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The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so

foul a neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's

olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the stock of wine

smelt much stronger than it ever tasted, and so did the stock of

rum and brandy and aniseed. He whiffed the compound of scents

away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.

"You are fatigued," said madame, raising her glance as she

knotted the money. "There are only the usual odours."

"I am a little tired," her husband acknowledged.

"You are a little depressed, too," said madame, whose quick eyes

had never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray

or two for him. "Oh, the men, the men!"

"But my dear!" began Defarge.

"But my dear!" repeated madame, nodding firmly; "but my dear! You

are faint of heart to-night, my dear!"

"Well, then," said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his

breast, "it is a long time."