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Updated: June 24, 2025
This opinion gaining strength in their minds made them somewhat calmer. The next day they took a walk side by side in a solitary path in the park and discussed the chances of their situation. M. de Saint-Maixent brought before the marchioness the enormous injury which this event would bring them.
Passion, interest, hatred fought the marquis's battles in the heart of Madame de Bouille; she readily lent herself to everything that M. de Saint-Maixent wished.
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.
M. de Saint-Maixent was writhing on a pallet, in a pitiable condition, sometimes shrieking like a wild beast, sometimes stammering disconnected words. All that the officers could hear was "Monsieur le Comte... call... the Countess... de Saint-Geran ...let them come...." The officers earnestly begged him to try to be more explicit. The marquis had another fit; when he opened his eyes, he said
"Who are you?" asked the man in livery. "You are a very ceremonious fellow!" cried the horseman. "Go and tell M. de Saint-Geran that his relative, the Marquis de Saint-Maixent, wishes to see him at once." The servant made humble apologies, and opened the wicket gate.
The marchioness's hopes had become certainties, and M. de Saint-Maixent, perfectly tranquil on this head, thought only of forwarding his suit with Madame-de Bouille, when, at the end of the month of November 1640, the Count de Saint-Geran was obliged to repair to Paris in great haste on pressing duty.
The Marquis de Saint-Maixent and Madame de Bouille being dead, were naturally no parties to the suit, which was fought against the Saint-Geran family by la Pigoreau and Mesdames du Lude and de Ventadour.
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 biggest rascal in the world!" he cried; "I ought to have suspected him." "What a handsome man he was!" said the hostess. "A consummate rascal! Do you know who he is? He is the Marquis de Saint-Maixent!" "The Marquis de Saint-Maixent!" all cried with horror. "Yes, the very man," replied the provost; "the Marquis de Saint-Maixent, accused, and indeed convicted, of coining and magic." "Ah!"
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.
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