reat 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 circumstances, leaving her a widow with two children. This woman
Pigoreau did not enjoy the best of characters, and no one knew how she
made a living, when all at once, after some short absen