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.