.

All at once a realization dawned upon me. I no longer noted her expression or conduct, but purely the reality before me. This was it. If I gave my consent, this would surely be the end of Charles Darnay's life. His wife would be a widow; his child fatherless. And Doctor Manette would be a failure, in addition to the great sorrow the family would experience. Ending one's life had never perturbed me so prior, for I knew not of the souls who would suffer. I had not observed them; I paid no mind to them. Would my conscience rest with all the awareness I bore of Darnay's loved ones? It was at that moment I decided to attempt a debate with Thérèse. Stiffening visibly, I gazed at her ponderously. "Well…" I commenced hesitantly, irresolute on how to word my anxieties. "If you reflect upon it, my dear, would you not realize that Darnay is an innocent character in this terrible tale? He didn't play a part in the calamity that befell your family…" My uneasy and stumbling words were halted by Thérèse. Lifting my gaze back up to observe her, I acknowledged the presence of the shadow. As I had hypothesized, she was tumultuous. Her finger and whole being immediately retracted.

"My ears deceive me!" Her volume increased as her articulations grew more fervent. "Tell me my ears deceive me! Defarge, my husband, cannot be defending such a family of tyrants!" Her razor-sharp eyes seemed to slice through me and my weak defense. Nevertheless I still assayed.

"I'm not!" I hastily clarified. "But perhaps you should consider others who are involved in this whole matter. This Evrémonde has never inflicted harm upon you…" Again I was interrupted.

"All aristocrats have inflicted harm upon me! Upon all of us!" she spat, gesturing about as if the entire peasant populace of France abode in our bedroom.

"I know, dear, but think of the anguish his family will endure in result of his execution. His daughter…" My words trailed off as memories of my own daughter flooded my mind.

"Anguish long deserved for ever associating with such a creature!" Thérèse insisted. A glance at her tightly-fisted hands proved to me how irate she was. "And furthermore, he is listed in my register, the record I cannot forsake. If I removed his name, would it not be fitting to subtract more names? The name of the aristocrats who denied Adrienne medicine, perhaps?"

"No!" I objected avidly.

"See then! Such is how the Evrémondes are to me!" my wife expressed. A long slur of barely audible mumblings informed me that she was on the brink of a tirade. "Moments prior you spoke in favor of my proposition! Now you wish to save his wretched head! How can such treachery take place? Be married to a man for thirty years and this is what becomes of it! Save an Evrémonde, hah! You disgust me!" As these mutterings increased in volume, thus the squeezing of her fists and the piercing quality in her eyes intensified.

While I was anticipating an absolute eruption, however, something very remarkable occurred. All at once her displays of fury halted, her features softened, and the shadow dissolved. Her gaze, previously so menacing, turned unbelievably tender as she recomposed her posture, even drawing herself slightly nearer to me. "Ernest…" she began in such a contrastingly gentle tone. "You have been working too strenuously around the shop. That is why your judgment is impaired. You must be so fatigued…"

Her latest mood was in such a frightening disparity to her one of an instant prior that I sat insensible for a moment. When the shock had diminished, I unconsciously concurred, "Yes. Perhaps that is true…"

Thérèse drew nigh and positioned herself sideways to gain a better view of me as she continued. "You appear so weary, my poor husband! Oh, such swollen eyes you have!" With immense attentive concern she began tracing the wrinkles under my eyes with her index finger. After a moment of the aforesaid motion, she recoiled and arose from the bench. As she walked out of my vision, she maintained the topic. "Yes, you have definitely been exerting yourself vigorously for the good of the Republic! What a loyal citizen you are." As she uttered those last words in a syrupy tone, she appeared proximately behind me. Before I was conscious of the happenings during the very short interlude of her speech, Thérèse's hands were at my shoulders, rubbing soothingly. "Oh, you are considerably tense. Do try to relax," she cooed.

Taken aback by her current activity, I found her request quite difficult to fulfill. Questions surged through my mind as to why my irate wife had abruptly adopted this new disposition. Something wasn't…

But my thoughts were pleasantly interrupted when I detected her gentle lips on my cheek, a sensation that instantly aided in my tranquilization. Soon she was back at my ear, whispering sweetly. "That is much better, dear. Close your eyes." Without any hesitation, I complied. Lacking my sense of sight, I was required to focus more on hearing and touch, which were both quite pleasant at the time. After a moment of incessant massaging in silence, Thérèse spoke again. "Now, does that not feel refreshing?"

Intoxicated by the foreign feeling, I was only capable of murmuring a slurred "yes, very much" in return.

After planting several additional feathery kisses on my cheek, Thérèse persisted speaking. "Being an esteemed leader of your community must prove very arduous. Yet, my longsuffering husband perseveres! Such is greatly meritorious!"

My lips curved into a smile, enjoying the high praise she seldom bestowed upon me. Unfortunately, only a short stretch of time ensued before Thérèse concluded the massage. However, a pleasing action soon compensated; she curled up close beside me before the enchanting fire. When she affectionately laid her head on my shoulder, I knew I was permitted to wrap an arm around her; so I did such that. Once we had settled into that tremendously comfortable position, she began the habit of periodically lifting her head to kiss my cheek.

"You are still quite handsome, Ernest," she whispered endearingly, punctuating the sentence with another peck. "The years have been merciful."

The slightest bit irritated at how those lips, so seldom experienced, touched merely my cheek, I pivoted my head to receive her next kiss on my lips. Thus we became a little engaged for a while. Not a sound was perceived within or outside the house as the glowing firelight caressed our faces. Once the ardent connection broke for oxygen, I paid her a compliment. "And your beauty has never waned, my dear Thérèse," I murmured. "But, I do bear a curious inquiry. Why this sudden affection? Why, just moments prior you appeared as if –" But she rejoined before I could finish.

"Is it wrong for a wife to love her husband?"she asked in a particularly naive tone. Her features bore an uncharacteristically innocent expression. "Especially when said husband is so superb?" She then busied herself with the task of fastidiously straightening my red scarf, which was never even bedraggled originally. Yet, she continued at it, ultimately concluding with one more smoothing.

Gazing down with an emotional fusion of adoration and bewilderment at the woman who clung to me, I softly voiced a further befuddled inquiry. "So you do still love me?"

In response, Thérèse fervently pressed her lips to mine. Hence, another interlude in the conversation resulted. Not many explicit descriptions of the rare and wonderful experience could ever be recounted, because not many thoughts were traversing through my mind. Thérèse had captivated me tremendously. Once an adequate amount of time for expression had elapsed, Thérèse drew back from me. "What would ever give you a contrary notion?" she asked, her voice ever remaining in a beguiling whisper. Without granting me a moment to answer, she persuaded me to remain silent with a further kiss.

At length it ended, as all forms of intimacy must. We sat in utter silence for a stretch of time, engaging in the simple action of gazing. The fire incessantly flickered, projecting dancing shadows across the room. Such warmth was shared in that oddly-generated moment. I had no inkling to the actuality behind it; everything was right in my eyes. "I love you…I've never stopped," I murmured, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.

In rejoinder, Thérèse lifted her head, gazing at me with such shining eyes, remarkably resembling the ocean again. "You truly do?"

"Unquestionably," I replied earnestly, lightly caressing her soft face with my finger.

"Then…" A short intermission occurred before my wife went on. "Will you render me some service?" she inquired amorously. Her fond gaze was ever fixed on my face and her features beamed with affection.

When faced with an expression such as that, one cannot effortlessly rebuff. My instinctual response was a saccharine, generic, and romantic line. "I would do anything for you, my love."

Between two gentle kisses, she requested with such unwavering sentiment, "Denounce Evrémonde alongside me, my dear."

The request reinstated a slight quantity of intellect within me. But while in the mental process of deciding the method of declining without ruining our intimacy, I was cut short. When Thérèse had captured my lips with hers again, all contemplation was forsaken.

Leaving me a little disappointed, she separated to speak further. "I discern that you are still irresolute on this matter, Ernest. But if Evrémonde was eliminated from the earth, my soul would surely be at peace. Grief and rage would no longer reign. Blithe years, years so akin to the early years of our marriage, would be reestablished. I vow this unto you." To authenticate it, she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me into another kiss.

The few remaining operative gears in my mind began excitedly pivoting. A promise of the years of bliss returning – what I had yearned for countless years. It was indeed enough to sway me. I succumbed to her, both in body and mind. When she tenderly planted the last few pecks and drew back, I yielded wholly. "Very well. I will…" To convince myself further, I paused to kiss her once more. "…denounce Evrémonde."

My allegiance was rewarded with further affectionate kisses and caresses from Thérèse. Directly after the loving displays recessed, I accompanied her to the nearest Section Committee to officialize the denunciation. The process was swift and efficient; and with my mind persistently fixed on Thérèse's promise, my conscience was suppressed. Once the denunciation was completed, and a Jacques and a few other men were sent out to seek Evrémonde, my wife and I returned home. Once we had curled up on the bench together, we picked up where we had left off.

As the night waned, my mind was filled with only two thoughts: the years of bliss and loyalty to my wife. The night concluded with Thérèse settled snugly in my arms as we drifted off to heavenly sleep.

Once my fanciful dreams of green fields and French pastries ceased, I woke up to find Thérèse still in the last recalled position. In my arms on the uncomfortable cushioned bench she sat, still deep in slumber. I attentively admired her beautifully peaceful face as she breathed softly. Such serenity was inscribed on her features that it appeared as if no hardship had ever befallen us. No oppression, no misery, no loss, no terror, no blood. No revolution. Her placid face was in such salient contrast to expressions I remembered her sporting during revolutionary crusades. No creasing, no furrows, no tension. She slept in an utterly unperturbed state.

At length, I cautiously shifted positions, resulting in some muscular discomfort. Apparently that piece of furniture was not designed for slumber, I deduced. As I pivoted my head around to relieve some tension in my neck, I marveled at how we ever retired on such an unpleasant object. Then I recalled how pleasant her kisses were and it became comprehensible.

The early morning, with its first pale beams peaking through our tattered drapes, tarried for a while as I gazed upon my attractive wife. She truly had retained her beauty over the years. Albeit, it was slightly tainted, yet still very conspicuous. Her skin's soft texture remained unchanged; and when her features were set in that mild sleeping demeanor, she flawlessly resembled the young twenty-two-year-old Thérèse I had married with such unbounded delight.

At length, my gentle stroking of her tousled hair caused her to softly stir and awaken. Her initial movements were very drowsy and somewhat cautious as she attempted to regain awareness. It was a process I found so adorable that I couldn't help but release a light chuckle. Such bemused actions of Thérèse were virtually extinct. Her drowsy expression held innocence and vulnerability, causing me to deduce that if I viewed her in her half-awake state more frequently, I could observe her without her cold vengeful armor. But perhaps her current condition would remain; for Evrémonde was denounced and she told of a restoration of the past. As she gazed up at me, blinking numerously, she released a barely audible mumble. "What…?"

I could not discern if the question was directed towards her current surroundings or the fond gaze I bestowed upon her. Taking advantage of her lethargy, I drew her nearer and brought my lips to hers. The kiss endured for a while, for she did not lurch back, but tenderly returned it. As the seconds rolled by, it appeared as if her lethargy was slightly fading. Yet when we separated and she gazed at me, I could perceive that the drowsiness had not entirely vanished. "Good morning, Thérèse," I whispered, fruitlessly attempting to control my ever-widening grin. The restored bond between us caused my soul to leap enormous heights.

After releasing a yawn, she shook her head moderately to shake off the sleep. "Good morning," she murmured, confusion still present in her eyes. Once she had examined her environment and perceived her position, her eyes once again rested upon me. "I fail to recall why I am" – she groaned in pain as she moved a stiff muscle – "on this." She fidgeted about, trying to discover a comfortable position to situate herself in.

"Apparently we drifted off here," I explained. As she continued fidgeting, I retrieved my scarf which had somehow wound up near Thérèse's head on the back of the bench. I presumed she had, in our lethargy, borrowed it for a pillow. Once it draped loosely about my neck again, I refocused my attention on my wife, wrapping an arm around her as she finally located a tolerable spot on the bench. When she raised her eyes to look at me in expectancy, I decided to elaborate on the explanation. "We denounced Evrémonde last night."

That phrase instantly animated my wife, awakening her completely. "Indeed we did!" her eyes were now lit up with satisfaction. The satisfaction, however, did not portray the same purity her drowsiness had. "The trial will surely occur today!"

Not heeding to the vibrancy of her body, I persisted holding her. Although she was fully awake, my mind still retained slight haziness. I was content with just resting for a few more minutes. After all, Thérèse had vowed that if I, in conjunction with her, denounced Darnay, the early years of our marriage would be paralleled. I was intently awaiting the fulfillment of that promise, expecting a great transformation to occur in her disposition – a transformation akin to last night's. The smile caused by such a night had yet to depart my face. Warmed by the recollection of her affection, I leaned in, fully intending to steal another kiss.

However, I did not account for the following action of Thérèse. She spontaneously arose from the bench with the announcement, "We must prepare!" which in turn caused me to fall forward on the couch, inconveniencing my nose. She moved toward her clothes chest, utterly oblivious to what had just occurred. As she unlatched the trunk, I recovered myself from the fall, sitting back up and observing Thérèse with slight disappointment. While I tried to insert a word or two in the conversation, she endlessly articulated about the trial and her weapon, the parchment. Once she finished adorning herself with a fresh dress, she retrieved the valued paper from a diminutive obscured drawer at the bottom of the trunk (while it had once been hidden in the wall, she moved its location ever so often) and placed it safely in her bosom. My eyes steadily followed her movements for reasons unknown. I had no desire to do otherwise. Perhaps I was waiting in expectance of something.

During an interlude of silence, I was permitted to insert a sentence. "Once this whole ordeal is concluded, would you consider it possible for us to take some time off…alone?" I inquired hopefully. "Perhaps we could return to the site of our honeymoon…"

Thérèse paused in the fastening of her belt to present me an inscrutable expression before equipping her pistol. Not a word was uttered in reply to my query. Once she had safely secured her knife, I, perceiving her departure imminent, approached her in anticipation of a pleasant farewell kiss. She had scarcely bestowed one in many years, but like in many other things, her promise had rekindled hope. "I must attend to a few miniscule details with The Vengeance before the trial." She made for the door with me on her tail. Just before opening it, she turned back to face me. "Meet me at the Conciergerie at noon." Without any further actions directed towards me, she turned away and vacated the premises. As the door fell closed in my face, discontent surged through my body in result of the nonfulfillment of my expectations. But seconds subsequent I was heartened by the thought that she would convey more affection when not pressed for time. So I dismissed the disappointment.

While Thérèse was at an unknown location with her female compatriot, I attended to the usual commerce of the wine-shop. Word had circulated of Evrémonde's re-arrest and many citizens produced questions I was unable and unwilling to answer. I knew not how the events of the noon Tribunal trial would unfold. I waited patiently for the hour I was to meet my wife, restraining all convictions in favor of Darnay.

During the trial my wife and I were seated adjacent to The Vengeance and various other patriots from St. Antoine. Not a great length of time had passed before the paper was produced in proof of Doctor Manette denouncing the Evrémondes. As the whole event occurred, my eyes were incessantly glued to my wife, as not to catch a glimpse of the prisoner and feel compassion. But most imperatively I abstained from observing Dr. Manette's face turn horrified as the realization transpired. When I was summoned to give an account of my dealings with the doctor and of the discovery of the parchment, any hesitance felt was repressed by the look my wife bore. Her eyes were absorbedly set upon me as I spoke, impelling me to persist. Once the parchment was transferred to the President and I retook my seat, I became highly conscious of my wife's demeanor.

The reading of the parchment dragged on for quite a stretch of time, since the account Manette recorded was not at all vague and brief. Astonishingly he recalled immense detail. While my ears were absorbed with the reading, my eyes were engrossed by Thérèse's reactions. At the commencement she sat rigidly with furious vengeance and anticipation etched in the eyes that had reverted to slate. I could not conceive that the woman before me was the same who nestled up to me the previous night. Save the obvious facial features, there was naught connecting their identities. As the account progressed and the deaths of Thérèse's family were related, I perceived a notable change in her appearance. The rancorous light in her eyes waned and was eclipsed by considerable grief. At one point I even thought I detected a teardrop streaming down her cheek as the death of her sister was mentioned. What incomprehensible anguish must have still been welled up inside her! However, as the relation drew to its startling conclusion of denouncing all Evrémondes, the revenge-lust – the craving for Evrémonde's bloodshed – rematerialized in her eyes and a wide malevolent smirk spread across her face. When Darnay was pronounced guilty and doomed to the Guillotine, her perverse satisfaction broadened the smile. After a hasty glance towards the broken-hearted family, I remained somber. We exited the building amidst the throng of patriots who rejoiced in the condemnation of an enemy of the Republic. The contentment I should have experienced was replaced by a searing tinge of guilt.

Thérèse and I carried on the usual proceedings of the day in the wine-shop; and save a few celebratory remarks in anticipation for tomorrow's Guillotine batch, she retained her customary composure. No more affection was displayed than had been on any standard day of the previous three-and-twenty years. Howbeit, The Vengeance was present, so I considered that the reason for her usual behavior. But I had yet to feel recompensed for the abetting of Darnay's denunciation. Ultimately it was Manette's denunciation of the Evrémondes that sentenced him, but I had been the witness of the doctor's past. I had been an accessory in the fulfillment of Thérèse's desire and obligation; I simply yearned for her recognition of that fact.

Evening arrived to find Thérèse and I, in conjunction with The Vengeance and Jacques Three, engaged in a conversation that would soon prove quite critical and notable. We were debating the point of concluding the revolution, and much to my shock and dismay, my wife's reply was "at extermination." She craved not only the elimination of Charles Darnay, but his entire family! Never expecting such dreadful intentions from Thérèse – the woman I had once considered angelic – the revelation left me appalled and in more of a conflict than I had ever fathomed was capable in my (considered) mundane existence. The vital decision of my life was slowly emerging from the shadows of ignorance: I must choose between my wife and my former employer. To most, particularly those bearing no knowledge of the situation, the obvious decision would be my wife. But she was preparing to take more blameless lives – Dr. Manette's, Lucie's, and the child's. Would they not suffer enough harrowing torture by the death of Darnay? Thérèse had been deeply wounded by the Evrémondes, but the individuals now in question were utterly innocent from any such offenses.

Opposing the notion, originally I protested, using the Doctor's immense sufferings as a basis for my defense. This, in turn, brought upon me the very suspicious eyes of my wife. Amidst my fellow patriots (one of whom had spoken highly of me during the trial), she accused me of bearing desires to save Evrémonde. Fervently denying such accusations, I insisted that my only inclination was towards the sparing of Manette and his relations. Yet her eyes still bore a steady agitation and mistrust towards me. She then sited the Evrémondes' crimes and disclosed to Jacques Three and The Vengeance that she was the younger sister of that hapless family. At this point any attempts from me at persuading her to reconsider were annihilated. The two companions in our company concurred to the highest degree with her. Her intentions were set in impenetrable stone; efforts of shifting them were futile. My exiguous objections were immediately obscured by a favored phrase of Thérèse: "Tell the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!" Once further customers entered, the discussion adjourned and the others departed for their own business.

Thérèse remained present within the wine-shop, but perchance too detained to chide me currently. Thus I was allowed a moment of solitude to ponder the recent and flabbergasting events. Her concluding phrase reverberated ceaselessly through my mind as I unconsciously seated myself upon the edge of the counter. When it came to comprehending my wife's desire to exterminate the entire family, I was at a loss. How would the shed of innocent blood atone for her dead? Multitudes of vile aristocrats were commissioned to the jaws of La Guillotine daily: how could such fail to satisfy my wife's lust for revenge? It indubitably contented mine; otherwise I too would require their deaths. Yet Thérèse necessitated extermination to its highest extent. Had she not latterly declared that the death of Evrémonde, with no integrated deaths mentioned, would appease her?

The influx of further citizens seeking refreshment suspended my deep contemplation for the remainder of the evening. Once the entire customer count had vacated, Thérèse approached me with eyes bearing the previous incredulous glare. "You do not endorse my proposition?" she asked frigidly, folding her arms across her bosom.

Incapable of enduring her callous glare, I evaded her eyes as I replied. "I do not consider their deaths necessary, my dear."

With a dreadful step, she drew nigh. Although I typically yearned for and welcomed her proximity, it presently triggered me to withdraw. "You do not consider the pain I bear – the pain so inflicted by the abominable family of tyrants – very great."

Attempts at maintaining my nerve were growing thin. She intimidated me incalculably, though I understood not why. "I perceive its intensity! And I commiserate with you! Yet I do not deem the Doctor answerable to it!" Somewhat energized by the fervency I managed to express in my response, I ventured to meet her intense gaze. I had not expected, however, to behold the sight that was before me. Not only were her eyes keenly animosity-ridden, but also factually no trace of blue was perceptible. Her eyes were utterly grey. My gaze descended to the floor.

"You, my husband," she commenced, spitting the word 'husband' in repugnance. "Are undeniably a coward. I have feared this for quite some time. You esteem that doctor, while I do not. I have the capacity of removing the necessary enemies; the capacity you lack. You are truly unworthy of presiding over the revolutionary affairs." While she shouted not a word of this disparagement, resentment was palpable. "Your compassion is preventing you from executing the indispensable task. Your compassion is your weakness! It will be your demise!"

Although the bombardment of admonishment had stilled, I remained noiseless. I knew not what to think. Half of my being was rendering her reproaches correct, while the other half was warning me against heeding them. At length I spoke. "Thérèse, I recall words you spoke but an evening ago. You said…vowed...that the condemnation of Darnay was enough to content you…and that our intimate relationship would be restored…"

Silence bathed our little wine-shop following the concluding words of my observance. During this intimidating period, I acquired the bravery to examine my wife's features. Her expression emitted hesitance, a slight amount of shock, and additional indescribable emotions. After an inestimable amount of time had passed, Thérèse finally spoke. Her voice was more subdued than during the previous statements. "I professed such before I was knowledgeable of your cowardice." Directly she turned towards the stairs that led to our bedroom, moving in a composed manner. Before exiting the room, she turned back around with an insensitive glare. "I had once considered us in accord. I…had once loved you." As the aching words echoed through the deserted room, she departed.

Absolutely stupefied by the means in which she ended the conversation, I remained motionless and virtually unconscious. Because the ordeal immeasurably overwhelmed me, I temporarily expelled it from my mind as to productively complete the business that required concentration before retiring. The reality was still ever-present though, deep within the hidden corners of my mind: Thérèse no longer loved me.

Once all that required attention was accomplished, I locked the wine-shop doors and proceeded to the bedroom. As I ascended up the decaying old staircase, with each step creaking under my solemn tread, I granted the repelled thoughts access to the forefront of my mind. Visualizations of heated disputes and tirades, ten times more intense than those caused by pregnancy so long ago, occurring the moment I was to enter the bedroom, cascaded impetuously through my mind. I envisioned the same indomitable wrath I had observed directed towards aristocrats, now directed towards me. At that moment, I was fully frank with myself – I was afraid of her. My wife. Thérèse.

Much to my utter consolation, however, my entrance did not provoke any of the aforementioned. The woman whose exasperation I had dreaded neither imprecated me, nor acknowledged me in actuality. All candles were extinguished and she lay on the bed, dark curls sprawled about over her pillow. Although the rest of her body showed no signs of tension, her features were set with a taut appearance. Deeming it fruitless to attempt any sort of conversing, I silently crept to the other side of the bed and slipped under the moth-eaten sheets, regarding not that I still wore my day clothes. The moment I did so, however, Thérèse stirred and shifted, inching to the point of the bed farthest from me. While no words were elicited, the mannerisms were cold and disheartening. I resolved not to follow but simply keep my distance and accept her disfavor. Rolling on my side away from her, so we were positioned back-to-back on opposite ends of the bed, I shut my eyes and implored for sleep to deliver me from the wreckage of my life. Yet my restless mind prevented the plea from being met.

An insight long since uncovered emerged to the center of my mind: Thérèse was not the same woman. She had been altered, molded by some malicious force into a woman totally contrary to the woman I had once known. The force was now identified – Revenge. Her lust, desire, craving, thirst for it had transformed her before my very eyes, to where there was no possible return. It was done, finished. She could never revert to the gentle creature of years previous. The decaying process of her soul had already persisted for too lengthy a period. It blinded her, deluding her into believing the innocent were responsible for the crimes so potent.

In addition, she had deceived me the previous night by the employ of such beguiling methods. I was certain now. The theory accounted for her abrupt change in disposition. Had she even earnestly felt warmth towards me was unknown; yet I was undoubtful of one aspect: her promise was not sincere. By no means did she intend on fulfilling the vow, nor did she remotely desire to do so. Her entire being was bent on the extermination of Evrémonde, causing her to utilize all means possible to achieve it; which included misleading and exploiting her doting husband. Any adoration towards me had ceased long ago; I was now merely her puppet. This, nearly more than the recognition of her own distortion, ruptured my heart. Her warmth, her affection, her beautiful superlative pledge had sent my spirit soaring; but that flight ended with the harsh collision of reality. It was a scam; nothing more. My delusional mind, beguiled by fantasies and wistful idealism, had proved me effortless to induce.

Another cruel entity dawned upon me: due to the deed Thérèse's artificial affection had manipulated me into executing, a man my heart perceived to be blameless would be beheaded tomorrow. As my eyes shut tightly in attempts to dispel the thought, imagery of the man floated through my mind. Charles Darnay, starved and bedraggled, sitting in his cold and dreary cell, waited to die. His family leagues away were pitifully mourning over his sentence, the wife being the most heavily affected. Doctor Manette was wandering aimlessly through the streets on the brink of insanity. Darnay's daughter's childhood was devastated. All this had transpired because of my intoxication.

Thérèse's mind was indeed dreadfully artful, perhaps more than I had originally perceived. She had ingeniously crafted the ideal trap to ensnare me. While she could have used terror to impel me into assisting in her spiteful endeavors, she selected the insidious approach. If she had indeed frightened me into denouncing Evrémonde, I would have perceived the intensity of her corruption more promptly. She was well aware of my secret yearnings and exploited them to the fullest. Moreover, the stratagem would have been more apparent if I had not been so entranced by her tremendously atypical conduct. Yes, the ploy had been cunningly and devastatingly fabricated.

While although I recognized the swindle, I bore no feelings of animosity towards my wife. Intermixed with severe despair, any traces of irritation were directed towards my imprudence. Lightly dismissing her extreme switch in behavior was one of my faults in the matter; another, readily succumbing to her manipulation. Thérèse Defarge was now no longer parallel to the young lady I wedded; how could any efforts of restoring those precious years parallel the actuality? No, the dream had withered and shriveled up, as all beauty on earth must. I was utterly foolish for only now cognizing that. All faint hints of hope in my breast departed.

Rolling back around and propping myself up on my elbows, I got another glimpse at the face of the woman so deeply ingrained in my thoughts. I heaved a mournful sigh at the love that would never again be, and surrendered to slumber.

My restless dreams were composed of queer and obscure scenes and events, commencing with pleasure and ending in despondency. All of them bore the same theme – Thérèse. Even when comatose she was the sole prominent figure in my mind.

In the morning sleep departed without leaving an instant of blissfully ignorant haze in its wake. Immediately the memories of the preceding day crashed down upon me like an impetuous wave. In turn, the memories produced a dull aching in my abdomen, hurling me into a more unpleasant state than I had previously been. My wife no longer kept love for me in her breast; perhaps emotions of rage and vengeance had crowded it and eventually expelled it; perhaps her heart had frozen over and was numb to all things good and pure; perhaps outer coercions of some sort were the influence; or perhaps in a way unbeknownst to me, I had engendered it. If that was the case, which had slight possibility, then conceivably an apology delivered from me would be sufficient to recompense. That option being the only idea my disturbed mind could conjure, I deemed it attemptable.

Without opening my eyes, I rolled back over to Thérèse's last recalled location, the far edge of the bed, and commenced apologizing. "Thérèse, I am very penitent for irking you…" I began, groping around blindly in attempts to detect her. "I realize we do not concur on a certain matter, but that does not designate the end of our marriage. I still love you…" A break in my repentance was prompted by a discovery – Thérèse was not present. Feeling no trace of her with my hands, opening my eyes proved her absence. That half of the bed was disheveled and unoccupied. She had not received a heartfelt word of my apology. Releasing a heavy sigh incited by the frustration that began to well within, I ascended from my bed in a bedraggled and dismal manner.

Contrary to a fear that had passed through my mind, I located Thérèse downstairs in the wine-shop, overseeing the morning commerce. Seemingly I had been immersed in slumber longer than admissible. Presently she stood adjacent to the counter, conversing with The Vengeance. Still bearing the remorse that afflicted my abdomen, I approached her in aspiration of repeating what was spoken to the vacant bed. No man heeded my unkempt appearance, for such was the norm in our undersized community.

As I stood before Thérèse and The Vengeance, both females directed their exasperated expressions towards me. In attempts to expel the intimidation that was transpiring, I cleared my throat and scratched my scalp somnolently. Momentarily disregarding The Vengeance's presence, I addressed my wife. "My dear, I would like to –"

Denying me the opportunity to finish my sentence, Thérèse interjected. "Presently I have not the time, Defarge." She spoke in callous tones, piercing me with her virulent glare before shouldering past me. "There are matters that need my supervision. Come, little Vengeance." She gestured for The Vengeance to follow and commenced en route for the door.

Frustration was now rapidly escalating within. My sole desire was to please my wife, yet perpetually that goal was hindered. Was apologizing too great a thing to strive for? While it was more expedient to oust the unpleasant thoughts from my mind, as many habitually do, I aimed to affront the situation and make amends. Yet, as these thoughts were streaming through my being, other ideas challenged them. While I longed for the reinstatement of my wife's love, I was not willing to execute every task she desired – I had discovered that last night. There was still an ounce of compassion and integrity left within. There was no necessity to apologize for the sympathy I felt towards the Doctor and his family; I simply wanted to recompense for provoking Thérèse. Although I felt this essential to accomplish, a small uncertainty whispered that as long as I felt compassion, she would on no account be pleased with me.

So many bizarre, unsolicited, and vexing emotions accumulated inside me, intensely augmenting my frustration. I no longer comprehended a sensible method of coping with all these unexplainable sensations, sensations that had been long since restrained. As my last resort to discharge these agitations caused by such a dilemma, I pivoted around to face the wall; and with a loud thud, my fist collided into it. Yet while I halted in that position – fist on wall, head bowed – and breathed shallowly, I obtained no comfort. My misery prevailed. Turning back away from the wall, I caught a glimpse of my wife's dark locks as she vanished into the swarming streets. While during that moment I was dismayed, I knew not how excruciatingly permanent her just-observed departure would prove to be. I did not foresee the dreadful tragedy that would befall and leave me absolutely agonizingly heartbroken and despondent. She had left, and never to return.

As the utmost final reminiscence within me concluded, I became cognizant of my location (the wine-shop cellar) and the relentless tears that streamed down my face. No amount of copious words could ever extensively define the severe anguish I experienced as I once again faced the reality of my wife's decease. Although alive in my memories, Madame Thérèse Defarge, my wife for thirty years, was dead. Evidence of that verityrested flaccidly in my armsas I held her close and allowed the tears to endlessly flow. Many a time during the years just recalled had I longed to release my anguish in the form of ceaseless tear drops, yet only now did I feel completely complacent with it. Such was all I was capable of, and it increased tremendously upon every viewing of her face. Her face…what a queer face it was. While now deadpan, I knew it had been capable of both extremely opposite superlatives of emotion – love and hate. Her face had oft appeared lovely and pure; yet on the contrary had appeared other times very menacing and nefarious. Equally, her entire body had performed the like. Her hands had accomplished both tremendous good and acute evil. Her feet, her mind, her soul…

Yet, how could have such a thing transpired? She had been the definition of purity when I first encountered her, and the definition of malevolence when I had last seen her. What terrible force caused such an intense transmutation? While I had beheld the signs and effects of that change, and latterly deemed its origin Revenge, only now did I apprehend the precise horror of the lust for vengeance. Her relentless murdering, her mercilessness, her indifference; such were the foul products of Revenge. Its manifestation through my wife was even detectable. The ghastly shadow, which had frequently appeared about her in the latter years, was its harrowing materialization. Revenge festered within her for countless years, possessing her knitting fingers, her bloody murdering hands, her stony glare, her scheming mind, and her callous heart.

Not only did I perceive its fatal clutch heavily in Thérèse's life, but also in my own. Albeit Revenge had not yet delivered me into the eternal hands of death, my life had been acutely characterized by it. Its grip on me may have been more slacked than on Thérèse, for I still retained a small conscience, but it was certainly evident. Although its means of consuming my soul was through Thérèse, it had been my naivety and obtuseness that permitted its control.

As I closed my eyes, interminably cradling the lifeless body, the entire blindfold was torn from my eyes, and I was presented with a startling epiphany. Though hitherto I was undecided if Thérèse and I were the sole sparks of the revolution, now I was entirely convinced it was so. In my mind's eye I beheld Revenge, in its manifestation of the shadow, being transmitted from Thérèse to me, from me to the Jacques, and from the Jacques to other peasants. Thus, the revolution was propagated. The French Revolution would not have occurred, during this period or in this manner at least, if Thérèse and I had not sparked the restlessness within the people. Even though I accepted many of the revolution's products as just and right, many, I deemed, were not. The title of or relations to an aristocrat did not determine a man's virtue; his heart and deeds did. Tumbril-loads of innocent beings were executed by La Guillotine daily for mere amusement! Productive and propitious lives were being terminated without judicious reason! Such were the lives Thérèse and I once lamented, yet now were the lives being mercilessly ended. Experiencing the terrible pain of loss twice now, in poignant degrees, I empathized with the relations of guillotine-victims. Just as Adrienne had perished in innocence, so did multitudes regularly. While this had been Thérèse's justification, it was what convicted me. The oppressors, the libertines, the insensitive, the braggarts, and the assassins were those who deserved our wrath; Charles Darnay and the like were unpunishable. What started out as a quest for justice became a quest for vengeance; and I was equally censurable. While Thérèse influenced and persuaded me, even with deceit, it was still my leadership that drove the men. I, too, had possessed a craving for retribution. But what smote me with remorse the most keenly was my participation in the unwarranted prisoner-slaughtering binge. Biting regret engulfed my heart at the remembrance of my reprobate activity. Furthermore, I had attended countless guillotine demonstrations, which stimulated my so-called patriotic spirit – a spirit which in actuality was Revenge, and which served to shroud my morals. Once again a feeling of accountability had encompassed me for instigating the revolution with my wife. During the momentary interval in my hushed atmosphere, terrified shrieks from La Guillotine's cuisine intermixed with basking shrieks from the patriots seeped in and caused me to shudder. We had done this. La Guillotine was a bane, not a saint! How could I have possibly been so blind and foolish? I had succumbed to Revenge, the atrocious slayer of my dear wife.

My thoughts were redirected from my own plight when I noticed the gashing wound in Thérèse's abdomen that could only be produced by a bullet shell. Dry blood encompassed the wound; as well as soiled her dress, face, and hands. Indubitably she had suffered the death of a gunshot, yet I fathomed not who had accomplished such a deed. What breed of creature on this earth could defy the might and terror of Thérèse Defarge? Even I, her husband, was fearful of her at times, and acknowledged that her power greatly surpassed my own. And for what motive was her assassination achieved? Thérèse was a dreadfully frightful woman, and I knew in my heart that she, along with me, deserved death, yet it still emphatically agonized me. I still loved her…

The longer I contemplated, the more the intensity of my hate for that wicked Revenge inflamed. Revenge had stripped me of the solitary joy that remained in my life. I recognized that Thérèse had contributed to some of my past distress; yet somehow as I recollected, the ecstasy she furnished me with greatly outweighed it. I was able to look past every calamitous and heinous aspect, and revel in and yearn for the lovely. My mind could not accentuate enough how pristine Thérèse once was. One could even have compared her, in some facets, to Dr. Manette's daughter Lucie. Notwithstanding, Revenge was the eradicator of everything impeccable. With lethal and ruthless jaws it seized my wife's heart and corrupted her. Such are its tactics: blight the innocent, which in turn causes the blighted to blight or extirpate all other innocent. And such precisely transpired in Saint Antoine. It commenced within Thérèse sometime prior to our first encounter, with the deaths of her kin. Although I knew not how potent it had been, I perceived that our marriage served as abatement. However, the ecstasy was pulverized when our cherished daughter perished. Thus Revenge consumed her recurrently, grasping me as well. Hence upheaval occurred, and Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death was formed; such a republic that would allow my wife the power to cultivate her venomous bloodlust. In turn, Revenge swelled to tremendous degrees, relentlessly injecting its venom. Theoretically, it was the French Revolution that allowed Revenge its iron supremacy in Thérèse. The accursed revolution wrought with our own hands!

Revenge might initially prove alleviating, fulfilling, nourishing, and so forth; but such is merely its masquerade to disguise the harsh fatal reality of its cunning carnage of souls. Revenge murdered countless, including my endeared wife, and devastated the lives of those still breathing. My life had been utterly demolished. My child was dead, my wife was dead. Existence would never again be blithe. By no means. I was forced to live on in a world enraged with revolutionary fever; a fever I myself had implemented. I was forced to linger without any refreshment or inspiration, regardless of how questionable such was. The sole basis for my existence lay dead in my arms…She was now with Adrienne, yes, but even that fact did not serve to console me.

The inquiry was now insistently hammering in my head: how would I live life devoid of Thérèse? She had been my breath, my heartbeat for thirty years; and although her company was sometimes disagreeable, I had by no means desired her elimination. I could simply not fathom how life would henceforward be.

Amidst the bitter irony I managed a humorless laugh as the tears persisted. If it had not been for my disgruntlement with our impoverished lifestyle, Thérèse would still be breathing and respectable. I now deemed it better to live in poverty with a loving wife than in power with a rancorous wife, and now without one at all. During those moments, all remembrances of poverty and social injustice faded, and my sole desire was to erase all products of this revolution. Dwelling indigently would be very much sufferable with an adoring, tender, sublime, and compassionate Thérèse by my side to uphold me. She had done so in the past; she quenched my thirst when I was parched, and satisfied my hunger when I was famished. But now my wife, my companion, my sustainer, the only love I had ever known, was dead. This was ultimate and irreversible. She was entirely and absolutely…gone.

Relentlessly the flow of tears pursued, causing me to quiver in anguish. Previously clutching her body close to my chest, I laid it down gently on my lap in reverence. I allowed myself a moment of quiet nothingness, where all my tears and audible sounds ceased, to gaze at her lifeless form. Though dead, her pale face still retained miraculous beauty. With chariness I extended my hand and lightly stroked her moderately cold skin; and again I recalled those blissful memories that had once enveloped me with such mirth. I could still envision the days when the face I stroked was alive and bearing an affectionate expression. Yet I perceived that, no matter how grief-stricken I felt, I could not reside in my noiseless ambiance permanently. As excruciating and unfeasible as it appeared, I eventually needed to yield to the fact that Thérèse would never again bestow upon me a breathtaking smile, a tender kiss, an affectionate embrace, or whispered endearments. Nor would she even utter another word to me.

The tears commenced again as I gingerly leaned over and brought my lips to hers, lightly planting a kiss that would never be returned.

"Now you'll find the ones you've lost

Finally lay those ghosts to rest

I will hold you till you're there

In that place you've longed to be

Where I pray you'll wait for me…"

The End

---

Author's Notes:

Disclaimer: A Tale of Two Cities is (c) Charles Dickens! I do not own any of the characters! (I made up a few minor ones in this fanfic but they don't matter.)

The lyrics at the end (Defarge Goodbye from A Tale of Two Cities: The Musical) is (c) Jill Santoriello

Okay, my favorite couple in A Tale of Two Cities is Lucie x Charles, but this story has definitely brought me closer to Ernest x Thérèse. I thought I would explore the possibilities with their relationship, because I always wondered how Defarge could have married such a monster. And since I'm a fluff-lover, this is the product…

This was also inspired, oddly enough, by that YouTube show no one's heard of, Cooking with the Defarges. Ahaha I don't even know why…

I attempted to write this in an old fashion style, but since I'm not very knowledgeable of that style, there are probably a lot of grammatical errors. ^^; Also, I might have accidentally over-looked mistakes during my eight-hour proof-reading process. .

Yeah, this is a really long one-shot, and initially I didn't expect it to be so long. But I'm glad I'm finished with it! It took me about four months…

Also, I don't really except many people to read this. XD One, because of the lack of TOTC fans; two, because most TOTC fans are mostly interested in Sydney; and three, because this is so long. XD So if you actually read this all, I'm quite impressed. But I wasn't really writing this to satisfy fans…I was just writing this because I wanted to. :)

And yes, Thérèse's initial innocence is probably over-exaggerated, but since this is in the eyes of Ernest, I figured he'd exaggerate. Love is blind after all.

So all in all I had fun writing this! Adieu!