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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.
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.
"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. Ohe, citizen Bibot, since when have you become blind?
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.
But they were nearly always caught at the barricades, Sergeant Bibot especially at the West Gate had a wonderful nose for scenting an aristo in the most perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began.
He recognized most of the old hats, "tricotteuses," as they were called, who sat there and knitted, whilst head after head fell beneath the knife, and they themselves got quite bespattered with the blood of those cursed aristos. "He! la mere!" said Bibot to one of these horrible hags, "what have you got there?"
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?"
Finally the spokesman, somewhat sobered, once more appealed to Bibot. "Citizen Bibot! you must be blind not to know me and my mates!
Bibot would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the mouse, play with him, sometimes for quite a quarter of an hour, pretend to be hoodwinked by the disguise, by the wigs and other bits of theatrical make-up which hid the identity of a CI-DEVANT noble marquise or count. Oh!
Had it been me now, at that North Gate last week . . ." Citoyen Bibot spat on the ground to express his contempt for his comrade's stupidity. "How did it happen, citoyen?" asked the corporal. "Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch," began Bibot, pompously, as the crowd closed in round him, listening eagerly to his narrative.
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