Lucrète clung to the man for dear life as they, along with everyone else on the Champs de Mars, tried to flee the same way. It was more a credit to her state of shock than her emotional strength that she had not burst into tears then and there. With a great deal of effort, they forced themselves through the scrum and into the streets, where the panic was no less, but there was a little more room for people to run. The sounds of gunshots trailed off. Perhaps they had stopped, or perhaps she was too far away to hear them over the shouts of the crowd. Lucrète didn’t care where the man was going, all she wanted was to be far away.