“Yes, I know you—unofficially, citizen Durand.”
“You know that I and the citizens here are the carriers for citizen Legrand, the market gardener of Barency?”
“Yes, I know that,” said Bibot guardedly, “unofficially.”
“Then, unofficially, let me tell you, citizen, that unless we get to Barency this evening, Paris will have to do without cabbages and potatoes tomorrow. So now you know that you are acting at your own risk and peril, citizen, by detaining us.”
“Your passports, all of you,” commanded Bibot.
He had just caught sight of Marat still sitting outside the tavern opposite, and was glad enough, in this instance, to shelve his responsibility on the shoulders of the popular “Friend of the People.” There was general searching in ragged pockets for grimy papers with official seals thereon, and whilst Bibot ordered one of his men to take the six passports across the road to citizen Marat for his inspection, he himself, by the last rays of the setting winter sun, made close examination of the six men who desired to pass through the Porte Montmartre.
As the spokesman had averred, he—Bibot—knew every one of these men. They were the carriers to citizen Legrand, the Barency market gardener. Bibot knew every face. They passed with a load of fruit and vegetables in and out of Paris every day. There was really and absolutely no cause for suspicion, and when citizen Marat returned the six passports, pronouncing them to be genuine, and recognising his own signature at the bottom of each, Bibot was at last satisfied, and the six bibulous carriers were allowed to pass through the gate, which they did, arm in arm, singing a wild carmagnole, and vociferously cheering as they emerged out into the open.
But Bibot passed an unsteady hand over his brow. It was cold, yet he was in a perspiration. That sort of thing tells on a man’s nerves. He rejoined Marat, at the table outside the drinking booth, and ordered a fresh bottle of wine.
The sun had set now, and with the gathering dusk a damp mist descended on Montmartre. From the wall opposite, where the men sat playing cards, came occasional volleys of blasphemous oaths. Bibot was feeling much more like himself. He had half forgotten the incident of the six carriers, which had occurred nearly half an hour ago.
Two or three other people had, in the meanwhile, tried to pass through the gates, but Bibot had been suspicious and had detained them all.
Marat having commended him for his zeal took final leave of him. Just as the demagogue’s slouchy, grimy figure was disappearing down a side street there was the loud clatter of hoofs from that same direction, and the next moment a detachment of the mounted Town Guard, headed by an officer in uniform, galloped down the ill-paved street.
Even before the troopers had drawn rein the officer had hailed Bibot.
“Citizen,” he shouted, and his voice was breathless, for he had evidently ridden hard and fast, “this message to you from the citizen Chief Commissary of the Section. Six men are wanted by the Committee of Public Safety. They are disguised as carriers in the employ of a market gardener, and have passports for Barency! … The passports are stolen: the men are traitors—escaped aristocrats—and their spokesman is that d⸺d Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
Bibot tried to speak; he tugged at the collar of his ragged shirt; an awful curse escaped him.
“Ten thousand devils!” he roared.
“On no account allow these people to go through,” continued the officer. “Keep their passports. Detain them! … Understand?”
Bibot was still gasping for breath even whilst the officer, ordering a quick “Turn!” reeled his horse round, ready to gallop away as far as he had come.
“I am for the St. Denis Gate—Grosjean is on guard there!” he shouted. “Same orders all round the city. No one to leave the gates! … Understand?”
His troopers fell in. The next moment he would be gone, and those cursed aristocrats well in safety’s way.
“Citizen Captain!”
The hoarse shout at last contrived to escape Bibot’s parched throat. As if involuntarily, the officer drew rein once more.
“What is it? Quick!—I’ve no time. That confounded Englishman may be at the St. Denis Gate even now!”
“Citizen Captain,” gasped Bibot, his breath coming and going like that of a man fighting for his life. “Here! … at this gate! … not half an hour ago … six men … carriers … market gardeners … I seemed to know their faces. …”
“Yes! yes! market gardener’s carriers,” exclaimed the officer gleefully, “aristocrats all of them … and that d⸺d Scarlet Pimpernel. You’ve got them? You’ve detained them? … Where are they? … Speak, man, in the name of hell! …”
“Gone!” gasped Bibot. His legs would no longer bear him. He fell backwards on to a heap of street debris and refuse, from which lowly vantage ground he contrived to give away the whole miserable tale.
“Gone! half an hour ago. Their passports were in order! … I seemed to know their faces! Citizen Marat was here. … He, too—”
In a moment the officer had once more swung his horse round, so that the animal reared, with wild forefeet pawing the air, with champing of bit, and white foam scattered around.
“A thousand million curses!” he exclaimed. “Citizen Bibot, your head will pay for this treachery. Which way did they go?”
A dozen hands were ready to point in the direction where the merry party of carriers had disappeared half an hour ago; a dozen tongues gave rapid, confused explanations.
“Into it, my men!” shouted the officer; “they were on foot! They can’t have gone far. Remember the Republic has offered ten thousand francs for the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
Already the heavy gates had been swung open, and the officer’s voice once more rang out clear through a perfect thunderclap of fast galloping hoofs:
“Ventre à terre! Remember!—ten thousand francs to him who first sights the Scarlet Pimpernel!”
The thunderclap died away in the distance, the dust of four score hoofs was merged in the fog and in the darkness; the voice of the captain was raised again through the mist-laden air. One
