Bibot was very sure of himself. There never was, never had been, there
never would be again another such patriotic citizen of the Republic as
was citizen Bibot of the Town Guard.

And because his patriotism was so well known among the members of the
Committee of Public Safety, and his uncompromising hatred of the
aristocrats so highly appreciated, citizen Bibot had been given the most
important military post within the city of Paris.

He was in command of the Porte Montmartre, which goes to prove how
highly he was esteemed, for, believe me, more treachery had been going
on inside and out of the Porte Montmartre than in any other quarter of
Paris. The last commandant there, citizen Ferney, was guillotined for
having allowed a whole batch of aristocrats--traitors to the Republic,
all of them--to slip through the Porte Montmartre and to find safety
outside the walls of Paris. Ferney pleaded in his defence that these
traitors had been spirited away from under his very nose by the devil's
agency, for surely that meddlesome Englishman who spent his time in
rescuing aristocrats--traitors, all of them--from the clutches of Madame
la Guillotine must be either the devil himself, or at any rate one of
his most powerful agents.

"Nom de Dieu! just think of his name! The Scarlet Pimpernel they call
him! No one knows him by any other name! and he is preternaturally tall
and strong and superhumanly cunning! And the power which he has of being
transmuted into various personalities--rendering himself quite
unrecognisable to the eyes of the most sharp-seeing patriot of France,
must of a surety be a gift of Satan!"

But the Committee of Public Safety refused to listen to Ferney's
explanations. The Scarlet Pimpernel was only an ordinary mortal--an
exceedingly cunning and meddlesome personage it is true, and endowed
with a superfluity of wealth which enabled him to break the thin crust
of patriotism that overlay the natural cupidity of many Captains of the
Town Guard--but still an ordinary man for all that! and no true lover of
the Republic should allow either superstitious terror or greed to
interfere with the discharge of his duties which at the Porte Montmartre
consisted in detaining any and every person--aristocrat, foreigner, or
otherwise traitor to the Republic--who could not give a satisfactory
reason for desiring to leave Paris. Having detained such persons, the
patriot's next duty was to hand them over to the Committee of Public
Safety, who would then decide whether Madame la Guillotine would have
the last word over them or not.

And the guillotine did nearly always have the last word to say, unless
the Scarlet Pimpernel interfered.

The trouble was, that that same accursed Englishman interfered at times
in a manner which was positively terrifying. His impudence, certes,
passed all belief. Stories of his daring and of his impudence were
abroad which literally made the lank and greasy hair of every patriot
curl with wonder. 'Twas even whispered--not too loudly, forsooth--that
certain members of the Committee of Public Safety had measured their
skill and valour against that of the Englishman and emerged from the
conflict beaten and humiliated, vowing vengeance which, of a truth, was
still slow in coming.

Citizen Chauvelin, one of the most implacable and unyielding members of
the Committee, was known to have suffered overwhelming shame at the
hands of that daring gang, of whom the so-called Scarlet Pimpernel was
the accredited chief. Some there were who said that citizen Chauvelin
had for ever forfeited his prestige, and even endangered his head by
measuring his well-known astuteness against that mysterious League of
spies.

But then Bibot was different!

He feared neither the devil, nor any Englishman. Had the latter the
strength of giants and the protection of every power of evil, Bibot was
ready for him. Nay! he was aching for a tussle, and haunted the purlieus
of the Committees to obtain some post which would enable him to come to
grips with the Scarlet Pimpernel and his League.

Bibot's zeal and perseverance were duly rewarded, and anon he was
appointed to the command of the guard at the Porte Montmartre.

A post of vast importance as aforesaid; so much so, in fact, that no
less a person than citizen Jean Paul Marat himself came to speak with
Bibot on that third day of Nivose in the year I of the Republic, with a
view to impressing upon him the necessity of keeping his eyes open, and
of suspecting every man, woman, and child indiscriminately until they
had proved themselves to be true patriots.

"Let no one slip through your fingers, citizen Bibot," Marat admonished
with grim earnestness. "That accursed Englishman is cunning and
resourceful, and his impudence surpasses that of the devil himself."

"He'd better try some of his impudence on me!" commented Bibot with a
sneer, "he'll soon find out that he no longer has a Ferney to deal with.
Take it from me, citizen Marat, that if a batch of aristocrats escape
out of Paris within the next few days, under the guidance of the d--d
Englishman, they will have to find some other way than the Porte
Montmartre."

"Well said, citizen!" commented Marat. "But be watchful to-night ...
to-night especially. The Scarlet Pimpernel is rampant in Paris just
now."

"How so?"

"The ci-devant Duc and Duchesse de Montreux and the whole of their
brood--sisters, brothers, two or three children, a priest, and several
servants--a round dozen in all, have been condemned to death. The
guillotine for them to-morrow at daybreak! Would it could have been
to-night," added Marat, whilst a demoniacal leer contorted his face
which already exuded lust for blood from every pore. "Would it could
have been to-night. But the guillotine has been busy; over four hundred
executions to-day ... and the tumbrils are full--the seats bespoken in
advance--and still they come.... But to-morrow morning at daybreak
Madame la Guillotine will have a word to say to the whole of the
Montreux crowd!"

"But they are in the Conciergerie prison surely, citizen! out of the
reach of that accursed Englishman?"

"They are on their way, an I mistake not, to the prison at this moment.
I came straight on here after the condemnation, to which I listened with
true joy. Ah, citizen Bibot! the blood of these hated aristocrats is
good to behold when it drips from the blade of the guillotine. Have a
care, citizen Bibot, do not let the Montreux crowd escape!"

"Have no fear, citizen Marat! But surely there is no danger! They have
been tried and condemned! They are, as you say, even now on their
way--well guarded, I presume--to the Conciergerie prison!--to-morrow at
daybreak, the guillotine! What is there to fear?"

"Well! well!" said Marat, with a slight tone of hesitation, "it is best,
citizen Bibot, to be over-careful these times."

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 to-day, 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: 'To-night 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 sans-culottes 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 to-night?"

"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. Oh, 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 me, citizen Bibot?" queried the other.

"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 to-morrow. 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 curmagnole, 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 thunder-clap of fast
galloping hoofs:

"Ventre a terre! Remember!--ten thousand francs to him who first sights
the Scarlet Pimpernel!"

The thunder-clap 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 shout ... a shout of
triumph ... then silence once again.

Bibot had fainted on the heap of debris.

His comrades brought him wine to drink. He gradually revived. Hope came
back to his heart; his nerves soon steadied themselves as the heavy
beverage filtrated through into his blood.

"Bah!" he ejaculated as he pulled himself together, "the troopers were
well-mounted ... the officer was enthusiastic; those carriers could not
have walked very far. And, in any case, I am free from blame. Citoyen
Marat himself was here and let them pass!"

A shudder of superstitious terror ran through him as he recollected the
whole scene: for surely he knew all the faces of the six men who had
gone through the gate. The devil indeed must have given the mysterious
Englishman power to transmute himself and his gang wholly into the
bodies of other people.

More than an hour went by. Bibot was quite himself again, bullying,
commanding, detaining everybody now.

At that time there appeared to be a slight altercation going on, on the
farther side of the gate. Bibot thought it his duty to go and see what
the noise was about. Someone wanting to get into Paris instead of out of
it at this hour of the night was a strange occurrence.

Bibot heard his name spoken by a raucous voice. Accompanied by two of
his men he crossed the wide gates in order to see what was happening.
One of the men held a lanthorn, which he was swinging high above his
head. Bibot saw standing there before him, arguing with the guard by the
gate, the bibulous spokesman of the band of carriers.

He was explaining to the sentry that he had a message to deliver to the
citizen commanding at the Porte Montmartre.

"It is a note," he said, "which an officer of the mounted guard gave me.
He and twenty troopers were galloping down the great North Road not far
from Barency. When they overtook the six of us they drew rein, and the
officer gave me this note for citizen Bibot and fifty francs if I would
deliver it tonight."

"Give me the note!" said Bibot calmly.

But his hand shook as he took the paper; his face was livid with fear
and rage.

The paper had no writing on it, only the outline of a small scarlet
flower done in red--the device of the cursed Englishman, the Scarlet
Pimpernel.

"Which way did the officer and the twenty troopers go," he stammered,
"after they gave you this note?"

"On the way to Calais," replied the other, "but they had magnificent
horses, and didn't spare them either. They are a league and more away by
now!"

All the blood in Bibot's body seemed to rush up to his head, a wild
buzzing was in his ears....

And that was how the Duc and Duchesse de Montreux, with their servants
and family, escaped from Paris on that third day of Nivose in the year I
of the Republic.
