Chapter X: The Tumbrils

At that very moment Lebas reached the Hôtel de Ville with Clarisse and Thérèse. On leaving the prison of La Bourbe he had given a false address to the coachman who drove the prisoners, and he followed them at a distance in another carriage, accompanied by a man to superintend the luggage, who was one of the attendants at the Hôtel de Ville, and a devoted adherent of Robespierre. The second carriage soon overtook the first, when Lebas gave the correct address to the driver--

"13, Rue du Martroy!"

Clarisse and Thérèse mounted the stairs more dead than alive, ushered up respectfully by Lebas, and Urbain, the attendant, carrying their luggage. Where were they going? Who were these people? Lebas at the prison had scarcely spoken to Clarisse.

"For your safety," he had said simply, "for your niece's safety, do not question me before we arrive at our destination."

For her safety? For Thérèse's safety! Then they were to be saved? Who could save them? She would surely learn now who it was.

The two men stopped on the third floor, and Urbain opened a door.

"It is here!" said Lebas, making way for them to pass in.

The two women entered, and found themselves in a plain sitting-room with fittings and furniture of dark grey wood. Urbain took the luggage to a door opening on the left, through which a bedroom was visible.

"You must make yourself quite at home, here," said Lebas.

And he informed them that they were free, but from motives of prudence he who had saved them, and for whom Lebas was acting, had judged it advisable to offer them these apartments as a temporary residence, where they would be entirely out of danger's reach. Clarisse and Thérèse could not recover from their surprise, and wished to know to whom they owed their deliverance. But Lebas would not tell them, having received no orders to that effect. All he could say to reassure them was that their protector was all-powerful at the Paris Commune, and that the apartments were in direct communication, through a door which he indicated, with the Hôtel de Ville, so that they were under his immediate care.

Clarisse started. She understood now. She owed her safety to the Incorruptible! Her letter of the preceding month had reached Robespierre. She knew this already, as he had acknowledged it in a few brief words three days after receiving it--"Fear nothing, your son is safe!" And this was all she had heard.

Lebas was still giving the women particulars of their new surroundings. Everything had been arranged to render them as comfortable as possible. The man who had accompanied them was entirely at their disposal, and it was to his interest to serve them well. His wife would see also to their wants, and take charge of their apartments, where they would be absolutely free and unrestrained.

Only one precaution was earnestly recommended to them; to show themselves as little as possible at the windows of their sitting or bed room, so as not to attract the attention of neighbours. They were especially told to avoid this in the afternoon, from four to six. The windows looked on to the Rue du Martroy, through which the carts carrying the condemned passed. The scaffold was now installed at the Barrière du Trône Renversé, and it was the shortest way.

The two women shuddered.

"Unhappily we had no choice," Lebas added, seeing their repugnance, "but you will be warned by the cries of the crowd, and you can then retire to the dining-room which looks on to the courtyard. It lasts but a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, at the most."

But Clarisse scarcely listened, her whole mind occupied with one thought, the longing to inform Olivier, whose whereabouts she hoped soon to learn, of their release from prison.

"Could I write a few words to some one who is very dear to me?" she asked. "I wish to set his mind at rest about our welfare."

Lebas replied in the affirmative, and she thanked him gratefully. He politely protested; she owed him no thanks, these were solely due to him whose orders he was executing. He then offered to take the letter himself, saying he would return for it in a quarter of an hour, as he had another urgent duty to fulfil. And he retired, leaving the two women with Urbain, who busied himself arranging the furniture of the sitting-room.

Thérèse, now full of hope, gave thanks to God. They would perhaps soon see Olivier again. What joy! But to whom did they owe their release? She looked inquiringly at her aunt. Clarisse owned that she believed it was to an ex-secretary of Thérèse's grandfather, now all-powerful, and to whom she had written from the prison of La Bourbe. Thérèse seemed astonished that her aunt had not told her of this. But Clarisse made the very plausible excuse that she did not wish to raise her hopes, not knowing whether her appeal would have success.

The young girl was now looking through the shutters of one of the windows which Urbain had partly opened.

"Ah! there is a church!" she exclaimed, and immediately she thought that if they were allowed to go out she would go and pray for their protector, for he could not be all-powerful and not have done wrong; he must belong also to the Government of Terror.

At the mention of a church, Clarisse approached the window. She recognised the building; it was St. Gervais Church, on whose portal could be read in large letters the sadly ironical inscription: "National Property, to be let as a Warehouse."

At Clarisse's request Urbain had placed an ink-stand and blotting-paper on the table, and Clarisse hearing it was ready turned round joyfully. "At last I can write to Olivier!" she thought.

She then seated herself at the table and began to write, while Thérèse was making a tour round the room, taking a survey of the furniture. Suddenly catching sight of an illustrated paper on a sofa, she took it up to pass the time away. It was five weeks old, and had been preserved no doubt on account of the illustrations. Its pages gave an elaborate account of the Fête of the Supreme Being of which she had heard Olivier speak, and against which he had so vehemently protested during his visit to the prison of La Bourbe. It had taken place, then?

She became interested and commenced reading to herself in a low voice: "_Description of the Procession.--Fireworks at the Fountain of the Tuileries.--Typical Groups.--Arrest of a Chouan.--Popular Indignation!_"

"I saw that myself," interrupted Urbain.

Thérèse turned to the servant, who was now dusting the mantelpiece, and asked him why the man had been arrested.

"Why? Because he cried: 'Down with the scaffold!'"

The words struck Clarisse, who looked up from her writing. Only the day before the _fête_ Olivier had reproached the French for not daring to throw that cry in the teeth of the Government of Terror. Thérèse, seeing her aunt look up from her writing, was struck with the same coincidence, and both, almost in the same breath, questioned the domestic, who said that, as far as he could remember, the young man appeared to be about twenty. He had been arrested at once to save him from the crowd, who would otherwise have torn him to pieces.

"His name? his name?" they both gasped.

That Urbain could not tell them. Clarisse rose, mastering her emotion, and with all a mother's solicitude set herself to reassure Thérèse. Yes, they both had the same thought, hadn't they? She also was thinking of Olivier, but it could not be he. He would have written to them. Why, it was six weeks ago, and his visit to the prison would have been remembered! They would have been involved, but they had, on the contrary, been in no way made to feel it, and had been treated with every consideration.

"That is true," answered Thérèse, glad enough to be convinced.

Clarisse took the paper gently from her hands, saying, "Instead of reading all this awful news, which inflames your imagination, go, dear, and arrange our room a little." And she added in half a reproachful tone: "You have not even looked at it, yet!"

Then gently pushing her into the room, she shut the door sharply behind her.

A terrible fear had taken possession of Clarisse. Why in his letter to her had Robespierre sedulously avoided mentioning Olivier's whereabouts? Turning to Urbain, she addressed him in a hoarse voice: "You say you saw this young fellow?"

The good man evinced surprise at her strange recurrence to the subject.

"I had the honour to tell you so just now, _citoyenne_."

Then Urbain would recollect him? What was he like? His face? The colour of his eyes? But that was too much to ask. He was in such a state, so broken down. How was he dressed?

Urbain could just remember. He described the costume: grey carmagnole and breeches, black and grey striped waistcoat.

It was Olivier's costume! There was no longer any possible doubt. It was he!

"It is he! It is he!" she kept repeating, falling at last into a chair, on the point of swooning.

At this moment the door opened and a man appeared, who without crossing the threshold signed to the servant, to whom he spoke in a whisper. Urbain came towards Clarisse and delivered the message. "The _citoyen_ Robespierre wishes to speak with you."

"Where is he? Oh! let him come! let him come!" she cried through her blinding tears.

The man left the room followed by Urbain. Clarisse waited in breathless suspense, her eyes fixed in mute agony on the half-opened door.

The Incorruptible came in, and before he had time to greet her, she had risen and was standing before him.

"My son? Where is my son?"

"Be assured, your son is safe."

She recoiled a step and fixed her eyes on him in amazed silence.

So it was true, the young man who had been arrested was Olivier!

Robespierre, greatly agitated, again essayed to reassure her, but she interrupted him eagerly. Where was he? In prison?

Robespierre lowered his eyes.

What! Had Olivier been sent to prison by him? Ah! things had come to a pretty pass. He was then the gaoler of his own son!

Robespierre made a gesture as if to protest. Then, mastering with difficulty his emotion, he explained everything. He had kept Olivier in prison as the only means of saving him. Had the lad been released he would have been reimprisoned by the Committee of Public Safety, who would have sent him to the scaffold, if it were only to show Robespierre that he had no right to grant a pardon! But Olivier would be free now. Lebas was at that very moment at La Force prison, and would soon bring him secretly from thence to them. Olivier should remain with his mother and Thérèse until the day when they could all three leave without danger, and seek safety in the provinces.

Clarisse listened, now calm and reassured. But how had Robespierre known?

"Who he was? Oh, in the most unexpected manner, with the assistance of some letters found in his valise, for he absolutely refused to give me his name."

Clarisse looked at Robespierre with a new fear in her eyes. Then he had seen him? Olivier knew the terrible secret of his birth?

"Oh, no!" replied the Incorruptible sadly, "don't be uneasy about that. I have not said a word, to lessen his love and trust in you, or disarm the bitter hatred he has for me, which avenges you too well..."

But Clarisse interrupted him. Robespierre was mistaking her feelings. She did not ask to be avenged, she did not even think any more of reproaching him with the past which divided them. It was all so far, so far away, that past!

The Incorruptible looked at her with eyes full of sadness and regret. Yes, there she stood, in her faded prison dress, her face lined before its time, a living reproach, a poor pale ghost of bygone days. Those blanched lips, with their melancholy droop, the token of long suffering and resignation, those lips had received his first kiss!

Clarisse would think no more of the past! He thought of it though, thought of it there, looking at her. Had he been so culpable, after all? Why had Monsieur de Pontivy filled his heart with hate and rancour by refusing him her hand and turning him out like a lackey? On account of a difference of caste? Well, from this prejudice had sprung the Revolution which had levelled all under the knife of the guillotine! That sad past, the terrible present, were both due to the pride of Clarisse's father. For he would not have thrown himself madly into the turmoil....

But Clarisse again interrupted him. The past was dead now, quite dead!

"No," he cried, "the past is not dead, since your son is here, the living proof of what has been..."

Clarisse shook her head.

"The punishment is mine, for if his hatred has been a blow to your pride, causing you some transient pain, it is I who must live out my life beside that hatred. Each time my son pronounces your name with loathing and indignation, I can only ask myself in terrified agony, if he will ever pardon me for having given him a father such as you!"

Robespierre, thoroughly disheartened, looked at her sadly. "You also!" he exclaimed. What! did Clarisse share the general error? Did not she penetrate through the apparent violence of his policy to the sublime end he had in view? He sought to explain his views to her, his notions for ensuring the universal happiness of mankind; he depicted the sacred ideal he dreamt of reaching by purging France of all base and evil-minded traitors who defiled her. He an assassin! He a tyrant! No! he was an avenger, an apostle of justice and virtue! He was not responsible for the excesses of a nation who had been enslaved for centuries, and had suddenly cast off their chains. Every conquest was of necessity accompanied by carnage, every revolution left the stains of blood behind!

Clarisse contemplated him with the same astonishment Vaughan had experienced in the forest of Montmorency, when Robespierre had unfolded to the Englishman his projects and visions of universal happiness, which could only be realised by the help of the guillotine.

"The future will justify me!" he continued. "When I am in power my deeds will convince you."

"But are you not all-powerful now?" Clarisse exclaimed in spite of herself.

He showed her she was mistaken. No, he was not supreme! Not yet! Enemies barred his way; but they were the last, and he was about to overthrow them in one decisive contest! Yes, he yearned for that moment to come, for his strength would not hold out much longer.

Then, lowering his voice, and trembling lest he should be heard, he told her of the wretched life he led; hunted down on all sides, hated, betrayed, his every movement watched, a dagger ever hanging over his head. He spoke of his sleepless nights! Oh! how he would hasten that last battle! To make the victory sure it would be as terrible as possible; the whole horde of wretches who had caused him such unspeakable torture should be swept from his path! Peace! Peace! how glad he should be to welcome it with open arms...

Clarisse listened in amazement to this wild tirade. He had spoken of his haunted life, his sleepless nights. But were not these ever the lot of tyrants? He sought forgetfulness, peace, a renewal of some of the joys of life? Then why did he not stay the infamous proceedings of the Revolutionary Tribunal, and throw wide the prison doors? From every breast would then resound a cry of deliverance which would atone for all! What greater happiness for him, after causing so many tears than to dry them again! "Impossible! impossible!" answered Robespierre. Not yet! He would have to pay for it with his life like Danton! The hour had not yet come! Clemency was treason, mercy meant death. In order to survive it was necessary to denounce, accuse, strike, and slay remorselessly. For it was the fear of death which prompted the French to their most inhuman acts. It influenced every one, from the Convention, the Committees, the Revolutionary Tribunal, to the very crowd who had become the abject slaves of that terror which held France in absolute subjection. They had well called this Government "the Terror." Oh, yes! it was a terror for the victims, for the accusers, for the judges, a terror for all!

Clarisse looked at him, in bewilderment. There was no more hope, then? France was to perish under that rule of abject cowardice? Would no one take this evil by the throat and strangle it?

"Yes," replied Robespierre.

"But who, my God! who?"

"I!"

"You?"

"Yes, I myself!"

And Robespierre unfolded his plans. When once the Committee of Public Safety had perished on the scaffold he would be master, a master strong enough perhaps to do away with the executioner and to decree clemency! When would that day come? He could not tell yet! Perhaps in a few days! For the moment it was the vigil of arms. Nothing was now possible but patience?

Clarisse was listening to a far-off sound which reached them like the muffled roar of distant waves. What was that noise?

Robespierre had heard it also and started up pale and nervous.

It was the crowd greeting fresh cartloads of condemned, which were passing the Place de la Grêve.

Clarisse groaned; she understood! The death on the scaffold, the last ride of those condemned by the Revolutionary Tribunal! Lebas had warned her; it was just the time! The tumbrils would pass there, in that street, under these very windows! Robespierre hastened to close the shutters.

Clarisse, completely unnerved, gave way to grief and despair. So, all those people were doomed to die, because the hour of mercy had not yet come! In a few days, Robespierre had said it himself, in a few days they might be saved! The unfortunate victims must die on the very eve of deliverance! Oh, it was horrible! horrible! horrible!

"What can be done? I am powerless," repeated the Incorruptible.

What! he could do nothing? Could he not now, at this moment, do what he thought to do in three days' time? Could he not call out from the window to the mob, the long-yearned-for-cry, "Mercy! oh, have mercy!" He had but to call these words out to the crowd whose idol he was, and it would be an atonement for all his life. "Mercy!" and he was a hero, a savior! "Mercy!" and his son would no longer have the right to hate him, and to curse his name!

Robespierre was grieved and distressed beyond measure. Clarisse did not know what she was saying! How could he stop the tumbrils, arrest that crowd, composed of the very scum of the nation? Why, there was not one self-respecting man among them! Nothing but a mob mad with the lust of blood. The only power they feared or respected was the Terror--the Scaffold! He, Robespierre, their idol? Nay, he was not! Their idol was the executioner! To fight single-handed against such a besotted, blinded rabble would be madness, sheer madness!

Clarisse paid no heed, but continued supplicating him with uplifted hands, deaf to all argument.

The tumult of the mob, which sounded nearer, causing the very sashes to shake, announced the approach of the tumbrils. Robespierre, drawn in spite of himself to the window, partly opened the shutters to look out, followed by Clarisse who stopped as the hubbub of the crowd grew suddenly louder, and uttered a stifled cry--

"Here they are!"

Robespierre closed the shutters again. Tears started to Clarisse's eyes. She appealed to the kindly qualities of his youth. She had known him ever compassionate and generous. He had but to call to mind how he had revolted against injustice, how solicitous he had ever been for the weak and oppressed. Think of that time! Think of it! and all the spirit of her youth rose to her lips in that cry of pity for the innocent victims of misrule. Yes, innocent! They were innocent! And he refused to save them!

"Once more I tell you it is madness," Robespierre groaned in despair. Would she not understand, it was his death she was crying out for, her own death too, and the death of her niece? He had only to attempt to save those unhappy victims, and the crowd would at once turn upon him with the fury of wild beasts! He would be accused of treason by the _sans-culottes_, and the fishwives dancing yonder under the windows and howling the _Carmagnole_! He would be cut to pieces by the swords of the prison escort, crushed under the cartwheels, and cast into the gutter by the rabble for having dared to arrest the reign of Terror! Was that what Clarisse wanted? Or would she perhaps allow him to live still to be able to save her, to save her niece and her son?

The entrance door was pushed open. Robespierre turned, and seeing Urbain understood that Lebas had at last arrived with Olivier. He did not, however, wish to be seen by his son.

"Let Citoyen Lebas and his companion wait outside till I have gone," he said.

Urbain looked astonished.

"But there is no one with Citoyen Lebas," he replied.

Clarisse started up.

"What! no one?" asked Robespierre.

"And Olivier?" Clarisse said in a low voice, trembling with suspense.

Robespierre moved towards the door and called anxiously to Lebas. The day was fast closing, the setting sun, peering in through the half-open shutters, shed a crimson light in the apartment, staining here and there in patches and streaks the furniture and curtains with the hue of blood.

Lebas came in alone.

Olivier was no longer at the prison of La Force!

"Escaped?" asked Robespierre breathlessly.

"Unfortunately not!" said Lebas, "but taken by Coulongeon, the police-agent, by order of the Committee of Public Safety, to ... Where? No one could tell! To the Conciergerie perhaps?"

"Before the Tribunal!" Clarisse almost screamed.

Robespierre was stunned. The wretched members of the Committee had placed Olivier on trial! He had been, perhaps, condemned, and might even now be on the road to the scaffold, in one of those approaching tumbrils. He cried breathlessly to Lebas--

"Oh, quick! Go down and see!"

Lebas rushed off, and Robespierre ran to the window, Clarisse in mad despair following him.

"If he is ... you will, you must, cry out to the people that he is your son!"

Alas! Could he? The populace would answer that his son was a _Chouan_! that he might thank the Tribunal for freeing him from such disgrace.

Thérèse, drawn from the bedroom by the deafening cries of the crowd, now entered, trembling with fear. The carts were there... She could hear them!

"Mamma! mamma! do you hear?"

She stopped at sight of Robespierre.

"The friend who saved us," said Clarisse, answering her look of surprise.

Thérèse went straight to the window, but Clarisse barred the way.

"Oh, no! she must not look at such a spectacle. Better kneel down and pray.... Pray for those about to die and for them also, yes for themselves, with all her soul!"

Thérèse fell on her knees and joined her hands, her large blue eyes, brimful of tears, lifted towards Saint Gervais, the deserted church, where the lingering spirit of outraged religion might perhaps accomplish a miracle!

The terrible tumult now burst on their ears like the rumble of thunder. As it drew nearer, separate sounds were distinguishable; screams, ribald laughter, hooting, degrading clamour, and coarse jokes reached them; all the hatred and fury of the Parisian populace was manifest in those hideous revels. The crowd was ushering the first tumbril into the Rue du Martroy, preceded by the mænads of the guillotine, loathsome, drinkbesotted viragoes, who yelled, and contorted themselves, dancing the _Carmagnole_ in front of the condemned. Discordant strains of revolutionary songs rose above the rumbling of the cart-wheels, the clank of horses' hoofs, and the cracking of whips.

Robespierre had half opened the shutters, and tried to distinguish the first cart through the dense crowd. Clarisse struggled with him to look also, but the Incorruptible held her back resolutely.

"No; I will look alone!"

"Do you see him? Tell me; is he there?"

"No," he replied, still preventing her from approaching.

Then, as Robespierre made an eager movement, she gasped in her agony--

"He is there; I know it!" and again she struggled to reach the window.

"I swear to you he is not there!" and exhausted he quitted hold of her to wipe his brow.

The first tumbril had passed. The songs and cries of the mob surrounding it were lost in distance, and these muffled sounds were mingled with the murmurs of the crowd awaiting the other tumbrils. Olivier was not in the first. But the second? He was perhaps in the second?

Clarisse would have cried out in her despair, but she struggled against the mad impulse and suppressed her choking sobs lest she should reveal the awful truth to Thérèse, who, still on her knees, her eyes turned to the desecrated church, prayed aloud:

"_Our Father Which art in Heaven; hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come; Thy will be done...._"

But she was interrupted by another outburst from the mob announcing the second tumbril. Already scraps of the furies' songs reached her from the distance:

"_Dansons la Carmagnole!
Vive le son
Vive le son
Dansons la Carmagnole
Vive le son
Du canon!..._"

Clarisse, taking advantage in a moment of Robespierre's relaxed vigilance, pressed nearer to the windows.

"The second cartload!"

"There are two of them," said Robespierre, who, taller than she, could command a more distant view.

Two! two carts! It was impossible for Olivier not to be in one of them. Clarisse felt it! He must be there!

"He is there, I feel it.... I tell you he is there!"

In her anxiety to see better she grew regardless of precaution. Robespierre struggled to draw her from the window. It was madness. She might be seen!

Thérèse still raised her voice, choked with tears, in supplications to heaven:

"_Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen!_"

A cry of anguish rent the air. Clarisse had recognised Olivier! "There in that cart!" Robespierre strained his eyes, half dead with fear.... "Where? Where?" He could not see him! "Oh yes! Yes! there, in the second cart! That young man standing, his head bent!..." And unable longer to contain herself, in the madness of grief, she placed her hand on the window clasp and would have opened it; but Robespierre prevented her, and the struggle began again. No! she was mistaken! She need only look! The young man was raising his head.

"There, you see, it is not he!"

"Then he must be in another cart!..." And worn out with agonising suspense and excitement she sank down in a chair. Again the noisy clamour died into the distance.

Robespierre took courage now. It was surely the last cartload!

"You look!" cried Clarisse.... "I cannot look again!"

Oh! if it were the last! If it were the last and their torture at an end!

She leant her head on her hands and closed her eyes, in order to see no more, while great silent tears trickled through her fingers.

Robespierre lifted the shutters and stopped to look through, but quickly let them fall again. Alas! It was not over! There was still another tumbril. The buzz of sounds advancing gradually betokened it too well!

In one bound Clarisse was at the window.

"Will it never end!"

Robespierre made a gesture to close her mouth.

"For God's sake, do not scream!"

But Clarisse did not heed him; she would go out! Out, into the street! It was too awful! She would put an end to it all! Robespierre held her back with fresh entreaties. Maddened by the restraint, she struggled desperately to free herself.

Thérèse, distracted from her orisons by the violence of the scene, turned her head. Seeing Clarisse's state, she understood all in a moment. Olivier was there in one of those tumbrils! Olivier was on the way to the scaffold! ... And Clarisse, now regardless of consequences, owned the truth.

"Oh yes, Olivier, our Olivier, he is there! They are going to kill him!..."

"Olivier! kill him!" repeated Thérèse, half dazed; then the awful reality rushed suddenly upon her. She started to her feet with a cry that echoed through the house.

"Olivier going to die? Oh! mamma, mamma!"

Robespierre continued his supplications, holding Clarisse, who still struggled, in his grasp. She would have her son! She would go and demand him from the executioner! Every mother there would intercede for her!

"If they will not give him to me, let them kill me, kill me with him! I will go! I will go! I must save my son! For God's sake, let me go!"

Robespierre implored Thérèse to help him hold Clarisse back. The young girl, realising the madness of the act, appealed also to her aunt, speaking words of consolation and of hope.

But her voice was drowned in the roar of the mob, that rose and beat against the window-panes like the waves of an angry sea.

"_Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!_"

howled the Mænads, flinging their fearful watch-word on the wind, heralding the dreadful spectacle of advancing doom, dancing a veritable dance of death.

"_Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
Les aristocrats à la lanterne;
Ah! Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,
Let aristocrats on les pendra._"

Clarisse had now freed herself, and ran to the door to open it. But Robespierre, quick as thought, stood before her and barred the way.

"Remain where you are, I charge you!"

Then resolutely and solemnly he added--

"I myself will go! And if he is in that cart, I will brave all to save him!" Seeing that Clarisse seemed doubtful, he added with emphasis--"I swear it to you!"

A flood of tears, tears of gratitude, was Clarisse's only answer.

"May you be forgiven all for those brave words!" she sobbed.

He led her to a chair near the window, and in a state of exhaustion she allowed herself to be seated. Thérèse bending over her forgot her own tears, in drying those of Clarisse. Robespierre, drawn to the window by a fresh outburst in the street, turned and looked out. There was but one more cart now! The prison escort followed in the rear. It was indeed the last!

The last! It was the last cartload! If Olivier was not there, he was saved! But he must be! Alas, he must; where else could he be? Struggling between hope and fear, Clarisse fell on her knees, and with clasped hands prayed aloud.

"O Lord, my God! my God! God of mercy and compassion, grant that my child may not be there!"

Thérèse had also fallen on her knees beside Clarisse, so that the two now knelt, locked in each other's arms, and prayers and supplications rose from both their lips.

"_Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!_"

howled the mob.

"Lord, my God, have pity on us!" repeated the women.

Robespierre, livid to the lips, continued his agonising watch.

Growing anxious at the silence of the Incorruptible, Clarisse would have risen, but her strength failed her, and she sank down again on her knees, her eyes fixed on Olivier's father, trying to read in his drawn features evidence of his hopes or fears. Thérèse joined her in this mute questioning.

Robespierre was alternately raising himself, bending aside, or stooping lower to see more plainly.

Suddenly he gave an exultant cry--

"He is not there!"

"Are you sure? Are you sure?" gasped Clarisse, trying to rise.

Thérèse, more easily convinced, kissed the poor mother in a burst of joy.

"Are you sure? Are you sure, though?" repeated Clarisse in a fainting voice.

Robespierre to convince her came and raised her, and supporting her in his arms, carried her to the window.

"Do you believe me now?" he said.

It was true. There were only women in the cart.

"Only women! My God, what a relief!" exclaimed Clarisse leaving the window.

But she suddenly realised that her mother's heart had made her selfish and inhuman, and with joined hands she implored pardon of those unfortunate victims. She had fallen on her knees again, her head on the back of a chair, thoroughly prostrate with exhaustion.

Robespierre was now preoccupied with thoughts of Olivier. He was not in the tumbrils! Where was he, then?

Confiding Clarisse to the young girl's care, he took his hat to go.

"Whoever you are, sir, may God bless you!" said Thérèse with a long look of gratitude.

Robespierre turned and looked earnestly at her. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. Feeling his eyes fill with tears, he hurried from the room.

Vague, far-away murmurs came to them from the distance, then ceased entirely, while the belfry clock of Saint Gervais struck six.