nd tears at least to be told what had become of her child,
steadily maintaining that she was not mistaken when she assured them that
she had given birth to one. The midwife with great effrontery told her
that the new moon was unfavourable to childbirth, and that she must wait
for the wane, when it would be easier as matters were already prepared.

Invalids' fancies do not obtain much credence; still, the persistence of
the countess would have convinced everyone in the long run, had not the
dowager said that she remembered at the end of the ninth month of one of
her own pregnancies she had all the premonitory symptoms of lying in, but
they proved false, and in fact the accouchement took place three months
later.

This piece of news inspired great confidence. The marquis and Madame de
Bouille did all in their power to confirm it, but the countess
obstinately refused to listen to it, and her passionate transports of
grief gave rise to the greatest anxiety. The midwife, who knew not how
to gain time, and was losing all hope in face of the countess's
persistence, was almost frightened out of her wits; she entered into
medical details, and finally said that some violent exercise must be
taken to induce labour. The countess, still unconvinced, refused to obey
this order; but the count, the dowager, and all the family entreated her
so earnestly that she gave way.

They put her in a close carriage, and drove her a whole day over ploughed
fields, by the roughest and hardest roads. She was so shaken that she
lost the power of breathing; it required all the strength of her
constitution to support this barbarous treatment in the delicate
condition of a lady so recently confined. They put her to bed again
after this cruel drive, and seeing that nobody took her view, she threw
herself into the arms of Providence, and consoled herself by religion;
the midwife administered violent remedies to deprive her of milk; she got
over all these attempts to murder her, and slowly got better.

Time, which heals the deepest affliction, gradually soothed that of the
countess; her grief nevertheless burst out periodically on the slightest
cause; but eventually it died out, till the following events rekindled
it.

There had been in Paris a fencing-master who used to boast that he had a
brother in the service of a great house. This fencing-master had married
a certain Marie Pigoreau, daughter of an actor. He had recently died in
poor circu