The Marquis de Saint-Maixent had a confidential servant, cunning, insolent, resourceful, whom he had brought from his estates, a servant well suited to such a master, whom he sent on errands frequently into the neighbourhood of Saint-Geran.

One evening, as the marquis was about to go to bed, this man, returning from one of his expeditions, entered his room, where he remained for a long time, telling him that he had at length found what he wanted, and giving him a small piece of paper which contained several names of places and persons.

Next morning, at daybreak, the marquis caused two of his horses to be saddled, pretended that he was summoned home on pressing business, foresaw that he should be absent for three or four days, made his excuses to the count, and set off at full gallop, followed by his servant.

They slept that night at an inn on the road to Auvergne, to put off the scent any persons who might recognise them; then, following cross-country roads, they arrived after two days at a large hamlet, which they had seemed to have passed far to their left.

In this hamlet was a woman who practised the avocation of midwife, and was known as such in the neighbourhood, but who had, it was said, mysterious and infamous secrets for those who paid her well.  Further, she drew a good income from the influence which her art gave her over credulous people.  It was all in her line to cure the king’s evil, compound philtres and love potions; she was useful in a variety of ways to girls who could afford to pay her; she was a lovers’ go-between, and even practised sorcery for country folk.  She played her cards so well, that the only persons privy to her misdeeds were unfortunate creatures who had as strong an interest as herself in keeping them profoundly secret; and as her terms were very high, she lived comfortably enough in a house her own property, and entirely alone, for greater security.  In a general way, she was considered skilful in her ostensible profession, and was held in estimation by many persons of rank.  This woman’s name was Louise Goillard.

Alone one evening after curfew, she heard a loud knocking at the door of her house.  Accustomed to receive visits at all hours, she took her lamp without hesitation, and opened the door.  An armed man, apparently much agitated, entered the room.  Louise Goillard, in a great fright, fell into a chair; this man was the Marquis de Saint-Maixent.

“Calm yourself, good woman,” said the stranger, panting and stammering; “be calm, I beg; for it is I, not you, who have any cause for emotion.  I am not a brigand, and far from your having anything to fear, it is I, on the contrary, who am come to beg for your assistance.”

He threw his cloak into a corner, unbuckled his waistbelt, and laid aside his sword.  Then falling into a chair, he said—­

“First of all, let me rest a little.”

The marquis wore a travelling-dress; but although he had not stated his name, Louise Goillard saw at a glance that he was a very different person from what she had thought, and that, on the contrary, he was some fine gentleman who had come on his love affairs.