The Jackal and the Lamb

Sydney Carton sat in the window seat of the house in Soho, away from the fire around which the Darnay family, Dr. Manette, and Mr. Lorry were gathered. He felt far from well that evening, having followed his usual practice of abstaining from strong drink for a day or two before coming, and it was only by a sustained effort that he kept his teacup and saucer from rattling in his hands.

Yet the difficulties attached to these visits never hindered him from making them. The fact might be explained in part by the sympathetic glance Lucie had given him earlier as she had handed him the cup, as if she instinctively recognized the debility he would have died rather than mention. Sometimes he thought he lived only for those moments when she looked at him like that. They made no sense at all—how was it possible that she, a loving wife and mother with a full, joyous life, could sympathize with the pangs of a drunkard?—but he tasted the sweetness of them for days.

Carton had listened for a while to the conversation by the fireside—a conversation about France, like most conversations these days—before drifting into the reverie that usually captured him on these evenings, a reverie brought on by watching the man whose face was so similar to his own, sitting with the woman he loved. It was like watching a ghostly vision of a life he might have had, and it never failed to leave its uncanny impression on him.

He was brought out of his dreaming with a start, by the touch of a little hand on his knee. Only now did he notice that little Lucie had left her doll on the rug by the fire, and was climbing up on the seat.

There again—why should this innocent, happy child be so fond of him? He never had understood it; he only knew, with a dim, obscure gratitude in the very depths of his soul, that she had consistently sought him out from before the time that she could walk. It seemed, whenever she came like this to sit by him, as if the lion were in very truth keeping company with the lamb. (A jackal, not a lion, he mentally corrected himself; but the principle was the same.)

Yet perhaps happy was not the word for little Lucie tonight, after all, for he thought he saw a shade of distress on the small face. He set down his cup, not without a slight feeling of relief, and helped her up beside him.

"What is it, Lucie?" he asked, in a low tone.

The child curled up against him. "I don't like it when they talk of France," she said, so quietly that he had to lean down to catch the words. "It frightens me."

Carton glanced again at the group round the fire. They were still absorbed in their conversation, earnestness and trouble on every face.

"France is far away, Lucie," he reminded her gently.

"I know it is." She raised a flushed face, on which he saw traces of tears. "But when they speak of it like that, they seem to bring it so near." Suddenly she pressed her face against his coat.

Sydney put his arm around her, reflecting that it might be wise to drop a hint to her parents. Everyone was distressed by the events in France these days, and wont to wonder and speculate about them incessantly. Sometimes even the most loving and careful of parents forgot that small ears were able to hear the conversations, and small minds might be haunted by them.

"Don't be afraid, Lucie," he said softly, stroking the bright hair. "You have nothing to fear. Everyone you love is here, and safe, and no harm can come to them from France."

Little Lucie did not answer, but after a moment he felt her begin to relax against him, and soon her even breathing told of peaceful slumber. There in the shadows, before her father came to carry her to bed, Sydney Carton bent to leave his goodnight kiss on the child's forehead, and never doubted that what he had told her was true.