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."