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STORY THE EIGHTY-FIRST — BETWEEN TWO STOOLS.
Of a noble knight who was in love with a beautiful young married lady,
and thought himself in her good graces, and also in those of another
lady, her neighbour; but lost both as is afterwards recorded.
STORY THE EIGHTY-SECOND — BEYOND THE MARK.
Of a shepherd who made an agreement with a shepherdess that he should
mount upon her "in order that he might see farther," but was not to
penetrate beyond a mark which she herself made with her hand upon the
instrument of the said shepherd—as will more plainly appear hereafter.
STORY THE EIGHTY-THIRD — THE GLUTTONOUS MONK.
Of a Carmelite monk who came to preach at a village and after his
sermon, he went to dine with a lady, and how he stuffed out his gown, as
you will hear.
STORY THE EIGHTY-FOURTH — THE DEVIL'S SHARE.
Of one of his marshals who married the sweetest and most lovable woman
there was in all Germany. Whether what I tell you is true—for I do
not swear to it that I may not be considered a liar—you will see more
plainly below.
STORY THE EIGHTY-FIFTH — NAILED!
Of a goldsmith, married to a fair, kind, and gracious lady, and very
amorous withal of a curé, her neighbour, with whom her husband found her
in bed, they being betrayed by one of the goldsmith's servants, who was
jealous, as you will hear.
STORY THE EIGHTY-SIXTH — FOOLISH PEAR.
Of a young man of Rouen, married to a fair, young girl of the age of
fifteen or thereabouts; and how the mother of the girl wished to have
the marriage annulled by the Judge of Rouen, and of the sentence which
the said Judge pronounced when he had heard the parties—as you will
hear more plainly in the course of the said story.
STORY THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH — WHAT THE EYE DOES NOT SEE.
Of a gentle knight who was enamoured of a young and beautiful girl,
and how he caught a malady in one of his eyes, and therefore sent for a
doctor, who likewise fell in love with the same girl, as you will
hear; and of the words which passed between the knight and the doctor
concerning the plaster which the doctor had put on the knight's good
eye.
STORY THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH — A HUSBAND IN HIDING.
Of a poor, simple peasant married to a nice, pleasant woman, who did
much as she liked, and who in order that she might be alone with her
lover, shut up her husband in the pigeon-house in the manner you will
hear.
STORY THE EIGHTY-NINTH — THE FAULT OF THE ALMANAC.
Of a curé who forgot, either by negligence or ignorance, to inform his
parishioners that Lent had come until Palm Sunday arrived, as you
will hear—and of the manner in which he excused himself to his
parishioners.
STORY THE NINETIETH — A GOOD REMEDY.
Of a good merchant of Brabant whose wife was very ill, and he supposing
that she was about to die, after many remonstrances and exhortations for
the salvation of her soul, asked her pardon, and she pardoned him all
his misdeeds, excepting that he had not worked her as much as he ought
to have done—as will appear more plainly in the said story.
STORY THE NINETY-FIRST — THE OBEDIENT WIFE.
Of a man who was married to a woman so lascivious and lickerish, that
I believe she must have been born in a stove or half a league from the
summer sun, for no man, however well he might work, could satisfy her;
and how her husband thought to punish her, and the answer she gave him.
STORY THE NINETY-SECOND — WOMEN'S QUARRELS.
Of a married woman who was in love with a Canon, and, to avoid
suspicion, took with her one of her neighbours when she went to visit
the Canon; and of the quarrel that arose between the two women, as you
will hear.
STORY THE NINETY-THIRD — HOW A GOOD WIFE WENT ON A PILGRIMAGE.
Of a good wife who pretended to her husband that she was going on
a pilgrimage, in order to find opportunity to be with her lover the
parish-clerk—with whom her husband found her; and of what he said and
did when he saw them doing you know what.
STORY THE NINETY-FOURTH — DIFFICULT TO PLEASE.
Of a curé who wore a short gown, like a gallant about to be married,
for which cause he was summoned before the Ordinary, and of the sentence
which was passed, and the defence he made, and the other tricks he
played afterwards—as you will plainly hear.
STORY THE NINETY-FIFTH — THE SORE FINGER CURED.
Of a monk who feigned to be very ill and in danger of death, that he
might obtain the favours of a certain young woman in the manner which is
described hereafter.
STORY THE NINETY-SIXTH — A GOOD DOG.
Of a foolish and rich village curé who buried his dog in the
church-yard; for which cause he was summoned before his Bishop, ana
how he gave 60 gold crowns to the Bishop, and what the Bishop said to
him—which you will find related here.
STORY THE NINETY-SEVENTH — BIDS AND BIDDINGS.
Of a number of boon companions making good cheer and drinking at
a tavern, and how one of them had a quarrel with his wife when he
returned home, as you will hear.
STORY THE NINETY-EIGHTH — THE UNFORTUNATE LOVERS.
Of a knight of this kingdom and his wife, who had a fair daughter aged
fifteen or sixteen. Her father would have married her to a rich old
knight, his neighbour, but she ran away with another knight, a young
man who loved her honourably; and, by strange mishap, they both died sad
deaths without having ever co-habited,—as you will hear shortly.
STORY THE NINETY-NINTH — THE METAMORPHOSIS.
Relates how a Spanish Bishop, not being able to procure fish, ate
two partridges on a Friday, and how he told his servants that he had
converted them by his prayers into fish—as will more plainly be related
below.
STORY THE HUNDREDTH AND LAST — THE CHASTE LOVER.
Of a rich merchant of the city of Genoa, who married a fair damsel,
who owing to the absence of her husband, sent for a wise clerk—a young,
fit, and proper man—to help her to that of which she had need; and
of the fast that he caused her to make—as you will find more plainly
below.
Of a noble knight who was in love with a beautiful young married lady, and thought himself in her good graces, and also in those of another lady, her neighbour; but lost both as is afterwards recorded.
As all the stories of asses are now finished, I will relate shortly a true story of a knight whom many of you noble lords have long known. It is true that this knight was greatly in love—as is often the way with young men—with a beautiful and noble young lady, who, in that part of the country where she lived was renowned for her beauty. Nevertheless, try what means he could to obtain her favours, and become her accepted lover, he could not succeed—at which he was much displeased, seeing that never was woman loved more ardently, loyally, and wholly than she was. Nor should I omit to say that he did as much for her as ever lover did for his lady, such as jousts, expensive habiliments, etc.—nevertheless, as has been said, he found her always brusque and averse, and showing him less love than she reasonably should, for she knew for a fact that she was loyally and dearly loved by him. And, to say truth, she was too harsh to him, which, it is to be believed, proceeded from pride, of which she had too much—it might even be said, with which she was filled.
Matters were in this condition, when another lady, a friend and neighbour of the first-named damsel, seeing how enamoured the knight was, fell in love with him herself, and by various honest ways and means which would take too long to describe, so subtly managed that in a short time the knight perceived her love, at which he was much vexed, his heart being wholly given to his harsh and cruel mistress.
Being not only kind, but possessed of much common sense he managed adroitly not to compromise himself, so that if his second love affair had come to the knowledge of his first mistress, she would have no cause to blame his conduct.
Now listen to the end of his amours. Owing to the distance at which he lived, he could not so often see his lady-love as his trusting and loving heart desired. So he determined one day to ask certain knights and squires, good friends of his, but who knew nothing about his love affairs, to fly their hawks, and hunt the hare in the district in which the lady resided, knowing for a fact by his spies, that her husband was away, having gone to Court, as he often did.
As had been arranged, the love-sick knight and his companions started the next day, early in the morning, from the town where the Court was, and passed the time until the late afternoon in hunting the hare, and without eating or drinking. They snatched a hasty repast in a little village, and after the dinner, which was short and simple, remounted their horses and continued to hunt the hare.
The good knight, who had only one object in view, led his companions from the city, to which they always wished to return and said to him, "The hour of vespers is near and it is time to return to the town. If we do not take care we shall be locked out, and have to stay the night in some miserable village and all die of hunger."
"Don't be alarmed," said the lover; "there is plenty of time, and at the worst I know a place near here where we shall be very welcome, and I suppose you will have no objection to meeting ladies."
Being all courtiers, thy were not at all disinclined to meet ladies, and were satisfied to leave the matter in his hands, and continued to hunt the hare and the partridge as long as daylight lasted.
When it was time to think of finding lodgings, the knight said to his companions,
"Come along, come along! I will lead you to the place." About an hour or two after nightfall, the knight and his comrades arrived at the place where lived the lady with whom the guide of this little band was so enamoured that he could not sleep o'nights. They knocked at the door of the castle, and the varlets quickly came and asked them what they wanted. And he who was the most deeply concerned, answered and said; "Gentlemen, are my lord and my lady at home?" "Truly," replied one of the attendants for all the others, "my lord is not here, but my lady is."
"Tell her if you please, that such and such knights and squires of the Court, and I, so-and-so, have been hunting the hare in this part of the country, and have lost our way, and now it is too late to return to the town. We beg her therefore to receive us as her guests for this night."
"Willingly will I tell her," said the other.
He went and delivered this message to his mistress, who, instead of coming to the gentlemen, sent a message, which the servant thus delivered.
"Monseigneur," said the varlet, "my lady wishes me to inform you that her husband is not here; at which she is much vexed, for if he had been he would have given you a hearty welcome; but in his absence she does not dare to receive visitors, and begs you therefore to pardon her."
The knight, who had led the expedition, was, you may imagine, much vexed and ashamed to hear this reply, for he expected to have seen his mistress, and had a pleasant time with her, and emptied his heart to her, and he was annoyed that he had brought his companions to a place where he had boasted they would be well received.
Like a wise and noble knight, he did not show what he felt in his heart, but with a calm countenance said to his comrades,
"Gentlemen, pardon me that I have lured you with false hopes. I did not believe that the ladies of this part of the country were so wanting in courtesy as to refuse a lodging to wandering knights. But have a little patience. I promise you on my word, to take you somewhere—not far from here—where we shall have quite a different welcome."
"Forward then!" said all the others. "May God give us good luck."
They set off, under the direction of their guide, to take them to the house of the lady by whom he was esteemed, though he did not return her affection as he ought to have done; but now he determined to devote to her the love which had been so roughly refused by his first mistress, and he determined to love, serve, and obey her who loved him so, and with whom, please God, he would soon be.
To shorten the story, after riding for a good hour and a half with the drenching rain on their backs, they came to the house of the lady who has previously being mentioned, and gaily knocked at the door, for it was very late,—between nine and ten o'clock at night, and they much feared that all the household would be in bed. Varlets and servant maids at once came forth, and asked, "Who is there?" and they were told.
They went at once to their mistress, who was then in her petticoat, and had put on her nightcap, and said,
"Madame, my lord so-and-so is at the gate and would fain enter; and with him certain knights and squires of the Court to the number of three."
"They are very welcome," she said. "Up quickly, all of you! Kill some capons and fowls, and let us have a good supper, and quickly."
In short, she gave her orders like the great lady that she was—and still is,—and all obeyed her commands. She quickly put on her night-dress, and thus attired, came forward, as courteously as possible, to meet the gentlemen, with two torches carried before her, and only accompanied by one waiting woman, and her beautiful daughter—all the other women being employed in preparing the chambers.
She met her guests upon the drawbridge of the castle, and the noble knight who was the guide and spokesman of the others, came forward and expressed his gratitude for her kindness, and kissed her, and all the others did the same after him.
Then like a courteous woman of the world, she said to the lords,
"Gentlemen, you are very welcome. Monseigneur So-and-so (that is to say their guide) I have known a long time. He is very welcome here, and I should be glad to make the acquaintance of you other gentlemen."
These introductions were made, the supper was soon ready, and each of the gentlemen lodged in a fair and fine chamber, well appointed and furnished with hangings and everything necessary.
It should be mentioned also, that whilst supper was preparing, the lady and the good knight had a long talk together, and arranged that they would only require one bed between them that night; her husband by good luck not being in the house, but forty leagues away.
We will leave them enjoying their supper after the adventures of the day, and return to the lady who refused to receive the little band, even the man whom she knew loved her better than anyone else in the world, and had shown herself so discourteous.
She asked her servants, when they returned from delivering her message, what the knight had said?
One of them replied: "Madame he said very little; only that he would take his friends to a place where they would have a hearty welcome and good cheer."
She quickly guessed where they had gone, and said to herself, "Ah, he has gone to the house of such an one, who, I know, will not be sorry to see him, and no doubt they are now plotting against me."
Whilst she was thinking thus, the harshness and un-kindness which she had felt towards her faithful lover, melted away or was transformed into hearty affection and good-will, and she longed to bestow upon her lover whatever he might ask or require. So she at once set to work and suspecting that the lady to whom they had gone was now enjoying the society of the man she had treated so rudely, she penned a letter to her lover, most of the lines of which were written in her most precious blood, to the effect that as soon as he saw this letter, he should set all other matters aside, and follow the bearer of the missive, and he would be so kindly received that no lover in the world could expect more from his mistress. And as a token of her truth, she placed inside the letter a diamond ring he well knew.
The bearer of this missive, who was a trustworthy man, went to the castle where the knight was sitting at supper next to the hostess, and with all the guests seated round the table. As soon as grace had been said, the messenger drew the knight aside and handed him the letter.
Having perused it, the good knight was much amazed, and still more joyous, for though he had determined in his own mind no longer to seek the love or acquaintance of the writer of the letter, he still felt tempted when the letter promised him that which he most desired in the world.
He took his hostess aside, and told her that his master had sent an urgent message, and that he must leave at once—at which he pretended to feel much vexed,—and she, who had before been so joyful in the expectation of that she so much desired, became sad and sorrowful.
He quietly mounted his horse, and leaving all his comrades behind, arrived with the messenger, soon after midnight, at the castle of the lady, but her husband had just arrived from Court and was then preparing to go to bed, and she, who had sent specially to fetch her lover, was disappointed enough, God knows.
The good knight, who had been all day in the saddle, either hunting the hare or seeking for lodgings, heard at the door that the lady's husband had arrived, and you may guess how joyful he was at the news.
He asked his guide what was to be done? They consulted together, and it was decided that he should pretend to have lost his companions, and, by good chance, met this messenger, who had brought him to the castle. This being arranged, he was brought before my lord and my lady, and acted his part as he well knew how. After having quaffed a cup of wine—which did him very little good—he was led to his bed-chamber, where he scarcely slept all night, and, early the next morning, returned with his host to Court, without having tasted any of the delights which were promised him in the letter.
And I may add that he was never able to return there again, for soon afterwards the Court left that part of the country, and he went with it, and soon forgot all about the lady—as often happens.
Of a shepherd who made an agreement with a shepherdess that he should mount upon her "in order that he might see farther," but was not to penetrate beyond a mark which she herself made with her hand upon the instrument of the said shepherd—as will more plainly appear hereafter.
Listen, if you please, to what happened, near Lille, to a shepherd and young shepherdess who tended their flocks together, or near each other.
Nature had already stirred in them, and they were of an age to know "the way of the world", so one day an agreement was made between them that the shepherd should mount on the shepherdess "in order to see farther",—provided, however, that he should not penetrate beyond a mark which she made with her hand upon the natural instrument of the shepherd, and which was about two fingers' breadth below the head; and the mark was made with a blackberry taken from the hedge.
That being done, they began God's work, and the shepherd pushed in as though it had cost him no trouble, and without thinking about any mark or sign, or the promise he had made to the shepherdess, for all that he had he buried up to the hilt, and if he had had more he would have found a place to put it.
The pretty shepherdess, who had never had such a wedding, enjoyed herself so much that she would willingly have done nothing else all her life. The battle being ended, both went to look after their sheep, which had meanwhile strayed some distance. They being brought together again, the shepherd, who was called Hacquin, to pass the time, sat in a swing set up between two hedges, and there he swung, as happy as a king.
The shepherdess sat by the side of a ditch, and made a wreath of flowers. She sang a little song, hoping that it would attract the shepherd, and he would begin the game over again—but that was very far from his thoughts. When she found he did not come, she began to call, "Hacquin! Hacquin!"
And he replied, "What do you want?"
"Come here! come here! will you?" she said.
But Hacquin had had a surfeit of pleasure and he replied;
"In God's name leave me alone. I am doing nothing; and enjoying myself."
Then the shepherdess cried;
"Come here, Hacquin; I will let you go in further, without making any mark."
"By St. John," said Hacquin, "I went far beyond the mark, and I do not want any more."
He would not go to the shepherdess, who was much vexed to have to remain idle.
Of a Carmelite monk who came to preach at a village and after his sermon, he went to dine with a lady, and how he stuffed out his gown, as you will hear.
It is the custom of all countries for religious mendicants—Jacobins, Cordeliers, Carmelites, and Augustinians—to go through all the towns and villages, preaching against vice, and exalting and praising virtue.
It happened once that a Carmelite, from the convent of Arras, arrived one Sunday morning, at Libers, a pretty, little town of Artois, to preach—which he could do piously and eloquently, for he was a learned man and a good orator.
Whilst the curé was chanting high Mass, our Carmelite wandered about, hoping to find some one who wanted a Mass said, whereby the monk could earn a few pence, but no one came forward.
Seeing this, an old widow lady took compassion on him, allowed him to say a Mass, and then sent her servant to give him two patars, and to beg him to come to dinner with her that day.
Master monk snapped up the money, and accepted the invitation, and as soon as he had preached his sermon, and high Mass was finished, he came.
The lady for whom he had said Mass, and who had invited him, left the church with her maid, and went home to make all ready for the preacher, who was conducted to the house by one of her servants, and most courteously received. After he had washed his hands, the lady assigned him a place by her side, and the varlet and the maid-servant prepared to serve the repast, and first they brought in leek soup, with a good piece of bacon, a dish of pig's chitterlings, and an ox tongue, roasted.
God knows that as soon as the monk saw the viands he drew forth from his girdle a fine, long, large, and very sharp knife, and, as he said Benedicite, he set to work in the leek soup.
Very soon he had finished that and the bacon as well, and drew towards him the fine, fat chitterlings, and rioted amongst them like a wolf amongst a flock of sheep; and before his hostess had half finished her soup there was not the ghost of a chitterling left in the dish. Then he took the ox tongue, and with his sharp knife cut off so many slices that not a morsel remained.
The lady, who watched all this without saying a word, often glanced at the varlet and the servant-maid, and they smiled quietly and glanced at her. Then they brought a piece of good salt beef, and a capital piece of mutton, and put them on the table. And the good monk, who had an appetite like a hungry dog, attacked the beef, and if he had had little pity for the chitterlings and the ox tongue, still less had he for this fine piece of larded beef.
His hostess who took great pleasure in seeing him eat—which was more than the varlet and the maid, did for they cursed him beneath their breath—always filled his cup as soon as it was empty; and you may guess that if he did not spare the meat neither did he spare the drink.
He was in such a hurry to line his gown that he would hardly say a word. When the beef was all finished, and great part of the mutton—of which his hostess had scarcely eaten a mouthful—she, seeing that her guest was not yet satisfied, made a sign to the servant-maid to bring a huge ham which had been cooked the day before for the household.
The maid—cursing the priest for gorging so—obeyed the order of her mistress, and put the ham on the table. The good monk, without staying to ask "who goes there", fell upon it tooth and nail, and at the very first attack he carried off the knuckle, then the thick end, and so dismembered it that soon there was nothing left but the bone.
The serving man and woman did not laugh much at this, for he had entirely cleared the larder, and they were half afraid that he would eat them as well.
To shorten the story—after all these before mentioned dishes, the lady caused to be placed on the table a fine fat cheese, and a dish well furnished with tarts, apples, and cheeses, with a good piece of fresh butter—of all which there was not a scrap left to take away.
The dinner which has been described being thus finished, our preacher, who was now as round as a tick, pronounced grace, and then said to his hostess;
"Damsel, I thank you for your good gifts; you have given me a hearty welcome, for which I am much obliged to you. I will pray to Him who fed five thousand men with a few loaves of barley bread and two small fishes, and after they were all filled there remained over twelve basketfuls—I will pray to Him to reward you."
"By St. John!" said the maid-servant coming forward, "you may well talk about that. I believe that if you had been one of that multitude there would not have been anything left over; for you would have eaten up everything, and me into the bargain, if I had happened to have been there."
"No, truly, my dear," replied the monk, who was a jovial fellow with a ready wit, "I should not have eaten you, but I should have spitted you, and put you down to roast—that is what I should have done to you."
The lady began to laugh, and so did the varlet and the maid-servant, in spite of themselves. And our monk, who had his belly well stuffed, again thanked his hostess for having so well filled him, and went off to another village to earn his supper—but whether that was as good as his dinner I cannot say.
Of one of his marshals who married the sweetest and most lovable woman there was in all Germany. Whether what I tell you is true—for I do not swear to it that I may not be considered a liar—you will see more plainly below.
Whilst we are waiting tor some one to come forward and tell us a good story, I will relate a little one which will not detain you long, but is quite true, and happened lately.
I had a marshal, who had served me long and faithfully, and who determined to get a wife, and was married to the most ill-tempered woman in all the country; and when he found that neither by good means or bad could he cure her of her evil temper, he left her, and would not live with her, but avoided her as he would a tempest, for if he knew she was in any place he would go in the contrary direction. When she saw that he avoided her, and that he gave her no opportunity of displaying her temper, she went in search of him, and followed him, crying God knows what, whilst he held his tongue and pursued his road, and this only made her worse and she bestowed more curses and maledictions on her poor husband than a devil would on a damned soul.
One day she, finding that her husband did not reply a word to anything she said, followed him through the street, crying as loud as she could before all the people;
"Come here, traitor! speak to me. I belong to you. I belong to you!"
And my marshal replied each time; "I give my share to the devil! I give my share to the devil."
Thus they went all through the town of Lille, she crying all the while "I belong to you," and the other replying "I give my share to the devil."
Soon afterwards, so God willed, this good woman died, and my marshal was asked if he were much grieved at the loss of his wife, and he replied that never had such a piece of luck occurred to him, and if God had promised him anything he might wish, he would have wished for his wife's death; "for she," he said, "was so wicked and malicious that if I knew she were in paradise I would not go there, for there could be no peace in any place where she was. But I am sure that she is in hell, for never did any created thing more resemble a devil than she did." Then they said to him;
"Really you ought to marry again. You should look out for some good, quiet, honest woman."
"Marry?" said he. "I would rather go and hang myself on a gibbet than again run the danger of finding such a hell as I have—thank God—now escaped from."
Thus he lived, and still lives—but I know not what he will be.
Of a goldsmith, married to a fair, kind, and gracious lady, and very amorous withal of a curé, her neighbour, with whom her husband found her in bed, they being betrayed by one of the goldsmith's servants, who was jealous, as you will hear.
A hundred years ago, or thereabouts, there happened in a town on the borders of France a curious incident, which I will relate, to increase my number of stories, and also because it deserves to rank with the others.
In this town there was a man whose wife was fair, kind, and gracious, and much enamoured of a churchman, her own curé and near neighbour, who loved her as much as she did him, but to find an opportunity to come together amorously was difficult, but it was at last found by the ingenuity of the lady, in the manner I will describe.
Her husband was a goldsmith, and so greedy of gain that he would never sleep an hour in which he could work.
Every day he would rise an hour or two before dawn, and let his wife take a long rest till eight or nine o'clock, or as long as she pleased.
This amorous dame seeing how diligent her husband was, and that he rose early every day to hammer and work, determined to employ with the curé the time during which she was neglected by her husband, and arranged that at such and such an hour her lover could visit her without her husband's knowledge, for the cure's house stood next to hers.
This happy expedient was proposed to the curé, who gladly accepted it, for it seemed to him that his amour could be carried on easily and secretly. So as soon as the proposal was made it was executed, and thus they continued to live for a long time; but fortune—envious perhaps of their happiness and sweet enjoyment—willed that their amours should be unfortunately discovered in the manner you will hear.
This goldsmith had an assistant, who was in love with his master's wife, and very jealous of her, and he perceived the curé often talking to the lady, and he guessed what was the matter. But he could not imagine how and when they met, unless it was that the curé came in the morning when he and his master were in the workshop. These suspicions so ran in his head that he watched and listened in order that he might find out the truth, and he watched so well that he learned the facts of the case, for one morning he saw the curé come, soon after the goldsmith had left the chamber, and enter and close the door after him.
When he was quite sure that his suspicions were confirmed, he informed his master of his discovery in these terms.
"Master, I serve you, not only that I may earn your money, eat your bread, and do your work well and honestly, but also to protect your honour and preserve it from harm. If I acted otherwise I should not be worthy to be your servant. I have long had a suspicion that our curé was doing you a grievous wrong, but I said nothing to you until I was sure of the facts. That you may not suppose I am trumping up an idle story, I would beg of you to let us go now to your chamber, for I am sure that we shall find him there."
When the good man heard this news, he was much inclined to laugh, but he agreed to go to his chamber along with his assistant—who first made him promise that he would not kill the curé, or otherwise he would not accompany him, but consented that the curé should be well punished.
They went up to the chamber, and the door was soon opened. The husband entered first, and saw his wife in the arms of the curé who was forging as hard as he could.
The goldsmith cried;
"Die, die, scoundrel! What brings you here?"
The curé was surprised and alarmed, and begged for mercy.
"Silence, rascally priest, or I will kill you on the spot!"
"Oh, neighbour have mercy, for God's sake," said the curé; "do with me whatever you like."
"By my father's soul! before I let you go I will make you so that you will never want to hammer on any feminine anvil again. Get up, and let yourself be bound, unless you wish to die!"
The poor wretch allowed himself to be fastened by his two enemies to a bench, face upwards, and with his legs hanging down on each side of the bench. When he was well fastened, so that he could move nothing but his head, he was carried thus trussed (*) into a little shed behind the house, which the goldsmith used as a melting-room.
(*) The word in the original is marescaucié, which
presumably means,—treated as the soldiers of the
maréchaussée treated their prisoners. Bibliophile Jacob
avoided philological pitfalls of this sort by omitting the
phrase altogether.
When the curé was safely placed in this shed, the goldsmith sent for two long nails with large heads, and with these he fastened to the bench the two hammers which had in his absence forged on his wife's anvil, and after that undid all the ropes which fastened the poor wretch. Then taking a handful of straw, he set fire to the shed, and leaving the curé to his fate, rushed into the street, crying "Fire!"
The priest, finding himself surrounded by flames, saw that he must either lose his genitals or be burned alive, so he jumped up and ran away, leaving his purse nailed there.
An alarm was soon raised in the street, and the neighbours ran to put out the fire. But the curé sent them back, saying that he had just come from the spot, and all the harm that could occur had already been done, so that they could give no assistance—but he did not say that it was he who had suffered all the harm.
Thus was the poor curé rewarded for his love, through the false and treacherous jealousy of the goldsmith's assistant, as you have heard.
Of a young man of Rouen, married to a fair, young girl of the age of fifteen or thereabouts; and how the mother of the girl wished to have the marriage annulled by the Judge of Rouen, and of the sentence which the said Judge pronounced when he had heard the parties—as you will hear more plainly in the course of the said story.
In the good town of Rouen, not long ago, a young man was married to a fair and tender virgin, aged fifteen, or thereabouts. On the day of the great feast—that is to say, the wedding—the mother of the young girl, as is customary in such cases, instructed the bride in all the mysteries of wedlock, and taught her how to behave to her husband on the first night.
The young girl, who was looking forward to the time when she could put these doctrines into practice, took great pains and trouble to remember the lesson given her by her good mother, and it seemed to her that when the time came for her to put these counsels into execution, that she would perform her duties so well that her husband would praise her, and be well pleased with her.
The wedding was performed with all honour and due solemnity, and the desired night came; and soon after the feast was ended, and the young people had withdrawn after having taken leave of the newly married couple,—the mother, cousins, neighbours, and other lady friends led the bride to the chamber where she was to spend the night with her husband, where they joyfully divested her of her raiment, and put her to bed, as was right and proper. Then they wished her good-night, and one said;
"My dear, may God give you joy and pleasure in your husband, and may you so live with him as to be for the salvation of both your souls."
Another said: "My dear, God give you such peace and happiness with your husband, that the heavens may be filled with your works."
After they all had expressed similar wishes, they left. The bride's mother, who remained the last, questioned her daughter to see whether she remembered the lesson she had been taught. And the girl, who, as the proverb goes, did not carry her tongue in her pocket, replied that she well remembered all that had been told her, and—thank God—had forgotten nothing.
"Well done," said the mother. "Now I will leave you, and recommend you to God, and pray that He may give you good luck. Farewell, my dear child."
"Farewell, my good and wise mother."
As soon as the schoolmistress had finished, the husband who was outside the door expecting something better, came in. The mother closed the door, and told him that she hoped he would be gentle with her daughter. He promised that he would, and as soon as he had bolted the door, he—who had on nothing on but his doublet,—threw it off, jumped on the bed, drew as close as he could to his bride, and, lance in hand, prepared to give battle.
But when he approached the barrier where the skirmish was to take place, the girl laid hold of his lance, which was as straight and stiff as a cowkeeper's horn, and when she felt how hard and big it was, she was very frightened, and began to cry aloud, and said that her shield was not strong enough to receive and bear the blows of such a huge weapon.
Do all he would, the husband could not persuade her to joust with him, and this bickering lasted all night, without his being able to do anything, which much displeased our bridegroom. Nevertheless, he was patient, hoping to make up for lost time the next night, but it was the same as the first night, and so was the third, and so on up to the fifteenth, matters remaining just as I have told you.
When fifteen days had passed since the young couple had been married, and they had still not come together, the mother came to visit her pupil, and after a thousand questions, spoke to the girl of her husband, and asked what sort of man he was, and whether he did his duty well? And the girl said that he was a nice, young man, quiet and peaceable.
"But," said the mother; "does he do what he ought to do?"
"Yes," said the girl, "but——-"
"But what?" said the mother. "You are keeping something back I am sure. Tell me at once, and conceal nothing; for I must know now. Is he a man capable of performing his marital duties in the way I taught you?"
The poor girl, being thus pressed, was obliged to own that he had not yet done the business, but she did not say that she was the cause of the delay, and that she had always refused the combat.
When her mother heard this sad news, God knows what a disturbance she made, swearing by all her gods that she would soon find a remedy for that, for she was well acquainted with the judge of Rouen, who was her friend, and would favour her cause.
"The marriage must be annulled," she said, "and I have no doubt that I shall be able to find out the way, and you may be sure, my child, that before two days are over you will be divorced and married to another man who will not let you rest in peace all that time. You leave the matter to me."
The good woman, half beside herself, went and related her wrong to her husband, the father of the girl, and told him that they had lost their daughter, and adducing many reasons why the marriage should be annulled.
She pleaded her cause so well that her husband took her side, and was content that the bridegroom, (who knew no reason why a complaint should be lodged against him) should be cited before the Judge. But, at any rate, he was personally summoned to appear before the Judge, at his wife's demand, to show cause why he should not leave her, and permit her to marry again, or explain the reasons why, in so many days that he had lived with her, he had not demonstrated that he was a man, and performed the duties that a husband should.
When the day came, the parties presented themselves at the proper time and place, and they were called upon to state their case. The mother of the bride began to plead her daughter's cause, and God knows the laws concerning marriage which she quoted, none of which, she maintained, had her son-in-law fulfilled; therefore she demanded that he should be divorced from her daughter at once without any more ado.
The young man was much astonished to find himself thus attacked, but lost no time in replying to the allegations of his adversary, and quietly stated his case, and related how his wife had always refused to allow him to perform his marital duties.
The mother, when she heard this reply, was more angry than ever, and would hardly believe it, and asked her daughter if that was true which her husband had said?
"Yes, truly, mother," she replied.
"Oh, wretched girl," said her mother, "why did you refuse? Did I not teach you your lesson many times?"
The poor girl could not reply, so ashamed was she.
"At any rate," said her mother, "I must know the reason why you have refused. Tell it me at once, or I shall be horrible angry."
The girl was obliged to confess that she had found the lance of the champion so big that she had not dared to present her shield, fearing that he would kill her; and so she still felt, and was not re-assured upon that point, although her mother had told her not be afraid. After this the mother addressed the Judge, and said:
"Monseigneur, you have heard the confession of my daughter, and the defence of my son-in-law. I beg of you to give judgment at once."
The judge ordered a bed to be prepared in his house, and the couple to lie on it together, and commanded the bride to boldly lay hold of the stick or instrument, and put it where it was ordered to go. When this judgment was given, the mother said;
"Thank you, my lord; you have well judged. Come along, my child, do what you should, and take care not to disobey the judge, and put the lance where it ought to be put."
"I am satisfied," said the daughter, "to put it where it ought to go, but it may rot there before I will take it out again."
So they left the Court, and went and carried out the sentence themselves, without the aid of any sergeants. By this means the young man enjoyed his joust, and was sooner sick of it than she who would not begin.
Of a gentle knight who was enamoured of a young and beautiful girl, and how he caught a malady in one of his eyes, and therefore sent for a doctor, who likewise fell in love with the same girl, as you will hear; and of the words which passed between the knight and the doctor concerning the plaster which the doctor had put on the knight's good eye.
In the pleasant and fertile land of Holland, not a hundred years ago, a noble knight lodged in a fair and good inn, where there was a young and very pretty chamber-maid, with whom he was greatly enamoured, and for love of her had arranged with the Duke of Burgundy's quartermaster that he should be lodged in this inn, in order that he might better carry out his intentions with regard to this girl.
After he had been at this inn five or six days, there happened to him a misfortune, for he had a disease in one of his eyes so that he could not keep it open, so sharp was the pain. And as he much feared to lose it, and it was an organ that required much care and attention, he sent for the Duke's surgeon, who was at that time in the the town. And you must know that the said surgeon was a good fellow, and much esteemed and spoken about throughout all the country.
As soon as the surgeon saw this eye, he declared that it could not be saved, which is what they customarily say, so that if they do cure the disease they may gain more praise and profit.
The good knight was greatly vexed at this news, and asked if there were no means of cure, and the other replied that it would be very difficult, nevertheless he might, with God's aid, cure it, if the knight would obey all his instructions.
"If you can cure me and save my eye," said the knight, "I will pay you well."
The bargain was made, and the surgeon undertook with God's aid to cure the bad eye, and arranged at what hour he would come every day to apply the dressings.
You must know that every time the surgeon came to see his patient, the pretty chambermaid accompanied him, to hold his box or basin, or help to move the poor patient, who forgot half his pain in the presence of his lady-love.
If the good knight had been struck by the beauty of the chambermaid, so also was the surgeon; who, each time that he paid a visit, could not help casting sheep's eyes at the fair face of the chambermaid, and at last passionately declared his love, which was well received, for she immediately granted his requests, but it was not easy to find means to carry out their ardent desires.
At last, after some trouble, a plan was hit on by the prudent and cunning surgeon, and it was this:
"I will tell my patient," he said, "that his eye cannot be cured unless his other eye is bandaged, for by throwing all the work on the sound eye he prevents the other from getting well. If he will allow it to be bandaged up, we shall have a capital means of taking our pleasure, even in his chamber, without his having any suspicion of it."
The girl, whose desires were quite as warm as those of the surgeon, was quite agreeable, provided the plan could be carried out.
"We will try," said the surgeon.
He came at the usual hour to see the bad eye, and when he had uncovered it, pretended to be much surprised.
"What!" he cried. "I never saw such a disease; the eye is worse than it was fifteen days ago. You must have patience, monsieur."
"In what way?" said the knight.
"Your good eye must be bandaged and concealed, so that no light can reach it, for an hour or so after I have applied this plaster and ordered another—for, no doubt, it prevents the other from healing. Ask," he said, "this pretty girl, who sees it every day, how it is getting on."
The girl said that it looked worse than before.
"Well," said the knight, "I leave myself in your hands; do with me whatever you please. I am content to be blindfolded as much as you like, provided I am cured in the long run."
The two lovers were very joyful when they saw that the knight allowed his eyes to be bandaged. When all the arrangements had been made, and the knight had his eyes bandaged, master surgeon pretended to leave as usual, promising to come back soon to take off the bandage.
He did not go very far, for he threw the girl on a couch not far from the patient, and with quite a different instrument to that which he had employed on the knight, visited the secret cloisters of the chambermaid.
Three, four, five, six times did he perform on the pretty girl without the knight noticing it, for though he heard the storm he did not know what it was; but as it still continued, his suspicions were aroused, and this time, when he heard the noise of the combat, he tore off the bandages and plasters and threw them away, and saw the two lovers struggling together, and seeming as though they would eat each other, so closely united were their mouths.
"What is this, master surgeon?" cried he. "Have you blindfolded me in order to do me this wrong. Is my eye to be cured by this means? Tell me—did you prepare this trick for me? By St. John, I suspect I was more often visited for love of my chambermaid than for my eyes. Well! well! I am in your hands now, sir, and cannot yet revenge myself, but the day will come when I will make you remember me."
The surgeon, who was a thoroughly good fellow, began to laugh, and made his peace with the knight, and I believe that, after the eye was cured, they agreed to divide the work between them.
Of a poor, simple peasant married to a nice, pleasant woman, who did much as she liked, and who in order that she might be alone with her lover, shut up her husband in the pigeon-house in the manner you will hear.
In a pretty, little town near here, but which I will not name, there recently occurred an incident which will furnish a short story. There lived there a good, simple, unlettered peasant, married to a nice, pleasant woman, and as long as he had plenty to eat and drink he cared for little else. He was accustomed to often go into the country to a house he had there, and stay, three, or four days—sometimes more, sometimes less, as suited his pleasure, and left his wife to enjoy herself in the town, which she did, for, in order that she might not be frightened, she had always a man to take her husband's place, and look after the workshop and see that the tools did not rust. Her method was to wait until her husband was out of sight, and not until she was quite sure that he would not return did she send for his deputy, in order that she might not be surprised.
But she could not always manage so well as not to be surprised, for once when her husband had remained away two or three days, and on the fourth day she had waited as long as possible until the gates of the town were closed; thinking he would not come that day, she closed the doors and the windows as on the other days, brought her lover into the house, and they began to drink and enjoy themselves.
They were scarcely seated at the table, when her husband came and thundered at the door, which he was much surprised to find closed.
When the good woman heard it, she hid her lover under the bed; then went to the door and demanded who knocked?
"Open the door," replied her husband.
"Ah, husband, is that you?" she said. "I was going to send a message to you to-morrow morning to tell you not to come back."
"Why; what is the matter?" asked her husband.
"What is the matter? God in heaven!" she replied. "The sergeants were here two hours and a half, waiting to take you to prison."
"To prison!" said he; "Why to prison? Have I done anything wrong? To whom do I owe any money? Who brings any charge against me?"
"I know nothing about it," said the cunning wench, "but they evidently wanted to do you harm."
"But did they not tell you," asked her husband, "why they wanted me?"
"No," she replied; "nothing, except that if they laid hands on you, you would not get out of prison for a long time."
"Thank God they haven't caught me yet. Good bye, I am going back."
"Where are you going?" she asked—though she was glad to get rid of him.
"Whence I came," he replied.
"I will come with you," she said.
"No, don't. Stay and take care of the house, and do not tell anyone that I have been here."
"Since you will return to the country," she said, "make haste and get away before they close the gates: it is already late."
"If they should be shut, the gate-keeper will do anything for me and he will open them again."
With these words he left, and when he came to the gate, he found it closed, and, beg and pray as he might, the gate-keeper would not open it for him.
He was very annoyed that he should have to return to his house, for he feared the sergeants; nevertheless, he was obliged to go back, or sleep in the streets.
He went back, and knocked at the door, and the woman who had again sat down with her lover, was much surprised, but she jumped up, and ran to the door, and called out,
"My husband has not come back; you are wasting your time."
"Open the door, my dear," said the good man. "I am here."
"Alas! alas! the gate was closed: I feared as much," she said. "You will certainly be arrested; I see no hope for escape, for the sergeants told me, I now remember, that they would return to-night."
"Oh, well," he said, "there is no need of a long sermon. Let us consider what is to be done."
"You must hide somewhere in the house," she said, "and I do not know of any place where you would be safe."
"Should I be safe," he asked, "in our pigeon house? Who would look for me there?"
She was, of course, highly delighted at the suggestion, but pretended not to be, and said; "It is not a very nice place; it stinks too much."
"I don't mind that," he said. "I would rather be there an hour or two, and be safe, than be in a better place and be caught."
"Oh, well, if you are brave enough to go there, I am of your opinion that it would be a good hiding-place."
The poor man ascended into the pigeon-house, which fastened outside, and was locked in, and told his wife that if the sergeants did not come soon, that she was to let him out.
She left him to coo with the pigeons all night, which he did not much like, and he was afraid to speak or call, for fear of the sergeants.
At daybreak, which was the time when her lover left the house, the good woman came and called her husband and opened the door; and he asked her why she had left him so long along with the pigeons. And she, having prepared her reply, said that the sergeants had watched round their house all night, and spoken to her several times, and had only just gone, but they said that they would come back at a time when they were likely to find him.
The poor fellow, much wondering what the sergeants could want with him, left at once, and returned to the country, vowing that he would not come back for a long time. God knows how pleased the wench was at this, though she pretended to be grieved. And by this means she enjoyed herself more than ever, for she had no longer any dread of her husband's return.
Of a curé who forgot, either by negligence or ignorance, to inform his parishioners that Lent had come until Palm Sunday arrived, as you will hear—and of the manner in which he excused himself to his parishioners.
In a certain little hamlet or village in this country, far from any good town, there happened an incident, which is worth hearing, my good sirs.
This village or hamlet was inhabited by a handful of rough and simple peasants, who knew nothing except how to gain their livelihood. Rough and ignorant as they were, their curé was not less so, for he did not know things of common knowledge, as I will show you by relating an incident that happened to him.
You must know that this curé was so simple and ignorant that he could not announce the feasts of the saints, which come every year on a fixed day, as every one knows; and when his parishioners asked when such and such a feast would fall, he could not, right off, answer them correctly.
Amongst other such mistakes, which often occurred, he made one which was by no means slight, for he allowed the five weeks of Lent to slip by without informing his parishioners.
But hear how he discovered his error. On the Saturday which was the eve before Palm Sunday, he had need to go to the nearest town for something that he required. When he had entered the town, and was riding along the streets, he saw that the priests were purchasing palms and other greenstuff, which were being sold at the market for the procession the next day.
If anyone was astonished it was our good curé, though he pretended not to be. He went to the woman who sold the palms and boughs, and bought some—pretending that he had come to town specially for that purpose. Then he hastily mounted his horse, which was loaded with his purchases, galloped to the village, and arrived there as quickly as possible.
As soon as he had dismounted, he met several of his parishioners, whom he commanded to go and ring the bells for every one to come to church at once, for he had certain things necessary for the salvation of their souls to tell them.
A meeting was soon called, and all were assembled in the church, where the curé, booted and spurred, came, much flustered, God knows. He mounted into the pupil, and said the following words,
"Good sirs, I have to signify and inform you that to-day was the eve of the solemn feast of Palm Sunday, and this day next week will be the eve of Easter Sunday, the day of Our Lord's Resurrection."
When these good people heard this news they began to murmur, and were so astonished they did not know what to do.
"Silence!" said the curé, "I will soon satisfy you, and will tell you the true reasons why you have only eight days of Lent in which to perform your penitences this year, and marvel not at what I am about to tell you, as to why Lent came so late. I suppose there is not one amongst you who does not know and remember that the frosts were very long and sharp this year—much worse than ever they were—and that for many weeks it was dangerous to ride, on account of the frost and the snow, which lasted a long time."
"Every one here knows that is as true as the Gospel, therefore be not astonished that Lent has been so long coming, but rather wonder that it was able to come at all, seeing how long the road is from here to his house. I would ask, and even beg of you, to excuse him, for I dined with him to day" (and he named the place—that is to say the town to which he had been).
"However," he added, "manage to come and confess this week, and appear to morrow in the procession, as is customary. And have patience this time; the coming year will be milder, please God, and then Lent will come quicker, as it usually does."
Thus did the curé find means to excuse his simple ignorance. Then he pronounced the benediction saying,
"Pray to God for me, and I will pray to God for you."
After that he came down out of the pulpit, and went to his house to prepare the boughs and palms which were to be used in the procession the next day.
And that is all.
Of a good merchant of Brabant whose wife was very ill, and he supposing that she was about to die, after many remonstrances and exhortations for the salvation of her soul, asked her pardon, and she pardoned him all his misdeeds, excepting that he had not worked her as much as he ought to have done—as will appear more plainly in the said story.
To increase the number of stories that I promised to tell, I will relate a circumstance that occurred lately.
In the fair land of Brabant—the place in the world where adventures most often happen—there lived a good and honest merchant, whose wife was very ill, and had to keep her bed continually because of her disease.
The good man, seeing his wife so ill and weak, led a sad life; he was so vexed and distressed and he much feared she would die. In this state of grief, and believing that he was about to lose her, he came to her bedside, and gave her hopes of being cured, and comforted her as best he could. And after that he had talked with her a little time, and ended his admonitions and exhortations, he begged her pardon, and requested that if he had ever wronged her in any way that she would pardon him.
Amongst other instances of things which he knew had annoyed her, he mentioned that he had not polished up her armour (that part which is called the cuirass) as often as she would have liked, and therefore he humbly begged her pardon.
The poor invalid, as soon as she could speak, pardoned him all his minor offences, but this last she would not willingly pardon without knowing the reasons which had induced her husband to neglect polishing up her armour when he knew well what a pleasure it was to her, and that she asked for nothing better.
"What?" he said; "Will you die without pardoning those who have done you wrong?"
"I do not mind pardoning you," she said, "but I want to know your reasons—otherwise I will not pardon you."
The good husband thought he had hit on a good excuse, and one that would obtain his pardon, and replied;
"My dear, you know that very often you were ill and weak—although not so ill as I see you now—and I did not dare to challenge you to combat whilst you were in that condition, fearing that it might make you worse. But be sure that if I refrained from embracing you, it was only out of love and affection to you."
"Hold your tongue, liar that you are! I was never so ill and weak that I should have refused the battle. You must seek some other reason if you would obtain your pardon, for that one will not help you; and since there is now nothing to be done, I will tell you, wicked and cowardly man that you are, that there is no medicine in the world which will so quickly drive away the maladies of us women as the pleasant and amorous society of men. Do you see me now weakened and dried up with disease? Well! all that I want is your company."
"Ho, ho!" said the other; "then I will quickly cure you."
He jumped on the bed and performed as well as he could, and, as soon as he had broken two lances, she rose and stood on her feet.
Half an hour later she was out in the street, and her neighbours, who all looked upon her as almost dead, were much astonished, until she told them by what means she had been cured, when they at once replied that that was the only remedy.
Thus did the good merchant learn how to cure his wife; but it turned out to his disadvantage in the long run, for she often pretended to be sick in order to get her physic.
Of a man who was married to a woman so lascivious and lickerish, that I believe she must have been born in a stove or half a league from the summer sun, for no man, however well he might work, could satisfy her; and how her husband thought to punish her, and the answer she gave him.
When I was lately in Flanders, in one of the largest towns in the province, a jovial fellow told me a good story of a man married to a woman so given to venery and concupiscence that she would have let a man lie with her in the public streets. Her husband knew well how she misbehaved herself, but he was not clever enough to prevent it, so cunning and depraved was she. He threatened to beat, to leave her, or to kill her, but it was all a waste of words; he might as well have tried to tame a mad dog or some other animal. She was always seeking fresh lovers with whom to fornicate, and there were few men in all the country round who had not tried to satisfy her lust; anyone who winked at her, even if he were humpbacked, old, deformed, or disfigured in any way, could have her favours for nothing.
Her unfortunate husband, seeing that she still continued this life in spite of all his menaces, tried to hit upon a method to frighten her. When he was alone with her in the house, he said;
"Well, Jehanne (or Beatrix, for so he called her) I see that you are determined to continue this life of vice, and, however much I may threaten to punish you, you take no more heed of me than though I held my tongue."
"Alas, husband," she replied, "I am much to be pitied, but there is no help for it, for I was born under a planet which compels me to go with men."
"Oh, indeed," said the husband, "is that your destiny? I swear I will soon find a remedy for that."
"You will kill me then," she said, "for nothing else will cure me."
"Never mind," he said. "I know the best way."
"What is it?" she asked. "Tell me."
"Morbleu!" he said, "I will give you such a doing some day, that I will put a quartette of babies in your belly, and then I will leave you to get your own living."
"You will?" she cried. "Indeed! Well, you have but to begin. Such threats frighten me very little, I do not care a farthing for them. May I have my head shaved if I attempt to run away. (*) If you think you are capable of making four babies at once, come on, and begin at once—the mould is ready."
(*) Long hair was considered honourable, and to have the
head shaved or cropped was a mark of disgrace.
"The devil take the woman," said the husband; "there is no way of punishing her."
He was obliged to let her fulfil her destiny, for nothing short of splitting her head open would have kept her backside quiet; so he let her run about like a bitch on heat amongst a couple of dozen dogs, and accomplish all her inordinate desires.
Of a married woman who was in love with a Canon, and, to avoid suspicion, took with her one of her neighbours when she went to visit the Canon; and of the quarrel that arose between the two women, as you will hear.
In the noble city of Metz in Lorraine, there lived, some time ago a woman who was married, but also belonged to the confraternity of the houlette (*); nothing pleased her more than that nice amusement we all know: she was always ready to employ her arms, and prove that she was right valiant, and cared little for blows.
(*) "The frail sisterhood".
Now hear what happened to her whilst she was exercising her profession. She was enamoured of a fat canon, who had more money than an old dog has fleas. But as he lived in a place where people came at all hours, she did not know how she was to come to her canon un-perceived.
She pondered over the matter, and at last determined to take into her confidence a neighbour of hers, a sister-in-arms also of the houlette, for it seemed to her that she might go and see her canon, if accompanied by her neighbour, without causing any suspicion.
As it was devised, so was it done, and she went to see the canon, as though on an affair of great importance, and honourably escorted, as has been said.
To shorten the story, as soon as our bourgeoises arrived, after all due salutations, the principal personage shut herself up with her lover, the canon, and he gave her a mount, as he well knew how.
The neighbour, seeing the other have a private audience with the master of the house, had no small envy, and was much displeased that she could not do the same.
When the first-named woman came out of the room, after receiving what she came for, she said to her neighbour;
"Shall We go?"
"Oh, indeed," said the other, "am I to go away like that? If I do not receive the same courtesy that you did, by God I will reveal everything. I did not come to warm the wax for other people."
When they saw what she wanted, they offered her the canon's clerk, who was a stout and strong gallant well suited for the work, but she refused him point blank, saying that she deserved his master and would have none other.
The canon was obliged, to save his honour, to grant her request, and when that was accomplished, she wished to say farewell and leave.
But then the other would not, for she said angrily that it was she who had brought her neighbour, and for whom the meeting was primarily intended, and she ought to have a bigger share than the other, and that she would not leave unless she had another "truss of oats."
The Canon was much alarmed when he heard this, and, although he begged the woman who wanted the extra turn not to insist, she would not be satisfied.
"Well," he said, "I am content, since it needs must be; but never come back under similar conditions—I shall be out of town."
When the battle was over, the damsel who had had an additional turn, when she took leave, asked the canon to give her something as a keepsake.
Without waiting to be too much importuned, and also to get rid of them, the good canon handed them the remainder of a piece of stuff for kerchiefs, which he gave them, and the "principal" received the gift, and they said farewell.
"It is," he said, "all that I can give you just now; so take it in good part."
They had not gone very far, and were in the street, when the neighbour, who had had nothing more than one turn, told her companion that she wanted her share of the gift.
"Very well," said the other, "I have no objection. How much do you want?"
"Need you ask that," said she. "I am going to have half, and you the same."
"How dare you ask," said the other, "more than you have earned? Have you no shame? You know well that you only went once with the canon, and I went twice, and, pardieu, it is not right that you should have as much as I."
"Pardieu! I will have as much as you," said the second.
"Did I not do my duty as well as you?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Is not once as good as ten times? And now that you know my will, instead of standing here squabbling over a trifle, I recommend you to give me my half, or you will soon see a fight. Do you think you can do as you like with me?"
"Oh, indeed!" said the other, "will you try force? By God's power you shall only have what is right,—that is to say one third part—and I will have the rest. Did I not have twice as much trouble as you?"
With that the other doubled up her fist and landed it in the face of her companion, the one for whom the meeting had been first arranged, who quickly returned the blow. In short they fought as though they would have killed each other, and called one another foul names. When the people in the street saw the fight between the two companions, who a short while previously had been so friendly, they were much astonished, and came and separated the combatants. Then the husbands were called, and each asked his wife the cause of the quarrel. Each tried to make the other in the wrong, without telling the real cause, and set their husbands against each other so that they fought, and the sergeants came and sent them to cool their heels in prison.
Justice intervened, and the two women were compelled to own that the fight was about a piece of stuff for a kerchief. The Council, seeing that the case did not concern them, sent it to the "King of the Bordels", because the women were his subjects. And during the affair the poor husbands remained in gaol awaiting sentence, which, owing to the infinite number of cases, is likely to remain unsettled for a long time.
Of a good wife who pretended to her husband that she was going on a pilgrimage, in order to find opportunity to be with her lover the parish-clerk—with whom her husband found her; and of what he said and did when he saw them doing you know what.
Whilst I have a good audience, let me relate a funny incident which happened in the district of Hainault.
In a village there, lived a married woman, who loved the parish clerk much more than she did her own husband, and in order to find means to be with the clerk, she feigned to her husband that she owed a pilgrimage to a certain saint, whose shrine was not far from there; which pilgrimage she had vowed to make when she was in travail with her last child, begging the saint that he would be content that she should go on a certain day she named. The good, simple husband, who suspected nothing, allowed her to go on this pilgrimage; and as he would have to remain alone he told her to prepare both his dinner and supper before she left, or else he would go and eat at the tavern.
She did as he ordered, and prepared a nice chicken and a piece of mutton, and when all these preparations were complete, she told her husband that everything was now ready, and that she was going to get some holy water, and then leave.
She went to church, and the first man she met was the one she sought, that is to say the clerk, to whom she told the news, that is to say how she had been permitted to go on a pilgrimage for the whole day.
"And this is what will occur," she said. "I am sure that as soon as I am out of the house that he will go to the tavern, and not return until late in the evening, for I know him of old; and so I should prefer to remain in the house, whilst he is away, rather than go somewhere else. Therefore you had better come to our house in half an hour, and I will let you in by the back door, if my husband is not at home, and if he should be, we will set out on our pilgrimage."
She went home, and there she found her husband, at which she was not best pleased.
"What! are you still here?" he asked.
"I am going to put on my shoes," she said, "and then I shall not be long before I start."
She went to the shoemaker, and whilst she was having her shoes put on, her husband passed in front of the cobbler's house, with another man, a neighbour, with whom he often went to the tavern.
She supposed that because he was accompanied by this neighbour that they were going to the tavern; whereas he had no intention of the kind, but was going to the market to find a comrade or two and bring them back to dine with him, since he had a good dinner to offer them—that is to say the chicken and the mutton.
Let us leave the husband to find his comrades, and return to the woman who was having her shoes put on. As soon as that was completed, she returned home as quickly as she could, where she found the scholar wandering round the house, and said to him;
"My dear, we are the happiest people in the world, for I have seen my husband go to the tavern, I am sure, for one of his neighbours was leading him by the arm, and I know is not likely to let my man come back, and therefore let us be joyful. We have the whole day, till night, to ourselves. I have prepared a chicken, and a good piece of mutton, and we will enjoy ourselves;" and without another word they entered the house, but left the door ajar in order that the neighbours should suspect nothing.
Let us now return to the husband, who had found a couple of boon companions besides the one I have mentioned, and now brought them to his house to devour the chicken, and drink some good Beaune wine—or better, if they could get it.
When he came to the house, he entered first, and immediately saw our two lovers, who were taking a sample of the good work they had to do. And when he saw his wife with her legs in the air, he told her that she need not have troubled to bother the cobbler about her shoes, since she was going to make the pilgrimage in that way.
He called his companions, and said;
"Good sirs, just see how my wife looks after my interests. For fear that she should wear out her new shoes, she is making the journey on her back:—no other woman would have done that."
He picked up the remainder of the fowl, and told her that she might finish her pilgrimage; then closed the door and left her with her clerk, without saying another word, and went off to the tavern. He was not scolded when he came back, nor on the other occasions either that he went there, because he had said little or nothing concerning the pilgrimage which his wife had made at home with her lover, the parish clerk.
(*) There is no author's name to this story in any of the
editions.
Of a curé who wore a short gown, like a gallant about to be married, for which cause he was summoned before the Ordinary, and of the sentence which was passed, and the defence he made, and the other tricks he played afterwards—as you will plainly hear.
In Picardy, in the diocese of Therouenne, there lived about a year and a half ago, in one of the large towns, a curé who aped the fashionable youth of the time. He wore a short gown, and high boots, as was the fashion at Court, and, in short, was as great a gallant as you would see,—which gave no small offence to all good Churchmen.
The Ordinary of Therouenne—who is generally known as the "big devil" —was informed of the behaviour of this curé, and cited him to appear to be punished, and ordered to change his method of dressing.
He appeared in his short gown, as though he cared little for the Ordinary, or thinking, perhaps, that he was going to be let off for his good looks, but this did not happen, for when he was before the judge, the "promoter" related the case at full length, and demanded that these clothes and other vanities should be forbidden him, and that he should be condemned to pay certain fines.
The judge, seeing at a glance what sort of man our curé was, forbade him, by all the penalties of canon law, to disguise himself in the way he had done, and ordered that he was to wear long gowns and long hair, and moreover, to pay a good sum of money.
The curé promised that he would do so, and never again be summoned for a similar offence. He left the Court and returned to his cure, and as soon as he came there, he called the draper and the tailor, and he had a gown made which trailed three quarters of an ell on the ground; for he told the tailor how he had been reproved for wearing a short gown, and ordered to wear a long one.
He put on this long robe, and allowed his beard and hair to grow, and in this habit performed his parochial duties, sang Mass, and did everything that a priest has to do.
The promoter was soon informed that the curé behaved in a way not compatible with good morals, whereupon a fresh summons was issued, and the priest appeared in his long gown.
"What is this?" asked the judge when the curé appeared before him. "It seems that you make fun of the statutes and ordinances of the Church! Why do you not dress like the other priests? If it were not for some of your friends I should send you to prison."
"What, monseigneur!" said the curé. "Did you not order me to wear a long gown, and long hair? Have I not done as I was commanded? Is not my gown long enough? Is not my hair long? What do you wish me to do?"
"I wish," said the judge, "and I command that your gown and hair should be half long, neither too much nor too little, and for this great fault that you have committed, I condemn you to pay a fine of ten pounds to the Prosecutor, twenty pounds to the Chapter, and as much to the Bishop of Therouenne for his charities."
Our curé was much astonished, but there was nothing for it but to comply. He took leave of the judge, and returned to his house, considering how he should attire himself in order to obey the judge's sentence. He sent for the tailor, whom he ordered to make a gown as long on one side as that we have mentioned, and, as short as the first one on the other side, then he had himself shaved on one side only—that on which the gown was short—and in this guise went about the streets, and performed his sacred duties; and although he was told this was not right of him, he paid no attention.
The Prosecutor was again informed, and cited him to appear a third time. When he appeared, God knows how angry the judge was—he was almost beside himself, and, could scarcely sit on the Bench when he saw the curé dressed like a mummer. If the priest had been mulcted before he was still more so this time, and was condemned to pay very heavy fines.
Then the curé, finding himself thus amerced in fines and amends, said to the judge.
"With all due respect, it seems to me that I have obeyed your orders. Hear what I have to say, and I will prove it."
Then he covered his long beard with his hand, and said;
"If you like, I have no beard." Then, covering the shaved side of his face, he said, "If you like, I have a long beard. Is not that what you ordered?"
The judge, seeing that he had to do with a joker, who was making fun of him, sent for a barber and a tailor, and before all the public, had the cure's hair and beard dressed, and his gown cut to a proper and reasonable length; then he sent him back to his cure where he conducted himself properly—having learned the right manner at the expense of his purse.
Of a monk who feigned to be very ill and in danger of death, that he might obtain the favours of a certain young woman in the manner which is described hereafter.
It is usually the case, thank God, that in many religious communities there are certain good fellows who can play "base instruments".
Apropos of this, there was formerly in a convent at Paris, a good brother, a preacher, who was accustomed to visit his female neighbours. One day his choice lighted on a very pretty woman, a near neighbour, young, buxom, and spirited, and but recently married to a good fellow.
Master monk fell in love with her, and was always thinking and devising ways and means by which he could compass his desires—which were, in short, to do you know what. Now he decided, "That is what I'll do." Then he changed his mind. So many plans came into his head that he could not decide on any; but of one thing he was sure, and that was that words alone would never seduce her from the paths of virtue. "For she is too virtuous, and too prudent. I shall be obliged, if I want to gain my ends, to gain them by cunning and deception."
Now listen to the plan the rascal devised, and how he dishonestly trapped the poor, little beast, and accomplished his immoral desires, as he proposed.
He pretended one day to have a bad finger—that which is nearest to the thumb, and is the first of the four on the right hand—and he wrapped it in linen bandages, and anointed it with strong-smelling ointments.
He went about with it thus for a day or two, hanging about the church porch, when he thought the aforesaid woman was coming, and God knows what pain he pretended to suffer.
The silly wench looked on him with pity, and seeing by his face that he appeared to be in great pain, she asked him what was the matter; and the cunning fox pitched up a piteous tale.
The day passed, and on the morrow, about the hour of vespers, when the good woman was at home alone, the patient came and sat by her, and acted the sick man, that anyone who had seen him would have believed that he was in great danger. Sometimes he would walk to the window, then back again to the woman, and put on so many strange tricks that you would have been astonished and deceived if you had seen him. And the poor foolish girl, who pitied him so that the tears almost started from her eyes, comforted him as best she could,
"Alas, Brother Aubrey, have you spoken to such and such physicians?"
"Yes, certainly, my dear," he replied. "There is not a doctor or surgeon in Paris who has not studied my case."
"And what do they say? Will you have to suffer this pain for a long time?"
"Alas! yes; until I die, unless God helps me; for there is but one remedy for ray complaint, and I would rather die than reveal what that is,—for it is very far from decent, and quite foreign to my holy profession."
"What?" cried the poor girl. "Then there is a remedy! Then is it not very wrong and sinful of you to allow yourself to suffer thus? Truly it seems so to me, for you are in danger of losing sense and understanding, so sharp and terrible is the pain."
"By God, very sharp and terrible it is," said Brother Aubrey, "but there!—God sent it; praised be His name. I willingly suffer and bear all, and patiently await death, for that is the only remedy indeed—excepting one I mentioned to you—which can cure me."
"But what is that?"
"I told you that I should not dare to say what it is,—and even if I were obliged to reveal what it is, I should never have the will or power to put it in execution."
"By St. Martin!" said the good woman, "it appears to me that you are very wrong to talk like that. Pardieu! tell me what will cure you, and I assure you that I will do my utmost to help you. Do not wilfully throw away your life when help and succour can be brought. Tell me what it is, and you will see that I will help you—I will, pardieu, though it should cost me more than you imagine." The monk, finding his neighbour was willing to oblige him, after a great number of refusals and excuses, which, for the sake of brevity, I omit, said in a low voice.
"Since you desire that I should tell you, I will obey. The doctors all agreed that there was but one remedy for my complaint, and that was to put my finger into the secret place of a clean and honest woman, and keep it there for a certain length of time, and afterwards apply a certain ointment of which they gave me the receipt. You hear what the remedy is, and as I am by disposition naturally modest, I would rather endure and suffer all my ills than breathe a word to a living soul. You alone know of my sad lot, and that in spite of me."
"Well!" said the good woman, "what I said I would do I will do. I will willingly help to cure you, and am well pleased to be able to relieve you of the terrible pain which torments you, and find you a place in which you can put your sore finger."
"May God repay you, damsel," said the monk. "I should never have dared to make the request, but since you are kind enough to help me, I shall not be the cause of my own death. Let us go then, if it please you, to some secret place where no one can see us."
"It pleases me well," she replied.
So she led him to a fair chamber, and closed the door, and laid upon the bed, and the monk lifted up her clothes, and instead of the finger of his hand, put something hard and stiff in the place. When he had entered, she feeling that it was very big, said,
"How is it that your finger is so swollen? I never heard of anything like it."
"Truly," he replied, "it is the disease which made it like that."
"It is wonderful," she said.
Whilst this talk was going on, master monk accomplished that for which he had played the invalid so long. She when she felt—et cetera—asked what that was, and he replied,
"It is the boil on my finger which has burst. I am cured I think—thank God and you."
"On my word I am pleased to hear it," said the woman as she rose from the bed. "If you are not quite cured, come back as often as you like;—for to remove your pain there is nothing I would not do. And another time do not be so modest when it is a question of recovering your health."
Of a foolish and rich village curé who buried his dog in the church-yard; for which cause he was summoned before his Bishop, and how he gave 60 gold crowns to the Bishop, and what the Bishop said to him—which you will find related here.
Listen if you please to what happened the other day to a simple village curé. This good curé had a dog which he had brought up, and which surpassed every other dog in the country in fetching a stick out of the water, or bringing a hat that his master had forgotten, and many other tricks. In short, this wise and good dog excelled in everything, and his master so loved him that he never tired of singing his praises.
At last, I know not how, whether he ate something that disagreed with him, or whether he was too hot or too cold, the poor dog became very ill, and died, and went straightway to wherever all good dogs do go.
What did the honest curé do? You must know that his vicarage adjoined the church-yard, and when he saw his poor dog quit this world, he thought so wise a beast ought not to be without a grave, so he dug a hole near the door of his house, and in the church-yard, and there buried his dog. I do not know if he gave the dog a monument and an epitaph, I only know that the news of the good dog's death spread over the village, and at last reached the ears of the Bishop, together with the report that his master had given him holy burial.
The curé was summoned to appear before the Bishop, who sent a sergeant to fetch him.
"Alas!" said the curé, "what have I done, and why have I to appear before the Bishop? I am much surprised at receiving this summons."
"As for me," said the sergeant, "I do not know what it is for, unless it is because you buried your dog in the holy ground which is reserved for the bodies of Christians."
"Ah," thought the curé to himself, "that must be it," and it occurred to him that he had done wrong, but he knew that he could easily escape being put into prison, by paying a fine, for the Lord Bishop—God be praised—was the most avaricious prelate in the Kingdom, and only kept those about him who knew how to bring grist to the mill.
"At any rate I shall have to pay, and it may as well be soon as late."
On the appointed day, he appeared before the Bishop, who immediately delivered a long sermon about the sin of burying a dog in consecrated ground, and enlarged on the offence so wonderfully that he made it appear that the curé had done something worse than deny God; and at the end he ordered the curé to be put in prison.
When the curé found that he was to be shut up in the stone box, he demanded permission to be heard, and the Bishop gave him leave to speak.
You must know that there were a number of notable persons at this convocation—the judge, the prosecutor, the secretaries, and notaries, advocates, and procureurs, who were all much amused at this unusual case of the poor curé who had buried his dog in consecrated ground.
The curé spoke briefly in his defence, to this effect.
"Truly, my Lord Bishop, if you had known my poor dog as well as I did, you would not be surprised that I gave him Christian burial, for his like was never seen;" and then he began to recount his doings.
"And as he was so good and wise when he was living, he was still more so at his death; for he made a beautiful will, and, as he knew your poverty and need, he left you fifty golden crowns, which I now bring you."
So saying, he drew the money from his bosom and gave it to the Bishop, who willingly received it, and greatly praised the good dog, and approved of his will, and was glad to know that he had received honourable sepulture.
Of a number of boon companions making good cheer and drinking at a tavern, and how one of them had a quarrel with his wife when he returned home, as you will hear.
A number of good fellows had once assembled to make good cheer at the tavern and drink as much as they could. And when they had eaten and drunk to God's praise and usque ad Hebreos (*), and had paid their reckoning, some of them began to say, "How shall we be received by our wives when we return home?" "God knows if we shall be excommunicated." "They will pluck us by the beard." "By Our Lady!" said one, "I am afraid to go home." "God help me! so am I," said another. "I shall be sure to hear a sermon for Passion Sunday." "Would to God that my wife were dumb—I should drink more boldly than I do now."
(*) A pun on the word ebreos (drunken).
So spoke all of them with one exception, and that was a good fellow who said,
"How now, good sirs? You all seem every miserable, and each has a wife who forbids him to go to the tavern, and is displeased if you drink. Thank God my wife is not one of that sort, for if I drink ten—or even a hundred-times a day that is not enough for her,—in short I never knew an instance in which she did not wish I had drunk as much again. For, when I come back from the tavern she always wishes that I had the rest of the barrel in my belly, and the barrel along with it. Is not that a sign that I do not drink enough to please her?"
When his companions heard this argument they began to laugh, and all praised his wife, and then each one went his own way.
The good fellow we have mentioned, went home, where he found his wife not over friendly, and ready to scold him; and as soon as she saw him she began the usual lecture, and, as usual, she wished the rest of the barrel in his belly.
"Thank you, my dear, you are always much kinder than all the other women in the town for they all get wild if their husbands drink too much, but you—may God repay you—always wish that I may have a good draught that would last me all my days."
"I don't know that I wish that," she said, "but I pray to God that you may drink such a lot some day that you may burst."
Whilst they were conversing thus affectionately, the soup-kettle on the fire began to boil over, because the fire was too hot, and the good man, who noticed that his wife did not take it off the fire, said;
"Don't you see, wife, that the pot is boiling over?"
She was still angry and indignant, and replied;
"Yes, master, I see it."
"Well then, take it off, confound you! Do as I bid you."
"I will," she replied, "I will bid twelve pence." (*)
(*) There is a pun in the French on the two meanings of the
verb hausser,—"to raise" and to "augment" or "run up."
"Oh, indeed, dame," said he, "is that your reply? Take off that pot, in God's name!"
"Well!" she said. "I will put it at seven sous. Is that high enough?"
"Ha, ha!" he said. "By St. John that shall not pass without three blows with a good stick."
He picked up a thick stick, and laid it with all his might across her back, saying as he did so,
"The lot is knocked down to you."
She began to cry, and the neighbours all assembled and asked what was the matter? The good man told them and they all laughed—except the woman who had had the lot knocked down to her.
Of a knight of this kingdom and his wife, who had a fair daughter aged fifteen or sixteen. Her father would have married her to a rich old knight, his neighbour, but she ran away with another knight, a young man who loved her honourably; and, by strange mishap, they both died sad deaths without having ever co-habited,—as you will hear shortly.
In the frontiers of France, there lived, amongst other nobles, a knight who was rich and noble, not only by illustrious descent, but by his own virtuous and honourable deeds, who had, by the wife he had married, an only daughter, a very beautiful virgin, well-educated as her condition required, and aged fifteen or sixteen years, or thereabouts.
This good and noble knight, seeing that his daughter was of a fit and proper age for the holy sacrament of wedlock, much wished to give her in marriage to a knight, his neighbour, who was powerful, not so much by noble birth as by great possessions and riches, and was also from 60 to 80 years old, or thereabouts.
This wish so filled the head of the father of whom I spoke, that he would not rest until formal promises were made between him and his wife, the mother of the girl, and the aforesaid old knight, touching his marriage to the girl, who, for her part, knew and suspected nothing of all these arrangements, promises, and treaties.
Not far from the castle of the knight, the father of this damsel, there lived another knight, a young man, valiant and brave, and moderately rich, but not so rich as the old man of whom I spoke, and this youth was greatly in love with the fair damsel. She also was much attached to him, on account of his fame and great renown, and they often spoke to each other, though with much trouble and difficulty, for her father, who suspected their love, tried by all ways and means to prevent their seeing each other. Nevertheless, he could not destroy the great and pure love which united their hearts, and when fortune favoured them with an opportunity, they discussed nothing but the means whereby they might accomplish their whole and sole desire and marry each other.
The time approached when the damsel was to be given to the old knight, and her father told her of the contract he had made, and named the day on which she was to be married; at which she was greatly angered, but thought to herself that she might find a way out of the difficulty.
She sent a message to her lover, the young knight, to tell him to come to her secretly as soon as he could; and when he came she told him how she was betrothed to the old knight, and asked her lover's advice as to how this marriage was to be broken off, for that she would never have any other man but him.
The knight replied,
"My dearest lady, since of your kindness you offer me that which I should never have dared to ask without great shame, I thank you humbly, and if it be your will, I will tell you what we will do. We will appoint a day for me to come to this town accompanied by many of my friends, and at a given hour you will repair to a certain place, both of which we will arrange now that I am alone with you. You will mount on my horse, and I will conduct you to my castle. And then, if we can manage to pacify your father and mother, we will fulfil our promises of plighted troth."
She replied that the plan was a good one, and she would carry it out properly. She told him that on such a day, at such an hour, he would find her at a certain place, and that she would do all that he had arranged.
The appointed day arrived, and the young knight appeared at the place mentioned, and there he found the lady, who mounted on his horse, and they rode fast until they were far from there.
The good knight, fearing that he should fatigue his dearly beloved mistress, slackened his speed, and spread his retainers on every road to see that they were not followed, and he rode across the fields, without keeping to any path or road, and as gently as he could, and charged his servants that they should meet at a large village which he named, and where he intended to stop and eat. This village was remote, and away from the high road.
They rode until they came to this village, where the local fête was being held, which had brought together all sorts of people. They entered the best tavern in the place, and at once demanded food and drink, for it was late after dinner, and the damsel was much fatigued. A good fire was made, and food prepared for the servants of the knight who had not yet arrived.
Hardly had the knight and the lady entered the tavern than there came four big swashbucklers—waggoners or drovers, or perhaps worse—who noisily entered the tavern, and demanded where was the bona roba that some ruffian had brought there, riding behind him on his horse, for they would drink with her, and amuse themselves with her.
The host who knew the knight well, and was aware that the rascals spake not the truth, told them gently that the girl was not what they imagined.
"Morbleu!" they replied; "if you do not bring her at once, we will batter down the door, and bring her by force in spite of the two of you."
When the host heard this, and found that his explanation was no use, he named the knight, who was renowned through all that district, but unknown to many of the common people, because he had long been out of the country, acquiring honour and renown in wars in distant countries. The host told them also that the damsel was a young virgin, a relative of the knight, and of noble parentage.
"You can, messieurs," he said, "without danger to yourself or others, quench your lust with many of the women who have come to the village on the occasion of the fête expressly for you and the like of you, and for God's sake leave in peace this noble damsel, and think of the great danger that you run, the evil that you wish to commit and the small hope that you have of success."
"Drop your sermons," shouted the rascals, inflamed with carnal lust, "and bring her to us quietly; or if not we will cause a scandal, for we will bring her down openly, and each of us four will do as he likes with her."
These speeches being finished, the good host went up to the chamber where the knight and the damsel were, and called the knight apart, and told him this news, which when he had heard, without being troubled in the least, he went down wearing his sword, to talk to the four swashbucklers, and asked them politely what they wanted?
And they, being foul-mouthed and abusive blackguards, replied that they wanted the bona roba that he kept shut up in his chamber, and that, if he did not give her up quietly, they would take her from him by force.
"Fair sirs," said the knight, "if you knew me well you would be aware that I should not take about women of that sort. I have never done such a folly, thank God. And even if I ever did—which God forbid—I should never do it in this district, where I and all my people are well known—my nobility and reputation would not suffer me to do it. This damsel is a young virgin, a near relative, related also to a noble house, and we are travelling for our pleasure, accompanied by my servants, who although they are not here at present, will come directly, and I am waiting for them. Moreover, do not flatter yourselves that I should be such a coward as to let her be insulted, or suffer injury of any kind; but I would protect and defend her as long as my strength endured, and until I died."
Before the knight had finished speaking, the villains interrupted him, and in the first place denied that he was the person he said, because he was alone, and that knight never travelled without a great number of servants. Therefore they recommended him, if he were wise, to bring the girl down, otherwise they would take her by force, whatever consequences might ensue.
When this brave and valiant knight found that fair words were of no use, and that force was the only remedy, he summoned up all his courage, and resolved that the villains should not have the damsel, and that he was ready to die in her defence.
At last one of the four advanced to knock with his bludgeon at the door of the chamber, and the others followed him, and were bravely beaten back by the knight. Then began a fight which lasted long, and although the two parties were so unequally matched, the good knight vanquished and repulsed the four villains, and as he pursued them to drive them away, one of them, who had a sword, turned suddenly and plunged it in the body of the knight, and pierced him through, so that he fell dead at once, at which they were very glad. Then they compelled the host to quietly bury the body in the garden of the inn.
When the good knight was dead, the villains came and knocked at the door of the chamber where the damsel was impatiently awaiting the return of her lover, and they pushed open the door.
As soon as she saw the brigands enter, she guessed that the knight was dead, and said;
"Alas, where is my protector? Where is my sole refuge? What has become of him? Why does he thus wound my heart and leave me here alone?"
The scoundrels, seeing that she was much troubled, thought to falsely deceive her by fair words, and told her the knight had gone to another house, and had commanded them to go to her and protect her; but she would not believe them, for her heart told her that they had killed him. She began to lament, and to cry more bitterly than ever.
"What is this?" they said. "Why all these tricks and manners? Do you think we don't know you? If you imagine your bully is still alive, you are mistaken—we have rid the country of him. Therefore make your mind up that we are all four going to enjoy you." At these words one of them advanced, and seized her roughly, saying that he would have her company.
When the poor damsel saw herself thus forced, and that she could not soften their hearts, she said;
"Alas! sirs, since you will force me, and my humble prayers cannot soften you, at least have this decency; that if I abandon myself to you it shall be privately, that is to say each separately without the presence of the others."
They agreed to this, though with a bad grace, and then they made her choose which of the four should first have her company. She chose the one that she fancied was the mildest and best-tempered, but he was the worst of all. The door was closed, and then the poor damsel threw herself at the scoundrel's feet, and with many piteous appeals, begged that he would have pity on her. But he was obstinate, and declared that he would have his will of her.
When she saw that he was so cruel, and that her prayers could not melt him, she said.
"Well then, since so it must be, I am content; but I beg of you to close the windows that we may be more secret."
He willingly consented, and whilst he was closing them, she drew a little knife that she wore at her girdle, and uttering one long, piteous cry, she cut her throat, and gave up the ghost.
When the scoundrel saw her lying on the ground, he fled along with his companions, and it is to be supposed that they were afterwards punished according to their deserts.
Thus did these two sweet lovers end their days, one directly after the other, without ever having tasted of the joys and pleasures in which they hoped to have lived together all their days.
Relates how a Spanish Bishop, not being able to procure fish, ate two partridges on a Friday, and how he told his servants that he had converted them by his prayers into fish—as will more plainly be related below.
If you wish, you shall hear now, before it is too late, a little story about a brave Spanish Bishop who went to Rome to transact some business for his master the King of Castille.
This brave prelate, whom I intend to make furnish this last story, arrived one day at a little village in Lombardy, it being then early on a Friday evening, and ordered his steward to have supper early, and to go into the town and buy what he could, for he (the Bishop) was very hungry, not having broken his fast all that day.
His servant obeyed him, and went to the market, and to all the fishmongers in the town, to procure some fish, but, to make the story short, not a single fish, in spite of all the efforts made by the steward, could be found.
But, on returning to the inn, he met a countryman, who had two fine partridges which he would sell very cheaply. The steward thought he would secure them, and they would serve to make the Bishop a feast on Sunday.
He bought them, a great bargain, and came to his master with the two partridges in his hand, all alive, and fat, and plump, and told him of his failure to get any fish, at which my Lord was not best pleased.
"And what can we have for supper?"
"My Lord," replied the steward, "I will get them to prepare you eggs in a hundred thousand different ways, and you can have apples and pears. Our host has also some rich cheese. We will do our best; have patience, a supper is soon over, and you shall fare better to-morrow, God willing. We shall be in a town which is much better provided with fish than this, and on Sunday you cannot fail to dine well, for here are two partridges which are plump and succulent."
The Bishop looked at the two partridges, and found them as the steward said, plump, and in good condition, so he thought they would take the place of the fish which he had lost. So he caused them to be killed and prepared for the spit.
When the steward saw that his master wished to have them roasted, he was astounded, and said to his master;
"My lord, it is well to kill them, but to roast them now for Sunday seems a pity."
But the steward lost his time, for, in spite of his remonstrances, they were put on the spit and roasted.
The good prelate watched them cooking, and the poor steward was scandalized, and did not know what to make of his master's ill-ordered appetite.
When the partridges were roasted, the table laid, the wine brought in, eggs cooked in various ways, and served to a turn, the prelate seated himself, said grace, and asked for the partridges, with mustard.
His steward wished to know what his master would do with these birds, and brought them to him fresh from the fire, and emitting an odour enough to make a friar's mouth water.
The good Bishop attacked the partridges, and began to cut and eat with such haste, that he did not give his squire, who came to carve for him, sufficient time to lay his bread, and sharpen his knife.
When the steward saw his master eating the birds, he was so amazed that he could no longer keep silent, and said to him;
"Oh, my lord, what are you doing? Are you a Jew or a Saracen, that you do not keep Friday? By my faith, I am astonished at such doings."
"Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue!" said the good prelate, who had his hands and his beard covered with fat and gravy. "You are a fool, and know not what you are saying. I am doing no harm. You know well and believe, that by the words spoken by me and other priests, we make of the host, which is nothing but flour and water, the precious body of Jesus Christ. Can I not by the same means?—I who have seen so many things at the court of Rome and many other places—know by what words I may transform these partridges, which are flesh, into fish, although they still retain the form of partridges? So indeed I have done. I have long known how to do this. They were no sooner put to the fire than by certain words I know, I so charmed them that I converted them into the substance of fish, and you might—all of you who are here—eat, as I do, without sin. But as you would still believe them to be flesh, they would do you harm, so I alone will commit the sin."
The steward and the other attendants began to laugh, and pretended to believe the highly-coloured story that their master had told them, and ever after that were up to the trick, and related it joyously in many places.
Of a rich merchant of the city of Genoa, who married a fair damsel, who owing to the absence of her husband, sent for a wise clerk—a young, fit, and proper man—to help her to that of which she had need; and of the fast that he caused her to make—as you will find more plainly below.
In the powerful and well-populated city of Genoa, there, lived some time ago, a merchant who was very rich, and whose business consisted in sending much merchandise by sea to foreign lands, and especially to Alexandria. So occupied was he with the management of his ships, and in heaping up riches, that during all his days, from his tender youth till the time that he was fifty years of age, he never cared or wanted to do anything else.
When he had arrived at this last mentioned age, he began to think about his condition, and to see that he had spent and employed all his days and years in heaping up riches without ever having for a single minute or moment been inclined to think of marrying and having children, to whom the great wealth, that he had by great diligence and labour amassed and acquired, would succeed. This thought caused him much mental sorrow, and he was greatly vexed that he had thus spent his youth.
This grief and regret lasted many days, during which time it happened that in the above-named city, the young children, after they had solemnized some festival, did as they were accustomed each year, and variously apparelled and disguised, some this way and some that, came in great numbers to the place where the public rejoicings of the city are usually held, to play in the presence of their fathers and mothers, and to have their costumes praised and admired.
At this assembly was our merchant, still moody and vexed, and the sight of so many fathers and mothers taking pleasure in watching their children dance and sport, increased the grief that was preying on his mind, and, unable to watch them any longer, he returned to his house, sad and vexed, and retired to his lonely chamber, where he remained some time, uttering complaints of this kind;
"Ah, poor, miserable, old man that I am and always have been, and for whom fate and destiny are hard, bitter, and unpleasant. Oh, wretched man! worn out and weary by watching and work, suffered and borne by land and sea. Your great riches and heaped-up treasures, which with many perilous adventures, hard work, and sweat you have amassed, and for which you have expended all your time, are but vain, for you have never thought who will possess them, and to whom by human law you should leave your memory and your name when you are dead and gone. Oh, wicked man, how could you have been careless of that of which you should have taken most heed? Marriage never pleased you, and you always feared and refused it, and even disliked and scorned the good and just counsels of those who would have found you a wife, in order that you might have offspring who would perpetuate your name, your praise, and your renown. Oh, how happy are those parents who leave good and wise children to succeed them! How many fathers have I seen to-day playing with their children, who would call themselves most happy, and think they had well employed their time, if, after their decease, they could leave their children but one small part of the great wealth that I possess! But what pleasure and solace can I ever have? What name or fame shall I leave after my death? Where is the son who will cherish my memory when I am dead? Blessed be that holy condition of marriage by which the memory and recollection of fathers is preserved, and by which fiefs, possessions, and heritages are permanently secured to their happy children!"
When the good merchant had thus argued to himself for a long time, he suddenly thought of a remedy for his misfortunes, saying;
"Well, I am in future determined, notwithstanding the number of my years, not to trouble or torment myself with grief, or remorse. At the worst I have but been like the birds, which prepare their nests before they begin to lay their eggs. I have, thank God, riches sufficient for myself, wife, and many children, if it should happen that I have any, nor am I so old, or so devoid of natural vigour, as to lose hope of even having any offspring. What I have to do is to watch and work, and use every endeavour to discover where I shall find a wife fit and proper for me."
Having finished his soliloquy, he left his chamber, and sent for two of his comrades—merchant-mariners like himself,—and to them he plainly stated his case, and requested them to help to find him a wife, for that was the thing he most desired in the world.
The two merchants, having heard what their comrade had to say, much applauded his determination, and undertook to make all possible endeavours to find him a wife.
Whilst they were making enquiries, our merchant,—as hot to get married as he could be—played the gallant, and sought throughout the city all the youngest and prettiest girls—to the others he paid small heed.
He searched so well that he found one such as he required,—born of honest parents, marvellously beautiful, aged only fifteen or thereabouts, gentle, good-tempered, and well brought up in every respect.
As soon as he knew her virtues and good qualities, he felt such affection and desire that she should be his lawful wife, that he asked her hand of her parents and friends; which, after some slight difficulties that were quickly removed, was given, and the same hour they were betrothed, and security given by him for the dower he was to bestow upon her.
If the good merchant had taken pride and pleasure in his merchandise during the time that he was amassing a fortune, he felt still more when he saw himself certain of being married, and that to a wife by whom he could have fine children.
The wedding was honourably celebrated, with all due pomp, and that feast being over and finished, he forgot all about his former life,—that is to say on the sea—but lived happily and in great pleasure with his fair and fond wife.
But this way of life did not last long, for he soon became tired and bored, and before the first year had expired took a dislike to living at home in idleness and a humdrum domestic existence, and pined for his old business of merchant-mariner, which seemed to him easier and more pleasant than that which he had so willingly undertaken to manage night and day.
He did nothing but devise how he could get to Alexandria, as he used in the old days, and it seemed to him that it was not only difficult but impossible for him to abstain from going to sea. Yet though he firmly resolved to return to his old profession, he concealed his intention from his wife, fearing that she might be displeased.
There were also fears and doubts which disturbed him, and prevented him from executing his designs, for he knew the youth and character of his wife, and he felt sure that if he were absent she would not be able to control herself; and he considered also the mutability and variability of the feminine character, and that the young gallants were accustomed to pass in front of his house to see his wife, even when he was at home,—whence he imagined that in his absence they might come closer, and peradventure even take his place.
For a long time he was tormented by these difficulties and suspicions without saying a word but as he knew that he had lived the best part of his life, he now cared little for wife, marriage, and all that concerned domestic life, and to the arguments and theories which filled his head, provided a speedy solution by saying;—
"It is better to live than to die, and, if I do not quit my household very shortly, it is very certain that I shall not live. But then, shall I leave my fair and affectionate wife? Yes, I will leave her;—she shall henceforth manage for herself as she pleases; it will no longer be incumbent on me. Alas, what shall I do? What a dishonour, what an annoyance it would be for me if she did not continue to guard her chastity. Ah, yes, it is better to live than to die, that I may be able to look after her! But God cannot wish that I should take such care and pains about a woman's belly without any pay or reward, and receive nothing in return but torture of soul and body. I will not bear all the trouble and anguish of mind that many suffer in living with their wives. It angers me and saddens me to think that God only permits me to live to enjoy the trifling incidents of married life. I want full liberty and freedom to do what I please."
When the good merchant had finished these sage reflections, he went and found some of his old comrades, and told them that he wished to visit Alexandria with a cargo of merchandise, as he had often previously done in their company,—but he did not tell them of the trouble and anxiety which his married life caused him.
He soon made all arrangements with them, and they told him to be ready to start when the first fair wind came. The sailors and cargo were soon ready, and awaited in a safe place, a fair wind to start.
The good merchant, still firm in his determination, as on the previous days, found his wife alone in her chamber, and that she should not be sad at his departure, addressed her in these words.
"My dearest wife, whom I love better than my life, I beg of you to be of good heart, and show yourself joyful, and be not sad or cast down at what I am about to say to you. I propose—if it be God's pleasure—to once more visit Alexandria, as I have long been in the habit of doing; and it seems to me that you should not be vexed thereat, seeing that you are aware that that is my business and profession, by which I have acquired riches, houses, name, and fame, and many good friends. The handsome and rich ornaments, rings, garments, and other things with which you are apparelled and ornamented as is no other woman in the city, as you well know, I have acquired by the profit I have made on my merchandise. This journey of mine therefore should not trouble you, for I shall shortly return. And I promise you that if this time,—as I hope,—Fortune should smile upon me, never will I return there again, but this time will take leave of it for ever. You must therefore be of good courage, and I will leave in your hands the disposition, administration, and management of all the goods which I possess; but before I leave I have some requests to make of you.
"The first is, I beg of you to be happy whilst I am on my voyage, and live comfortably; for if I know that such is the case I shall have greater pleasure in my voyage. For the second, you know that nothing should be hidden or concealed between us two, and all honour, profit, and renown should be—as I know they are—common to both of us, and the praise and honour of the one cannot exist without the glory of the other, and similarly the dishonour of the one would be the shame of us both. I wish you to understand that I am not so devoid of sense that I am not aware that I leave you young, beautiful, kind, fresh, and tender, and without the consolation of a husband; and that many men will desire you. And although I firmly believe that you are now fully resolved, nevertheless, when I think of your age and inclinations and the warmth of your desires, it does not seem possible to me that you should not, out of pure necessity and compulsion, enjoy the company of a man during my absence. It is my will and pleasure therefore to permit you to grant those favours which nature compels you to grant. I would beg of you though to respect our marriage vow unbroken as long as you possibly can. I neither intend nor wish to leave you in the charge of any person, but leave you to be your own guardian. Truly, there is no duenna, however watchful, who can prevent a woman from doing what she wishes. When therefore your desires shall prick and spur you on, I would beg you, my dear wife, to act with such circumspection in their execution that they may not be publicly known,—for if you do otherwise, you, and I, and all our friends will be infamous and dishonoured.
"If then you cannot remain chaste, at least take pains to retain your reputation. I will teach you how that is to be done, if the need should arise. You know that in our good city there are plenty of handsome men. From amongst these choose one only, and be content to do with him whatever nature may incline you to do. At all events, I wish that in making your choice you should take particular care that he is not a vagabond, or dishonest, or disreputable person, for great dangers might arise from your acquaintance with such a person, inasmuch as he would, without doubt publish your secret.
"You will select one therefore who is, you are sure, both wise and prudent, and who will take as much pains to conceal your amour as you do yourself. This I beg of you, and that you will promise me honestly and loyally to remember this lesson. I do not advise you to reply in the way that other women are accustomed to when similar proposals are made to them. I know what they would say, which would be somewhat to this effect. 'Oh, husband! what do you mean by speaking like that? How could you have such a cruel, unjust opinion of me? How can you imagine that I should commit such an abominable crime? No! no! God forbid that I should make you such a promise. I will rather wish that the earth may open and swallow me up alive the day and hour—I will not say commit—but even think of committing such a sin.
"My dear wife, I have shown you this way of replying in order that you may not use the same to me. I firmly and truly believe that at the present moment you are fully determined to remain chaste, and I desire you to remain of that opinion as long as nature will permit you. And understand that I do not wish you to break your vows unless you are unable to battle against the appetites of your frail and weak youth."
When the good merchant had finished his speech, his fair, kind, and gentle wife, her face all suffused with blushes, trembled, and could not for some moments reply to what her husband had said. Soon her blushes vanished, her confidence returned, and calling up all her courage, she replied in these words;
"My kind, and greatly beloved husband, I assure you that never have I been so disturbed and troubled by any speech I have ever heard, as I am now by your words, by which I learn something that I never heard or guessed. You know my simplicity, youth, and innocence, and you say that it is not possible at my age to avoid committing such a fault, and that you are sure and know positively that when you are away I shall not be able to preserve our marriage vow in its integrity. That speech greatly vexed my heart, and made me tremble, and I do not know how I can reply to your arguments. You have deprived me of the reply I should have made, but I can tell you from the bottom of my heart that with joined hands I beg most humbly of God that he may cause an abyss to open in which I may be thrown, that my limbs may be torn off, and that I may suffer a most cruel death, if ever the day comes when I shall not only be disloyal to our marriage vow, but even think for a brief moment of being disloyal. How, and in what manner I could be brought to commit such a crime, I am unable to comprehend. And as you have forbidden me to reply as I should, telling me that women are accustomed to make elusive and false excuses, I will to give you pleasure, and allay your suspicions, and that you may see that I am ready to obey and keep your commands, promise you this moment with firm and immutable faith and constancy, to await the day of your return in true, pure, and entire chastity of body, and may God forbid that the contrary should happen. Be fully assured that I will obey your orders in every respect. If there is anything else you wish or command, I beg of you to inform me, and I will perform your will (I desire nothing else) and not my own."
Our merchant, when he heard his wife's reply, was so overjoyed that he could not refrain from weeping, and said:
"My dearest spouse, since you have of your great kindness given me the promise that I required, I beg of you to keep it."
The following morning, the good merchant was sent for by his comrades to put to sea. So he took leave of his wife, and commended her to the care of God. Then he put to sea to sail to Alexandria where they arrived in a few days, the wind being favourable, at which place they stayed a long time both to deliver their merchandise and take in fresh cargoes.
During this time the gracious damsel of whom I have spoken remained in the house with, as her only companion, a little girl who served her. As I have said, this fair damsel was but fifteen years of age, therefore any fault that she committed must be imputed, not to a vicious character, but to youth and inexperience.
When the merchant had been absent many days, little by little she began to forget him. As soon as the young men of the city knew of his departure, they came to visit her. At first she would neither leave the house nor show herself, but as they continued to come daily, she, on account of the great pleasure she took in sweet and melodious songs and harmonies of all instruments, which they played outside her door, peeped through the crevices of the windows and the trellis so that she could see the musicians, and they for their part were quite willing to be seen.
In hearing these songs and dances she took so much pleasure, that her mind was filled with love, and the natural warmth of her affections often tempted her to incontinence. So often was she visited in this manner, that in the end her concupiscence and carnal desires conquered, and she was fairly hit by the dart of love. She often thought how easy it was for her to find time and place for any lover, for no one guarded her, and no one could prevent her putting her designs in execution, and she came to the conclusion that her husband was very wise when he said he was positive that she could not preserve continence and chastity, although she wished to keep the promise she had made to him.
"It is right then," she said to herself, "for me to follow my husband's advice; by doing which I shall incur no dishonour, since he himself gave me permission, and I shall not violate the promise I made him. I remember rightly that he charged me that if ever I broke my vow of chastity, that I should choose a man who was wise, of good fame, and great virtues, and no other. That is what I will really do, as I may without disobeying my husband's instructions, and by following his good advice which was ample for my purpose. I suppose that he did not intend that the man should be old, and it seems to me that he should be young, but having as good a reputation for learning and science as any old man. Such was my husband's advice, I remember."
At the same time that the damsel was making these reflections, and was searching for a wise and prudent, young man to cool her bowels, there fortunately arrived in the city a very wise young clerk, who had newly arrived from the university of Bologna, where he had been several years without once returning to his native city. Such attention had he given to his studies that there was not in all the country a clerk who enjoyed such a reputation amongst the learned men of the city, whom he assisted continually.
He was accustomed to go every day to the Town Hall on the market-place, and was obliged to pass before the house of the said damsel, who was much struck by his appearance and pleasant manners. And although he had never filled any clerical office, she came to the conclusion that he was a very learned clerk, and fell deeply in love with him, saying to herself that he would be the man to guard her husband's secret; but how she was to inform him of her great and ardent love, and reveal the secret desires of her mind she knew not,—at which she was much vexed.
She bethought herself that as every day he passed before her house on his way to the market place, that she would be upon her balcony, dressed as handsomely as possible, in order that when he passed he might notice her beauty, and so be led to desire those favours which would not be refused him.
Many times did the damsel so show herself, although that had not previously been her custom, and though she was pleasant to gaze upon, and her youthful mind was filled with thoughts of love, the wise clerk never perceived her, for in walking he glanced neither to the right nor left.
This plan of the damsel's was not as successful as she imagined it would be. She was very sorrowful, and the more she thought of the clerk, the more ardent did her desires become. At last, after a number of plans had suggested themselves to her, and which for the sake of brevity I pass over, she determined to send her little servant-maid to him. So she called her, and ordered her to go and ask for such-an-one,—that is to say, the learned clerk—and when she had found him, to tell him to come in haste to the house of such a damsel, the wife of so-and-so; and if he should ask what the damsel wanted, she was to reply that she knew not, but only knew that he was urgently required to come at once.
The little girl learned her message, and went forth to seek him; and she was soon shown a house where he was at dinner with a great company of his friends, and other people of high degree.
The girl entered the house, and saluting all the company, asked for the clerk, and delivered her message properly. The good clerk, who had been acquainted since his youth with the merchant of whom the girl spoke, and knew his house as he did his own, but was not aware that he was married or who was his wife, imagined that during the husband's absence, the wife had need of advice on some weighty matter, for he knew that the husband was away, and had no suspicion of the cause of his invitation. He said to the girl;
"My dear, go and tell your mistress that as soon as dinner is over I will come to her."
The messenger duly delivered these words, and God knows how she was received by her mistress. When she heard that the clerk, her lover, would come, she was more joyful than ever woman was, and owing to the great joy she felt at having the clerk in the house, she trembled and did not know what to do. She caused the house to be well swept, and fair herbage to be spread in her chamber, covered the bed and the couch with rich tapestry and embroidery, and dressed and adorned herself with her most precious belongings.
Then she waited a little time, which seemed to her marvellous long on account of the great desire she had, and so impatient was she for his arrival, and that she might perceive him coming afar off, she went up to her chamber and then came down again, and went now hither, now thither, and was so excited that it seemed as though she were out of her senses.
At last she went up to her chamber, and there laid out all the riches and delicacies that she had prepared to feast her lover. She made the little servant-maid stay below to let the clerk in, and conduct him to her mistress.
When he arrived, the servant-maid received him, and let him in and closed the door, leaving his servants outside, whom she told that they were to await their master's return.
The damsel, hearing that her lover had arrived, could not refrain from running down stairs to meet him, and she saluted him politely. Then she took his hand and led him to the chamber which she had prepared. He was much astonished when he arrived there, not only by the diversity of splendours that he saw, but also by the great beauty of the fair girl who conducted him.
As soon as they were in the chamber, she sat down on a stool by the couch, and made him sit on another by her side, and there they both sat for a certain time, without saying a word, for each waited for the other to speak, though in very different ways, for the clerk imagined that the damsel would consult him on some great and difficult matter, and wished her to begin; whilst she, on the other hand, knowing how wise and prudent he was, believed that he would know why he had been sent for without her telling him.
When she saw that he made no attempt to speak, she began, and said;
"My very dear and true friend, and learned man, I will tell you at once why I have sent for you. I believe that you are well-acquainted and familiar with my husband. He has left me, in the condition you now see me, whilst he goes to Alexandria to bring back merchandise, as he has long been used. Before his departure, he told me that when he was away, he was sure that my weak and fragile nature would cause me to lose my chastity, and that necessity would compel me to have intercourse with a man to quench the natural longings I should be sure to feel after his departure. And truly I deem him a very wise man, for that which I thought impossible I find has happened, for my youth, beauty, and nature rebel against wasting away in vain. That you may understand me plainly I will tell you that my wise and thoughtful husband when he left, knew that as all young and tender plants dry and wither when they cannot fulfil the needs of their nature, so it was likely to be with me. And seeing clearly that my nature and constitution were likely to be controlled by my natural desires, which I could not long resist, he made me swear and promise that, if nature should force me to become unchaste, I would choose a wise man of good position, who would carefully guard our secret. I do not think there is in all the city a man more worthy than yourself, for you are young and very wise. I do not suppose then that you will refuse me or repel me. You see me as I am, and you may, during the absence of my husband, supply his place if you wish, and without the knowledge of any one; place, time, and opportunity all favour us."
The gentleman was much surprised and moved at what the lady said, but he concealed his emotion. He took her right hand and with a smiling face addressed her in these words:
"I ought to render infinite thanks to Dame Fortune, who has to-day given me so much pleasure, and the attainment of the greatest happiness I could have in this world; never in my life will I call myself unfortunate, since Fortune has granted me this great favour. I may certainly say that I am to-day the happiest of men, for when I consider, my beautiful and kind mistress, how we may joyously pass our days together, without any person's knowledge or interference, I almost faint with joy. Where is the man more favoured by Fortune than I am? If it were not for one thing which forms a slight obstacle to our love affair, I should be the luckiest man on earth, and I am greatly vexed and annoyed that I cannot overcome that difficulty."
When the damsel, who had never imagined that any difficulty could arise, heard that there was an obstacle which would prevent her indulging her passions, she was very sad and sorrowful, and begged him to say what it was, in order that she might find a remedy if possible.
"The obstacle," he said, "is not so great that it cannot be removed in a little time, and, since you are kind enough to wish to know what it is, I will tell you. When I was studying at the University of Bologna, the people of the city rose in insurrection against their ruler. I was accused, along with some others, my companions, of having stirred up this insurrection, and I was closely imprisoned. When I found myself in prison, and in danger of losing my life, though I knew I was innocent, I made a vow to God, promising that if He would deliver me from prison and restore me to my friends and relations in this city, I would, for love of Him, fast for a whole year on bread and water, and during that fast would not allow my body to sin. Now I have, by His aid, accomplished the greater part of the year and but little remains. I would beg of you therefore, since it is your pleasure to choose me as your lover, not to change again for any man in the world, and not to fret over the little delay that is necessary for me to accomplish my fast, and which is now but a very short time, and would have been long since over if I had dared to confide in some one else who could help me, for any days that others will fast for me are counted as though I fasted myself. And as I perceive the great love and confidence you have for me, I will, if you wish, place a trust in you that I have never put in my brothers, nor my friends, nor relations. I will ask you to help me with the remaining part of the fast to accomplish the year, that I may the sooner aid you in the matter you have desired of me. My kind friend, I have but sixty days to fast, which—if it is your will and pleasure—I will divide in two parts, of which you shall have one and I will have the other, on condition that you promise to perform your part honestly and without fraud, and when all is completed, we will pass our days pleasantly. If therefore, you are willing to help me in the manner I have said, tell me at once."
It is to be supposed that this long delay was hardly pleasing to the young woman, but as her lover had asked her so kindly, and also because she wished the fast to be finished, that she might accomplish her desires with her lover, and thinking also that thirty days would not much interfere with her intentions, she promised to perform her share without fraud, deception, or imposition.
The good gentleman, seeing that he had won his case and that his affairs were prospering, took leave of the damsel, (who suspected no harm) and told her that as it was on his road from his home to the market-place to pass by her house, he would, without fail, often come and visit her, and so he departed.
The fair damsel began the next day her fast, making a rule for herself that during all the time of the fast she would eat nothing but bread and water until the sun had set.
When she had fasted three days, the wise clerk, as he was going to the market-place at the accustomed time, called upon the lady, with whom he talked long, and then, as he was saying farewell, asked her if she had commenced the fast? She replied she had.
"Can you continue," he said, "and keep your promise until all is finished?"
"I can entirely," she replied; "do not fear."
He took leave and departed, and she went on from day to day with her fast, and kept her vow as she had promised, such being her good-nature. Before she had fasted eight days, her natural heat began to decrease so much that she was forced to change her clothes and put on furs and thick garments, which are usually only worn in winter, instead of the light robes which she wore before she began the fast.
On the fifteenth day, she received a visit from her lover, who found her so weak that she could hardly move about the house, but the poor simpleton was firmly resolved not to practise any trickery, so deeply in love was she, and so firmly resolved to persevere with this fast, for the sake of the joys and pleasant delights which awaited her at the termination.
The clerk, when he entered the house, and saw her so feeble, said;
"What kind of face is that, and how is your health? Now I see that you are sorry you undertook this long fast! Ah, my sweetest love! have a firm and constant mind. We have to-day achieved the half of our task: if your nature is weak, conquer it by firmness and constancy of heart, and do not break your faithful promise."
He admonished her so kindly, that she took courage, so that it seemed to her that the remaining fifteen days would hardly be noticed.
The twentieth came, and the poor simpleton had lost all colour and seemed half dead, and felt no more desires of concupiscence than if she had been really dead. She was obliged to take to her bed and continually remain there, and then, it occurred to her mind that the clerk had caused her to fast to punish her carnal appetites, and she came to the conclusion that his methods were ingenious and effective, and would not have been thought of by a less clever and good man.
Nevertheless, she was not less resolved to go on to the ead, and thoroughly fulfil her promise.
On the last day but one of the fast, she sent for the clerk, who, when he saw her in bed asked her if she had lost courage now that there was only one day more to run?
But she, interrupting him, replied;
"Ah, my good friend, you loved me with a true and perfect love, and not dishonourably, as I dared to love you. Therefore I shall esteem you, as long as God gives life to me and to you, as my dearest and best friend, who protected, and taught me to protect, my chastity, and the honour and good name, of me, my husband, my relatives, and my friends. Blessed also be my dear husband, whose advice and counsels I have kept, to the great solace of my heart. But for you, my friend, I render you such thanks as I may, for your honourable conduct and your great kindness to me, for which I can never sufficiently requite you, nor can my friends."
The good and wise clerk, seeing that he had achieved his object, took leave of the fair damsel, and gently admonished her and advised her that she should in future correct her body by abstinence and fasting whenever she felt any prickings of lust. By which means she lived chastely until the return of her husband, who knew nothing of the matter, for she concealed it from him—and so also did the clerk.
81 (return)
[ By M. de Waulvrin (Vaurin), Chamberlain to the Duke of
Burgundy. He wrote a history of England and France from the earliest
times to 1471. Also contributed No. 83.]
82 (return)
[ In the Table of Contents of Vérard's edition, this story
is ascribed to Monseigneur de Lannoy, but at the head of the story
itself the name of the author is given as Jean Martin, who also wrote
No. 78. Jean Martin was chief sommelier du corps to Philippe le Bel.
After the death of that Duke he did not remain in the service of Charles
le Téméraire, but retired to Dijon, where he died, 28th Nov. 1475.]
84 (return)
[ In the Table of Contents this story is ascribed to the
Marquis de Rothelin. He was Marquis de Hocheberg, Comte de Neufchâtel
(Switzerland) Seigneur de Rothelin etc. Marshal of Burgundy, and Grand
Seneschal of Provence. In 1491, he was appointed Grand Chamberlain of
France. He died in 1503.]
85 (return)
[ The story is taken from an old fabliau (Le Forgeron de
Creil) and has been used also by Sachetti, Des Periers and others. No
author's name is given in Vêrard, but in the M.S. from which Mr. Wright
worked, the name of M. de Santilly is found at the head of this tale.]
88 (return)
[ Found also in Boccaccio (Dec. day VIII, nov. VII).
Poggio (Fraus mulieris) and in several of the collections of fabliaux
(La Bourgeoise d'Orléans).
Mr. Wright gives Alardin (who also contributed No. 77) as the author. An Alardin Bournel returned to France with Louis XI in 1461.]
90 (return)
[ Taken from the Facetiae of Poggio.]
91 (return)
[ Taken from the Facetiae of Poggio.]
93 (return)
[ Taken from the Facetiae of Poggio. According to Mr.
Wright, by Timoléon Vignier, possibly a brother of Philippe Vignier.]
95 (return)
[ Taken from the Facetiae of Poggio.]
96 (return)
[ An exceedingly old story, found in a fabliau by
Rutebeuf, Poggio's Facetiae (Canis testamentum) etc. It also occurs in
a collection of Russian folk-lore tales.]
99 (return)
[ Also from Poggio's Facetiae (Sacerdotis virtus).
Several of the saints have performed the same miracle in order to
avoid the terrible sin of eating meat on a Friday. It was amongst the
meritorious acts of one—St. Johannes Crucis—who was canonized as
recently as 1840.]
