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.