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.