The Scarlet Pimpernel | Page 5

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. "We've all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this
accursed Scarlet Pimpernel. He won't get through MY gate,
MORBLEU! unless he be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool.
The market carts were going through the gates; there was one laden

with casks, and driven by an old man, with a boy beside him.
Grospierre was a bit drunk, but he thought himself very clever; he
looked into the casks--most of them, at least--and saw they were empty,
and let the cart go through."
A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of ill-clad
wretches, who crowded round Citoyen Bibot.
"Half an hour later," continued the sergeant, "up comes a captain of the
guard with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him. `Has a car gone
through?' he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. `Yes,' says Grospierre,
`not half an hour ago.' `And you have let them escape,' shouts the
captain furiously. `You'll go to the guillotine for this, citoyen sergeant!
that cart held concealed the CI-DEVANT Duc de Chalis and all his
family!' `What!' thunders Grospierre, aghast. `Aye! and the driver was
none other than that cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.'"
A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre had paid for
his blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! oh! what a fool!
Bibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it was some time
before he could continue.
"`After them, my men,' shouts the captain," he said after a while,
"`remember the reward; after them, they cannot have gone far!' And
with that he rushes through the gate followed by his dozen soldiers."
"But it was too late!" shouted the crowd, excitedly.
"They never got them!"
"Curse that Grospierre for his folly!"
"He deserved his fate!"
"Fancy not examining those casks properly!"
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!" The crowd this time said nothing:
the story certainly savoured of the supernatural, and though the
Republic had abolished God, it had not quite succeeded in killing the
fear of the supernatural in the hearts of the people. Truly that
Englishman must be the devil himself.

The sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself to
close the gates.
"EN AVANT The carts," he said.
Some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, ready to leave town,
in order to fetch the produce from the country close by, for market the
next morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went
through his gate twice every day on their way to and from the town. He
spoke to one or two of their drivers--mostly women--and was at great
pains to examine the inside of the carts.
"You never know," he would say, "and I'm not going to be caught like
that fool Grospierre."
The women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de
la Greve, beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting and gossiping,
whilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with the victims the
Reign of Terror claimed every day. It was great fun to see the aristos
arriving for the reception of Madame la Guillotine, and the places close
by the platform were very much sought after. Bibot, during the day,
had been on duty on the Place. 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?"
He had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting and the whip of her
cart close beside her. Now she had fastened a row of curly locks to the
whip handle, all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark, and she
stroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed at Bibot.
"I made friends with Madame Guillotine's lover," she said with a coarse
laugh, "he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down. He
has promised me some more to-morrow, but I don't know if I shall be at
my usual place."
"Ah! how is that, la mere?" asked Bibot, who,