"And in execution of the decree of the National Convention, which outlaws rebels taken armed, and which orders capital punishment to whoever gives them shelter or helps them to escape."

  One peasant asked his neighbor in a low voice,—

  "What is capital punishment?"

  The neighbor replied, "I don't know."

  The crier waved the placard,—

  "In accordance with Article 17 of the law of the thirtieth of April, giving full power to delegates and sub-delegates against the rebels, are outlawed—"

  He paused and added,—

  "The individuals designated by the name and surnames which follow—"

  The crowd was all attention.

  The voice of the crier thundered,—

  "Lantenac, brigand."

  " That is monseigneur," murmured a peasant.

  And this was whispered through the crowd, "That is monseigneur."

  The crier added,—

  "Lantenac, ci-devant marquis, brigand."

  "L'Imânus, brigand."

  Two peasants looked at each other askance.

  "That is Gouge-le-Bruant."

  "Yes, it is Brise-Bleu." The crier went on reading the list,—

  "Grand-Francœur, brigand."

  The crowd murmured,—

  "He is a priest."

  "Yes, monsieur the Abbé Turmeau."

  "Yes, he is a cure somewhere near the wood of la Chapelle."

  "And a brigand," said a man in a cap.

  The crier read,—

  "Boisnouveau, brigand. The two brothers Pique-en-Bois, brigands. Houzard, brigand——"

  "That is Monsieur de Quelen," said a peasant.

  "Panier, brigand——"

  "That is Monsieur Sepher."

  "Place-Nette, brigand——"

  "That is Monsieur Jamois."

  The crier continued his reading without paying attention to these comments.

  "Guinoiseau, brigand. Chatenay, called Robi, brigand——"

  A peasant whispered: "Guinoiseau is the same as le Blond, Chatenay is Saint-Ouen."

  "Hoisnard, brigand," added the crier.

  And in the crowd was heard,—

  "He is from Ruillé."

  "Yes, that is Branche d'Or."

  "He had his brother killed at the attack at Pontorson."

  "Yes, Hoisnard-Malonnière."

  "A fine young man, nineteen years old."

  "Attention," said the crier, " Here is the end of the list,—"

  "Belle-Vigne, brigand. La Mussette, brigand. Sabretout, brigand. Brin-d'Amour, brigand——"

  A boy nudged a girl's elbow. The girl smiled.

  The crier went on,—

  "Chante-en-hiver, brigand. Le Chat, brigand——"

  A peasant said: "That is Moulard."

  "Tabouze, brigand——"

  A peasant said: "That is Gauffre."

  "There are two of the Gauffres," added a woman.

  "Both good fellows," growled a rustic.

  The crier shook the placard and the drum beat a ban. The crier began to read again,—

  "The above named, in whatever place they may be taken, will be immediately put to death after their identity has been established."

  There was a stir in the crowd.

  The crier added,—

  "Whoever gives them shelter, or helps them to escape will be taken before a court-martial and put to death. Signed—"

  There was a profound silence.

  "Signed: The Delegate of the Committee of Public Welfare, Cimourdain."

  "A priest," said a peasant.

  "The former cure of Parigné." said another.

  A citizen added,—

  "Turmeau and Cimourdain. A White priest, and a Blue priest."

  "Both black," said another citizen.

  The mayor standing on the balcony, raised his hat and cried,—

  "Long live the Republic!"

  The beating of the drum announced that the crier had finished. Indeed, he made a sign with his hand.

  "Attention," he said. "Here are the four last lines of the notice of the government. They are signed by the chief of the reconnoitring column of the coasts of the north commanded by Gauvain."

  "Listen!" cried the voices of the crowd.

  And the crier read,—

  "Under pain of death—"

  All were silent.

  "It is forbidden, in fulfilment of the above order, to aid and assist the nineteen rebels above named, who are at the present time invested and surrounded in la Tourgue."

  "Hey?" said a voice.

  It was a woman's voice. It was the voice of the mother.

  CHAPTER III.

  MURMURINGS OF THE PEASANTS.

  Michelle Flechard was in the midst of the crowd.

  She had not listened, but one can hear what one does not listen to. She had heard this word, la Tourgue. She raised her head.

  "Hey!" she repeated, "la Tourgue?"

  The people stared at her. She looked as though she were demented. She was in rags. Voices murmured,—

  "She looks like a brigand."

  A peasant woman carrying some buckwheat cakes in a basket approached her, and said in an undertone,—

  "Hold your tongue."

  Michelle Fléchard looked at the woman in amazement.

  Again she failed to understand. This name la Tourgue had passed by like a flash of lightning, and then it grew dark again. Had she no right to ask questions? What was the matter with them, that they looked at her so?

  In the meantime, the drum had beaten a last ban, the bill-poster had pasted up the placard, the mayor had gone into the town hall, the crier had departed for some other village, and the crowd had scattered.

  A group remained in front of the placard. Michelle Fléchard joined this group.

  They were commenting on the names of those men who were outlawed.

  There were peasants and citizens in the group; that is to say, Whites and Blues.

  A peasant said,—

  "No matter, they do not count everybody. Nineteen is only nineteen. They do not count Riou, they do not count Benjamin Moulins, they do not count Goupil, of the parish of Andouillé."

  "Nor Lorieul, of Montjean," said another.

  Others added,— "Nor Brice-Denys."

  "Nor François Dudonet."

  "Yes, the one from Laval."

  "Nor Huet, from Launey-Villiers."

  "Nor Gregis."

  "Nor Pilon."

  "Nor Filleul."

  "Nor Ménicent."

  "Nor Guéharrée."

  "Nor the three brothers Logerais."

  "Nor Monsieur Lechandelier de Pierreville."

  "Fools!" said a stern old man with white hair. "They have them all, if they take Lantenac."

  "They haven't taken him yet," muttered one of the young fellows.

  The old man replied,—

  "If Lantenac is taken, the soul is taken. If Lantenac is dead, la Vendée is killed."

  "Who is this Lantenac, then?" asked a citizen.

  A citizen replied: "He is a ci-devant."

  And another added: "He is one of those who shoot women."

  Michelle Fléchard heard that, and said: "That is true."

  The people turned round.

  And she added: "Because they shot me."

  These words had a strange effect; it was as though one thought dead was found alive. They began to examine her, somewhat askance.

  She was really distressing to look at; trembling at everything, scared, shivering, having a wildly anxious look, and so frightened that she was frightful. In a woman's despair there is a strange helplessness which is terrible. It is like seeing a being suspended at the extremity of fate. But the peasants looked at it more roughly. One of them growled: "She may be a spy."

  "Hold your tongue, and go away," said the good woman who had already spoken to her, in a low voice.

  Michelle Fléchard replied,—

  "I am not doing any harm. I am looking for my children."

  The good woman looked at those who were looking at Michelle Fléchard, tapped her forehead, winked, and said,—

  "She is half-witted."

  Then she took her aside, and gave her a buckwheat biscuit.

  Michelle Fléchard, without thanking her, bit eagerly into the biscuit.

  "Yes," said the peasants, "she eats like a pig, she is half-witted."

  And the rest of the group scattered. They all went away one after another.

  When Michelle Fléchard had finished eating, she said to the peasant woman: "It is good; I have had something to eat. Now, for la Tourgue!"

  "See how she clings to that!" exclaimed the peasant woman.

  "I must go to la Tourgue. Tell me the way to la Tourgue."

  "Never," said the peasant woman. "You want to be killed, do you? Besides, I don't know. Ah, so you are really mad? Listen, my poor woman, you look tired. Will you rest in my house?"

  "I cannot rest," said the mother.

  "Her feet are all raw," muttered the peasant woman.

  Michelle Fléchard added,—

  "As I tell you, they have taken my children from me. A little girl and two little boys. I come from the carnichot in the forest. You can ask Tellmarch the Caimand about me. And then the man I met in the field down there. It was the Caimand who made me well. It seems that I had something broken. All these are things that have happened. Besides, there was the sergeant Radoub. You can ask him. He will tell you. For he it was who found us in a wood. Three. I tell you three children. And the oldest is called René-Jean. I can prove all this. The other is called Gros-Alain, and the other is called Georgette. My husband is dead. They killed him. He was a farmer in Siscoignard. You look like a good woman. Show me my way. I am not mad; I am a mother. I have lost my children. I am looking for them. I do not know exactly where I have come from. Last night I slept on some straw in a barn. La Tourgue is where I am going. I am not a thief. You see that I am telling the truth. You ought to help me find my children. I do not belong to this country. I have been shot, but I do not know where."

  The peasant woman shook her head, and said,—

  "Listen, traveller. In times of revolution one must not say things that will not be understood. You may be arrested for it."

  "But la Tourgue!" cried the mother. "Madame, for the love of the child Jesus, and the holy, good Virgin in Paradise, I beseech you, madame, I beg you, I implore you, tell me how to go to reach la Tourgue!"

  The peasant woman grew angry.

  "I do not know! and, if I knew, I would not tell you! It is a bad place there. It is not best to go there."

  "Nevertheless, I am going there," said the mother.

  And she started on.

  The peasant woman saw her going away, and grumbled,—

  "She ought to have something to eat."

  She ran after Michelle Fléchard, and put a buckwheat biscuit in her hand.

  "There's something for your supper."

  Michelle Fléchard took the buckwheat bread, did not reply, did not turn her head, and went on her way.

  She went out of the village. As she came to the last houses she met three little ragged and barefooted children passing by. She went to them, and said,—

  "These are two girls and a boy."

  And when she saw how they eyed her bread, she gave it to them.

  The children seized it, but were afraid of her.

  She plunged into the forest.

  CHAPTER IV.

  A MISTAKE.

  In the meantime, the following had been taking place that same morning before daybreak, in the gloomy depths of the forest, on the section of road leading from Javené to Lécousse.

  All the roads in le Bocage are sunken, but the highway from Javené to Parigné, through Lécousse, is one of the most completely embanked. Moreover, it is winding. It is a ravine rather than a road. It starts from Vitré, and once had the distinction of jolting Madame de Sevigné's coach. It is walled in, as it were, by hedges on right and left. No better place for an ambuscade.

  This very morning, an hour before Michelle Fléchard, from another part of the forest, reached the village where she had seen the sepulchral vision of the cart escorted by mounted men, the thickets through which the Javené highway runs, after crossing the bridge over the Couesnou, were full of invisible men. All were hidden by interlacing branches.

  These men were all peasants, dressed in the grigo, that sheepskin jacket worn by the Breton kings in the sixth century, and the peasants in the eighteenth. These men were armed; some with guns, others with axes. Those who had the axes had just made, in a clearing, a sort of funeral pyre of dry sticks and logs, all ready for the fire. Those who had guns were grouped on both sides of the road, in expectant attitudes. Any one who could have peered through the foliage would have seen everywhere fingers on triggers, and muzzles of carbines pointed through the embrasures made by the interlacing boughs. These men were lying in wait. All their guns were focussed on the road, which began to gleam white in the morning dawn.

  In the twilight, muffled voices were conversing.

  "Are you sure of this?"

  "Surely; that is what they say."

  "Will it pass by here?"

  "They say it's in these parts."

  "It must not leave."

  "We must burn it."

  "Here are three villages met for that,"

  "Yes, but the escort?"

  "The escort must be killed."

  "But is it coming this way?"

  "That's what they say."

  "It'll come from Vitré, then?"

  "Why not?"

  "Why, they said it was coming from Fougéres."

  "Whether from Fougéres or Yitré, it comes from the devil."

  "That's so."

  "And must go back to him."

  "Yes."

  "Was it going to Parigné?"

  "So it seems."

  "It won't get there."

  "No."

  "No, no, no."

  "Attention."

  Indeed, prudence was now becoming imperative, for day was breaking.

  Suddenly, the men in ambush held their breath. A noise of wheels and horses was heard. They peered through the branches and could indistinctly see a long wagon, an escort on horseback, something on the wagon; it was coming toward them.

  "There it is!" said the one who appeared to be the chief.

  "Yes," said one of the men on the watch, "with the escort."

  "How many men in the escort?"

  "Twelve."

  "They said there were twenty."

  "Twelve or twenty, let us kill them all."

  "Wait till they are in full range."

  Soon after, at a turn in the road, the wagon and escort appeared.

  "Long live the king!" cried the chief peasant.

  A hundred guns fired at once.

  When the smoke disappeared, the escort had disappeared too. Seven of the horsemen had fallen, five had fled. The peasants ran to the wagon.

  "Hold on," cried the chief;" it is not the guillotine. It is a ladder."

  The wagon, indeed, had for its sole burden a long ladder.

  The two horses had fallen, wounded; the driver had been killed, but not purposely.

  "It's all the same," said the chief, "a ladder with an escort is suspicious. It was going toward Parigné. It was for scaling la Tourgue, most certainly."

  "Let us burn the ladder," cried the peasants.

  As for the funereal wagon, which they were looking for, It took another road and was already two leagues away, in the village where Michelle Fléchard saw it passing along at sunrise.

  CHAPTER V.

  VOX OF DESSERTO.

  After leaving the three children to whom she gave her bread, Michelle Fléchard began to rove at random through the wood.

  Since no one would show her the way, she must find it for herself. Every few moments she would sit down, then she would get up, and then sit down again. She felt that dismal weariness, which first affects the muscles and then passes to the bones, a slavish weariness. She was a slave in reality,—a slave to her lost children. She must find them; every lost instant might be their distraction; whoever has such a duty has no rights; she was forbidden to pause, even for breath. But she was very weary. In such a state of exhaustion, the possibility of one step more is a question. Could it be done? She had been walking since morning. She had seen no village, not even a house. At first she took the right path, then the wrong one, and finally she lost her way entirely among the branches, one just like another. Was she approaching the end? Was she touching the limit of her Passion? She was in the Via Dolorosa, and felt the agony of the "last station." Was she going to fall down on the road and die there? At one particular moment, it seemed impossible for her to go any farther; the sun was sinking, the forest was dark, paths were covered up in the grass, and she did not know what to do. She had nothing left but God. She began to call, no one replied.

  She looked about her, she saw an opening among the branches, she went toward it, and suddenly found herself out of the woods.

  Before her was a narrow vale like a trench, at the bottom of which, over the stones, ran a clear streamlet of water. Then, for the first time she became aware how very thirsty she was. She went to the brook, knelt down, and drank.

  She took advantage of being on her knees to repeat her prayers.

  When she arose, she tried to get her bearings.

  She crossed the brook.

  Beyond the little vale there stretched away as far as the eye could reach, a wide plateau covered with low underbrush, which sloped up from the brook and filled the whole horizon. The forest was a solitude, the plateau was a desert. In the forest behind each bush, there was a chance of meeting some one; on the plateau, as far as one could see, there was nothing. A few birds, which seemed to be escaping from something, flew into the heather.

  Then, before this immense deserted plain, feeling her knees give way, as though she had become insane, the desperate mother flung this strange cry into the solitude; "Is there any one here?"

  And she waited for the reply.

  There was an answer.

  A heavy, deep voice burst forth; this voice came from the edge of the horizon; it was reverberated from echo to echo; it resembled a peal of thunder or a cannon; and it seemed as if this voice replied to the mother's question and said: "Yes."

  Then all was silent.