"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.