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.