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