The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel Read online

  II

  A QUESTION OF PASSPORTS

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

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

  He was in command of the Porte Montmartre, which goes to prove howhighly he was esteemed, for, believe me, more treachery had been goingon inside and out of the Porte Montmartre than in any other quarter ofParis. The last commandant there, citizen Ferney, was guillotined forhaving allowed a whole batch of aristocrats--traitors to the Republic,all of them--to slip through the Porte Montmartre and to find safetyoutside the walls of Paris. Ferney pleaded in his defence that thesetraitors had been spirited away from under his very nose by the devil'sagency, for surely that meddlesome Englishman who spent his time inrescuing aristocrats--traitors, all of them--from the clutches of Madamela Guillotine must be either the devil himself, or at any rate one ofhis most powerful agents.

  "Nom de Dieu! just think of his name! The Scarlet Pimpernel they callhim! No one knows him by any other name! and he is preternaturally talland strong and superhumanly cunning! And the power which he has of beingtransmuted into various personalities--rendering himself quiteunrecognisable 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'sexplanations. The Scarlet Pimpernel was only an ordinary mortal--anexceedingly cunning and meddlesome personage it is true, and endowedwith a superfluity of wealth which enabled him to break the thin crustof patriotism that overlay the natural cupidity of many Captains of theTown Guard--but still an ordinary man for all that! and no true lover ofthe Republic should allow either superstitious terror or greed tointerfere with the discharge of his duties which at the Porte Montmartreconsisted in detaining any and every person--aristocrat, foreigner, orotherwise traitor to the Republic--who could not give a satisfactoryreason for desiring to leave Paris. Having detained such persons, thepatriot's next duty was to hand them over to the Committee of PublicSafety, who would then decide whether Madame la Guillotine would havethe last word over them or not.

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

  The trouble was, that that same accursed Englishman interfered at timesin a manner which was positively terrifying. His impudence, certes,passed all belief. Stories of his daring and of his impudence wereabroad which literally made the lank and greasy hair of every patriotcurl with wonder. 'Twas even whispered--not too loudly, forsooth--thatcertain members of the Committee of Public Safety had measured theirskill and valour against that of the Englishman and emerged from theconflict beaten and humiliated, vowing vengeance which, of a truth, wasstill slow in coming.

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

  But then Bibot was different!

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

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

  A post of vast importance as aforesaid; so much so, in fact, that noless a person than citizen Jean Paul Marat himself came to speak withBibot on that third day of Nivose in the year I of the Republic, with aview to impressing upon him the necessity of keeping his eyes open, andof suspecting every man, woman, and child indiscriminately until theyhad proved themselves to be true patriots.

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

  "He'd better try some of his impudence on me!" commented Bibot with asneer, "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 escapeout of Paris within the next few days, under the guidance of the d--dEnglishman, they will have to find some other way than the PorteMontmartre."

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

  "How so?"

  "The ci-devant Duc and Duchesse de Montreux and the whole of theirbrood--sisters, brothers, two or three children, a priest, and severalservants--a round dozen in all, have been condemned to death. Theguillotine for them to-morrow at daybreak! Would it could have beento-night," added Marat, whilst a demoniacal leer contorted his facewhich already exuded lust for blood from every pore. "Would it couldhave been to-night. But the guillotine has been busy; over four hundredexecutions to-day ... and the tumbrils are full--the seats bespoken inadvance--and still they come.... But to-morrow morning at daybreakMadame la Guillotine will have a word to say to the whole of theMontreux crowd!"

  "But they are in the Conciergerie prison surely, citizen! out of thereach 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 withtrue joy. Ah, citizen Bibot! the blood of these hated aristocrats isgood to behold when it drips from the blade of the guillotine. Have acare, citizen Bibot, do not let the Montreux crowd escape!"

  "Have no fear, citizen Marat! But surely there is no danger! They havebeen tried and condemned! They are, as you say, even now on theirway--well guarded, I presume--to the Conciergerie prison!--to-morrow atdaybreak, 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 almostsuperhuman in the excess of its infamy, and a greyish hue--suggestive ofterror--had spread over the sunken cheeks. He clutched Bibot's arm, andleaning over the table he whispered in his ear:

  "The Public Prosecutor had scarce finished his speech to-day, judgmentwas being pronounced, the spectators were expectant and still, only theMontreux woman and some of the females and children were blubbering andmoaning, when suddenly, it seemed from nowhere, a small piece of paperfluttered from out the assembly and alighted on the desk in front of thePublic Prosecutor. He took the paper up and glanced at its contents. Isaw that his cheeks had paled, and that his hand trembled as he handedthe paper over to me."

  "And what did that paper contain, citizen Marat?" asked Bibot, alsospeaking in a whisper, for an access of superstitious terror wasgripping 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 andwomen now condemned by this infamous tribunal will be beyond yourreach!'"

  "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 PorteMontmartre, with a bottle of wine between them, their elbows resting onthe grimy top of a rough wooden table. They had talked in whispers, foreven the walls of the tumble-down
cabaret might have had ears.

  Opposite them the city wall--broken here by the great gate ofMontmartre--loomed threateningly in the fast-gathering dusk of thiswinter's afternoon. Men in ragged red shirts, their unkempt headscrowned with Phrygian caps adorned with a tricolour cockade, loungedagainst the wall, or sat in groups on the top of piles of refuse thatlittered the street, with a rough deal plank between them and a greasypack of cards in their grimy fingers. Guns and bayonets were proppedagainst the wall. The gate itself had three means of egress; each ofthese was guarded by two men with fixed bayonets at their shoulders, butotherwise dressed like the others, in rags--with bare legs that lookedblue 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 ribaldsong, with chorus accompaniment sung by throats obviously surfeited withliquor.

  For a moment--as the sound approached--Bibot turned back once more tothe Friend of the People.

  "Am I to understand, citizen," he said, "that my orders are not to letanyone pass through these gates to-night?"

  "No, no, citizen," replied Marat, "we dare not do that. There are anumber of good patriots in the city still. We cannot interfere withtheir liberty or--"

  And the look of fear of the demagogue--himself afraid of the humanwhirlpool which he has let loose--stole into Marat's cruel, piercingeyes.

  "No, no," he reiterated more emphatically, "we cannot disregard thepassports issued by the Committee of Public Safety. But examine eachpassport carefully, citizen Bibot! If you have any reasonable ground forsuspicion, detain the holder, and if you have not----"

  The sound of singing was quite near now. With another wink and a finalleer, Marat drew back under the shadow of the cabaret, and Bibotswaggered up to the main entrance of the gate.

  "Qui va la?" he thundered in stentorian tones as a group of somehalf-dozen people lurched towards him out of the gloom, still shoutinghoarsely their ribald drinking song.

  The foremost man in the group paused opposite citizen Bibot, and witharms akimbo, and legs planted well apart tried to assume a rigidity ofattitude which apparently was somewhat foreign to him at this moment.

  "Good patriots, citizen," he said in a thick voice which he vainly triedto 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 toamuse the rowdy crowd. He who was the spokesman turned to his friendsand shouted hilariously:

  "Hark at him, citizens! He asks me what is our business. Oh, citizenBibot, since when have you become blind? A dolt you've always been, elseyou 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--CaptainBibot of the Town Guard, eh, citizens! Three cheers for the citizencaptain!"

  When the noisy shouts and cheers from half a dozen hoarse throats haddied down, Bibot, without more ado, turned to his own men at the gate.

  "Drive these drunken louts away!" he commanded; "no one is allowed toloiter here."

  Loud protest on the part of the hilarious crowd followed, then a slightscuffle 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 letme tell you that you are doing yourself a deal of harm by interferingwith the citizens of the Republic in the proper discharge of theirduties, and by disregarding their rights of egress through this gate, aright confirmed by passports signed by two members of the Committee ofPublic Safety."

  He had spoken now fairly clearly and very pompously. Bibot, somewhatimpressed and remembering Marat's admonitions, said very civilly:

  "Tell me your business then, citizen, and show me your passports. Ifeverything 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 citizenLegrand, the market gardener of Barency?"

  "Yes, I know that," said Bibot guardedly, "unofficially."

  "Then, unofficially, let me tell you, citizen, that unless we get toBarency this evening, Paris will have to do without cabbages andpotatoes to-morrow. So now you know that you are acting at your own riskand peril, citizen, by detaining us."

  "Your passports, all of you," commanded Bibot.

  He had just caught sight of Marat still sitting outside the tavernopposite, and was glad enough, in this instance, to shelve hisresponsibility on the shoulders of the popular "Friend of the People."There was general searching in ragged pockets for grimy papers withofficial seals thereon, and whilst Bibot ordered one of his men to takethe six passports across the road to citizen Marat for his inspection,he himself, by the last rays of the setting winter sun, made closeexamination of the six men who desired to pass through the PorteMontmartre.

  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 vegetablesin and out of Paris every day. There was really and absolutely no causefor suspicion, and when citizen Marat returned the six passports,pronouncing them to be genuine, and recognising his own signature at thebottom of each, Bibot was at last satisfied, and the six bibulouscarriers were allowed to pass through the gate, which they did, arm inarm, singing a wild curmagnole, and vociferously cheering as theyemerged out into the open.

  But Bibot passed an unsteady hand over his brow. It was cold, yet he wasin a perspiration. That sort of thing tells on a man's nerves. Herejoined Marat, at the table outside the drinking booth, and ordered afresh bottle of wine.

  The sun had set now, and with the gathering dusk a damp mist descendedon Montmartre. From the wall opposite, where the men sat playing cards,came occasional volleys of blasphemous oaths. Bibot was feeling muchmore like himself. He had half forgotten the incident of the sixcarriers, which had occurred nearly half an hour ago.

  Two or three other people had, in the meanwhile, tried to pass throughthe gates, but Bibot had been suspicious and had detained them all.

  Marat having commended him for his zeal took final leave of him. Just asthe demagogue's slouchy, grimy figure was disappearing down a sidestreet there was the loud clatter of hoofs from that same direction, andthe next moment a detachment of the mounted Town Guard, headed by anofficer 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 hadevidently ridden hard and fast, "this message to you from the citizenChief Commissary of the Section. Six men are wanted by the Committee ofPublic Safety. They are disguised as carriers in the employ of a marketgardener, and have passports for Barency!... The passports are stolen:the men are traitors--escaped aristocrats--and their spokesman is thatd--d Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel."

  Bibot tried to speak; he tugged at the collar of his ragged shirt; anawful 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 aquick "Turn!" reeled his horse round, ready to gallop away as far as hehad 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 cursedaristocrats well in safety's way.

  "Citizen Captain!"

  The hoarse shout at last contrived to escape Bibot's parched throat. Asif involuntarily, the officer drew rein once more.

  "What is it? Quick!--I've no time. That confounded Englishman may be atthe St. Denis Gate even now!"

  "Citizen Captain," gasped Bibot, his breath coming and going like thatof a man fighting for his life. "Here!... at this gate!... not half anhour ago ... six men ... carriers ... market gardeners ... I seemed toknow their faces...."

  "Yes! yes! market gardener's carriers," exclaimed the officer gleefully,"aristocrats all of them ... and that d--d Scarlet Pimpernel. You've gotthem? You've detained them?... Where are they?... Speak, man, in thename of hell!..."

  "Gone!" gasped Bibot. His legs would no longer bear him. He fellbackwards on to a heap of street debris and refuse, from which lowlyvantage ground he contrived to give away the whole miserable tale.

  "Gone! half an hour ago. Their passports were in order!... I seemed toknow their faces! Citizen Marat was here.... He, too--"

  In a moment the officer had once more swung his horse round, so that theanimal 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 headwill pay for this treachery. Which way did they go?"

  A dozen hands were ready to point in the direction where the merry partyof carriers had disappeared half an hour ago; a dozen tongues gaverapid, confused explanations.

  "Into it, my men!" shouted the officer; "they were on foot! They can'thave gone far. Remember the Republic has offered ten thousand francs forthe capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

  Already the heavy gates had been swung open, and the officer's voiceonce more rang out clear through a perfect thunder-clap of fastgalloping hoofs:

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

  The thunder-clap died away in the distance, the dust of four score hoofswas merged in the fog and in the darkness; the voice of the captain wasraised again through the mist-laden air. One shout ... a shout oftriumph ... then silence once again.

  Bibot had fainted on the heap of debris.

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

  "Bah!" he ejaculated as he pulled himself together, "the troopers werewell-mounted ... the officer was enthusiastic; those carriers could nothave walked very far. And, in any case, I am free from blame. CitoyenMarat himself was here and let them pass!"

  A shudder of superstitious terror ran through him as he recollected thewhole scene: for surely he knew all the faces of the six men who hadgone through the gate. The devil indeed must have given the mysteriousEnglishman power to transmute himself and his gang wholly into thebodies 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 thefarther side of the gate. Bibot thought it his duty to go and see whatthe noise was about. Someone wanting to get into Paris instead of out ofit at this hour of the night was a strange occurrence.

  Bibot heard his name spoken by a raucous voice. Accompanied by two ofhis 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 hishead. Bibot saw standing there before him, arguing with the guard by thegate, the bibulous spokesman of the band of carriers.

  He was explaining to the sentry that he had a message to deliver to thecitizen 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 farfrom Barency. When they overtook the six of us they drew rein, and theofficer gave me this note for citizen Bibot and fifty francs if I woulddeliver it tonight."

  "Give me the note!" said Bibot calmly.

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

  The paper had no writing on it, only the outline of a small scarletflower done in red--the device of the cursed Englishman, the ScarletPimpernel.

  "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 magnificenthorses, and didn't spare them either. They are a league and more away bynow!"

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

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