"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."