"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.