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Updated: May 17, 2025
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.
Oh! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the fugitive would prove to be a woman, some proud marchioness, who looked terribly comical when she found herself in Bibot's clutches after all, and knew that a summary trial would await her the next day and after that, the fond embrace of Madame la Guillotine.
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!"
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.
No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September the crowd round Bibot's gate was eager and excited. The lust of blood grows with its satisfaction, there is no satiety: the crowd had seen a hundred noble heads fall beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make sure that it would see another hundred fall on the morrow.
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 Due 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.
"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?
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