Without, a wild March wind shrilled and moaned at the trembling casements; within, firelight’s cozy cheer, Aughinbaugh’s slim youth lit by the glowing circle of the shaded lamp, the dusky corners beyond. The flexible voice sank with pity or swelled with hot indignation. And Bransford, as he listened to that stupendous, chaotic drama of incoherent clangorous World Bedlam, saw, in the glowing coals, tumultuous, dim-confused figures come and go, passionate, terrible and grim; the young, the gay, the beautiful, the brave, the brave in vain; fire-hearted, vehement, proud, swallowed up by delirium. Newer shapes, wild, portentous, spluttering, flashing, whirling, leaping in wild dervish dance. In the black shadows, in the eddying thick smoke, lurked crowding shapes more terrible still, abominable, malignant, demoniacal, imbecile—Proteus shapes that changed, dwindled, leaped and roared to an indistinguishable sulphurous whirlpool, sport of all the winds. Brief flashes of clearer light there were, as the smoke billowed aside; faces gleamed a moment distinct, resolute, indomitable, bright-sparkling; blazed high—and fell, trampled down by fresh legion-changing apparitions. Sad visions, some monstrous, some heroic, all pitiful; thronging innumerable, consuming and consumed.
“Likewise ashlar stones of the Bastille continue thundering through the dusk; its paper archives shall fly white. Old secrets come to view; and long buried despair finds voice. Read this portion of an old letter: ‘If for my consolation monseigneur would grant me, for the sake of God and the most blessed Trinity, that I should have news of my dear wife; were it only her name on a card to show that she is alive! It were the greatest consolation I could receive; and I should forever bless the greatness of monseigneur.’ Poor prisoner, who signest thyself Quéret-Démery, and hast no other history, she is dead, that dear wife of thine, and thou art dead! ’Tis fifty years since thy breaking heart put this question; to be heard now first, and long heard, in the hearts of men.”
A long silence. The fire was low. One dim, blurred form was there—an old man, writing, in a stone cell.
Aughinbaugh closed the book. His eyes were moist. “One of the greatest novels ever written, ‘The Tale of Two Cities,’ is based entirely upon and turns upon this last paragraph. Read that to-morrow and then come back to the ‘French Revolution.’ You’ll be around to-morrow night?”
Jeff rose, laughing. “You remind me of my roommate at school.”
“Your—what? Where?” said George in astonishment.
“Oh, yes, I’ve been to school, but not very long. When the boys used to stay too late he’d yawn and say to me: ‘Jeff, perhaps we’d better go to bed. These people may want to go home!’”
“Oh, well, it’s nearly twelve o’clock,” said George, unabashed. “And I have to work if you don’t. Bless you, my children, bless you! Be happy and you will be good! Buenas noches!”