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Updated: May 17, 2025
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.
"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.
If it is, I sha'n't be allowed to come into Paris to-morrow." At the first mention of the word small-pox, Bibot had stepped hastily backwards, and when the old hag spoke of the plague, he retreated from her as fast as he could. "Curse you!" he muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily avoided the cart, leaving it standing all alone in the midst of the place. The old hag laughed.
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.
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.
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."
"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.
They hung about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, eyeing one another suspiciously, avoiding each other as if by instinct, lest the plague lurked already in their midst. Presently, as in the case of Grospierre, a captain of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to Bibot, and there was no fear of his turning out to be a sly Englishman in disguise.
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.
But these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot exceedingly; he laughed until his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his cheeks. "Nay, nay!" he said at last, "those aristos weren't in the cart; the driver was not the Scarlet Pimpernel!" "What?" "No! The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman in disguise, and everyone of his soldiers aristos!"
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