Even whilst Marat spoke his face, usually so cunning and so vengeful, had suddenly lost its look of devilish cruelty which was almost superhuman in the excess of its infamy, and a greyish hue—suggestive of terror—had spread over the sunken cheeks. He clutched Bibot’s arm, and leaning over the table he whispered in his ear:
“The Public Prosecutor had scarce finished his speech today, judgment was being pronounced, the spectators were expectant and still, only the Montreux woman and some of the females and children were blubbering and moaning, when suddenly, it seemed from nowhere, a small piece of paper fluttered from out the assembly and alighted on the desk in front of the Public Prosecutor. He took the paper up and glanced at its contents. I saw that his cheeks had paled, and that his hand trembled as he handed the paper over to me.”
“And what did that paper contain, citizen Marat?” asked Bibot, also speaking in a whisper, for an access of superstitious terror was gripping him by the throat.
“Just the well-known accursed device, citizen, the small scarlet flower, drawn in red ink, and the few words: ‘Tonight the innocent men and women now condemned by this infamous tribunal will be beyond your reach!’ ”
“And no sign of a messenger?”
“None.”
“And when did—”
“Hush!” said Marat peremptorily, “no more of that now. To your post, citizen, and remember—all are suspect! let none escape!”
The two men had been sitting outside a small tavern, opposite the Porte Montmartre, with a bottle of wine between them, their elbows resting on the grimy top of a rough wooden table. They had talked in whispers, for even the walls of the tumble-down cabaret might have had ears.
Opposite them the city wall—broken here by the great gate of Montmartre—loomed threateningly in the fast-gathering dusk of this winter’s afternoon. Men in ragged red shirts, their unkempt heads crowned with Phrygian caps adorned with a tricolour cockade, lounged against the wall, or sat in groups on the top of piles of refuse that littered the street, with a rough deal plank between them and a greasy pack of cards in their grimy fingers. Guns and bayonets were propped against the wall. The gate itself had three means of egress; each of these was guarded by two men with fixed bayonets at their shoulders, but otherwise dressed like the others, in rags—with bare legs that looked blue and numb in the cold—the sansculottes of revolutionary Paris.
Bibot rose from his seat, nodding to Marat, and joined his men.
From afar, but gradually drawing nearer, came the sound of a ribald song, with chorus accompaniment sung by throats obviously surfeited with liquor.
For a moment—as the sound approached—Bibot turned back once more to the Friend of the People.
“Am I to understand, citizen,” he said, “that my orders are not to let anyone pass through these gates tonight?”
“No, no, citizen,” replied Marat, “we dare not do that. There are a number of good patriots in the city still. We cannot interfere with their liberty or—”
And the look of fear of the demagogue—himself afraid of the human whirlpool which he has let loose—stole into Marat’s cruel, piercing eyes.
“No, no,” he reiterated more emphatically, “we cannot disregard the passports issued by the Committee of Public Safety. But examine each passport carefully, citizen Bibot! If you have any reasonable ground for suspicion, detain the holder, and if you have not—”
The sound of singing was quite near now. With another wink and a final leer, Marat drew back under the shadow of the cabaret, and Bibot swaggered up to the main entrance of the gate.
“Qui va la?” he thundered in stentorian tones as a group of some half-dozen people lurched towards him out of the gloom, still shouting hoarsely their ribald drinking song.
The foremost man in the group paused opposite citizen Bibot, and with arms akimbo, and legs planted well apart tried to assume a rigidity of attitude which apparently was somewhat foreign to him at this moment.
“Good patriots, citizen,” he said in a thick voice which he vainly tried to render steady.
“What do you want?” queried Bibot.
“To be allowed to go on our way unmolested.”
“What is your way?”
“Through the Porte Montmartre to the village of Barency.”
“What is your business there?”
This query delivered in Bibot’s most pompous manner seemed vastly to amuse the rowdy crowd. He who was the spokesman turned to his friends and shouted hilariously:
“Hark at him, citizens! He asks me what is our business. Ohé, citizen Bibot, since when have you become blind? A dolt you’ve always been, else you had not asked the question.”
But Bibot, undeterred by the man’s drunken insolence, retorted gruffly:
“Your business, I want to know.”
“Bibot! my little Bibot!” cooed the bibulous orator now in dulcet tones, “dost not know us, my good Bibot? Yet we all know thee, citizen—Captain Bibot of the Town Guard, eh, citizens! Three cheers for the citizen captain!”
When the noisy shouts and cheers from half a dozen hoarse throats had died down, Bibot, without more ado, turned to his own men at the gate.
“Drive these drunken louts away!” he commanded; “no one is allowed to loiter here.”
Loud protest on the part of the hilarious crowd followed, then a slight scuffle with the bayonets of the Town Guard. Finally the spokesman, somewhat sobered, once more appealed to Bibot.
“Citizen Bibot! you must be blind not to know me and my mates! And let me tell you that you are doing yourself a deal of harm by interfering with the citizens of the Republic in the proper discharge of their duties, and by disregarding their rights of egress through this gate, a right confirmed by passports signed by two members of the Committee of Public Safety.”
He had spoken now fairly clearly and very pompously. Bibot, somewhat impressed and remembering Marat’s admonitions, said very civilly:
“Tell me your business then, citizen, and show me your passports. If everything is in order you may go your way.”
“But you know
