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 "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,—