What happens in Book 2, Chapter 20 of A Tale of Two Cities?

Shortly after their wedding, Sydney Carton visits Charles and Lucie Darnay and asks to be accepted as a friend. He draws Darnay aside and apologizes for a past drunken evening when he spoke rudely. Carton asks only to be tolerated as an occasional visitor—like an old, useless piece of furniture. Darnay agrees and the two shake hands. Later that evening, Lucie gently rebukes her husband for speaking of Carton dismissively at dinner. She reveals she has seen Carton’s hidden heart and believes him capable of magnanimous things. The chapter ends with the image of a lonely wanderer in the dark streets who would bless Lucie for her compassion.

What does Sydney Carton ask of Charles Darnay in Chapter 20?

Carton makes two requests. First, he asks Darnay to forget a past drunken occasion when he behaved badly and spoke of both liking and not liking Darnay. Second, he asks permission to come and go as a privileged visitor to the Darnay household at odd times—describing himself as a worthless, "unornamental" piece of furniture that would be tolerated for "its old service." He estimates he would hardly visit four times a year but says knowing the permission existed would be enough.

Why does Lucie defend Sydney Carton to her husband?

After dinner, Darnay casually describes Carton as a problem of "carelessness and recklessness." Lucie takes him aside in their private rooms and says Carton deserves more consideration and respect. She reveals that she has "seen it bleeding"—meaning she has witnessed the deep wounds in Carton’s heart. Lucie believes he is capable of "good things, gentle things, even magnanimous things," though she fears he cannot be reclaimed. She asks Darnay to remember how strong they are in their happiness and how weak Carton is in his misery.

What does Carton say about the legal service he rendered to Darnay?

When Darnay gratefully mentions Carton’s role in saving him at his treason trial, Carton dismisses it with brutal honesty. He calls his courtroom performance "mere professional claptrap" and admits that at the time he "didn’t know that I cared what became of you." He is careful to specify he is speaking about the past, suggesting his feelings have since changed. This self-deprecating admission reflects Carton’s chronic inability to take credit or see himself in a positive light.

Who is the "forlorn wanderer" at the end of Chapter 20?

The chapter’s final paragraph describes an unnamed forlorn wanderer pacing the dark streets who, if he could have heard Lucie’s compassionate words and seen Darnay kiss her tears of pity away, might have cried out, "God bless her for her sweet compassion!" Though never named, this figure is unmistakably Sydney Carton. The passage powerfully foreshadows Carton’s eventual sacrifice for the Darnay family, driven by his unrequited love for Lucie and his desire for redemption.

What is the significance of the title "A Plea" in this chapter?

The title "A Plea" refers primarily to Carton’s humble request to be accepted as an occasional visitor in the Darnay household. It also carries a secondary meaning: Lucie’s own plea to her husband to show Carton more compassion and generosity. The word "plea" underscores Carton’s vulnerability—he is essentially begging for a small place in the life of the woman he loves but can never have. It contrasts with the legal "plea" of Darnay’s earlier trial, where Carton’s brilliance saved Darnay’s life.

Book II - Chapter XX. A Plea A Tale of Two Cities

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When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.

He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of speaking to him when no one overheard.

"Mr. Darnay," said Carton, "I wish we might be friends."

"We are already friends, I hope."

"You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either."

Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and good-fellowship, what he did mean?

"Upon my life," said Carton, smiling, "I find that easier to comprehend in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than-- than usual?"

"I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that you had been drinking."

"I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day, when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to preach."

"I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming to me."

"Ah!" said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that away. "On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I wish you would forget it."

"I forgot it long ago."

"Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it, and a light answer does not help me to forget it."

"If it was a light answer," returned Darnay, "I beg your forgiveness for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?"

"As to the great service," said Carton, "I am bound to avow to you, when you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past."

"You make light of the obligation," returned Darnay, "but I will not quarrel with your light answer."

"Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose; I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it, ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so."

"I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his."

"Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done any good, and never will."

"I don't know that you `never will.'"

"But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I dare say, to know that I had it."

"Will you try?"

"That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?"

"I think so, Carton, by this time."

They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.

When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw him as he showed himself.

He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly marked.

"We are thoughtful to-night!" said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.

"Yes, dearest Charles," with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring and attentive expression fixed upon him; "we are rather thoughtful to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night."

"What is it, my Lucie?"

"Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to ask it?"

"Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?"

What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!

"I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and respect than you expressed for him to-night."

"Indeed, my own? Why so?"

"That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does."

"If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?"

"I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding."

"It is a painful reflection to me," said Charles Darnay, quite astounded, "that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this of him."

"My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things, even magnanimous things."

She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man, that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.

"And, O my dearest Love!" she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, "remember how strong we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!"

The supplication touched him home. "I will always remember it, dear Heart! I will remember it as long as I live."

He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets, could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not have parted from his lips for the first time--

"God bless her for her sweet compassion!"