Lucrète patted the side of her head and stretched her foot a little, attempting some form of self-diganosis. "And your doctor friend is not upstairs?" She frowned. "I think I'm alright. It was mostly the shock. Not that I won't be horridly bruised tomorrow from being trod upon, but I'll mend. The main thing," she reached down and pulled her skirt up to uncover her ankle, "Is this... It felt like I twisted it badly when I fell and I don't know if I can get back home. As if we want to be out on the streets now. It's fairly evident where I'm coming from... And you, if I may say so," she added, noting that Jacques looked as though he had fought through a crowd while dragging a limp woman through the streets. "So be careful."
"Oh, lest you get the wrong impression, Monsieur," she said quietly, after a pause. After all, she had also been out to the Champs de Mars all by herself. "I am sure your Jacobins would have nothing to criticize me for. I am married. My husband is just..." An émigré? No, better not mention that. "Absent."