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It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La

Force, where she had stood hundreds of times. A little

wood-sawyer, having closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his

shop-door.

"Good night, citizen," said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by;

for, the man eyed him inquisitively.

"Good night, citizen."

"How goes the Republic?"

"You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall

mount to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes,

of being exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such

a Barber!"

"Do you often go to see him--"

"Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at

work?"

"Never."

"Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to

yourself, citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than

two pipes! Less than two pipes. Word of honour!"