Michelle Fléchard had mingled with the crowd. She had not listened, but some things one may hear without listening. She had heard the word “Tourgue,” and raised her head.

“What’s that? Did he say La Tourgue?”

People looked at her. The ragged woman seemed like one dazed.

Voices were heard to murmur, “She looks like a brigand.”

A peasant woman, carrying a basket of buckwheat cakes, went up to her and whispered, –

“Keep still.”

Michelle Fléchard stared stupidly; again she had lost all power of comprehension. That name, “La Tourgue” passed like a flash of lightning, and night closed once more. Had she no right to ask for information? What made the people look at her so strangely?

Meanwhile the drum had beaten for the last time, the bill-poster pasted up the notice, the mayor went back into the house, the crier started for some other village, and the crowd dispensed.

One group was still standing in front of the notice. Michelle Fléchard drew near.

They were commenting on the names of the outlaws.

Both peasants and townsmen were there; that is to say, both Whites and Blues.

“After all, they have not caught everybody,” said a peasant. “Nineteen is just nineteen, and no more. They have not got Riou, nor Benjamin Moulins, nor Goupil from the parish of Andouillé.”

“Nor Lorieul, of Monjean,” remarked another.

And thus they went on: –

“Nor Brice-Denys.”

“Nor François Dudouet.”

“Yes, they have the one from Laval.”

“Nor Huet, from Launey-Villiers.”

“Nor Grégis.”

“Nor Pilon.”

“Nor Filleul.”

“Nor Ménicent.”

“Nor Guéharrée.”

“Nor the three brothers Logerais.”

“Nor Monsieur Lechandellier de Pierreville.”

“Idiots!” exclaimed a stern-looking, white-haired man. “They have them all, if they have Lantenac.”

“They have not got him yet,” muttered one of the young fellows.

“Lantenac once captured, the soul is gone. The death of Lantenac means death to the Vendée,” said the old man.

“Who is this Lantenac?” asked a townsman.

“He is a ci-devant,” replied another.

And another added, –

“He is one of those who shoot women.”

Michelle Fléchard heard this, and said, –

“That’s true.”

When people turned to look at her she added, –

“Because he shot me.”

It was an odd thing to say; as if a living woman were to call herself dead. People looked at her suspiciously.

And truly she was a startling object, trembling at every sound, wild-looking, shivering, with an animal-like fear; so terrified was she that she frightened other people. There is a certain weakness in the despair of a woman that is dreadful to witness. It is like looking upon a being against whom destiny has done its worst. But peasants are not analytical; they see nothing below the surface. One of them muttered, “She might be a spy.”

“Keep still and go away,” whispered the kind-hearted woman who had spoken to her before.

“I am doing no harm,” replied Michelle Fléchard; “I am only looking for my children.”

The kind woman winked at those who were starring at Michelle Fléchard, and touching her forehead with her finger, said, –

“She is a simpleton.”

Then drawing her aside, she gave her a buckwheat cake.

Without even stopping to thank her, Michelle Fléchard began to devour the cake like one ravenous for food.

“You see, she eats just like an animal: she must be a simpleton;” and one by one the crowd gradually dispersed.

After she had eaten, Michelle Fléchard said to the peasant woman, –

“Well, I have finished my cake; now, where is the Tourgue?”

“There she is at it again!” cried the peasant woman.

“I must go the Tourgue. Show me the road to La Tourgue.”

“Never!” cried the peasant woman. “You would like to be killed, I suppose; but whether you would or not, I don’t know the way myself. You must surely be insane. Listen to me, my poor woman. You look tired; will you come to my house and rest?”

“I never test,” replied the mother.

“And her feet are all torn,” muttered the peasant woman.

“Didn’t you hear me telling you that my children were stolen from me, one little girl and two little boys? I came from the carnichot in the forest. You can ask Tellmarch le Caimand about me, and also the man I met in the field down yonder. The Caimand cared me. It seems I had something broken. All those things really happened. Besides, there is Sergeant Radoub; you may ask him; he will tell you, for it was he who met us in the forest. Three, – I tell you there were three children, and the oldest one’s name was René-Jean: I can prove it to you; and Gros-Alain and Georgette were the two others. My husband is dead; they killed him. He was a farmer at Siscoignard. You look like a kind woman. Show me the way. I am not mad, I am a mother. I have lost my children, and am looking for them. I do not know exactly where I came from. I slept last night on the straw in a barn. I am going to the Tourgue. I am not a thief. You can’t help seeing that I am telling you the truth. You ought to help me to find my children. I don’t belong to this neighborhood. I have been shot, but I do not know where it happened.”

The peasant woman shook her head, saying, –

“Listen, traveller; in times of revolution you must not say things that cannot be understood, for you might be arrested.”

“But the Tourgue,” cried the mother; “madam, for the love of the Infant Jesus and of the Blessed Virgin in Paradise I pray you, I beg of you, I beseech you, madam, tell me how I can find the road to the Tourgue!”

Then the peasant woman grew angry.

“I don’t know! And if I did, I would not tell you! It is a bad place. People don’t go there.”

“But I am going there,” said the mother.

And once more she started on her way.

The woman, as she watched her depart, muttered to herself: –

“She must have something to eat, whatever she does;” and running after Michelle Fléchard, she put a dark-looking cake in her hand, saying, –

“There is something for your supper.”

Michelle Fléchard took the buckwheat-cake, but she neither turned nor made reply as she pursued her way.

She went forth from the village, and just as she reached the last houses she met three little ragged and barefooted children trotting along. She went up to them and said, –

“Here are two boys and a girl;” and when she saw them looking at her bread, she gave it to them.

The children took the bread, but they were evidently frightened.

She entered the forest.