Sydney Carton was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever, about that.
But our story does not begin with him. It begins in London, with Jerry Cruncher Jr.
Ever since Jerry Jr. was ten years old, when he had learned that his father was a "resurrection man", he knew he wanted to follow in his footsteps. He knew how much his mother hated it, but she was a woman, so she was naturally squeamish about the whole thing. She just didn't understand. His father was providing doctors and scientists with research subjects they couldn't get anywhere else, and getting paid some much-needed money for his trouble. Besides, Jerry Jr. was pretty sure the Bible didn't say anything about digging up graves, and if the Bible didn't forbid it, it couldn't be wrong.
In 1793, Jerry Jr. was a lanky young man who had inherited his father's spiky hair, which gave him a slightly wild look. By day, like his father, he was a messenger for Tellson's Bank. But by night, he stood watch while his father and his friends went "fishing".
But Jerry Jr. went further than his father ever had. He didn't just want to dig up dead bodies and sell them for science. He wanted to do the science himself. More precisely, he wanted to try to find a way to bring people back from the dead.
He started with animals, of course. With a small shock of electricity which he saved up from lightning storms, he could galvanize small animals back to life - frogs and snakes and rats and the like. He even sometimes stitched legs back on and they worked fine. But he never had the money or resources to try anything more ambitious, like a dog or a cat - or a human.
And then he met the Comte.
The Comte was a member of the French emigre community in London. He was about Jerry Jr.'s age, and was a customer of Tellson's Bank. While Jerry Sr. was away in Paris, Jerry Jr. took over his position. It wasn't bad work, by any means, but Jerry Jr. quickly grew bored with the mindless, repetitive tasks. He knew that he could become one of the great men of science, if he could only get his chance. And one day, he got his chance.
After a long day at work, Jerry Jr. went to the tavern his father had frequented for many years. As he was at the bar downing a glass of ale, he saw a handsome, sad-looking young man sitting next to him, with a drink in his hand that clearly wasn't his first. Jerry Jr. turned to him.
"You're new here, ain't you?" he asked.
"Yes," the young man said miserably.
"Jerry Cruncher Jr.," Jerry Jr. said, holding out his hand. The other man looked at it with a hint of disgust, as he was quite unaccustomed to members of the lower classes drinking with him and speaking to him as an equal. He decided he should get used to it, and shook Jerry Jr.'s hand.
"Nice to meet you," the young man said, quickly turning back to his drink.
"This is the part where you tell me your name," Jerry Jr. offered.
"My name is very long," the young man said. "You may call me Monsieur le Comte."
"Monsieur le Comte," Jerry Jr. repeated. "That's 'Count', isn't it?" The Comte nodded. "What's a Count doing at a place like this?"
"I needed a break from being around my own people," the Comte said. "We all have the same sorrows, the same troubles. I supposed, if I was going to live in England for the foreseeable future, at some point I had to mingle with the English people."
"So you're from France, eh?" Jerry Jr. said. "My father's in Paris right now, on business. Nasty place these days, ain't it?"
The Comte nodded. "My parents were killed by the guillotine, simply for being nobles," he said. "I barely escaped with my life."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Jerry Jr. said.
"I'd give anything to have them back," the Comte said. "I don't deserve to live when they are gone. And I'm not alone. This terrible revolution has taken so much from so many people."
Jerry Jr. almost pointed out that some might say the people were taking back what was rightfully theirs, but he thought better of it. Besides, he liked the Comte. Setting aside their differences in class and nationality, he felt like they could even become friends. And maybe, in order to get his family back, the Comte would have to help Jerry Jr.'s family out a little first.
"You say you'd give anything to have them back," Jerry Jr. said. "Do you really mean that?"
"Of course I do," the Comte said, taken aback. "But what can you do about it? Turn back time? Bring back the dead? Unless you're God, you can do nothing about it. No one can."
"What if," said Jerry Jr. tentatively, "I told you I could?"
"I'd say you were crazy," the Comte said. "Now stop it, this hypothetical talk will get us nowhere."
"It's not hypothetical," Jerry Jr. said. "I can bring back the dead. I've done experiments with it."
The Comte stared at him, and saw that he was completely serious. If he had not been drunk, he would have dismissed Jerry Jr. out of hand, but wine and desperation made him consider possibilities he never would have considered otherwise.
"Show me," he said.
"Follow me," Jerry Jr. said. He led the Comte out of the tavern and down several dark streets until he came to the narrow alleyways of his poor London neighborhood. Once at home, he motioned for the Comte to be quiet, as his mother was asleep. Then he led him down the stairs into the basement where his workshop was.
Jerry Jr. opened a box on his desk and removed the corpse of a mouse. He then attached a clasp to its foot, which was tied to a wire which led to a potato battery. As the Comte looked on, Jerry Jr. flipped a switch, which sent a jolt of electricity through the mouse's body. The mouse blinked and stirred, and Jerry Jr. set it down on the floor and let it scamper across the room.
"Amazing," the Comte said. "Can - can you do that to a human?"
"I've never tried," Jerry Jr. admitted. "But I've been waiting for a chance."
"And you shall have it," the Comte said. "Jerry Cruncher Jr., I will pay you handsomely to go to France and resurrect a guillotine victim."
"I accept," Jerry Jr. said, grinning with delight. "But - wait a minute. There are thousands of guillotine victims, and I don't think the Jacobins are marking their graves. How will I know which ones are your parents?"
"You won't," the Comte admitted. "But once you've proven you can resurrect a guillotine victim, my friends and I can raise the money for a team to go and resurrect all of them, my parents among them. Then the Jacobins will have no more motivation to use the guillotine."
"Deal," Jerry Jr. said. He and the Comte shook hands, and the Comte left for his own home, with Jerry Jr. giving him directions back to the tavern and a cloak so he didn't attract attention from pickpockets and robbers.
Jerry Jr. went upstairs to his room with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. After this mission, he would be regarded as a hero to the French emigre community and the entire world as the man who had conquered death. No longer would his father have to work as a bank messenger, nor would he have to keep making money on the side as a "resurrection man". In fact, he would never have to work again. He and his mother could move out of their tiny flat and into a fine house in the middle of London. Any horror his mother might feel at her son's activities would be instantly swept away as soon as he bought her some fine new clothes and hired her an entire staff of servants. And of course, the women would be falling all over him, and he could have his pick of the prettiest and richest of them all. All because Jerry Cruncher Jr. was about to become a true resurrection man.
Jerry Cruncher Jr. had never left England before. He had never even left London, and had never expected to. So it was quite an adventure for him when he boarded the ship for Calais. He knew how dangerous France was right now, of course, especially for an Englishman who spoke no French. But he had two French-speaking aides to guide him, Pierre and Philippe, and as someone who was obviously lower-class, he felt he would be safe there - much safer than the Comte would be, anyway.
He said goodbye to his mother, who broke down crying when he told her the news. Of course, he couldn't tell her the truth about where or why he was going; he only told her that he had a wealthy customer who was paying him handsomely to take care of some business for him on the continent. Mrs. Cruncher believed him, but she seemed quite distressed at her son leaving her and being left all alone. She hadn't minded so much when her husband left - if anything, she seemed relieved - but to lose her son as well nearly seemed to break her. Jerry Jr. almost considered not going at all, for her sake, but then he remembered how happy she would be when he came home with a sack full of money.
He wondered if he would run into his father in Paris. If he did, what would he say? Could he tell him the truth about what he was up to? Would his father even believe him? Jerry Jr. decided that he would cross that bridge when and if he came to it.
Jerry Jr., Pierre, and Philippe took their bags full of supplies and boarded a coach that took them to Dover. Jerry Jr. had never seen the sea before, and it was quite a sight, sound, and smell. He quite liked it, and standing on top of the white cliffs of Dover was magnificent, even if he couldn't actually get a good view of them.
But he couldn't linger long. The three men had a boat to catch to Calais. Tickets were very cheap, as not many people were traveling from England to France at the moment. The ticket master gave them a worried look as he welcomed them on board.
Once they were out of port, Jerry Jr. looked behind him at the shore until it disappeared on the horizon. It was quite frightening, being surrounded by water and not being able to see land anywhere. Even though it was just the English Channel and not the open sea, it still made him homesick - as well as seasick. He went over to the side of the boat and threw up into the sea.
Pierre and Philippe were below decks, talking to each other in French. They seemed to have no interest in talking to Jerry Jr. They had barely spoken to him the entire journey, and when they had, it was in broken and thickly accented English. Jerry Jr. wondered if they were talking about him and about the mission. How much had the Comte told them? Should he fill them in? How much did they actually need to know? To avoid these questions - and Pierre and Philippe themselves - Jerry Jr. went back to his cabin and tried to sleep for the rest of the voyage.
After what seemed like forever, the ship finally arrived in Calais. From there, the three of them boarded a coach that took them nearly to Paris. Jerry Jr. was relieved to be back on land, but the closer they got to Paris, the greater the danger grew. He frequently reached for his pocket to make sure his papers were there, as he had heard of Englishmen getting stranded in France because they had lost their papers, and even being accused of being spies. Pierre and Philippe had even more reason to worry: they were returning emigrants, a crime punishable by death. They clutched their forged papers and were careful not to utter a word. The three men rode together in a stony silence, until the coach finally dropped them off on the outskirts of Paris.
Just as the sun was setting, the trio came to a graveyard full of guillotine victims. None of the gravestones had names. Jerry Jr. walked along a row of graves as Pierre and Philippe followed behind him. He silently counted the graves as he passed, until he suddenly stopped and looked up at his companions.
"This one," he said. "Twenty-three."
"Why twenty-three?" Pierre asked. He knew it was none of his business, but he couldn't help being curious as to why Jerry Jr. cared about the number.
"Psalm 23," Jerry Jr. said. "'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.' It's about Christ's resurrection. That's what Mum told me. Seemed only right for the first person ever to be raised from the dead by science."
Pierre and Philippe looked at each other skeptically, but they knew better than to say anything. The Comte was paying them handsomely to help Jerry Jr., not to ask questions. The revolution had apparently not taught him to see members of the lower classes as people with their own opinions, or as anything but servants. Except for Jerry Jr., of course, but he had made himself useful. The Comte had won their loyalty, enough that they followed him to England when he fled, but they could see in each other's eyes that sometimes they wished they had never left France in the first place.
Jerry Jr. kept a lookout while Pierre and Philippe took out their shovels and dug up the body. The process was much quicker than it had been with his father, because the graves were shallow and hastily dug. When they had finally unearthed the coffin, they hastily filled in the grave and loaded the coffin onto a waiting cart, not unlike the tumbril in which the man had rode to his death. They tied it up with a rope to keep the lid on, and stole off into the night. Their path was lit only by a dim lantern and the light of the moon, and they had to keep it that way.
After several minutes of riding in the dark, they arrived at an abandoned farm house. When they were safely inside, Jerry Jr. opened the coffin. The corpse was a man in his late thirties or early forties. The head and body were in good condition.
"Good," he said. "This one'll do nicely."
Jerry Jr. moved the head and body onto a nearby table. He took out a needle and thread, normally used for making stitches, and carefully began stitching the head back onto the body. When he was finished, he took off his own cravat and tied it tightly around the dead man's neck to keep the head and body together.
"Perfect," Jerry Jr. said. "Now I just need the wire."
Philippe handed him a ball of metal wire. Jerry Jr. tied the wire around the dead man's wrists and ankles. But he knew that to resurrect a human body, he would need far more energy than a potato battery could generate. So he connected the wire bands to the weathervane at the top of the farmhouse.
"What now?" Pierre asked when Jerry Jr. had climbed down from the roof.
"We wait," Jerry Jr. said.
"For what?" Philippe asked.
"A storm," Jerry Jr. said. "When lightning strikes that weathervane, it'll galvanize the body and bring him back to life."
"But that could take weeks," Pierre complained.
"It could," Jerry Jr. said. "In the meantime, we've got to keep the body in good condition. Wrap him up tight and seal him up. And patch up the roof - we don't want any water leaking in."
For the next two weeks, Jerry Jr., Pierre, and Philippe waited in the farmhouse. They took turns gathering and preparing food and keeping watch outside while one of them stayed inside with the body, ready to leap into action at a moment's notice should a thunderstorm strike. The days were long and monotonous, boring and stressful at the same time. To pass the hours, they played games and made things out of the straw that lined the bottom of the farmhouse. Pierre and Philippe talked far more with each other than they did with Jerry Jr., and Jerry Jr. still felt like he didn't really know his companions. His main confidant was the journal that he kept, taking careful notes on everything he saw and did. Someday, he assured himself, this journal would be a valuable historical artifact - but he was prepared to destroy it to prevent it being used as evidence of his crimes against nature.
Then, on a dark and cloudy night, their chance finally came. It was the biggest thunderstorm any of them had ever seen - one that, as Mr. Lorry would say, could bring the dead out of their graves. Rain pelted down on the roof of the farmhouse, and Jerry Jr. waited with bated breath for lightning to strike the weathervane and shock his experiment back to life.
And then, suddenly, it arrived. A crack of thunder sounded right above them, shaking the walls of the farmhouse. Jerry Jr. gasped as he saw a streak of blue light travel down the wires from the weathervane into the dead man's body, and he swore - he was not imagining it - he could see the dead man move.
Jerry Jr. got up and slowly approached the body. He dared to unwrap the cloth that was protecting the arm from the elements. The fingers seemed to grope for him, and for just a moment Jerry Jr. was torn between glee and terror.
But glee won out. After two long weeks of waiting, after his years of experiments, he had finally brought a human being back to life. He was a resurrection man!
"He's alive!" he shouted, his voice masked by the thunder but not caring who heard him. "HE'S ALIVE!"
Philippe helped him unwrap the body, starting with the face. The three men held their breath as the undead man slowly opened his eyes. They all waited for his reaction, but strangely, he seemed to have none. His face was pale, drained of all blood and color. His eyes looked normal, if slightly yellowish, but there was no expression in them. He did not seem happy to see them, or confused, or angry, or afraid. He just looked at them blankly, unblinking, noting their presence but not seeming to care.
"Bonsoir, monsieur," Jerry Jr. said in heavily-accented French. "Parlez-vous Ingles?" Philippe and Pierre stared at each other and rolled their eyes. But the undead man had no reaction.
"I guess he doesn't speak English," Jerry Jr. said, disappointed. "Seems like he doesn't speak French either. Maybe - maybe he doesn't speak at all."
The man was alive. He was not a fully living human being again, but he was moving, and that was still an enormous accomplishment. But Jerry Jr. knew he could do more. He had to. He had to keep his promise to the Comte. He had to finish what he started.
He had to go back to England. That was where all his previous experiments were. That was where the Comte was. That was where the Revolution wasn't.
But how does one bring an undead man from France to England without attracting attention?
First of all, he needed something to call the man. He had no way of knowing his name, but he couldn't just call him "it". Eventually he settled on Lazarus, after the man whom Jesus had raised from the dead.
In any case, he could not smuggle Lazarus in a coffin. He had to pass him off as a living person. But how? Everything in his face spoke of death.
The answer was simple. He had to hide the face.
First he slathered Lazarus' body with perfume to mask the smell of decay. Then he took Pierre's tricorn hat and lowered it over Lazarus' forehead as far as he could. Then he took Philippe's scarf and wrapped it over the lower half of Lazarus' face, so that only the eyes were showing. Lazarus' eyes were still eerie and unnatural-looking, but you wouldn't notice unless you were really looking. They were fortunate to be traveling in winter, when such a getup would not attract suspicion.
It took a bit of practice, but Pierre and Philippe were able to train Lazarus to walk without lurching. With him in tow, they - along with Jerry Jr. - boarded a coach and made their way back to Calais. The journey back was even more grim and silent, as no one wanted to start a conversation while seated next to a walking corpse. In Calais they boarded a ship for Dover, and from Dover they took another coach back to London.
Jerry Jr. was quite relieved to be back home. He was even more relieved that he could say his mission had been a success - well, a partial success, at least. Lazarus was still far from fully alive, but his was still an incredible accomplishment, a scientific milestone for the ages. Someday he would be able to tell the world about it, but he didn't want to unveil his project until it was perfect. This next part, he had to do alone.
"Good day to you, gents," Jerry Jr. said. "You've more than earned your pay. Go back to your master and tell him the news. I'm going to take Lazarus back to my place and finish the job."
Pierre and Philippe bid him farewell, and Jerry Jr. turned to go home. Lazarus followed him like a dog following its master. He seemed to know these cobblestone streets, almost as if he had walked them before. Strange, Jerry Jr. thought, but he didn't think too much of it. Maybe this French nobleman had visited London before. Maybe he had even lived here. Maybe it would all come back to him in time.
No one stared at them as they walked past. The day was so bitterly cold that few people were outside, and those that were looked no more than a few feet in front of them, their eyes cast down, their chins buried in their scarves, and their hats nearly covering their eyes. Lazarus blended in perfectly, except that he gave no indication of being cold.
When Jerry Jr. arrived home after nightfall, he knew he had to find a way to get inside without Lazarus being seen. His father, he could tell, had returned from Paris, and he was a light sleeper. Jerry Jr. reached down to the ground and picked up a small stone. He threw it as far as he could down an alleyway behind the house, which caused several dogs to start barking. He watched and listened as his father angrily got out of bed to shut up the dogs, and while he was distracted, Jerry Jr. snuck downstairs to the cellar and unlocked the door to his laboratory.
"You're going to stay here for now," he told Lazarus patiently, as if he was speaking to a child. He wasn't sure Lazarus understood him, as he had no change in expression. When he felt sure that Lazarus was going to stay, he went up the stairs, locked the door behind him, snuck into his room, and, exhausted, collapsed into his bed.
Soon after Jerry Jr. went to bed, he heard a thumping noise from the cellar. It sounded as if Lazarus was trying to escape, but he was bumping into things, as if he couldn't see what he was doing. At first he ignored it, hoping it would go away. But when it didn't, Jerry Jr. began to grow worried. What if someone saw him? He lit his candle and crept carefully down the stairs.
When he opened the door, Lazarus was gone.
At their house in Soho, the Darnay-Manettes had just finished their dinner and were settling down for a solemn evening by the fire when they heard a knock at the door. They looked at each other, unsure who it could be at this hour. With a silent nod, they agreed that Charles should answer it. He got up, opened the door, and froze in terror like a deer in the headlights.
It was Sydney Carton - but it wasn't Sydney Carton.
For a split second, Charles dared to hope that Sydney Carton had survived, that he had somehow escaped from the guillotine at the last minute and made his way back to them. But one glance at the man before him - if it could be called a man - dispelled him of that notion. His face was white and waxy, and he stared back at Charles blankly, without recognition or emotion. Charles didn't know how, or if what he was seeing was even real, but he knew that Sydney Carton had come back from the dead, and that something vital was missing about him, wasn't the same.
"Charles?" Lucie asked apprehensively, getting up to find out what was going on. "Who is i-"
Lucie took one look at the undead creature in the doorway and promptly fainted onto the floor. Her father rushed to her side and made sure she was all right, before steeling himself to investigate what had caused her - and Charles - to have such a reaction.
There was no medical explanation for what he was seeing. The man before him should by all rights be dead, but here he was, apparently alive. The old man trembled, and a chill went down his spine, reaching every bone in his body. Eighteen years in the Bastille hadn't prepared him for a sight like this. This was wrong. This couldn't be happening. This was a nightmare.
Out of nowhere, little Lucie entered the living room and gasped. She did not see the visitor's face, or the horror of her parents and grandfather, she only saw the man she loved like an uncle, the man she had thought dead, but who was now, apparently, alive.
"Carton!" she shouted gleefully, running to embrace him before her parents and grandfather could stop her. But as soon as she threw her arms around him, she noticed that he had no body heat. He did not hug her back as he always had before, but stood there motionless, unresponsive. Looking up into his face, her eyes widened in horror, and she screamed. She pulled back, ran over to her father, and buried her face in his chest. He embraced her tightly and stroked her back.
Just as they were all wondering if they were losing their minds, another man showed up at their door. This one, fortunately, was fully alive.
"Is he here?" the young man asked, panting. "I followed him here - footprints in the snow - " He looked inside, saw Lazarus, and sighed with relief. As he looked around the room, he noted the unconscious woman lying on the sofa and the terrified little girl clinging to her father's clothes.
"Who are you?" Dr. Manette demanded.
"Jerry Cruncher Jr., at your service, sir," Jerry Jr. said, doffing his cap. "I'm so sorry about all this mess, but if you'll just hand him over - "
"You want us to 'hand' Carton over to you?" Charles asked, raising his eyebrow.
"Carton?" Jerry Jr. asked, surprised to hear a name for his creation other than Lazarus. "You - you knew this man?"
"Of course we knew him," Charles said. "He is - was - a very dear friend of our family."
"I reckon that's why he came here then," Jerry Jr. said. "I was wondering, out of all the houses in London - "
"You are responsible for this?" Dr. Manette asked. "You brought him back to life?"
"Yes sir, I did," Jerry Jr. said, with a mix of pride and embarrassment. "But I didn't know he was your friend. I thought he was just some random French aristocrat."
"I ought to go to the police," Charles said.
"Oh really?" Jerry Jr. said skeptically. "I didn't know reanimating the dead was a crime."
"Well, digging them up certainly is," Charles said.
"I didn't dig him up in England, I dug him up in France," Jerry Jr. said. "They can't punish me for that here." He shrugged. "Go ahead and go to the cops. They won't believe you anyway."
Charles opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He knew Jerry Jr. was right. If he went to the police and told them about Jerry Jr. and Carton, they would just think he was crazy. He could show them, but that would probably just raise more issues than it would solve. No, this was his problem now, and he had to figure out how to deal with it.
"I'm not finished with him," Jerry Jr. said. "I'm going to run some more experiments and bring him back to the way he was before. You'll see, I promise."
"Please, leave us," Charles said firmly. "You've done enough damage for one night. Go."
Jerry Jr. bowed slightly and left. When he closed the door, Charles turned to face his father-in-law, wife, and daughter.
"How is she?" he asked, kneeling beside Lucie, who was still lying on the couch.
"She will be alright," Dr. Manette said, stroking his daughter's head. "But this much shock in such a short time… it will be bad for her."
Charles looked back at Carton, who was standing in the center of the room, motionless, staring at nothing, oblivious to the distress his presence was causing to those he had loved the most. Part of him was screaming out to embrace his friend, to thank him, to get down on his knees and promise to do anything to repay him for his sacrifice. But another part of him was screaming that the man before him was not his friend, was not even a man, but an abomination.
"Papa, I'm scared," little Lucie said.
"I know, darling," Charles said, holding her hand tightly. He was scared too, but he had to put on a brave face for his daughter.
"He seems harmless," Dr. Manette said, looking up at Carton. "What do you think we should do with him?"
"I suppose he can stay here for now," Charles said, sighing. "He has nowhere else to go. I don't want him going back to his… reanimator."
Dr. Manette nodded gravely. As much as they hated making Lucie and little Lucie share a house with someone - something - so terrifying, more so for its familiarity, they could think of no better alternative. And so they reluctantly reached the decision that Sydney Carton would stay with them, at least for now.
But they did not want him wandering freely around the house, and they did not want to have to look at his ghastly face. So they confined him to a small storage closet. He did not protest by word or action, but Charles still felt terrible about imprisoning the man who had freed him from his own imprisonment at the cost of his own life.
"I'm sorry," Charles said right before he locked the door.
Sydney Carton said nothing.
Charles paced around the bedroom that he shared with Lucie, just as he had often done in his prison cell in La Force, trying to get the image of the new Carton out of his mind. It chilled him that that undead monstrosity could have been him, if Carton had not switched places with him, that he would have been the subject of Jerry Jr.'s twisted experiments. His friend had been horribly violated, his rest disturbed, his body desecrated and made into something unholy and evil. And now it was here, in his home, and he still wasn't sure he wasn't having a nightmare.
Lucie, who had regained consciousness, sat on the side of the bed, listening to her husband think aloud about the problem of what to do about their new guest.
"He is my savior," Charles said, "and yet I treat him as a prisoner, in my own home. What kind of friend - what kind of man am I? But what else can I do? What if he turns out to be dangerous, and tries to hurt us? How can I ever forgive myself for allowing him to be here?"
"He will not hurt us," Lucie said. "I can feel it. I believe a part of Sydney Carton's soul is still inside of him, and will not allow us to come to any harm."
"How can you be so sure?" Charles asked. "Sydney Carton is dead, and that thing out there looks like him, but it is not him. I wish with all my heart that it were not so, but it is. He - it - has no soul."
"I don't think that's exactly right," Lucie said. "Do you remember how Carton was when we first met him? He was a broken man, drinking his days away. He had no friends, no family, no joy or purpose in his life. I think what we're seeing now is how Carton would have been if he had never met us, if he had continued down the same self-destructive path. How easily he could have lost all hope, and become an empty shell!"
Charles nodded, understanding. If there was anything more unnerving than a walking corpse, it was a person who was alive on the outside but dead on the inside. Carton had been well on his way to such a fate when they met him, but they had saved him, and he in turn had saved them. By giving his life for them, he had become more fully alive than ever before. Now his body was alive again, but his soul was damaged, missing, or simply inaccessible.
"Perhaps his soul is already at peace," Charles said. "Perhaps there is nothing anyone can do for him, and we just have to accept it."
"Why do we have to accept it?" Lucie demanded. "We never knew until today that people could be raised from the dead with science. Jerry Jr. brought back his body, moving as if it were alive, now he just needs time to figure out how to bring back his soul. If there's even a chance, we owe it to our friend to try."
Charles sighed. "You're right," he said, sitting down on the bed. "You were right about him before and you're right about him now. You always had such compassion for him, and I was too blind to see him for who he truly was. Well, not this time. I am going to do everything I possibly can for him."
"Good," Lucie said, kissing him on the cheek. "I know you can find a way to help him."
"There has to be a reason he came here," Charles said. "Some part of him must remember us. Whatever he needs, perhaps only we can give it to him."
"Then give it to him we will," Lucie said, squeezing his hand. "Whatever it takes."
Jerry Jr. didn't get any sleep that night. As soon as he returned home, he began tossing and turning in his bed. At least he knew where Lazarus was, that he was safe, and that he didn't have to worry about his parents finding him. But he was still sick with worry over what he had gotten himself into. Over the course of their journey, he had grown oddly protective of Lazarus - Sydney Carton, he corrected himself. He had come to see Carton almost like a little brother, even though Carton was older than him. But he wasn't quite sure whether he should be afraid of Carton, or afraid for him.
The sun rose, as it always did, streaming in through the window and waking the young man who was already half awake. The smell of breakfast enticed Jerry Jr. out of his bed and into the kitchen. There he saw his mother, who, when she saw him, dropped the plate she was holding and ran to embrace him.
"Jerry, you're home!" she exclaimed. "When did you get here?"
"Last night," Jerry Jr. said.
"Why didn't you tell me you were back?" she demanded.
"I didn't want to wake you."
"Well, sit down," she said. "I'll set another place for you."
"I'll do it myself," Jerry Jr. said. "Sit down and relax."
Jerry Sr. walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. "Morning, son," he said, as if it were any other day. "Your mother tells me you were gone on business."
"Yes, Pa," Jerry Jr. said.
"Good," Jerry Sr. said. "It's good for a young man such as yourself to have a bit of business."
They did not speak for the rest of the meal. Jerry Jr. was so hungry that he wolfed down his food. He had thought he would not have much of an appetite, but it felt so good to be back in his own house, eating his mother's cooking, that he realized how little he had eaten while he was in France. For the first time in weeks, he felt so full he couldn't eat another bite.
After breakfast, and after his mother left, Jerry Jr. pulled his father aside.
"Pa," he said, "I have something to tell you."
"I have something to tell you too," Jerry Sr. said quickly. "I've given up the resurrection man business. Mr. Lorry talked some shame into me, and I've seen the light and decided to mend my ways. Ain't that wonderful?! Ain't you proud of me?!"
"Th-that's wonderful news, Pa," Jerry Jr. stammered. And he meant it.
"Now you tell me your news," Jerry Sr. said excitedly.
"Well, this is going to be hard, after what you just told me…" Jerry Jr. swallowed heavily. "I've become a resurrection man."
Jerry Sr. did a double take. For a moment he seemed to be trying to determine if his son was joking. When he realized he wasn't, his face contorted into a horrified fury.
"Jerry Cruncher Jr., you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" he shouted. He took off one of his shoes and threw it at his son's leg. "No son of mine is going to become a dirty, rotten - "
"You're the one who inspired me to become a resurrection man!" Jerry Jr. shot back. "Don't blame me for wanting to be like you!"
"No one should want to be like me," Jerry Sr. said roughly, shaking his head. "Least of all my son. Lord have mercy, a resurrection man…"
"You don't understand," Jerry Jr. said, gathering all his nerve. "I'm not just digging up the bodies to sell to science. I do the science. I brought a dead man back to life."
Jerry Sr.'s eyes bulged, as if he was trying to make sure that he hadn't misheard. He stared at his son for several seconds in disbelief. Then he finally whispered, "What?"
"I was in Paris at the same time you were," Jerry Jr. explained. "A rich man paid me to dig up a guillotine victim and bring him to life, so I did. It's - it's a long story."
"Who was it?" Jerry Sr. demanded.
"He goes by Monsieur le Comte," Jerry Jr. said. "He escaped from France a few months ago."
"Not the rich man," Jerry Sr. said impatiently. "The guillotine victim. Who did you resurrect?"
"An Englishman, if you can believe it," Jerry Jr. said. "His name is Sydney Carton."
If Jerry Sr. had been drinking something, he would have spit it out. "Sydney Carton?!"
"You knew him?" Jerry Jr. asked.
"Not well," Jerry Sr. admitted. "I saw him briefly when I was in Paris. I helped him blackmail John Barsad to get into the Conciergerie so he could… so he could trade places with Mr. Darnay and die in his place." He hung his head, letting the reality sink in, and then looked back up to face his son. "Why him? Why did you bring him back?"
"I didn't know it was him," Jerry Jr. said. "I didn't care who it was. But now - now I do. I want to help him and the Darnays, but I don't know how. I feel like I've only made things worse."
"Perhaps you have," Jerry Sr. said. "But even so, there's still a chance to set things right."
"How?" Jerry Jr. asked desperately. "What am I going to do?"
"Well, I know what you're not going to do," Jerry Sr. said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're not going to tell your mother about this. And neither am I. It would destroy her, it would."
Jerry Sr. put on his hat and headed out of the house for work, leaving Jerry Jr. alone in the kitchen. At least, he thought, there was one thing they could agree on.
Not knowing where else to go, as he was fairly sure the Darnays didn't want to see him again until he had a plan, Jerry Jr. headed for the home of the Comte. When he got there and knocked, Pierre answered the door.
"Ah, Pierre," Jerry Jr. said, removing his cap. "Good day."
"Good day," Pierre muttered. He didn't exactly seem thrilled to see Jerry Jr. again.
Jerry Jr. waited in the sitting room, awkwardly tapping his toes and drumming his fingers on the armrest. After a few minutes, the Comte came in, wearing slippers and a banyan robe.
"Ah, Jerry," he said with a smile. "Welcome. Pierre and Philippe told me what you have done."
Jerry Jr. got up. "I'm sorry I couldn't bring him all the way back," Jerry Jr. said hastily. "I promise, I'll get to it as soon as I can."
"Don't apologize," the Comte said. He dismissed Pierre with a wave of his hand, and Pierre left the room. "What you have done is incredible. But you must keep it an absolute secret. We are both of us playing with fire."
"What do you mean?" Jerry Jr. asked.
"I have talked to others in the emigre community about our little project," the Comte said with a hushed voice. "There are some who wish to raise an army of the undead and overthrow the Republic. They believe such soldiers would be invincible. I hate the revolution as much as they do, but such a thing sends shivers down my spine. We cannot allow it to happen."
Jerry Jr. shared the Comte's fears. "How do we stop it?" he asked.
"If Lazarus is found," the Comte said, "you must be prepared to destroy it, before they can figure out how it works."
"Lazarus isn't an 'it', he's a 'he,'" Jerry Jr. said defensively. "His name is Sydney Carton."
"Nevertheless," the Comte said dismissively, "your feelings for this… man cannot get in the way of what has to be done. You must promise me that if need be, you will destroy him."
"Why should I destroy him?" Jerry Jr. demanded, suddenly angry. "This whole thing was your idea! Why don't you destroy him?"
"Because you created him," the Comte said. "You're the only one who knows how he works."
"I can't destroy him," Jerry Jr. said. "Not even if I wanted to."
"Why not?" the Comte pressed him.
"Because," Jerry Jr. said, taking a deep breath, "only the undead can kill the undead. It's something I found out the hard way. I couldn't kill my creations. They could only kill each other."
The Comte looked betrayed and horrified, as if Jerry Jr. had slapped him. At last, when he had processed this information, he spoke.
"Then you will have to resurrect someone else," he said, "and they will have to kill each other."
"What if they don't?" Jerry Jr. shot back. "What if they form an army of the undead, like you said, and rise up against the living? I don't want to risk that, do you?"
"Why didn't you tell me about this before you resurrected him?" the Comte demanded.
"You didn't ask," Jerry Jr. said, his voice rising. "You never ask me what I think. You let me come up with all the ideas, do all the work, take all the risks, while you sit back, probably planning to steal the credit. You think you're better than me because of all your money, but you didn't earn it, and your parents that you love so much, they didn't earn it either. They got it from exploiting people like me. I'm glad there was a revolution in France, and maybe there should be one here too. Maybe I should just take Carton with me and let all those filthy aristos rot in the ground!"
A dark cloud came over the Comte's eyes. Jerry Jr. suddenly knew he had gone too far.
"Get out," he said coldly. "Get out and never come back."
Jerry Jr. got up abruptly and stormed out of the house in a rage. He still didn't know what he was going to do about Carton, but whatever it was, he would have to figure it out alone.
Charles and Lucie were not feeling well. On top of the trauma they had just endured in France, they now had a living (sort of) reminder of that trauma in their house. He was with them every day; there was no escape. The only upside was that he presented no financial burden to them. He did not eat, he did not sleep, he did not use the chamber pot. He did not live; he simply existed. Sometimes, it was surprisingly easy to forget that he was even there.
After a long discussion, they finally decided that the best way to get back to some semblance of normalcy was to get out of the house for an evening and go to the theater. They didn't like leaving little Lucie alone with the undead Carton, but they reminded each other that she wouldn't be alone - Miss Pross and Dr. Manette would be with her. Besides, Carton would no more harm her now than he would have in life. They were certain of that. Having assured themselves of their daughter's safety, they said good night to her and headed out for a night on the town.
But what they did not realize was that they had left the closet door unlocked. And Carton, with a childlike curiosity, had opened it and wandered outside. As he walked aimlessly through the house, he began opening every drawer he could find and examining the items within them. It would appear to an observer that he was looking for something, yet he did not seem frustrated or impatient that he had not found it.
One of the rooms he entered was the room of Miss Pross, who was not there but in the kitchen. He began opening her drawers, finding mostly clothes. But when he lifted a pair of stockings, he discovered something quite unexpected, which he found himself strangely drawn to: a gun. Miss Pross had taken it back with her to England for protection. And when Carton's hand reached for the gun, another spirit rose in his body to possess it: that of the gun's original owner.
His vacant eyes began to glow bright red, and his mouth twisted into a sinister smile. He examined the gun, and found to his disappointment that it was empty. He put it down. No matter. This woman had led him right to the home of the hated Evremonde family, and now he would destroy them once and for all.
He went up the stairs with a sense of purpose and direction his undead body had never shown before. He knew that Evremonde and his wife were gone, and only Dr. Manette, Miss Pross, and the child were at home. Dr. Manette was asleep, and he slept like the dead. Miss Pross did not hear him stir because she had lost her hearing when the very same gun had fired too close to her face. He would kill them later, but for now, the child was the first thing on his mind.
Little Lucie heard footsteps coming up the stairs and sat up in her bed. Could it be her parents, come home early? Could it be Miss Pross, checking to see if she needed anything? She got up to open the door, but as soon as she touched the handle, the door opened from the outside. Staring back at her was none other than Sydney Carton.
"Carton?" she said. She could tell that there was something different about him - was he finally beginning to regain his memories? But no sooner did she say it than she realized that whatever was different about him was not good.
"Child of Evremonde," he said, but the voice was not his own. It was female, and it spoke in French. It sounded just like Madame Defarge, that horrid woman in the courtroom who had denounced her father. Even though it had been weeks since little Lucie had heard her, there was no mistaking or forgetting that voice.
Little Lucie backed away in terror. She knew Madame Defarge meant to kill her, and that she meant to use Carton's body to do it. In a panic, she grabbed a broom and began swinging it at him. His hand grabbed the broom and flung it away from her, and she screamed.
Suddenly, as if in response to her scream, he stopped advancing towards her. He stood still, and his eyes flashed white. Little Lucie stared up at him, paralyzed, until with a rush of relief and joy she knew that this must be Carton - the real Carton.
"Carton!" she cried. "It's you! I knew you would come back!" She raced forward to hug him, when suddenly the red eyes returned and she was thrown roughly against the floor.
As little Lucie struggled to get up, she realized that Madame Defarge and Sydney Carton were in a fierce battle for Carton's body - you could call it a death match, if they weren't already dead. His eyes flashed back and forth between red and white, and his body thrashed back and forth between threatening little Lucie and backing away from her. Carton threw his body against the wall, and Madame Defarge got right back up and crawled towards her, every inch a struggle, as if a strong wind was blowing her back.
Little Lucie realized that Carton was responding to her voice, and so she began cheering him on. "You can do it, Carton!" she shouted. "You can beat that wicked woman! I know you can! I believe in you!" The louder she cheered, the stronger Carton seemed to get. For a moment she believed Madame Defarge had been subdued, and she began to relax.
But Madame Defarge made one final, desperate push to get the revenge in death that she had been denied in life. She lunged at little Lucie and pinned her against the wall. Carton fought back hard too, and soon they were in a stalemate. One hand went for little Lucie's neck, and the other hand went for his own.
At first little Lucie, fighting desperately to wrest the hand away from her neck, thought Carton was trying to strangle himself. But then she realized that his other hand was going for his cravat. Her eyes widened as he untied it and ripped off his own head. He gave her one last warm smile, just like he had when he was alive, and then his body collapsed to the ground.
Little Lucie stepped away from the wall and took several quick, deep breaths. She looked down at Carton's body and head, and she began to cry. Sydney Carton had truly come back to life, if only for a moment. And he had sacrificed himself for her, again.
Just then, before she had time to process what had happened, the door opened. Her parents, who had just returned from their outing, came rushing into the room, carrying lit candles. When they saw her, they shouted her name, and she ran over to hug them. They were so relieved that she was all right, it took them a moment to notice the headless body laying on the floor.
"Mama, Papa," little Lucie said frantically. "Something awful just happened, but Carton saved me. He came back. I saw it in his eyes."
Charles and Lucie slowly walked over to the body. Charles stared wide-eyed, and Lucie gasped in horror and covered her mouth with her hands. Yet in that horror there was also relief. Relief that they no longer had to shelter an undead abomination in their home, and relief that their friend's body was no longer wandering around like an empty shell. Relief, strange as it felt, that Sydney Carton was really and truly dead.
Charles knelt down beside Carton's head and gently closed Carton's eyes. Then he made the sign of the cross. "Thank you, Carton, for saving our daughter," he said. "We pray that your soul is at peace."
"I'm sure it is," Lucie said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure he's gone to a far better rest than any of us can imagine."
Dr. Manette woke up in all the commotion, frantically asking Charles and Lucie what was going on, which they struggled to explain to him. Miss Pross also came rushing in, and as soon as she realized what had happened, she began sobbing uncontrollably.
"It's all my fault," she declared. "I brought that evil woman's gun into your home. I'm the reason her soul was able to come back and possess Carton and try to kill the child."
"It's not your fault, Miss Pross," Lucie said, stroking her back. "You brought that gun along for protection, for us as well as yourself. You couldn't have known all this would happen. I don't blame you any more than I blame Carton himself." Miss Pross couldn't make out her words, but she knew from Lucie's gestures and soothing tone what her meaning must be.
The next morning, Jerry Jr. came to their house, and they told him what had happened. Like them, he was torn between sadness and relief, but the latter quickly won out.
"It's probably for the best," he said. "I won't try to bring him back again. I've learned my lesson."
Jerry Jr. then went back to the Comte. This time, it was Philippe who answered the door.
"I thought I told you to never come back," the Comte said.
"I know," Jerry Jr. said. "And I'm sorry for what I said. But I have something important to tell you. After that, I'll never bother you again."
The Comte reluctantly let him in, and Jerry Jr. told him everything that the Darnays had told him about Carton. When he was finished, the Comte hung his head in shame.
"I was a fool," he said. "A dangerous fool. I never should have tried to meddle with death."
"You were just trying to bring back your parents," Jerry Jr. reassured him. "There's nothing wrong with that."
"I need to accept the fact that they're gone," the Comte said. "Just as the Darnays need to accept that Sydney Carton is gone." He started to cry. "Please, leave me. I need to be alone."
Jerry Jr. got up to leave.
"Wait," the Comte said suddenly. "I hope - I hope we can still be friends."
"Of course we can," Jerry Jr. said with a smile. "You know where to find me."
The Darnays buried Sydney Carton in a small ceremony, with a priest who didn't ask too many questions. When they had arrived back in England a few weeks ago (it seemed much longer ago now), they never thought they would be able to have a proper funeral for him. But now, they could lay their friend's body to rest and give him the dignity he deserved.
(For the morbidly curious: no, they did not sew his head back on. Charles and Lucie wanted to, but Jerry Jr. feared it could cause him to come back. So they settled for tying his head to his body with a cravat.)
Jerry Jr. attended the funeral. At first Charles and Lucie were hesitant to let him come, but they felt it would be rude to refuse, especially since he seemed to genuinely regret what he had done - and he was the reason they even had a body to bury in the first place.
"I've spoken to the Comte," Jerry Jr. said softly when the funeral was over. "We both agreed I shouldn't bring back any more guillotine victims. I won't bring back anyone anymore. It was wrong, and I'm so sorry for all the trouble I caused you."
Charles and Lucie looked at Jerry Jr. and then at each other. They couldn't exactly forgive him, at least not yet. His experiment had defied the laws of God and nature, turned the body of their beloved friend into a soulless puppet, and put their daughter in mortal danger. But they knew that he never had any ill intentions, and they appreciated that he had taken responsibility for his actions and done his best to make things right.
"Jerry," said Charles finally, "you are a brilliant young man. As long as you promise to use your genius for the betterment of mankind, and not for more twisted experiments, if you need a patron, I will do all I can."
Jerry Jr. gave a surprised grin. "Thank you, Mr. Darnay," he said. "That's very generous of you."
"Good luck, Jerry," Lucie added. "I hope we hear from you again."
"I hope so too, Mrs. Darnay," Jerry Jr. said. "Good day." It seemed like an odd thing to say after all that had happened, and it hung awkwardly in the air for a moment, but no one could think of any objection, and so it was allowed to stay.
Months passed, and Charles and Lucie's lives slowly returned to normal. That summer, they read in the newspaper that the Terror was over, that Robespierre had been guillotined and that the Jacobins had been ousted from power. It didn't mean the revolution was done or France was safe for them again, by any means, but it was at least a major step in the right direction. The guillotine's victims - all those who remained in France as well as the one buried in England - could rest a little easier now that the instrument of their death had been put out of use.
Eventually, Lucie realized that she was pregnant again. She told Charles, and he was overjoyed by the news. They both agreed that if it was a boy, they would name him Sydney, after the man who had given his life for their family twice. And when the child finally came, and little Lucie held her baby brother in her arms, they all knew that there was a far, far better kind of resurrection.