count's family as he had left them--that is to say, intoxicated with
hope, and counting the weeks, days, and hours before the accouchement of
the countess. He excused his hurried departure on the ground of the
importance of the business which had summoned him away; and speaking of
his journey at table, he related a story current in the country whence
he came, of a surprising event which he had all but witnessed. It was
the case of a lady of quality who suddenly found herself in the most
dangerous pangs of labour. All the skill of the physicians who had been
summoned proved futile; the lady was at the point of death; at last, in
sheer despair, they summoned a midwife of great repute among the
peasantry, but whose practice did not include the gentry. From the first
treatment of this woman, who appeared modest and diffident to a degree,
the pains ceased as if by enchantment; the patient fell into an
indefinable calm languor, and after some hours was delivered of a
beautiful infant; but after this was attacked by a violent fever which
brought her to death's door. They then again had recourse to the
doctors, notwithstanding the opposition of the master of the house, who
had confidence in the matron. The doctors' treatment only made matters
worse. In this extremity they again called in the midwife, and at the
end of three weeks the lady was miraculously restored to life, thus,
added the marquis, establishing the reputation of the matron, who had
sprung into such vogue in the town where she lived and the neighbouring
country that nothing else was talked about.
This story made a great impression on the company, on account of the
condition of the countess; the dowager added that it was very wrong to
ridicule these humble country experts, who often through observation and
experience discovered secrets which proud doctors were unable to unravel
with all their studies. Hereupon the count cried out that this midwife
must be sent for, as she was just the kind of woman they wanted. After
this other matters were talked about, the marquis changing the
conversation; he had gained his point in quietly introducing the thin
end of the wedge of his design.
After dinner, the company walked on the terrace. The countess dowager
not being able to walk much on account of her advanced age, the countess
and Madame de Bouille took chairs beside her. The count walked up and
down with M. de Saint-Maixent. The marquis naturally asked how things
had been going on during his absence, and if Madame de Saint-Geran had
suffered any inconvenience, for her pregnancy had become the most
important affair in the household, and hardly anything else was talked
about.
"By the way," said the count, "you were speaking just now of a very
skilful midwife; would it not be a good step to summon her?"
"I think," replied the marquis, "that it would be an excellent
selection, for I do not suppose there is one in this neighbourhood to
compare to her."
"I have a great mind to send for her at once, and to keep her about the
countess, whose constitution she will be all the better acquainted with
if she studies it beforehand. Do you know where I can send for her?"
"Faith," said the marquis, "she lives in a village, but I don't know
which."
"But at least you know her name?"
"I can hardly remember it. Louise Boyard, I think, or Polliard, one or
the other."
"How! have you not even retained the name?"
"I heard the story, that's all. Who the deuce can keep a name in his
head which he hears in such a chance fashion?"
"But did the condition of the countess never occur to you?"
"It was so far away that I did not suppose you would send such a
distance. I thought you were already provided."
"How can we set about to find her?"
"If that is all, I have a servant who knows people in that part of the
country, and who knows how to go about things: if you like, he shall go
in quest of her."
"If I like? This very moment."
The same evening the servant started on his errand with the count's
instructions, not forgetting those of his master. He went at full speed.
It may readily be supposed that he had not far to seek the woman he was
to bring back with him; but he purposely kept away for three days, and
at the end of this time Louise Goillard was installed in the chateau.
She was a woman of plain and severe exterior, who at once inspired
confidence in everyone. The plots of the marquis and Madame de Bouille
thus throve with most baneful success; but an accident happened which
threatened to nullify them, and, by causing a great disaster, to prevent
a crime.
The countess, passing into her apartments, caught her foot in a carpet,
and fell heavily on the floor. At the cries of a footman all the
household was astir. The countess was carried to bed; the most intense
alarm prevailed; but no bad consequences followed this accident, which
produced only a further succession of visits from the neighbouring
gentry. This happened about the end of the seventh month.
At length the moment of accouchement came. Everything had long before
been arranged for the delivery, and nothing remained to be done. The
marquis had employed all this time in strengthening Madame de Bouille
against her scruples. He often saw Louise Goillard in private, and gave
her his instructions; but he perceived that the corruption of Baulieu,
the house steward, was an essential factor. Baulieu was already half
gained over by the interviews of the year preceding; a large sum of
ready money and many promises did the rest. This wretch was not ashamed
to join a plot against a master to whom he owed everything. The
marchioness for her part, and always under the instigation of M. de
Saint-Maixent, secured matters all round by bringing into the abominable
plot the Quinet girls, her maids; so that there was nothing but treason
and conspiracy against this worthy family among their upper servants,
usually styled confidential. Thus, having prepared matters, the
conspirators awaited the event.
On the 16th of August the Countess de Saint-Geran was overtaken by the
pangs of labour in the chapel of the chateau, where she was hearing
mass. They carried her to her room before mass was over, her women ran
around her, and the countess dowager with her own hands arranged on her
head a cap of the pattern worn by ladies about to be confined--a cap
which is not usually removed till some time later.
The pains recurred with terrible intensity. The count wept at his wife's
cries. Many persons were present. The dowager's two daughters by her
second marriage, one of whom, then sixteen years of age, afterwards
married the Duke de Ventadour and was a party to the lawsuit, wished to
be present at this accouchement, which was to perpetuate by a new scion
an illustrious race near extinction. There were also Dame Saligny,
sister of the late Marshal Saint-Geran, the Marquis de Saint-Maixent,
and the Marchioness de Bouille.
Everything seemed to favour the projects of these last two persons, who
took an interest in the event of a very different character from that
generally felt. As the pains produced no result, and the accouchement
was of the most difficult nature, while the countess was near the last
extremity, expresses were sent to all the neighbouring parishes to offer
prayers for the mother and the child; the Holy Sacrament was elevated in
the churches at Moulins.
The midwife attended to everything herself. She maintained that the
countess would be more comfortable if her slightest desires were
instantly complied with. The countess herself never spoke a word, only
interrupting the gloomy silence by heart-rending cries. All at once,
Madame de Boulle, who affected to be bustling about, pointed out that
the presence of so many persons was what hindered the countess's
accouchement, and, assuming an air of authority justified by fictitious
tenderness, said that everyone must retire, leaving the patient in the
hands of the persons who were absolutely necessary to her, and that, to
remove any possible objections, the countess dowager her mother must set
the example. The opportunity was made use of to remove the count from
this harrowing spectacle, and everyone followed the countess dowager.
Even the countess's own maids were not allowed to remain, being sent on
errands which kept them out of the way. This further reason was given,
that the eldest being scarcely fifteen, they were too young to be
present on such an occasion. The only persons remaining by the bedside
were the Marchioness de Bouille, the midwife, and the two Quinet girls;
the countess was thus in the hands of her most cruel enemies.
It was seven o'clock in the evening; the labours continued; the elder
Quinet girl held the patient by the hand to soothe her. The count and
the dowager sent incessantly to know the news. They were told that
everything was going on well, and that shortly their wishes would be
accomplished; but none of the servants were allowed to enter the room.
Three hours later, the midwife declared that the countess could not hold
out any longer unless she got some rest. She made her swallow a liquor
which was introduced into her mouth by spoonfuls. The countess fell into
so deep a sleep that she seemed to be dead. The younger Quinet girl
thought for a moment that they had killed her, and wept in a corner of
the room, till Madame de Bouille reassured her.
During this frightful night a shadowy figure prowled in the corridors,
silently patrolled the rooms, and came now and then to the door of the
bedroom, where he conferred in a low tone with the midwife and the
Marchioness de Bouille. This was the Marquis de Saint-Maixent, who gave
his orders, encouraged his people, watched over every point of his plot,
himself a prey to the agonies of nervousness which accompany the
preparations for a great crime.
The dowager countess, owing to her great age, had been compelled to take
some rest. The count sat up, worn out with fatigue, in a downstairs room
hard by that in which they were compassing the ruin of all most dear to
him in the world.
The countess, in her profound lethargy, gave birth, without being aware
of it, to a boy, who thus fell on his entry into the world into the
hands of his enemies, his mother powerless to defend him by her cries
and tears. The door was half opened, and a man who was waiting outside
brought in; this was the major-domo Baulieu.
The midwife, pretending to afford the first necessary cares to the
child, had taken it into a corner. Baulieu watched her movements, and
springing upon her, pinioned her arms. The wretched woman dug her nails
into the child's head. He snatched it from her, but the poor infant for
long bore the marks of her claws.
Possibly the Marchioness de Bouille could not nerve herself to the
commission of so great a crime; but it seems more probable that the
steward prevented the destruction of the child under the orders of M. de
Saint-Maixent. The theory is that the marquis, mistrustful of the
promise made him by Madame de Bouille to marry him after the death of
her husband, desired to keep the child to oblige her to keep her word,
under threats of getting him acknowledged, if she proved faithless to
him. No other adequate reason can be conjectured to determine a man of
his character to take such great care of his victim.
Baulieu swaddled the child immediately, put it in a basket, hid it under
his cloak, and went with his prey to find the marquis; they conferred
together for some time, after which the house steward passed by a
postern gate into the moat, thence to a terrace by which he reached a
bridge leading into the park. This park had twelve gates, and he had the
keys of all. He mounted a blood horse which he had left waiting behind a
wall, and started off at full gallop. The same day he passed through the
village of Escherolles, a league distant from Saint-Geran, where he
stopped at the house of a nurse, wife of a glove-maker named Claude.
This peasant woman gave her breast to the child; but the steward, not
daring to stay in a village so near Saint-Geran, crossed the river
Allier at the port de la Chaise, and calling at the house of a man named
Boucaud, the good wife suckled the child for the second time; he then
continued his journey in the direction of Auvergne.
The heat was excessive, his horse was done up, the child seemed uneasy.
A carrier's cart passed him going to Riom; it was owned by a certain
Paul Boithion of the town of Aigueperce, a common carrier on the road.
Baulieu went alongside to put the child in the cart, which he entered
himself, carrying the infant on his knees. The horse followed, fastened
by the bridle to the back of the cart.
In the conversation which he held with this man, Baulieu said that he
should not take so much care of the child did it not belong to the most
noble house in the Bourbonnais. They reached the village of Che at
midday. The mistress of the house where he put up, who was nursing an
infant, consented to give some of her milk to the child. The poor
creature was covered with blood; she warmed some water, stripped off its
swaddling linen, washed it from head to foot, and swathed it up again
more neatly.
The carrier then took them to Riom. When they got there, Baulieu got rid
of him by giving a false meeting-place for their departure; left in the
direction of the abbey of Lavoine, and reached the village of
Descoutoux, in the mountains, between Lavoine and Thiers. The
Marchioness de Bouille had a chateau there where she occasionally spent
some time.
The child was nursed at Descoutoux by Gabrielle Moini, who was paid a
month in advance; but she only kept it a week or so, because they
refused to tell her the father and mother and to refer her to a place
where she might send reports of her charge. This woman having made these
reasons public, no nurse could be found to take charge of the child,
which was removed from the village of Descoutoux. The persons who
removed it took the highroad to Burgundy, crossing a densely wooded
country, and here they lost their way.
The above particulars were subsequently proved by the nurses, the
carrier, and others who made legal depositions. They are stated at
length here, as they proved very important in the great lawsuit. The
compilers of the case, into which we search for information, have
however omitted to tell us how the absence of the major-domo was
accounted for at the castle; probably the far-sighted marquis had got an
excuse ready.
The countess's state of drowsiness continued till daybreak. She woke
bathed in blood, completely exhausted, but yet with a sensation of
comfort which convinced her that she had been delivered from her burden.
Her first words were about her child; she wished to see it, kiss it; she
asked where it was. The midwife coolly told her, whilst the girls who
were by were filled with amazement at her audacity, that she had not
been confined at all. The countess maintained the contrary, and as she
grew very excited, the midwife strove to calm her, assuring her that in
any case her delivery could not be long protracted, and that, judging
from all the indications of the night, she would give birth to a boy.
This promise comforted the count and the countess dowager, but failed to
satisfy the countess, who insisted that a child had been born.
The same day a scullery-maid met a woman going to the water's edge in
the castle moat, with a parcel in her arms. She recognised the midwife,
and asked what she was carrying and where she was going so early. The
latter replied that she was very inquisitive, and that it was nothing at
all; but the girl, laughingly pretending to be angry at this answer,
pulled open one of the ends of the parcel before the midwife had time to
stop her, and exposed to view some linen soaked in blood.
"Madame has been confined, then?" she said to the matron.
"No," replied she briskly, "she has not."
The girl was unconvinced, and said, "How do you mean that she has not,
when madame the marchioness, who was there, says she has?" The matron in
great confusion replied, "She must have a very long tongue, if she said
so."
The girl's evidence was later found most important.
The countess's uneasiness made her worse the next day. She implored with
sighs and 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 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 absences from home and
visit from a man who came in the evening, his face muffled in his cloak,
she launched out into a more expensive style of living; the neighbours
saw in her house costly clothes, fine swaddling-clothes, and at last it
became known that she was nursing a strange child.
About the same time it also transpired that she had a deposit of two
thousand livres in the hands of a grocer in the quarter, named Raguenet;
some days later, as the child's baptism had doubtless been put off for
fear of betraying his origin, Pigoreau had him christened at St. Jean en
Greve. She did not invite any of the neighbours to the function, and
gave parents' names of her own choosing at the church. For godfather she
selected the parish sexton, named Paul Marmiou, who gave the child the
name of Bernard. La Pigoreau remained in a confessional during the
ceremony, and gave the man ten sou. The godmother was Jeanne Chevalier,
a poor woman of the parish.
The entry in the register was as follows:
"On the seventh day of March one thousand six hundred and
forty-two was baptized Bernard, son of . . . and . . . his
godfather being Paul Marmiou, day labourer and servant of this
parish, and his godmother Jeanne Chevalier, widow of Pierre
Thibou."
A few days afterwards la Pigoreau put out the child to nurse in the
village of Torcy en Brie, with a woman who had been her godmother, whose
husband was called Paillard. She gave out that it was a child of quality
which had been entrusted to her, and that she should not hesitate, if
such a thing were necessary, to save its life by the loss of one of her
own children. The nurse did not keep it long, because she fell ill; la
Pigoreau went to fetch the child away, lamenting this accident, and
further saying that she regretted it all the more, as the nurse would
have earned enough to make her comfortable for the rest of her life. She
put the infant out again in the same village, with the widow of a
peasant named Marc Peguin. The monthly wage was regularly paid, and the
child brought up as one of rank. La Pigoreau further told the woman that
it was the son of a great nobleman, and would later make the fortunes of
those who served him. An elderly man, whom the people supposed to be the
child's father, but who Pigoreau assured them was her brother-in-law,
often came to see him.
When the child was eighteen months old, la Pigoreau took him away and
weaned him. Of the two by her husband the elder was called Antoine, the
second would have been called Henri if he had lived; but he was born on
the 9th of August 1639, after the death of his father, who was killed in
June of the same year, and died shortly after his birth. La Pigoreau
thought fit to give the name and condition of this second son to the
stranger, and thus bury for ever the secret of his birth. With this end
in view, she left the quarter where she lived, and removed to conceal
herself in another parish where she was not known. The child was brought
up under the name and style of Henri, second son of la Pigoreau, till he
was two and a half years of age; but at this time, whether she was not
engaged to keep it any longer, or whether she had spent the two thousand
livres deposited with the grocer Raguenet, and could get no more from
the principals, she determined to get rid of it.
Her gossips used to tell this woman that she cared but little for her
eldest son, because she was very confident of the second one making his
fortune, and that if she were obliged to give up one of them, she had
better keep the younger, who was a beautiful boy. To this she would
reply that the matter did not depend upon her; that the boy's godfather
was an uncle in good circumstances, who would not charge himself with
any other child. She often mentioned this uncle, her brother-in-law, she
said, who was major-domo in a great house.
One morning, the hall porter at the hotel de Saint-Geran came to Baulieu
and told him that a woman carrying a child was asking for him at the
wicket gate; this Baulieu was, in fact, the brother of the fencing
master, and godfather to Pigoreau's second son. It is now supposed that
he was the unknown person who had placed the child of quality with her,
and who used to go and see him at his nurse's. La Pigoreau gave him a
long account of her situation. The major-domo took the child with some
emotion, and told la Pigoreau to wait his answer a short distance off,
in a place which he pointed out.
Baulieu's wife made a great outcry at the first proposal of an increase
of family; but he succeeded in pacifying her by pointing out the
necessities of his sister-in-law, and how easy and inexpensive it was to
do this good work in such a house as the count's. He went to his master
and mistress to ask permission to bring up this child in their hotel; a
kind of feeling entered into the charge he was undertaking which in some
measure lessened the weight on his conscience.
The count and countess at first opposed this project; telling him that
having already five children he ought not to burden himself with any
more, but he petitioned so earnestly that he obtained what he wanted.
The countess wished to see it, and as she was about to start for Moulins
she ordered it to be put in her women's coach; when it was shown her,
she cried out, "What a lovely child!" The boy was fair, with large blue
eyes and very regular features, She gave him a hundred caresses, which
the child returned very prettily. She at once took a great fancy to him,
and said to Baulieu, "I shall not put him in my women's coach; I shall
put him in my own."
After they arrived at the chateau of Saint-Geran, her affection for
Henri, the name retained by the child, increased day by day. She often
contemplated him with sadness, then embraced him with tenderness, and
kept him long on her bosom. The count shared this affection for the
supposed nephew of Baulieu, who was adopted, so to speak, and brought up
like a child of quality.
The Marquis de Saint-Maixent and Madame de Bouille had not married,
although the old Marquis de Bouille had long been dead. It appeared that
they had given up this scheme. The marchioness no doubt felt scruples
about it, and the marquis was deterred from marriage by his profligate
habits. It is moreover supposed that other engagements and heavy bribes
compensated the loss he derived from the marchioness's breach of faith.