"Bah!" he ejaculated as he pulled himself together, "the troopers were
well-mounted...the officer was enthusiastic; those carriers could not
have walked very far. And, in any case, I am free from blame. Citoyen
Marat himself was here and let them pass!"

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

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

He was explaining to the sentry that he had a message to deliver to the
citizen commanding at the Porte Montmartre.

"It is a note," he said, "which an officer of the mounted guard gave me.