dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse, turned and rode away without entering the city.
He accompanied his conductor into a guardroom, smelling of common wine and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake, drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The light in the guardhouse, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.
“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay’s conductor, as he took a slip of paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evrémonde?”
“This is the man.”
“Your age, Evrémonde?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Married, Evrémonde?”
“Yes.”
“Where married?”
“In England.”
“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evrémonde?”
“In England.”
“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evrémonde, to the prison of La Force.”