‘Five paces by four and a half，five paces by four and a half，five paces by four and a half.’The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell，counting its measurements，and the roar of the city arose like muffled drums with a wild swell of voices added to them.‘He made shoes，he made shoes，he made shoes.’The prisoner counted the measurement again，and paced faster，to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.‘The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among them，the appearance of a lady dressed in black，who was leaning in the embrasure of a window，and she had a light shining upon her golden hair，and she looked like……Let us ride on again，for God's sake，through the illuminated villages with the people all awake！……He made shoes，he made shoes，he made shoes……Five paces by four and a half.’With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of his mind，the prisoner walked faster and faster，obstinately counting and counting；and the roar of the city changed to this extent—that it still rolled in like muffled drums，but with the wail of voices that he knew，in the swell that rose above them.
XXXII.THE GRINDSTONE
T ellson's Bank，established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris，was in a wing of a large house，approached by a court-yard and shut off from the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the troubles，in his own cook's dress，and got across the borders.A mere beast of the chase flying from hunters，he was still in his metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur，the preparation of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men besides the cook in question.
Monseigneur gone，and the three strong men absolving themselves from the sin of having drawn his high wages，by being more than ready and willing to cut his throat on the altar of the drawing Republic One and Indivisible，of Liberty，Equality，Fraternity，or Death，Monseigneur's house had been first sequestrated，and then confiscated. For，all things move so fast，and decree following decree with that fierce precipitation，that now upon the third night of the autumn month of September，patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of Monseigneur's house，and had marked it with the tricolour，and were drinking brandy in its state apartments.
A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris，would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette. For，what would staid British responsibility andrespectability have said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank court-yard，and even to a Cupid over the counter？Yet such things were.Tellson's had whitewashed the Cupid，but he was still to be seen on the ceiling，in the coolest linen，aiming（as he very often does）at money from morning to night.Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan，in Lombard-street，London，and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of the immortal boy，and also of a looking-glass let into the wall，and also of clerks not at all old，who danced in public on the slightest provocation.Yet，a French Tellson's could get on with these things exceedingly well，and，as long as the times held together，no man had taken fright at them，and drawn out his money.
What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth，and what would lie there，lost and forgotten；what plate and jewels would tarnish in Tellson's hiding-places，while the depositors rusted in prisons，and when they should have violently perished；how many accounts with Tellson's never to be balanced in this world，must be carried over into the next；no man could have said，that night，any more than Mr. Jarvis Lorry could，though he thought heavily of these questions.He sat by a newly-lighted wood fire（the blighted and unfruitful year was prematurely cold），and on his honest and courageous face there was a deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw，or any object in the room distortedly reflect—a shade of horror.
He occupied rooms in the Bank，in his fidelity to the House of which he had grown to be a part，like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main building，but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about that.All such circumstances were indifferent tohim，so that he did his duty.On the opposite side of the courtyard，under a colonnade，was extensive standing for carriages—where，indeed，some carriages of Monseigneur yet stood.Against two of the pillars were fastened two great flaring flambeaux，and in the light of these，standing to in the open air，was a large grindstone：a roughly mounted thing which appeared to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy，or other workshop.Rising and looking out of the window at these harmless objects，Mr.Lorry shivered，and retired to his seat by the fire.He had opened，not only the glass window，but the lattice blind outside it，and he had closed both again，and he shivered through his frame.
From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate，there came the usual night hum of the city，with now and then an indescribable ring in it，weird and unearthly，as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible nature were going up to Heaven.
‘Thank God，’said Mr. Lorry，clasping his hands，‘that no one near and dear to me is in this dreadful town tonight.May He have mercy on all who are in danger！’
Soon afterwards the bell at the great gate sounded，and he thought，‘They have come back！’and sat listening. But，there was no loud irruption into the courtyard，as he had expected，and he heard the gate clash again，and all was quiet.
