At the head of this heterogeneous troop was an official of the police, old and fat, with a revolver in his right hand, his moustache bristling with excitement, and a murderous glitter in his heavy-lidded blue eyes.

The band was continuing its advance through the village, slipping over to the other side of the barricade of carts without paying much attention to their curious countryman, when suddenly sounded a loud detonation, making the horizon vibrate and the houses tremble.
"What is that ?" asked the officer, looking at Desnoyers for the first time.

He explained that it was the bridge which had just been blown up.
The leader received the news with an oath, but his confused followers, brought together by chance, remained as indifferent as though they had lost all contact with reality.
"Might as well die here as anywhere," continued the official.

Many of the fugitives acknowledged this decision with prompt obedience, since it saved them the torture of continuing their march.

They were almost rejoicing at the explosion which had cut off their progress.
Instinctively they were gathering in the places most sheltered by the barricade.