As soon as he found himself placed by the count in presence of a woman in childbirth, the bonesetter recovered his presence of mind.  He felt the pulse of the masked lady; not that he gave it a single thought, but under cover of that medical action he could reflect, and he did reflect on his own situation.  In none of the shameful and criminal intrigues in which superior force had compelled him to act as a blind instrument, had precautions been taken with such mystery as in this case.  Though his death had often been threatened as a means of assuring the secrecy of enterprises in which he had taken part against his will, his life had never been so endangered as at that moment.  He resolved, before all things, to find out who it was who now employed him, and to discover the actual extent of his danger, in order to save, if possible, his own little person.

“What is the trouble?” he said to the countess in a low voice, as he placed her in a manner to receive his help.

“Do not give him the child—­”

“Speak loud!” cried the count in thundering tones which prevented Beauvouloir from hearing the last word uttered by the countess.  “If not,” added the count who was careful to disguise his voice, “say your ‘In manus.’”

“Complain aloud,” said the leech to the lady; “cry! scream!  Jarnidieu! that man has a necklace that won’t fit you any better than me.  Courage, my little lady!”

“Touch her lightly!” cried the count.

“Monsieur is jealous,” said the operator in a shrill voice, fortunately drowned by the countess’s cries.

For Maitre Beauvouloir’s safety Nature was merciful.  It was more a miscarriage than a regular birth, and the child was so puny that it caused little suffering to the mother.

“Holy Virgin!” cried the bonesetter, “it isn’t a miscarriage, after all!”

The count made the floor shake as he stamped with rage.  The countess pinched Beauvouloir.

“Ah!  I see!” he said to himself.  “It ought to be a premature birth, ought it?” he whispered to the countess, who replied with an affirmative sign, as if that gesture were the only language in which to express her thoughts.

“It is not all clear to me yet,” thought the bonesetter.

Like all men in constant practice, he recognized at once a woman in her first trouble as he called it.  Though the modest inexperience of certain gestures showed him the virgin ignorance of the countess, the mischievous operator exclaimed:—­

“Madame is delivered as if she knew all about it!”

The count then said, with a calmness more terrifying than his anger:—­

“Give me the child.”

“Don’t give it him, for the love of God!” cried the mother, whose almost savage cry awoke in the heart of the little man a courageous pity which attached him, more than he knew himself, to the helpless infant rejected by his father.

“The child is not yet born; you are counting your chicken before it is hatched,” he said, coldly, hiding the infant.