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"Jacques," returned Defarge, drawing himself up, "if madame my

wife undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she

would not lose a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in

her own stitches and her own symbols, it will always be as plain

to her as the sun. Confide in Madame Defarge. It would be easier

for the weakest poltroon that lives, to erase himself from

existence, than to erase one letter of his name or crimes from

the knitted register of Madame Defarge."

There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man

who hungered, asked: "Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope

so. He is very simple; is he not a little dangerous?"

"He knows nothing," said Defarge; "at least nothing more than

would easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I

charge myself with him; let him remain with me; I will take care

of him, and set him on his road. He wishes to see the fine

world--the King, the Queen, and Court; let him see them on

Sunday."