Okay... So I'm posting this because I re-read the ending of A Tale of Two Cities (which we had to read for C.A.), and it made me really sad and inspired, so... I wanted to write something, and I did. I have no idea what I'm doing here, 'cause, well, duh, I'm no Dickens... I just hated Lucie and Darnay... Because they were so one-dimensional. Like Lucie was always trying to be happy or doing everything right... It drove me insane! So here is my attempt to make her a bit more deep. It's influenced by a combined effort from my Comm. Arts class (I wonder what my C.A. teacher would think if he saw this), my AP Euro class, and my French class...
It's set maybe a few months after the book. Oh, and, being the genius I am, I did not use the book (despite the fact that I even own a copy), so any quotes might be off. I don't own A Tale of Two Cities, even though it's public domain now, right? Anyways, the pairing is Lucie/Sydney, Lucie/Charles... And if she's referring to a he, it's probably Sydney. Oh, and, since she's French, a fair amount of this is in French (in italics). Not that it's monumental to the plot that you understand (she's usually restating something she said in English), but you should prolly know that pais is country, mort is dead, and the verb aimer means to love. And when she says Je suis and then a laundry list of things, she's basically calling herself dirty things in French. The French should be, for the most part, right... It's pretty basic.
I have tried to be a good person my whole life. Miss Pross raised me well. She taught me so much. I tried so hard to do what she told me was right, but it's not enough...
I go to mass every Sunday, Wednesdays too... I go to confession once a week. I have done my best and given my all to be a dutiful daughter, a loving wife, a good mother, a kind friend, and a hospitable hostess. I cook my family's meals, I keep my house neat and tidy... I keep everything clean and looking proper, even my family.
I wear my hair the right way, up, but not too elegant. I put on perfume every morning, the same as my mother wore. My dresses are always clean and pressed. I never track mud into the house.
Above all of these little, menial things... I love my family... my father, my husband, my daughter, little Charles (may he rest in peace), Miss Pross, and Mister Lorry. I love them all.
Yet everything has been so empty lately... since France. Is it possible to hate your own pais? The country of your birth? I wonder what they would say of me there... The revolutionaries. They would probably denounce me as parricidal and send me off to La Guillotine. For I do... Je deteste beaucoup la France! I wish I'd never set foot in that dreadful country. It's horrible over there, absolutely horrible! They're still killing people left and right... We don't like to discuss things like that here in London.
It's terribly depressing, after all. I know this better than most. The literati who sit in their little coffeehouses, drink tea, and read those philosophy books, they've taken to calling it "The Reign of Terror" in their whispers. I agree with that, but they know nothing of what is actually transpiring there. Not first hand.
How can they? They do not have such a system in place over there. There are no seigneurs or marquis in England. The nobility here, they are different... better. They are not like the old ones; they do not run over babies in their carriages without a second thought as they did in France. The revolutionaries have moved on... Now they are killing innocents! Every day more news of deaths come in... Deaths in the Vendée, Marseilles, Lyons! They are killing their opposition, those who oppose them. They are killing them by the thousands... Ils sont morts. Elles sont mortes. Tout la pais est mort.
But enough of them, I hate them! I shall speak of my father. He got well again, after Charles was... Yes, that's good. He is seeing patients again, making them well too. How he loves his job so.
Miss Pross is deaf. Mister Cruncher found her... He came and told us. It has taken her a lot of getting used to, but she can read lips fairly well. I do not know why or how it happened, but only that it happened there on that last, miserable day in Paris. How far it is now from being the City of Love, Light, and Literature that it was when I was Lucie's age. It will be forever tainted by the blood shed there. St. Antoine will forever haunt me.
She won't tell anyone how it happened, but I get the sense that Jerry knows more than he is telling about the ordeal. She only vaguely mentions something about a loud bang and then a terrible silence. The terrible, dreadful silence she has sunken into. Yet she's still so happy, far happier than I am.
Mister Lorry only seems to get older and older. He doesn't smile as he used to. It affects him, I can tell. He was the last to sp... He was the last. Yes. Little Lucie still manages to make him grin, though. She does that to everyone. She's a ray of sunshine. I adore her, as does Charles.
Which is why it pains me when she asks about him... Charles told her to call him Uncle Sydney... As if, as if that is some sort of reward for what he did! Calling a deceased man an uncle will help no one... least of all me. I do not know what to say to her when she asks. What am I to say, exactly? Am I to read her his last words to me, delivered by Charles? Am I to say that he died so your father could live?
Am I to tell her that was a good thing, the right thing to do? It might have been, but it doesn't feel like that... I get so upset whenever I think of it. It bothers Charles. He wishes to speak of it openly, proudly. He lives as a man given a second lease on life, happy and eerily carefree. How can he be so happy still? A man, his friend, died so he could live!
Did he not mean a thing to you at all, Charles? I wonder if you even mourned his death. You two were not particularly fond of each other, I know... but that is no excuse! He does not even wonder why he did it. Why he would do something so out of character for someone so... Charles appreciates it, of course. He wishes me to name our next born child Sydney. I think it would be a nice name for either girl or boy, really, I do... How could I name the child anything else?
In fact, I have a child on the way... Charles does not know yet, but I do. It will be another son, I can tell. I am sure Charles will like that. Another son to carry on the family name.
The accursed family name. Here he will be called Darnay, but that is a lie. For he is not Darnay, d'Aulnais... He will be an Evrémonde as Charles is, and I shall make it my mission in life to ensure that he never visits France. I cannot lose my son too.
I have already lost little Charles. I miss him now more than ever. Mon petit fils. Je t'aime, ma chèrie.
I do not want him to be stuck with Evrémonde, the burdensome name. Carton. He shall have that as his last name, and I do not care what Charles has to say about it. Naming a child of ours after him is the least, the very least we can do. That and telling his story.
That story always makes me sob. Charles doesn't remember much of it... All we have are bits and pieces. Mister Lorry and Mister Cruncher know a little, and Charles does too. The memories are fuzzy and hazy, round around the edges, as he was drugged, but he still remembers.
It makes me sick to my stomach, to think about it all. Or perhaps that is just the baby. It just does not seem right to me that a man dies for my husband, and all that we do is name our son after him and tell the story of what he did for us. It doesn't seem like enough. I am not satisfied.
It is neither equal, nor fair, nor is it right. Ce n'est pas egalité!
He may have died in Charles' place, but he died for me. "To keep a life you love beside you." His words, not mine. There's the irony. My life isn't worth anything. It isn't worth his!
Il est mort. Il a été l'amour de ma vie... Et il est mort. Mort, mort, mort toujours.
His love for me killed him. He loved me enough to die so that I might be happy. Yet I am not; now I can no longer be content. I am weighed down by guilt... The price of a human life weighs so heavily on my soul. I am a murderer. He would still be alive if it was not for me!
I feel even worse now... He died so I could live a good life, so that I might be happy. And I almost feel even more guilty that I am not than I am over the fact that he died in my husband's place. I am not at all happy. And when I think about this, when I want to stop feeling like this... I feel like I'm wasting the life he gave up for me. I feel like he died in vain.
What does my life mean without him in it?
I have tried to be a good person my entire life, but I have failed. Everyone around me thinks only good of me. You are wonderful, Lucie, they say. You are a sunbeam, a light that shines on all around you. Beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed belle... me. We love you, Lucie. But I do not want it.
Sydney once told me that he could never get better, that he would only get worse. He said that I made him want to be better, and, in the end, I suppose I did. He was so wrong about himself, always being so critical. In the end, he outshone us all. Charles would've died for the sins of his ancestors, but Sydney died for love. Stupid, pointless love!
Oh, love is so overrated!
Charles said I was perfect a long time ago, when we were on vacances after our wedding. We traveled to some little island. It was a pretty island, with a nice beach and beautiful waves... "Lucie, tu es parfaite. Absolument parfaite."
He stared at me with love in his eyes. He was so young then. I smiled back, giggled, and told him I was not. He, of course, did not believe me. He laughed it off, asking me what an innocent girl such as I could have done. In his eyes, I was new, brilliant, and flawless like a diamond solitaire.
I made a point to prove to him that I had flaws, but he didn't see them. Instead, I told him a story from my childhood. To prove to him that I was not all goodness and light as he seemed to think me to be.
Once, when I was little, I went into a fancy store with Miss Pross. My childhood was not a happy one. Miss Pross tried her best, but she was not my mother or my father. I was so lonely. We went to look at candies, but she didn't have any money. I wanted one, I coveted that candy.
So I took it, I put it in my pocket and went home with it. No one knew. No one noticed. I hid the candy in my pocket all day, sticking my greedy fingers inside and touching it from time to time. I waited until the dead of night, when I was alone in my bed, to take it out and look at it. I stared at the paper wrapped around it. The juicy pink sweetness of it. I started to open it, to take a bite, but I felt so guilty. I redid the wrapping and put it away in a drawer far from sight, as if not seeing it would make it all better, but it still bothered me. It bothered me so much I was sick. I stayed in bed all day, but it still haunted. I snuck out that night and gave it to a beggar. They looked at me as if I were God, so highly was I revered.
I have never seen someone look so grateful in their life.
I felt so guilty then, but not near half as guilty as I feel all the time now.
I struggle so hard to make myself pretty, to be beautiful. No matter how hard I try, I don't feel beautiful. Charles and my father tell me so often, as does Jarvis. But I feel ugly. I have taken a life that was not mine to receive and then squandered it as Marie and Louis squandered their wealth.
I still smile, but it never reaches my eyes anymore. No one notices. They do not see my despair, how I am unraveling at my seams. They see that I have changed, but that is all they see. Charles makes light of it like he makes light of most things... He just laughs and smooths out my frown lines, saying I worry too much. The lines in my forehead have grown deeper. I am still so young, yet I feel so old.
I keep up the facade for little Lucie, Charles, my father, and Miss Pross. They need me to be strong. I have to be a good role model to Lucie... My father is still so fragile and Miss Pross needs help. I must be strong for them, and I try my hardest.
I cry at night sometimes, but only in the dark, in the middle of the night, when no one can see. It's only then that I break. I do not sleep with Charles as much as I used to... It does not feel the same. I do not feel the same. I still love him, but... I'm not in love with him.
I told you that I am not a good person. I thought I did. For the longest time, I did...
Ever since I found out what happened in France... I have done a lot of thinking.
I remember when I first met him. He was a little drunk. It was the day of Charles' very first trial... the one here, on English soil. We had kept in contact with Charles through Mister Stryver, and when we went to the courtroom, I thought I was seeing double. In retrospect, it was silly. They wore their hair differently, and they have different colored eyes. But that was before... before I knew them.
He, Mister Stryver, and Charles started coming over to the house often. He was so morbid, always making things awkward, ruining the moments. I tried hard to like him then, really I did, but I couldn't. He just rubbed me the wrong way. Things were always rather awkward between us.
Until that day when he came to see me. Everyone was out of the house... Such a rare thing those days. We constantly had people coming over... There was always father or Miss Pross to watch out to me. I remember being scared that it was just us... all alone. I noticed that he looked a little more handsome than he usually did, almost as if he had put in a slight effort. When he started to speak, I thought him insane, I truly did. Who would not?
His true self was buried under so many layers of burdensome lies and illusions. I pitied him then, loving me (though he never said this outright as Charles did later... it was implied) when I did not love him. A surge of wild emotion overcame me, and I felt so awful, so terrible, for being the source of his pain.
I was young and naïve, and I didn't understand what he meant then... That I was what made him want you be better.
"I wish you to know that you were the last dream of my soul."
Ces mots... Je n'oublie pas.
Those words will haunt me forever.
I was so confused at the time. He was, of course, true to his word; he never brought up the conversation again, and I did not press. Charles started to woo me around that time, and so I put those words out of my mind. It all seemed wonderful, but they lacked passion and intensity. At the time I was so caught up in being romanced that I noticed little else, but I see now why he started avoiding the house like the plague. Why when we did see him, he tended to be even more intoxicated than he usually was... The pieces are just now starting to add up in my mind.
I have been thinking so much lately... since his death. And I am afraid I have achieved exactly the opposite of what I wanted. It is horrible of me to no longer be in love with him, I know, but I cannot help it... I cannot help the fact that it is another man's face I see in my dreams. Another man's voice calling out to me. I am haunted by these memories.
I think I would change it, stop all this madness... If I could. And yet, I have never felt this way before in my life. This passionate, this deep... this miserable.
I told you I was bad. I cannot even forgive Charles... Even though it was not his fault or even his decision. I still blame him, and I cannot forget what happened there in Paris. Bloody Paris. He did not deserve it! Dying there all alone, with none of his friends there, to see him off into... the afterlife, I suppose. Maybe he did not want us there. Maybe it is better that we did not see what became of him.
They say it is a sin to feel pity for one executed by the revolution, even if they were your blood... I hope this Terror ends soon. Enough blood has been shed already for a thousand revolutions. The Americans... they were not so violent in their aims. I remember. They did not massacre and guillotine as my people have. No one has massacred as my people have.
Yes, I suppose it is better that I did not see... If I had, I would have most certainly started weeping and then it would all be in vain... even though I would be with him again... I miss him so.
Sometimes Charles makes me sick. Sometimes when we kiss, I have to swallow down the bile that rises with every caress. Kissing a mirror image... It disgusts me, I disgust myself! I feel as though I am losing my mind, acting my way through life, pretending as if I am happy. I feel guilty with Charles, looking at him... Guilty for all of us. Guilty that I do not want my husband... Guilty for the one who died so I could have him. Guilty for longing for someone else.
Someone out of my reach eternally. I shall never be able to tell him. I shall die with this secret of mine. I, Lucette Manette... Lucie Darnay... Lucie Evr... No, I shall not say that accursed name!
That family has ruined my life as well as Madame Defarge's, whether the wretched woman knows it or not. I suppose she would like this... This silent betrayal. But if she had her way, my Charles would be the one lying in the cold, hard earth right now. And sometimes, when I am all alone... I wish he was!
How terrible, to wish your own husband dead! I do not deserve him. I am a miserable, wretched person. The beautiful wife and mother... She is a lie! Entirely a lie! I am a fraud!
I think I understand how he must have felt now. How much it hurts to be in love and not have the feelings returned! At least I know how he felt about me. He... he didn't. I wish I had just... done something, when I could have... But I did not, so what is the use dwelling on it!
I am in love with a dead man. I realized this, of course, after he was long gone... I wish I had told him that I at least cared, or even thanked him. He cared after me unselfishly when Charles was in prison... When I thought he was to die. The wrong man died that day.
Mon amour est mort. Je n'aime pas de mon mari. Je suis une garce, une salope, une conasse, un putain. Je suis tout de ceux-là choses.
I am an emotional adulteress, which is even worse than having a physical affair. Physical affairs may mean nothing, but you can never argue the same for an emotional one... Though I am not having an affair, only feelings.
Feelings I should not even have in the first place, especially for a man who is not my husband.
There is nothing I can do about it. I may as well say it... I am in love with Sydney Carton.
A man who is dead, dead, dead. Mort, mort, mort... La morte est mauvaise.
Je n'ai pas de chance.
Fate can be so cruel sometimes, can she not? To allow me to find this out now, of all times... when he is already long gone and... I miss him. I miss his messy, wavy hair... I miss his eyes. I miss all those weird little habits of his...
I think I could have taken Charles dying. Does that make me a bad person? I... would have been okay with it. No, not okay... But it could not have hurt me this much, could it? I feel as if there is a gaping hole in my heart, in my life... As if I had been torn apart by grapeshot that day at La Bastille.
Yes, I am certain that I would have gotten over it... Maybe even remarried. Yes, you would have, Lucie. I know just what you are thinking. Do not entertain such frivolous fantasies. They are pointless...
I will see him again. I am certain. After all, I am not immortal, not some angel as Charles thinks I am. I will die... and then I will be happy.
I wonder how he died... Was he lonely? Was he cold, warm, sweaty, filthy, neat? Was he all alone? Die he die angry, content, at peace, sad? Was it painful? How much blood was there?
I wish I had been there. I feel as though I abandoned him. Did I abandon him? I asked no questions... We left without looking back. I was so happy to see Charles, I didn't think...
It was only until Jarvis showed Charles' papers and I realized that they were Sydney's... Of course, I did not believe that we would use his own, but it floored me... I started to wonder about it, so I asked him. He could not help but tell me the whole, long, torrid story. Charles had a paper on him from Sydney. It was in Charles' handwriting, of course, but I knew whose words those were...
Charles is a simple man, a good man. He is handsome, gentle, and kind. Wonderful for some other girl, I suppose, but not me. He is not a man of complex words or complex feelings. And therein lies the problem.
If I am honest with myself, he is a substitution...
Those words haunt me too.
But what bothers me the most is that Charles did not ask why. He did not want to know... Or even need to. This incident has affected all of us in our own ways.
Look at me. I just called it an incident... Is that progress? Progress towards me... getting over this, putting it far from my mind so I can be happy... as he wished me to be? I do not know...
All I know is that things will never be the same again.
So I must be brave and try my hardest to put this out of my mind... To remember it, but not dwell on it as I am. So what if I am in love with him? He's dead. It does not matter. I shall continue to care for Papa and Miss Pross... And look after little Lucie and the child on the way... And Charles, I must pretend for him. He has been through so much... I will be brave for them all.
Even if it is killing me inside.
This is my cross to bear. My sin, my flaw, my pain.
It is all I can do to live the life he wished me to. He gave his life for mine... So that I might be happy. It is the least I can do for him, to try my hardest to achieve happiness.
I feel guilty enough as it is. I will not let him down here. I will give it everything I have, and if it hurts... I deserve it.
For if there is one thing I will not do... I won't let his sacrifice be in vain.
- Loren ;
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