Upon their arrival there the Marchioness summoned Monsieur Fagon, Louis XIV's leading physician. That illustrious doctor declared that the young woman's illness was a mystery to him. Despite all his assiduous care, despite all the resources of his art, Bertha of Plouernel remained between life and death, her strength being undermined by a slow fever that rendered her almost unconscious, and that reduced her to the point of being but the shadow of her former self. In fact, she was taken to be at death's door, when an unexpected but favorable crisis set in, as unexplainable as the disease itself, according to Monsieur Fagon, and restored her to health. Her convalescence lasted more than six months. In the spring of the year Monsieur Fagon advised Bertha's aunt to send her to Brittany, assuring her that the girl's native climate would complete the cure. Accordingly Bertha was sent ahead to Plouernel under the escort of one of her brother's equerries, two of her aunt's women, and an old nurse, Marion, who had cared for her from childhood. When the Marchioness and her Abbot arrived there themselves, they found Bertha greatly restored. Her cheeks had resumed their rosy hue.
It was about this very illness and recovery that the pair were anxiously conversing. "We now feel reassured on the score of your niece's physical condition," said Abbot Boujaron; "but—and this is the important point—what is your opinion concerning her moral condition? To me it seems there is much to be wished for."
"The turn of her mind and nature has always been more than bizarre, as a consequence of the detestable bringing up that she received from her mother. But, since her illness, my niece's oddities have grown daily more marked so that, were it not for the reasons you know of, my nephew and myself would long ago have decided, with the consent of the King our master, to lock up in a convent the wayward minx who insists that our priests are imposters, that people do not die, and that we are re-born in flesh and bone to live onward in the stars!"
"All of which, my dear Marchioness, is heresy, pure and simple; and worse yet—paganism of the first water. Besides that, there can be nothing more disorderly than Bertha's conduct. She receives with open arms the first tramp who presents himself at the castle's gate, under the pretext of giving alms; at the burg she is called the good demoiselle, a sort of indirect insult to her brother. It often happens that she mounts her horse in the morning, and does not return until evening, accompanied, it is true, by an old lackey and old Du Buisson, one of the Count's equerries. Other times she leaves alone on foot upon interminable promenades. To make a long story short, a few days ago, Bertha took the notion of going to the manor of Mezlean, that has long been uninhabited, and of remaining there forty-eight hours at a stretch. Since she returned from that excursion day before yesterday, she has not left her room nor her bed, claiming indisposition, and refusing to admit you, as well as her brother. All this, Marchioness, is more than odd; it verges on mental derangement. For that reason, your own and the Count's tolerance seem to me regrettable and unpardonable. An end must be put to this situation."
"You know very well why we must seem tolerant. We are hoping to secure Bertha's consent to marry the Marquis of Chateauvieux, then her brother Raoul will be able to wed Mademoiselle Chateauvieux, in turn. My nephew attaches extreme importance to these matrimonial projects—the old Duke of Chateauvieux, the Marquis's father, enjoys an immense influence with the King. Due to the inheritance left to her by the Viscountess of Morincourt, Mademoiselle Chateauvieux is one of the richest matches in France. Now, then, however considerable Raoul's property may be, he is prodigal and luxurious to a degree. The bailiffs of his domains of Auvergne, of Beauvoisis and of Brittany make his vassals sweat, as they humorously express it, all that it is humanly possible to sweat them of. Two hundred and fifty-three thousand livres, good year or bad—more than a third in excess of what the same estates yielded at the time of his father—and yet my nephew is often reduced to such straits that he must resort to the money-lenders. From all this it follows that, if the King, as the Duke of Chateauvieux has formally promised us, confers upon my nephew the embassy to Spain immediately after his marriage, nothing less than the inheritance of the Viscountess of Morincourt will be needed to enable the Count worthily to represent his royal master at the court of Madrid."
"No doubt, there is nothing more desirable or more opportune than that marriage, my dear Marchioness. But, you know what is the express condition for its fulfilment. It is a condition that only raises fresh perplexities."
"Yes, the Duke of Chateauvieux—a duke only by brevet, and, be it said among us, of poor material, considering his origin, seeing that his great-grandfather was only a domestic servant—the Duke of Chateauvieux, despite his influence with his Majesty, and his brevet title of duke, feels that he limps on the leg of birth. In order to dip his descendants in the antique luster of our house, he stipulates as an express condition of Raoul's marriage with Mademoiselle Chateauvieux, Bertha's consent to marry the Marquis. That, as you know, is the reason why Raoul and I, to put it plainly, are dependent upon my niece, and why we wink at her follies."
"Well, Marchioness, do you know what, in my opinion, appears clear from all this?"
"I listen, Abbot; open your mind to me!"
"It will happen with the marriage of Bertha to the Marquis of Chateauvieux as happened with the contemplated mission to England."