Among the two thousand peasants who believed that this wounded man was Baron d’Escorval, there was not one who turned informer or let drop an indiscreet word.
But on approaching the frontier, which they knew to be strictly guarded, the fugitives became even more cautious.
They waited until nightfall before presenting themselves at a lonely inn, where they hoped to procure a guide to lead them through the defiles of the mountains.
Frightful news awaited them there. The innkeeper informed them of the bloody massacre at Montaignac.
With tears rolling down his cheeks, he related the details of the execution, which he had heard from an eyewitness.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, he knew nothing of M. d’Escorval’s flight or of M. Lacheneur’s arrest.
But he was well acquainted with Chanlouineau, and he was inconsolable over the death of that “handsome young fellow, the best farmer in the country.”
The officers, who had left the litter a short distance from the inn, decided that they could confide at least a part of their secret to this man.
“We are carrying one of our wounded comrades,” they said to him. “Can you guide us across the frontier to-night?”
The innkeeper replied that he would do so very willingly, that he would promise to take them safely past the military posts; but that he would not think of going upon the mountain before the moon rose.