"Is that so?" said he. "Well, well, you shall see how I will take it. By my oath I am well treated, when, after all I have suffered, I am only laughed, at, and what is still worse, must pay for the satin for the petticoat. Really, I ought to have the shirts that were bet, as a compensation for what I have suffered."

"By Heaven, he is right," said the women. "We are on your side as to that, and you shall have them. Shall he not have them, Madame?"

"On what grounds?" said she. "He lost the wager."

"Oh, yes, we know that well enough: he has no right to them,—indeed he does not ask for them on that account, but he has well deserved them for another reason."

"Never mind about that," said Madame. "I will willingly give the material out of love for you, mesdames, who have so warmly pleaded for him, if you will undertake to do the sewing."

"Yes, truly, Madame."

Like one who when he wakes in the morning has but to give himself a shake and he is ready, Monsieur needed but a bunch of twigs to beat his clothes and he was ready, and so he went to Mass; and Madame and her women followed him, laughing loudly at him I can assure you.

And you may imagine that during the Mass there was more than one giggle when they remembered that Monsieur, whilst he was in the chest (though he did not know it himself) had been registered in the book which has no name. (*) And unless by chance this book falls into his hands, he will never,—please God—know of his misfortune, which on no account would I have him know. So I beg of any reader who may know him, to take care not to show it to him.

(*) The Book of Cuckolds.

*****



STORY THE TWENTY-EIGHTH — THE INCAPABLE LOVER. [28]

By Messire Miohaut De Changy.

Of the meeting assigned to a great Prince of this kingdom by a damsel who was chamber-woman to the Queen; of the little feats of arms of the said Prince and of the neat replies made by the said damsel to the Queen concerning her greyhound which had been purposely shut out of the room of the said Queen, as you shall shortly hear.

If in the time of the most renowned and eloquent Boccaccio, the adventure which forms the subject of my tale had come to his knowledge, I do not doubt but that he would have added it to his stories of great men who met with bad fortune. For I think that no nobleman ever had a greater misfortune to bear than the good lord (whom may God pardon!) whose adventure I will relate, and whether his ill fortune is worthy to be in the aforesaid books of Boccaccio, I leave those who hear it to judge.

The good lord of whom I speak was, in his time, one of the great princes of this kingdom, apparelled and furnished with all that befits a nobleman; and amongst his other qualities was this,—that never was man more destined to be a favourite with the ladies.

Now it happened to him at the time when his fame in this respect most flourished, and everybody was talking about him, that Cupid, who casts his darts wherever he likes, caused him to be smitten by the charms of a beautiful, young, gentle and gracious damsel, who also had made a reputation second to no other of that day on account of her great and unequalled beauty and her good manners and virtues, and who, moreover, was such a favourite with the Queen of that country that she shared the royal bed on the nights when the said Queen did not sleep with the king.

This love affair, I must tell you, had advanced to such a point that each only desired time and place to say and do what would most please both. They were many days considering how to find a convenient opportunity, and at last, she—who was as anxious for the welfare of her lover as she was for the safety of her own reputation—thought of a good plan, of which she hastened to inform him, saying as follows;

"My dearest friend, you know that I sleep with the Queen, and that it is not possible for me—unless I would spoil everything—to resign that honour and position which the noblest lady of the land would think herself proud and happy to obtain. So that, though I would like to please you and do your pleasure, I would remain on good terms with her, and not desert her who can and does give me all the advancement and honour in the world. I do not suppose that you would have me act otherwise."

"No, by my soul, dearest," replied the worthy lord; "but at any rate I would beg you that in serving your mistress your devoted lover should not be forgotten, and that you do for him all that lies in your power, for he would rather gain your love and good-will than aught else in the world."

"This is what I will do for you, Monseigneur," said she. "The Queen, as you know, has a greyhound of which she is very fond, that sleeps in her chamber. I will find means to shut it out of the room without her knowledge, and when everybody has retired, I will jump out of bed, run to the reception room, and unbolt the door. Then, when you think that the Queen is in bed, you must come quietly, and enter the reception room and close the door after you. There you will find the greyhound, who knows you well enough, and will let you approach it; pull its ears and make it cry out, and when the Queen hears that, I expect that she will make me get out of bed at once to let it in. Then I will come to you, and fail me not, if ever you would speak to me again."

"My most dear and loyal sweetheart," said Monseigneur, "I thank you all I can. Be sure that I will fail not to be there."

Then he rose and went away, and the lady also; each thinking and desiring how to carry out the proposed plan.

What need of a long story? The greyhound wanted to come into the chamber of his mistress at the usual time, as it had been accustomed, but the damsel had condemned it to banishment, and it was quickly made to beat a retreat. The Queen went to bed without noticing the absence of the dog, and soon afterwards there came to keep her company, the gentle damsel, who was only waiting to hear the greyhound cry out as the signal for the battle.

It was not long before the worthy lord set to work, and soon managed to reach the chamber where the greyhound was sleeping. He felt for it, with his foot or with his hand, until he found it, then he took it by the ears and made it cry aloud two or three times.

The Queen, who heard it, soon knew that it was her greyhound, and thought that it wanted to come in. She called the damsel, and said;

"My dear, my greyhound is howling outside. Get up, and let it in!"

"Willingly, madam," said the damsel, and as she awaited the battle, the day and hour of which she had herself appointed, she only armed herself with her chemise, and in that guise, came to the door and opened it, and soon met with him who was awaiting her.

He was so delighted and so surprised to see his ladylove so beautiful, and so well-prepared for the encounter, that he lost his strength and sense, and had not force enough left to draw his dagger, and try whether it could penetrate her cuirass. Of kissing, and cuddling, and playing with her breasts, he could do plenty; but for the grand operation—nihil.

So the fair damsel was forced to return without leaving him that which he could not gain by force of arms. But when she would quit him, he tried to detain her by force and by soft speeches, but she dared not stay, so she shut the door in his face, and came back to the Queen, who asked her if she had let the greyhound in? And she said, "No, because she could not find it though she had looked well for it."

"Oh, well" said the Queen, "go to bed. It will be all right."

The poor lover was very dissatisfied with himself, and thought himself dishonoured and disgraced, for he had up till then had such confidence in himself that he believed he could in less than one hour have tackled three ladies, and come off every time with honour.

At last his courage returned, and he said to himself that if he ever were so fortunate as to find another such opportunity with his sweetheart, she should not escape as she did the previous time.

Thus animated and spurred on by shame and desire, he again took the greyhound by the ears, and made it cry out much louder than it had before.

Awakened by this cry, the Queen again sent her damsel, who opened the door as before, but had to return to her mistress without getting any more pleasure than she had the first time.

A third time did the poor gentleman do all in his power to tumble her, but the devil a bit could he find a lance to encounter her with, though she awaited his onslaught with a firm foot. And when she saw that she could not have her basket pierced, and that he could not lay his lance in rest, whatever advantage she gave him, she knew that the joust had come to nothing, and had a very poor opinion of the jouster.

She would no longer stay with him for all that he could say or do. She wished to return to the chamber, but her lover held her by force and said;

"Alas, sweetheart, stay a little longer, I pray!"

"I cannot," she said: "let me go! I have stayed too long already, considering the little I got by it," and with that she turned towards the chamber, but he followed her and tried to detain her.

When she saw that—to pay him out, and also hoodwink the Queen—she called out loud,

"Get out! get out! dirty beast that you are! By God! you shall not come in here, dirty beast that you are!" and so saying she closed the door.

The Queen, who heard it, asked,

"To whom are you speaking, my dear?"

"To this dirty dog, madam, who has given me such trouble to look for him. He was lying quite flat, and with his nose on the ground, hidden under a bench, so that I could not find him. And when I did find him he would not get up for anything that I could do. I would willingly have put him in, but he would not deign to lift up his head, so, in disgust, I have shut the door upon him and left him outside."

"You did quite right, my dear," said the Queen. "Come to bed, and go to sleep!"

Such, as you have heard, was the bad luck of this noble lord; and since he could not when his lady would, I believe that since then, when he had the power, his lady's will was not to be had.

*****



STORY THE TWENTY-NINTH — THE COW AND THE CALF.

By Monseigneur

Of a gentleman to whom—the first night that he was married, and after he had but tried one stroke—his wife brought forth a child, and of the manner in which he took it,—and of the speech that he made to his companions when they brought him the caudle, as you shall shortly hear.

It is not a hundred years ago since a young gentleman of this country wished to know and experience the joys of matrimony, and—to cut matters short—the much-desired day of his marriage duly came.

After much good cheer and the usual amusements, the bride was put to bed, and a short time afterwards her husband followed, and lay close to her, and without delay duly began the assault on her fortress. With some trouble he entered in and gained the stronghold, but you must understand that he did not complete the conquest without accomplishing many feats of arms which it would take long to enumerate; for before he came to the donjon of the castle he had other outworks, with which it was provided, to carry, like a place that had never been taken or was still quite new, and which nature had provided with many defences.

When he was master of the place, he broke his lance, and ceased the assault. But the fair damsel when she saw herself at the mercy of her husband, and how he had foraged the greater part of her manor, wished to show him a prisoner whom she held confined in a secret place,—or to speak plainly she was delivered on the spot, after this first encounter, of a fine boy; at which her husband was so ashamed and so astonished that he did not know what to do except to hold his tongue.

Out of kindness and pity, he did all that he possibly could for both mother and child, but, as you may believe, the poor woman could not restrain from uttering a loud cry when the child was born. Many persons heard this cry, and believed that it was "the cry of the maidenhead," (*) which is a custom of this country.

(*) A singular custom which obliged the bride to utter a loud cry when she lost her virginity, and to which the groomsmen replied by bringing a large bowl of caudle or some invigorating drink into the bed chamber. From some verses written by Clement Marot on the marriage of the Duke of Ferrara to Princess Renee, it would appear that the custom existed at the Court of France.

Immediately all the gentlemen in the house where the bridegroom resided, came and knocked at the door of the chamber, and brought the caudle; but though they knocked loudly they received no reply, for the bride was in a condition in which silence is excusable, and the bridegroom had not much to chatter about.

"What is the matter?" cried the guests. "Why do you not open the door? If you do not make haste we will break it open; the caudle we have brought you will be quite cold;" and they began to knock louder than ever.

But the bridegroom would not have uttered a word for a hundred francs; at which those outside did not know what to think, for he was not ordinarily a silent man. At last he rose, and put on a dressing-gown he had, and let in his friends, who soon asked him whether the caudle had been earned, and what sort of a time he had had? Then one of them laid the table-cloth, and spread the banquet, for they had everything prepared, and spared nothing in such cases. They all sat round to eat, and the bridegroom took his seat in a high-backed chair placed near his bed, looking very stupid and pitiful as you may imagine. And whatever the others said, he did not answer a word, but sat there like a statue or a carved idol.

"What is the matter?" cried one. "You take no notice of the excellent repast that our host has provided. You have not said a single word yet."

"Marry!" said another, "he has no jokes ready."

"By my soul!" said another, "marriage has wondrous properties. He has but been married an hour and he has lost his tongue. If he goes on at that rate there will soon be nothing left of him."

To tell the truth, he had formerly been known as a merry fellow, fond of a joke, and never uttered a word but a jest; but now he was utterly cast down.

The gentlemen drank to the bride and bridegroom, but devil a drop would either of them quaff in return; the one was in a violent rage, and the other was far from being at ease.

"I am not experienced in these affairs," said a gentleman, "but it seems we must feast by ourselves. I never saw a man with such a grim-looking face, and so soon sobered by a woman. You might hear a pin drop in his company. Marry! his loud jests are small enough now!"

"I drink to the bridegroom," said another, but the bridegroom neither drank, eat, laughed, or spoke. Nevertheless, after some time that he had been both scolded and teased by his friends, like a wild boar at bay, he retorted;

"Gentlemen, I have listened for some time to your jokes and reproofs. I would like you to understand that I have good reason to reflect and keep silent, and I am sure that there is no one here but would do the same if he had the same reasons that I have. By heavens! if I were as rich as the King of France, or the Duke of Burgundy, or all the princes of Christendom, I should not be able to provide that which, apparently, I shall have to provide. I have but touched my wife once, and she has brought forth a child! Now if each time that I begin again she does the same, how shall I be able to keep my family?"

"What? a child?" said his friends.

"Yes, yes! Really a child! Look here!" and he turned towards the bed and lifted up the clothes and showed them.

"There!" said he. "There is the cow and the calf! Am I not well swindled?"

Many of his friends were much astonished, and quite excused their host's conduct, and went away each to his own home. And the poor bridegroom abandoned his newly-delivered bride the first night, fearing that she would do the same another time, and not knowing what would become of him if so.

*****



STORY THE THIRTIETH — THE THREE CORDELIERS.

By Monsigneur De Beauvoir

Of three merchants of Savoy who went on a pilgrimage to St. Anthony in Bienne, (*) and who were deceived and cuckolded by three Cordeliers who slept with their wives. And how the women thought they had been with their husbands, and how their husbands came to know of it, and of the steps they took, as you shall shortly hear.

(*) This according to M. Lacroix is the old town of La Mothe St. Didier in Dauphine, which took the name of Saint Antoine on account of the relics of the Saint, which were brought there in the 11th century.

It is as true as the Gospel, that three worthy merchants of Savoy set out with their wives to go on a pilgrimage to St. Anthony of Vienne. And in order to render their journey more devout and more agreeable to God and St. Anthony, they determined that from the time they left their houses, and all through the journey, they would not sleep with their wives, but live in continence, both going and returning.

They arrived one night in the town, where they found good lodgings, and had excellent cheer at supper, like those who have plenty of money and know well what to do with it, and enjoyed themselves so much that each determined to break his oath, and sleep with his wife.

However, it happened otherwise, for when it was time to retire to rest, the women said good night to their husbands and left them, and shut themselves up in a chamber near, where each had ordered her bed to be made.

Now you must know that that same evening there arrived in the house three Cordeliers, who were going to Geneva, and who ordered a chamber not very far from that of the merchant's wives.

The women, when they were alone, began to talk about a hundred thousand things, and though there were only three of them they made enough noise for forty.

The good Cordeliers, hearing all this womens' chatter, came out of their chamber, without making any noise, and approached the door without being heard. They saw three pretty women, each lying by herself in a fair bed, big enough to accommodate a second bed-fellow; then they saw and heard also the three husbands go to bed in another chamber, and they said to themselves that fortune had done them a good turn, and that they would be unworthy to meet with any other good luck if they were cowardly enough to allow this opportunity to escape them.

"So," said one of them, "there needs no further deliberation as to what we are to do; we are three and they are three—let each take his place when they are asleep."

As it was said, so it was done, and such good luck had the good brothers that they found the key of the room in which the women were, and opened the door so gently that they were not heard by a soul, and they were not such fools when they had gained the outworks as not to close the door after them and take out the key, and then, without more ado, each picked out a bed-fellow, and began to ruffle her as well as he could.

One of the women, believing it was her husband, spoke, and said;

"What are you doing? Do you not remember your vow?" But the good Cordelier answered not a word, but did that for which he came, and did it so energetically that she could not help assisting in the performance.

The other two also were not idle, and the good women did not know what had caused their husbands thus to break their vow. Nevertheless, they thought they ought to obey, and bear it all patiently without speaking, each being afraid of being heard by her companions, for really each thought that she alone was getting the benefit.

When the good Cordeliers had done all they could, they left without saying a word, and returned to their chamber, each recounting his adventures. One had broken three lances; another, four; and the other, six. They rose early in the morning, and left the town.

The good ladies, who had not slept all night, did not rise very early in the morning, for they fell asleep at daybreak, which caused them to get up late.

On the other hand, their husbands, who had supped well the previous night, and who expected to be called by their wives, slept heavily till an hour so late that on other days they had generally travelled two leagues by that time.

At last the women got up, and dressed themselves as quickly as they could, and not without talking. And, amongst other things, the one who had the longest tongue, said;

"Between ourselves, mesdames—how have you passed the night? Have your husbands worked like mine did? He has not ceased to ruffle me all night."

"By St. John!" said they, "if your husband ruffled you well last night, ours have not been idle. They have soon forgotten what they promised at parting; though believe us we did not forget to remind them."

"I warned mine also," said the first speaker, "when he began, but he did not leave off working, and hurried on like a hungry man who had been deprived of my company for two nights."

When they were attired, they went to find their husbands, who were already dressed;

"Good morning, good morning! you sleepers!" cried the ladies.

"Thank you," said the men, "for having called us."

"By my oath!" said one lady. "We have no more qualms of conscience for not calling you than you have for breaking your vow."

"What vow?" said one of the men.

"The vow," said she, "that you made on leaving, not to sleep with your wife."

"And who has slept with his wife?" asked he. "You know well enough," said she, "and so do I."

"And I also," said her companion. "Here is my husband who never gave me such a tumbling as he did last night—indeed if he had not done his duty so well I should not be so pleased that he had broken his vow, but I pass over that, for I suppose he is like young children, who when they know they deserve punishment, think they may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb."

"By St. John! so did mine!" cried the third. "But I am not going to scold him for it. If there was any harm done there was good reason for it."

"And I declare by my oath," cried one of the men, "that you dream, and that you are drunken with sleep. As for me I slept alone, and did not leave my bed all night."

"Nor did I," said another.

"Nor I, by St. John!" said the third. "I would not on any account break my oath. And I feel sure that my friend here, and my neighbour there, who also promised, have not so quickly forgotten."

The women began to change colour and to suspect some trickery, when one of the husbands began to fear the truth. Without giving the women time to reply, he made a sign to his companions, and said, laughing;

"By my oath, madam, the good wine here, and the excellent cheer last night made us forget our promise; but be not displeased at the adventure; if it please God we each last night, with your help, made a fine baby, which is a work of great merit, and will be sufficient to wipe out the fault of breaking our vow!"

"May God will it so!" said the women. "But you so strongly declared that you had not been near us that we began to doubt a little."

"We did it on purpose," said he, "in order to hear what you would say."

"And so you committed a double sin; first to break your oath, then to knowingly lie about it; and also you have much troubled us."

"Do not worry yourselves about that," said he; "it is no great matter; but go to Mass, and we will follow you."

The women set out towards the church, and their husbands remained behind, without following them too closely; then they all said together, without picking their words;

"We are deceived! Those devils of Cordeliers have cuckolded us; they have taken our places, and shown us the folly of not sleeping with our wives. They should never have slept out of our rooms, and if it was dangerous to be in bed with them, is there not plenty of good straw to be had?"

"Marry!" said one of them, "we are well punished this time; but at any rate it is better that the trick should only be known to us than to us and our wives, for there would be much danger if it came to their knowledge. You hear by their confession that these ribald monks have done marvels—both more and better than we could do. And, if our wives knew that, they would not be satisfied with this experience only. My advice is that we swallow the business without chewing it."

"So help me God!" cried the third, "my friend speaks well. As for me, I revoke my vow, for it is not my intention to run any more risks."

"As you will," said the other two; "and we will follow your example."

So all the rest of the journey the wives slept with their husbands, though the latter took care not to explain the cause. And when the women saw that, they demanded the cause of this sudden change. And they answered deceitfully, that as they had begun to break their vow they had better go on.

Thus were the three worthy merchants deceived by the three good Cordeliers, without it ever coming to the knowledge of their wives, who would have died of grief had they known the truth; for every day we see women die for less cause and occasion.

*****



STORY THE THIRTY-FIRST — TWO LOVERS FOR ONE LADY. [31]

By Monseigneur De La Barde.

Of a squire who found the mule of his companion, and mounted thereon and it took him to the house of his master's mistress; and the squire slept there, where his friend found him; also of the words which passed between them—as is more clearly set out below.

A gentleman of this kingdom—a squire of great renown and reputation—fell in love with a beautiful damsel of Rouen, and did all in his power to gain her good graces. But fortune was contrary to him, and his lady so unkind, that finally he abandoned the pursuit in despair.

He was not very wrong to do so, for she was provided with a lover—not that the squire knew of that, however much he might suspect it.

He who enjoyed her love was a knight, and a man of great authority, and was so familiar with the squire as to tell him much concerning his love-affair. Often the knight said; "By my faith, friend, I would have you know that I have a mistress in this town to whom I am devoted; for, however tired I may be, I would willingly go three or four leagues to see her—a mere couple of leagues I would run over without stopping to take breath."

"Is there no request or prayer that I can make" said the squire, "that will cause you to tell me her name?"

"No, no!" said the other, "you shall not know that."

"Well!" said the squire, "when I am so fortunate as to have something good, I will be as reticent as you are."

It happened some time after this that the good knight asked the squire to supper at the castle of Rouen, where he was then lodged. He came, and they had some talk; the gentle knight, who had an appointment to see his lady at a certain hour, said farewell to the squire, and added,

"You know that we have various things to see to to-morrow, and that we must rise early in order to arrange various matters. It is advisable therefore to go to bed early, and for that reason I bid you goodnight."

The squire, who was cunning enough, suspected that the good knight wished to go somewhere, and that he was making the duties of the morrow an excuse to get rid of him, but he took no notice, and on taking leave and wishing good-night to his host, said;

"Monseigneur you say well; rise early to-morrow morning, and I will do the same."

When the good squire went down, he found a little mule at the foot of the staircase of the castle, with no one minding it. He soon guessed that the page he had met as he came down had gone to seek for a saddle-cloth for his master.

"Ah, ah" he said to himself, "my host did not get rid of me at this early hour for nothing. Here is his mule, which only waits till I am gone to carry his master to some place he does not wish me to know. Ah, mule!" said he, "if you could speak, you could tell me some news. Let me beg of you to lead me where your master wishes to be."

With that he made his page hold the stirrup, and mounted the mule, and laid the reins on the mule's neck, and let it amble on wherever it liked.

And the little mule led him by streets and alleys here and there, till at last it stopped before a little wicket, which was in a side street where its master was accustomed to come, and which was the garden gate of the house of the very damsel the squire had so loved and had abandoned in despair.

He dismounted, and tapped gently at the wicket, and a damsel, who was watching through a hidden lattice, believing it to be the knight, came down and opened the door, and said;

"Monseigneur you are welcome; mademoiselle is in her chamber, and awaits you."

She did not recognise him, because it was late, and he had a velvet cap drawn down over his face. And the good squire replied, "I will go to her."

The he whispered to his page, "Go quickly and put the mule where we found it; then go to bed."

"It shall be done, sir," he said.

The woman closed the gate, and led the way to the chamber. Our good squire, much occupied with the business in hand, walked boldly to the room where the lady was, and he found her simply dressed in a plain petticoat, and with a gold chain round her neck.

He saluted her politely, for he was kind, courteous and well-spoken, but she, who was as much astonished as though horns had sprouted out of her head, did not for the moment know how to reply, but at last she asked him what he sought there, why he came at that hour, and who had sent him?

"Mademoiselle," said he, "you may well imagine that if I had had to rely on myself alone I should not be here; but, thank God, one who has more pity for me than you ever had, has done this kindness to me."

"Who brought you here, sir?" she asked.

"By my oath, mademoiselle, I will not conceal that from you; it was such and such a lord (and he named the knight who had invited him to supper), who sent me here."

"Ah!" she cried. "Traitor and disloyal knight that he is, has he betrayed my confidence? Well, well! I will be revenged on him some day."

"Oh, mademoiselle! it is not right of you to say that, for it is no treason to give pleasure to one's friend, or to render him aid and service when one can. You know what a great friendship exists between him and me, and that neither hides from the other what is in his heart. It happened that not long ago I related and confessed to him the great love I bore you, and that because of you I had no happiness left in the world, for that by no means could I ever win your affection, and that it was not possible for me to long endure this horrible martyrdom. When the good knight knew that my words were really true, and was aware of the sorrow I endured, he was fain to tell me how he stood with regard to you, and preferred to lose you, and so save my life, than to see me die miserably and retain your affection. And if you are such a woman as you should be, you would not hesitate to give comfort and consolation to me, your obedient servant, who has always loyally served and obeyed you."

"I beg of you," she said, "not to speak of that, and to leave here at once. Cursed be he who made you come!"

"Do you know, mademoiselle," he replied, "that it is not my intention to leave here before to-morrow morning?"

"By my oath," she cried, "you will go now, at once!"

"Morbleu! I will not—for I will sleep with you."

When she saw that he was not to be got rid of by hard words, she resolved to try kindness, and said;

"I beg of you with all my heart to leave my house now, and by my oath, another time I will do whatever you wish."

"Bah!" said he; "Waste no more words, for I shall sleep here," and with that he removed his cloak, and led the damsel to the table, and finally—to cut the tale short—she went to bed with him by her side.

They had not been in bed long, and he had but broken one lance, when the good knight arrived on his mule, and knocked at the wicket. When the squire heard that and knew who it was, he began to growl, imitating a dog very well.

The knight, hearing this, was both astonished and angry. He knocked at the door more loudly than before, and the other growled louder than ever.

"Who is that growling?" said he outside. "Morbleu! but I will soon find out! Open the door, or I will carry it away!"

The fair damsel, who was in a great rage, went to the window in her chemise, and said;

"Are you there, false and disloyal knight? You may knock as much as you like, but you will not come in!"

"Why shall I not come in?" said he.

"Because," said she, "you are the falsest man that ever woman met, and are not worthy to be with respectable people."

"Mademoiselle," said he, "you blason my arms very well, but I do not know what excites you, for I have never been false to you that I am aware of."

"Yes, you have," she cried, "done me the greatest wrong that ever man did to woman."

"I have not, I swear. But tell me who is in there?"

"You know very well, wretched traitor that you are," she replied.

Thereupon the squire, who was in bed, began to growl like a dog as before.

"Marry!" said he outside, "I do not understand this. Who is this growler?"

"By St. John! you shall know," cried the other, and jumped out of bed and came to the window, and said;

"And please you, sir, you have no right to wake us up."

The good knight, when he knew who spoke to him, was marvellously astonished, and when at last he spoke, he said.

"How did you come here?"

"I supped at your house and slept here."

"The fault is mine," said he. Then addressing the damsel, he added, "Mademoiselle, do you harbour such guests in your house?"

"Yes, monseigneur," she replied, "and thank you for having sent him."

"I?" said he. "By St. John I have nothing to do with it. I came to occupy my usual place, but it seems I am too late. At least I beg, since I cannot have anything else, that you open the door and let me drink a cup of wine."

"By God, you shall not enter here!" she cried.

"By St. John! he shall," cried the squire, and ran down and opened the door, and then went back to bed, and she did also, though, God knows, much ashamed and dissatisfied.

When the good knight entered the chamber, he lighted a candle, and looked at the couple in bed and said;

"Good luck to you, mademoiselle, and to you also squire."

"Many thanks, monseigneur," said he.

But the damsel could not say a word, her heart was so full, for she felt certain that the knight had connived at the squire's coming, and she felt so angry that she would not speak to him.

"Who showed you the way here, squire?" asked the knight.

"Your little mule, monseigneur," said he. "I found it at the foot of the stairs, when I supped with you at the castle. It was there alone, and seemingly lost, so I asked it what it was waiting for, and it replied that it was waiting for its saddle-cloth and you. 'To go where?' I asked. 'Where we usually go,' replied the mule. 'I am sure,' said I, 'that your master will not leave the house to-night, for he is going to bed, so take me where you usually go, I beg.' It was content, so I mounted on it, and it brought me here, for which I give it thanks."

"God reward the little beast that betrayed me," said the good knight.

"Ah, you have fully deserved it, monseigneur," said the damsel, when at last she was able to speak. "I know well that you have deceived me, but I wish you to know that it is not much to your honour. There was no need, if you would not come yourself, to send some one else surreptitiously. It was an evil day for me when first I saw you."

"Morbleu! I never sent him," he said; "but since he is here I will not drive him away. Besides there is enough for the two of us; is there not my friend?"

"Oh, yes, monseigneur, plenty of spoil to divide. Let us celebrate the arrangement by a drink."

He went to the side-board and filled a large cup with wine, and said, "I drink to you, friend."

"And I pledge you, friend," said the other, and poured out another cup for the damsel, who refused to drink, but at last, unwillingly, kissed the cup.

"Well, friend," said the knight, "I will leave you here. Ruffle her well; it is your turn to-day and will be mine to morrow, please God, and I hope you will be as obliging to me, if ever you find me here, as I am to you now."

"By Our Lady, friend, doubt not but I shall be."

Then the knight went away and left the squire, who did as well as he could on the first night. And he told the damsel the whole truth of his adventure, at which she was somewhat relieved to find that he had not been sent.

Thus was the fair damsel deceived by the mule, and obliged to obey the knight and the squire, each in his turn—an arrangement to which she finally became accustomed. The knight and squire grew more attached to each other than before this adventure; their affection increased, and no evil counsels engendered discord and hate between them.

*****



STORY THE THIRTY-SECOND — THE WOMEN WHO PAID TITHE. [32]

By Monseigneur De Villiers.

Of the Cordeliers of Ostelleria in Catalonia, who took tithe from the women of the town, and how it was known, and the punishment the lord of that place and his subjects inflicted on the monks, as you shall learn hereafter.

In order that I may not be excluded from the number of fortunate and meritorious writers who have worked to increase the number of stories in this book, I will briefly relate a new story, which will serve as a substitute for the tale previously required of me.

It is a well-known fact that in the town of Hostelleria, in Catalonia, (*) there arrived some minor friars of the order of Observance, (**) who had been driven out of the kingdom of Spain.

(*) Hostalrich, a town of Catalonia, some 28 miles from Girona.

(**) One of the principal branches of the order of Franciscans.

They managed to worm themselves into the good graces of the Lord of that town, who was an old man, so that he built for them a fair church and a large convent, and maintained and supported them all his life as best he could. And after him came his eldest son, who did quite as much for them as his worthy father had done.

In fact they prospered so, that, in a few years they had everything that a convent of mendicant friars could desire. Nor were they idle during all the time they were acquiring these riches; they preached both in the town and in the neighbouring villages, and had such influence over the people that there was not a good christian who did not confess to them, they had such great renown for pointing out faults to sinners.

But of all who praised them and held them in esteem, the women were foremost, such saints did they deem them on account of their charity and devotion.

Now listen to the wickedness, deception, and horrible treason which these false hypocrites practised on the men and women who every day gave them so many good gifts. They made it known to all the women in the town that they were to give to God a tenth of all their goods.

"You render to your Lord such and such a thing; to your parish and priest such and such a thing; and to us you must render and deliver the tithe of the number of times that you have carnal connection with your husband. We will take no other tithe from you, for, as you know, we carry no money—for the temporal and transitory things of this world are nothing to us. We ask and demand only spiritual goods. The tithes which we ask and which you owe us are not temporal goods; as the Holy Sacrament, which you receive, is a divine and holy thing, so no one may receive the tithe but us, who are monks of the order of the Observance."

The poor simple women, who believed the good friars were more like angels than terrestrial beings, did not refuse to pay the tithe. There was not one who did not pay in her turn, from the highest to the lowest, even the wife of the Lord was not excused.

Thus were all the women of the town parcelled out amongst these rascally monks, and there was not a monk who did not have fifteen or sixteen women to pay tithes to him, and God knows what other presents they had from the women, and all under cover of devotion.

This state of affairs lasted long without its ever coming to the knowledge of those who were most concerned in the payment of the new tithe; but at last it was discovered in the following manner.

A young man who was newly married, was invited to supper at the house of one of his relations—he and his wife—and as they were returning home, and passing the church of the above-mentioned good Cordeliers, suddenly the bell rang out the Ave Maria, and the young man bowed to the ground to say his prayers.

His wife said, "I would willingly enter this church."

"What would you do in there at this hour?" asked her husband. "You can easily come again when it is daylight; to-morrow, or some other time."

"I beg of you," she said, "to let me go: I will soon return."

"By Our Lady!" said he, "you shall not go in now."

"By my oath!" she replied, "it is compulsory. I must go in, but I will not stay. If you are in a hurry to get home, go on, and I will follow you directly."

"Get on! get forward!" he said, "you have nothing to do here. If you want to say a Pater noster, or an Ave Maria, there is plenty of room at home, and it is quite as good to say it there as in this monastery, which is now as dark as pitch."

"Marry!" said she, "you may say what you like, but by my oath, it is necessary that I should enter here for a little while."

"Why?" said he. "Do you want to sleep with any of the brothers."

She imagined that her husband knew that she paid the tithe, and replied;

"No, I do not want to sleep with him; I only want to pay."

"Pay what?" said he.

"You know very well," she answered; "Why do you ask?"

"What do I know well?" he asked, "I never meddle with your debts."

"At least," she said, "you know very well that I must pay the tithe."

"What tithe?"

"Marry!" she replied. "It always has to be paid;—the tithe for our nights together. You are lucky—I have to pay for us both."

"And to whom do you pay?" he asked.

"To brother Eustace," she replied. "You go on home, and let me go in and discharge my debt. It is a great sin not to pay, and I am never at ease in my mind when I owe him anything."

"It is too late to-night," said he, "he has gone to bed an hour ago."

"By my oath," said she, "I have been this year later than this. If one wants to pay one can go in at any hour."

"Come along! come along!" he said. "One night makes no such great matter."

So they returned home; both husband and wife vexed and displeased—the wife because she was not allowed to pay her tithe, and the husband because he had learned how he had been deceived, and was filled with anger and thoughts of vengeance, rendered doubly bitter by the fact that he did not dare to show his anger.

A little later they went to bed together, and the husband, who was cunning enough, questioned his wife indirectly, and asked if the other women of the town paid tithes as she did?

"By my faith they do," she replied. "What privilege should they have more than me? There are sixteen to twenty of us who pay brother Eustace. Ah, he is so devout. And he has so much patience. Brother Bartholomew has as many or more, and amongst others my lady (*) is of the number. Brother Jacques also has many; Brother Anthony also—there is not one of them who has not a number."

(*) The wife of the Seigneur.

"St. John!" said the husband, "they do not do their work by halves. Now I understand well that they are more holy than I thought them; and truly I will invite them all to my house, one after the other, to feast them and hear their good words. And since Brother Eustace receives your tithes, he shall be the first. See that we have a good dinner to-morrow, and I will bring him."

"Most willingly," she replied, "for then at all events I shall not have to go to his chamber to pay him; he can receive it when he comes here."

"Well said," he replied; "give it him here;" but as you may imagine he was on his guard, and instead of sleeping all night, thought over at his leisure the plan he intended to carry out on the morrow.

The dinner arrived, and Brother Eustace, who did not know his host's intentions stuffed a good meal under his hood. And when he had well eaten, he rolled his eyes on his hostess, and did not spare to press her foot under the table—all of which the host saw, though he pretended not to, however much to his prejudice it was.

After the meal was over and grace was said, he called Brother Eustace and told him that he wanted to show him an image of Our Lady that he had in his chamber, and the monk replied that he would willingly come.

They both entered the chamber, and the host closed the door so that he could not leave, and then laying hold of a big axe, said to the Cordelier.

"By God's death, father! you shall never go out of this room—unless it be feet foremost—if you do not confess the truth."

"Alas, my host, I beg for mercy. What is it you, would ask of me?"

"I ask," said he, "the tithe of the tithe you have received from my wife."

When the Cordelier heard the word tithes, he began to think that he was in a fix, and did not know what to reply except to beg for mercy, and to excuse himself as well as he could.

"Now tell me," said the husband, "what tithe it is that you take from my wife and the others?"

The poor Cordelier was so frightened that he could not speak, and answered never a word.

"Tell me all about it," said the young man, "and I swear to you I will let you go and do you no harm;—but if you do not confess I will kill you stone dead."

When the other felt convinced that he had better confess his sin and that of his companions and escape, than conceal the facts and be in danger of losing his life, he said;

"My host, I beg for mercy, and I will tell you the truth. It is true that my companions and I have made all the women of this town believe that they owe us tithes for all the times their husbands sleep with them. They believed us, and they all pay—young and old—when once they are married. There is not one that is excused—my lady even pays like the others—her two nieces also—and in general there is no one that is exempt."

"Marry!" said the other, "since my lord and other great folks pay it, I ought not to be dissatisfied, however much I may dislike it. Well! you may go, worthy father, on this condition—that you do not attempt to collect the tithe that my wife owes you."

The other was never so joyous as when he found himself outside the house, and said to himself that he would never ask for anything of the kind again, nor did he, as you will hear.

When the host of the Cordelier was informed by his wife of this new tithe, he went to his Lord and told him all about the tax and how it concerned him. You may imagine that he was much astonished, and said;

"Ah, cursed wretches that they are! Cursed be the hour that ever my father—whom may God pardon—received them! And now they take our spoils and dishonour us, and ere long they may do worse. What is to be done?"

"By my faith, Monseigneur" said the other, "if it please you and seem good to you, you should assemble all your subjects in this town, for the matter touches them as much as you. Inform them of this affair, and consult with them what remedy can be devised before it is too late."

Monseigneur approved, and ordered all his married subjects to come to him, and in the great hall of his castle, he showed them at full length why he had called them together.

If my lord had been astonished and surprised when he heard the news, so also were all the good people who were there assembled. Some of them said, "We ought to kill them," others "They should be hanged!" others "Drown them!" Others said they could not believe it was true—the monks were so devout and led such holy lives. One said one thing, another said another.

"I will tell you," said the Seigneur, "what we will do. We will bring our wives hither, and Master John, or some other, shall preach a little sermon in which he will take care to make allusion to tithes, and ask the women, in the name of all of us, whether they discharge their debts, as we are anxious they should be paid, and we shall hear their reply."

After some discussion they all agreed to the Seigneur's proposal. So orders were issued to all the married women of the town, and they all came to the great hall, where their husbands were assembled. My lord even brought my lady, who was quite astonished to see so many persons. An usher of my lord's commanded silence, and Master John, who was slightly raised above the other people, began the address which follows;

"Mesdames and mesdemoiselles, I am charged by my lord and those of his council to explain briefly the reason why you are called together. It is true that my lord, his council, and all his people who are here met together, desire to make a public examination of their conscience,—the cause being that that they wish (God willing) to make ere long a holy procession in praise of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and His Glorious Mother, and from the present moment to be in such a devout frame of mind that they may the better praise him in their prayers, and that all the works which they do may be most agreeable to God. You know that there have been no wars in our time, and that our neighbours have been terribly afflicted both by pestilence and famine. Whilst others have been cast down, we have nothing to complain of, and we must own that God has preserved us. There is good reason that we should acknowledge that this is not due to our own virtues, but to the great and liberal mercy of our Blessed Redeemer, who cries, calls, and invites us to put up in our parish church, devout prayers, to which we are to add great faith and firm devotion. The holy convent of the Cordeliers in this town has greatly aided, and still aids us in preserving the above-mentioned benefits. Moreover, we wish to know if you women also perform that which you have undertaken, and whether you sufficiently remember the obligation you owe the Church, and therefore it will be advisable that, by way of precaution, I should mention the principal points. Four times a year,—that is to say at the four Natales (*) you must confess to some priest or monk having the power of absolution, and if at each festival you receive your Creator that will be well done, but twice, or at least once a year, you ought to receive the Communion. Bring an offering every Sunday to each Mass; those who are able should freely give tithes to God—as fruit, poultry, lambs, pigs, and other accustomed gifts. You owe also another tithe to the holy monks of the convent of St. Francis, and which we earnestly desire to see paid. It greatly concerns us, and we desire it to be continued, nevertheless there are many of you who have not acted properly in this respect, and who by negligence, or backwardness, have neglected to pay in advance. You know that the good monks cannot come to your houses to seek their tithes;—that would disturb and trouble them too much; it is quite enough if they take the trouble to receive it. It is important that this should be mentioned—it remains to see who have paid, and who still owe."

(*) The four principal festivals in the life of Christ— Christmas, Easter, Whitsuntide, and Ascension.

Master John had no sooner finished his discourse, than more than twenty women began to cry at the same time, "I have paid!" "I have paid!" "I owe nothing!" "Nor I," "Nor I." A hundred other voices chimed in—generally to say that they owed nothing—and four or six pretty young women were even heard to declare that they had paid well in advance, one four times; one, six; and another, ten.

There were also I know not how many old women who said not a word, and Master John asked them if they had paid their tithe, and they replied that they had made an arrangement with the Cordeliers.

"What!" said he, "you do not pay? You ought to advise and persuade the others to do their duty, and you yourselves are in default!"

"Marry!" said one of them, "I am not to blame. I have been several times to perform my duty, but my confessor would not listen to me: he always says he is too busy."

"St. John!" said the other old women, "we have compounded with the monks to pay them the tithe we owe them in linen, cloth, cushions, quilts, pillow-cases and such other trifles; and that by their own instructions and desire, for we should prefer to pay like the others."

"By Our Lady!" said Master John, "there is no harm done; it is quite right.

"I suppose they can go away now; can they not?" said the Seigneur to Master John.

"Yes!" said he, "but let them be sure and not forget to pay the tithe."

When they had all left the hall, the door was closed, and every man present looked hard at his neighbour.

"Well!" said the Seigneur. "What is to be done? We know for certain what these ribald monks have done to us, by the confession of one of them, and by our wives; we need no further witness."

After many and various opinions, it was resolved to set the convent on fire, and burn both monks and monastery.

They went to the bottom of the town, and came to the monastery, and took away the Corpus Domini and all the relics and sent them to the parish church. Then without more ado, they set fire to the convent in several places, and did not leave till all was consumed—monks, convent, church, dormitory, and all the other buildings, of which there were plenty. So the poor Cordeliers had to pay very dearly for the new tithe they had levied. Even God could do nothing, but had His house burned down.

*****



STORY THE THIRTY-THIRD — THE LADY WHO LOST HER HAIR.

By Monseigneur.

Of a noble lord who was in love with a damsel who cared for another great lord, but tried to keep it secret; and of the agreement made between the two lovers concerning her, as you shall hereafter hear.

A noble knight who lived in the marches of Burgundy, who was wise, valiant, much esteemed, and worthy of the great reputation he had, was so much in the graces of a fair damsel, that he was esteemed as her lover, and obtained from her, at sundry times, all the favours that she could honourably give him. She was also smitten with a great and noble lord, a prudent man, whose name and qualities I pass over, though if I were to recount them there is not one of you who would not recognise the person intended, which I do not wish.

This gentle lord, I say, soon perceived the love affair of the valiant gentleman just named, and asked him if he were not in the good graces of such and such a damsel,—that is to say the lady before mentioned.

He replied that he was not, but the other, who knew the contrary to be case, said that he was sure he was,

"For whatever he might say or do, he should not try to conceal such a circumstance, for if the like or anything more important had occurred to him (the speaker) he would not have concealed it."

And having nothing else to do, and to pass the time, he found means to make her fall in love with him. In which he succeeded, for in a very short time he was high in her graces and could boast of having obtained her favours without any trouble to win them.

The other did not expect to have a companion, but you must not think that the fair wench did not treat him as well or better than before, which encouraged him in his foolish love. And you must know that the brave wench was not idle, for she entertained the two at once, and would with much regret have lost either, and more especially the last-comer, for he was of better estate and furnished with a bigger lance than her first lover; and she always assigned them different times to come, one after the other, as for instance one to-day and the other to-morrow.

The last-comer knew very well what she was doing, but he pretended not to, and in fact he cared very little, except that he was rather disgusted at the folly of the first-comer, who esteemed too highly a thing of little value.

So he made up his mind that he would warn his rival, which he did. He knew that the days on which the wench had forbidden him to come to her (which displeased him much) were reserved for his friend the first-comer. He kept watch several nights, and saw his rival enter by the same door and at the same hour as he did himself on the other days.

One day he said to him, "You well concealed your amours with such an one. I am rather astonished that you had so little confidence in me, considering what I know to be really the case between you and her. And in order that you may understand that I know all, let me tell you that I saw you enter her house at such and such an hour, and indeed no longer ago than yesterday I had an eye upon you, and from a place where I was, I saw you arrive—you know whether I speak the truth."

When the first-comer heard this accusation, he did not know what to say, and he was forced to confess what he would have willingly concealed, and which he thought no one knew but himself; and he told the last-comer that he would not conceal the fact that he was in love, but begged him not to make it known.

"And what would you say," asked the other, "if you found you had a companion?"

"Companion?" said he; "What companion? In a love affair? I never thought of it."

"By St. John!" said the last-comer, "I ought not to keep you longer in suspense—it is I. And since I see that you are in love with a woman who is not worth it, and if I had not more pity on you than you have on yourself I should leave you in your folly, but I cannot suffer such a wench to deceive you and me so long."

If any one was astonished at this news it was the first-comer who believed himself firmly established in the good graces of the wench, and that she loved no one but him. He did not know what to say or think, and for a long time could not speak a word. When at last he spoke, he said,

"By Our Lady! they have given me the onion (*) and I never suspected it. I was easily enough deceived. May the devil carry away the wench, just as she is!"

(*) i.e. "they have made a fool of me."

"She has fooled the two of us," said the last-comer;

"at least she has begun well,—but we must even fool her."

"Do so I beg," said the first. "St. Anthony's fire burn me if ever I see the jade again."

"You know," said the second, "that we go to her each in turn. Well, the next time that you go, you must tell her that you well know that I am in love with her, and that you have seen me enter her house at such an hour, and dressed in such a manner, and that, by heaven, if ever you find me there again you will kill me stone dead, whatever may happen to you. I will say the same thing about you, and we shall then see what she will say and do, and then we shall know how to act."

"Well said, and just what I would wish," said the first.

As it was arranged, so was it done, for some days later it was the last-comer's turn to go and visit her; he set out and came to the place appointed.

When he was alone with the wench, who received him very kindly and lovingly it appeared, he put on—as he well knew how—a troubled, bothered air, and pretended to be very angry. She, who had been accustomed to see him quite otherwise, did not know what to think, and she asked what was the matter, for his manner showed that his heart was not at ease.

"Truly, mademoiselle," said he, "you are right; and I have good cause to be displeased and angry. Moreover, it is owing to you that I am in this condition."

"To me?" said she. "Alas, I have done nothing that I am aware of, for you are the only man in the world to whom I would give pleasure, and whose grief and displeasure touch my heart."

"The man who refuses to believe that will not be damned," said he. "Do you think that I have not perceived that you are on good terms with so-and-so (that is to say the first-comer). It is so, by my oath, and I have but too often seen him speak to you apart, and, what is more, I have watched and seen him enter here. But by heaven, if ever I find him here his last day has come, whatever may happen to me in consequence. I could not allow him to be aware that he has done me this injury—I would rather die a thousand times if it were possible. And you are as false as he is for you know of a truth that after God I love no one but you, and yet you encourage him, and so do me great wrong!"

"Ah, monseigneur!" she replied, "who has told you this story? By my soul! I wish that God and you should know that it is quite otherwise, and I call Him to witness that never in my life have I given an assignation to him of whom you speak, nor to any other whoever he may be—so you have little enough cause to be displeased with me. I will not deny that I have spoken to him, and speak to him every day, and also to many others, but I have never had aught to do with him, nor do I believe that he thinks of me even for a moment, or if so, by God he is mistaken. May God not suffer me to live if any but you has part or parcel in what is yours entirely."

"Mademoiselle," said he, "you talk very well, but I am not such a fool as to believe you."

Angry and displeased as he was, he nevertheless did that for which he came, and on leaving, said,

"I have told you, and given you fair warning that if ever I find any other person comes here, I will put him, or cause him to be put, in such a condition that he will never again worry me or any one else."

"Ah, Monseigneur," she replied, "by God you are wrong to imagine such things about him, and I am sure also that he does not think of me."

With that, the last-comer left, and, on the morrow, his friend, the first-comer did not fail to come early in the morning to hear the news, and the other related to him in full all that had passed, how he had pretended to be angry and threatened to kill his rival, and the replies the jade made.

"By my oath," said the first, "she acted the comedy well! Now let me have my turn, and I shall be very much surprised if I do not play my part equally well."

A certain time afterwards his turn came, and he went to the wench, who received him as lovingly as she always did, and as she had previously received her other lover. If his friend the last-comer had been cross and quarrelsome both in manner and words, he was still more so, and spoke to her in this manner;

"I curse the hour and the day on which I made your acquaintance, for it is not possible to load the heart of a poor lover with more sorrows, regrets, and bitter cares than oppress and weigh down my heart to-day. Alas! I chose you amongst all others as the perfection of beauty, gentleness, and kindness, and hoped that I should find in you truth and fidelity, and therefore I gave you all my heart, believing in truth that it was safe in your keeping, and I had such faith in you that I would have met death, or worse, had it been possible, to save your honour. Yet, when I thought myself most sure of your faith, I learned, not only by the report of others but by my own eyes, that another had snatched your love from me, and deprived me of the hope of being the one person in the world who was dearest to you."

"My friend," said the wench, "I do not know what your trouble is, but from your manner and your words I judge that there is something the matter, but I cannot tell what it is if you do not speak more plainly—unless it be a little jealousy which torments you, and if so, I think, if you are wise, that you will soon banish it from your mind. For I have never given you any cause for that, as you know me well enough to be aware, and you should be sorry for having used such expressions to me."

"I am not the sort of man," said he, "to be satisfied with mere words. Your excuses are worth nothing. You cannot deny that so-and-so (that is to say the last-comer) does not keep you. I know well he does, for I have noticed you, and moreover, have watched, and saw him yesterday come to you at such an hour, dressed in such and such a manner. But I swear to God he has had his last pleasure with you, for I bear him a grudge, and were he ten times as great a man as he is, when I meet him I will deprive him of his life, or he shall deprive me of mine; one of us two must die for I cannot live and see another enjoy you. You are false and disloyal to have deceived me, and it is not without cause that I curse the hour I made your acquaintance, for I know for a certainty that you will cause my death if my rival knows my determination, as I hope he will. I know that I am now as good as dead, and even if he should spare me, he does but sharpen the knife which is to shorten his own days, and then the world would not be big enough to save me, and die I must."

The wench could not readily find a sufficient excuse to satisfy him in his present state of mind. Nevertheless, she did her best to dissipate his melancholy, and drive away his suspicions, and said to him;

"My friend, I have heard your long tirade, which, to tell the truth, makes me reflect that I have not been so prudent as I ought, and have too readily believed your deceitful speeches, and obeyed you in all things, which is the reason you now think so little of me. Another reason why you speak to me thus, is that you know that I am so much in love with you that I cannot bear to live out of your presence. And for this cause, and many others that I need not mention, you deem me your subject and slave, with no right to speak or look at any but you. Since that pleases you, I am satisfied, but you have no right to suspect me with regard to any living person, nor have I any need to excuse myself. Truth, which conquers all things, will right me in the end!"

"By God, my dear," said the young man, "the truth is what I have already told you—as both and he will find to your cost if you do not take care."

After these speeches, and others too long to recount here, he left, and did not forget on the following morning to recount everything to his friend the last-comer; and God knows what laughter and jests they had between them.

The wench, who still had wool on her distaff (*), saw and knew very well that each of her lovers suspected the other, nevertheless she continued to receive them each in his turn, without sending either away. She warned each earnestly that he must come to her in the most secret manner, in order that he should not be perceived.

(*) i.e. plenty of tricks or resources.

You must know that when the first-comer had his turn that he did not forget to complain as before, and threatened to kill his rival should he meet him. Also at his last meeting, he pretended to be more angry than he really was, and made very light of his rival, who, according to him, was as good as dead if he were caught with her. But the cunning and double-dealing jade had so many deceitful speeches ready that her excuses sounded as true as the Gospel. For she believed that, whatever doubts and suspicions they had, the affair would never really be found out, and that she was capable of satisfying them both.

It was otherwise in the end, for the last-comer, whom she was greatly afraid to lose, one day read her a sharp lesson. In fact he told her that he would never see her again, and did not for a long time afterwards, at which she was much displeased and dissatisfied.

And in order to embarrass and annoy her still more, he sent to her a gentleman, a confidential friend, to point out how disgusted he was to find he had a rival, and to tell her, in short, that if she did not send away this rival, that he would never see her again as long as he lived.

As you have already heard, she would not willingly give up his acquaintance, and there was no male or female saint by whom she did not perjure herself in explaining away her love passages with her other lover, and at last, quite beside herself, she said to the squire;

"I will show your master that I love him; give me your knife."

Then, when she had the knife, she took off her headdress, and with the knife cut off all her hair—not very evenly.

The squire, who knew the facts of the case, took this present, and said he would do his duty and give it to his master, which he soon did. The last-comer received the parcel, which he undid, and found the hair of his mistress, which was very long and beautiful. He did not feel much at ease until he had sent for his friend and revealed to him the message he had sent, and the valuable present she had given him in return, and then he showed the beautiful long tresses.

"I fancy," said he, "I must be very high in her good graces. You can scarcely expect that she would do as much for you."

"By St. John!" said the other, "this is strange news. I see plainly that I am left out in the cold. It is finished! You are the favoured one. But let us" he added, "think what is to be done. We must show her plainly that we know what she is."

"That's what I wish," said the other.

They thought the matter over, and arranged their plan as follows.

The next day, or soon afterwards, the two friends were in a chamber where there were assembled their fair lady and many others. Each took his place where he liked; the first-comer sat near the damsel, and after some talk, he showed her the hair which she had sent to his friend.

Whatever she may have thought, she was not startled, but said she did not know whose hair it was, but it did not belong to her.

"What?" he said. "Has it so quickly changed that it cannot be recognised?"

"That I cannot say," she replied, "but it does not belong to me."

When he heard that, he thought it was time to play his best card, and, as though by accident, gave her chaperon (*) such a twitch that it fell to the ground, at which she was both angry and ashamed. And all those who were present saw that her hair was short, and had been badly hacked.

(*) The chaperon, in the time of Charles VII, was fastened to the shoulder by a long band which sometimes passed two or three times round the neck, and sometimes hung down the back.

She rose in haste, and snatched up her head-dress, and ran into another chamber to attire herself, and he followed her. He found her angry and ashamed, and weeping bitterly with vexation at being thus caught. He asked her what she had to weep about, and at what game she had lost her hair?

She did not know what to reply, she was so vexed and astonished; and he, who was determined to carry out the arrangement he had concluded with his friend, said to her;

"False and disloyal as you are, you have not cared that I and my friend were deceived and dishonoured. You wished,—as you have plainly shown—to add two more victims to your list, but, thank God, we were on our guard. And, in order that you may see that we both know you, here is your hair which you sent him, and which he has presented to me; and do not believe that we are such fools as you have hitherto thought us."

Then he called his friend, who came, and the first said,

"I have given back this fair damsel her hair, an have begun to tell her how she has accepted the love of both of us, and how by her manner of acting she has shown us that she did not care whether she disgraced us both—may God save us!"

"Truly—by St. John!" said the other, and thereupon he made a long speech to the wench, and God knows he talked to her well, remonstrating with her on her cowardice and disloyal heart. Never was woman so well lectured as she was at that time, first by one then by the other.

She was so taken by surprise that she did not know what to reply, except by tears, which she shed abundantly.

She had never had enough pleasure out of both her lovers to compensate for the vexation she suffered at that moment.

Nevertheless, in the end they did not desert her, but lived as they did before, each taking his turn, and if by chance they both came to her together, the one gave place to the other, and they were both good friends as before, without ever talking of killing or fighting.

For a long time the two friends continued this pleasant manner of loving, and the poor wench never dared to refuse either of them. And whenever the one wished to have intercourse with her, he told the other, and whenever the second went to see her, the first stayed at home. They made each other many compliments, and sent one another rondels and songs which are now celebrated, about the circumstances I have already related, and of which I now conclude the account.

*****



STORY THE THIRTY-FOURTH — THE MAN ABOVE AND THE MAN BELOW. [34]

By Monsigneur De La Roche.

Of a married woman who gave rendezvous to two lovers, who came and visited her, and her husband came soon after, and of the words which passed between them, as you shall presently hear.

I knew in my time a brave and worthy woman, deserving to be remembered and respected, for her virtues should not be hidden and kept dark, but publicly blazoned to the world. You will shortly hear, if you will, in this story something which will increase and magnify her fame.

This gallant wench was married to a countryman of ours, and had many lovers seeking and desiring her favours,—which were not over difficult to obtain, for she was so kind and compassionate that she both would and could bestow herself freely whenever she liked.

It happened one day that two men came to see her, as both were accustomed, to ask for a rendezvous. She would not have retreated before two or even three, and appointed a day and hour for each to come to her—the one at eight o'clock the morrow morning, and the other at nine, and charged each one expressly that he should not fail to keep his appointed hour.

They promised on their faith and honour that if they were alive they would keep their assignation.

When the morrow came, at about 6 o'clock in the morning, the husband of this brave wench rose, dressed himself, and called his wife, but she bluntly refused to get up when ordered.

"Faith!" she said, "I have such a headache that I cannot stand on my feet, or if I did get up I should die, I am so weak and worn-out; and, as you know, I did not sleep all the night. I beg of you to leave me here, and I hope that when I am alone I shall get a little rest."

Her husband, though he suspected something, did not dare to contradict her or reply, but went about his business in the town, whilst his wife was not idle at home, for eight o'clock had no sooner struck than the honest fellow, to whom on the previous day an assignation had been given, came and knocked at the door, and she let him in. He soon took off his long gown and his other clothes, and joined madame in bed, in order to cheer her up.

Whilst these two were locked in each other's arms, and otherwise engaged, the time passed quickly without her noticing it, when she heard some one knock loudly at the door.

"Ah!" she said, "as I live, there is my husband; make haste and take your clothes."

"Your husband?" he said, "Why, do you know his knock?"

"Yes," she replied, "I know it very well. Make haste lest he find you here."

"If it be your husband, he must find me here, for I know not where I can hide."

"No, please God, he must not find you here, for you would be killed and so should I, he is so terrible. Get up into this little attic, and keep quite quiet and do not move, that he may not find you here."

The other climbed into the garret as he was told, and found the planks stripped away in many places, and the laths broken.

As soon as he was safe, mademoiselle made one bound to the door, knowing very well that it was not her husband who was there, and let in the man who had promised to come to her at nine o'clock. They came into the chamber, where they were not long on their feet, but laid down and cuddled and kissed in the same manner as he in the garret had done, whilst he, through a chink, kept his eye on the couple, and was not best pleased. He could not make up his mind whether he should speak or hold his tongue. At last he determined to keep silence, and not say a word till the opportunity came,—and you may guess that he had plenty of patience.

Whilst he was waiting and looking at the lady engaged with the last comer, the worthy husband came home to enquire after the health of his good wife, as it was very proper of him to do.

She soon heard him, and as quickly as may be, made her lover get out of bed, and as she did not know where to hide him, since she could not put him in the garret, she made him lie down between the bed and the wall, and covered him with his clothes, and said to him.

"I have no better place to put you—have a little patience."

She had hardly finished speaking when her husband came into the room, and though he had heard nothing, he found the bed all rumpled and tossed about, the quilt dirty and soiled, and looking more like the bed of a bride than the couch of an invalid.

The doubts he had formerly entertained, combined with the appearance of the bed, made him call his wife by her name, and say.

"Wicked whore that you are! I did not believe you when you shammed illness this morning! Where is the whoremonger? I swear to God, if I find him, he will have a bad end, and you too." Then, putting his hand on the quilt, he went on. "This looks nice, doesn't it? It looks as though the pigs had slept on it!"

"What is the matter with you, you nasty drunkard?" she replied. "Why make me suffer when you get too much wine in your belly? That's a nice salutation, to call me a whore! I would have you to know that I am nothing of the kind, but much too virtuous and too honest for a rascal like you, and my only regret is that I have been so good to you, for you are not worth it. I do not know why I do not get up and scratch your face in such a manner that you would remember it all your life, for having abused me without cause."

If you ask how she dared reply to her husband in this manner, I should answer there were two reasons,—that is she had both right and might on her side. For, as you may guess, if it had come to blows, both the lover in the garret, and the one by the bed, would have come to her assistance.

The poor husband did not know what to say when he heard his wife abuse him thus, and as he saw that big words were of no use, he left the matter to God, who does justice to all, and replied;

"You make many excuses for your palpable faults, but I care little what you say. I am not going to quarrel and make a noise; there is One above who will repay all!"

By "One above", he meant God,—as though he had said,

"God, who gives everyone his due, will repay you according to your deserts." But the gallant who was in the garret, and heard these words, really believed they were meant for him, and that he was expected to pay for the misdeeds of another besides himself, and he replied aloud;

"What? Surely it will suffice if I pay half! The man who is down by the side of the bed can pay the other half—he is as much concerned as I am!"

You may guess that the husband was much astonished, for he thought that God was speaking to him; and the man by the bed did not know what to think, for he knew nothing about the existence of the other man. He quickly jumped up, and the other man came down, and they recognised each other.

They went off together, and left the couple looking vexed and angry, but they did not trouble much about that and for good reason.

*****



STORY THE THIRTY-FIFTH — THE EXCHANGE.

By Monseigneur De Villiers.

Of a knight whose mistress married whilst he was on his travels, and on his return, by chance he came to her house, and she, in order that she might sleep with him, caused a young damsel, her chamber-maid, to go to bed with her husband; and of the words that passed between the husband and the knight his guest, as are more fully recorded hereafter.

A gentleman, a knight of this kingdom, a most virtuous man, and of great renown, a great traveller and a celebrated warrior, fell in love with a very beautiful damsel, and so advanced in her good graces that nothing that he demanded was refused him. It happened, I know not how long after that, this good knight, to acquire honour and merit, left his castle, in good health and well accompanied, by the permission of his master, to bear arms elsewhere, and he went to Spain and various places, where he did such feats that he was received in great triumph at his return.

During this time the lady married an old knight who was courteous and wise, and who in his time had been a courtier, and—to say truth—was known as the very mirror of honour. It was a matter for regret that he did not marry better, but at any rate he had not then discovered his wife's misconduct, as he did afterwards, as you shall hear.

The first-named knight, returning from the war, as he was travelling through the country, arrived by chance one night at the castle where his mistress lived, and God knows what good cheer she and her husband made for him, for there had been a great friendship between them.

But you must know that whilst the master of the house was doing all he could to honour his guest, the guest was conversing with his former lady-love, and was willing to renew with her the intimacy that had existed before she married. She asked for nothing better, but excused herself on account of want of opportunity.

"It is not possible to find a chance."

"Ah, madam," he said, "by my oath, if you want to, you will make a chance. When your husband is in bed and asleep, you can come to my chamber, or, if you prefer it, I will come to you."

"It cannot be managed so," she replied; "the danger is too great; for monseigneur is a very light sleeper, and he never wakes but what he feels for me, and if he did not find me, you may guess what it would be."

"And when he does find you," he said, "what does he do to you?"

"Nothing else," she replied; "he turns over on the other side."

"Faith!" said he, "he is a very bad bed-fellow; it is very lucky for you that I came to your aid to perform for you what he cannot."

"So help me God," she said, "when he lies with me once a month it is the best he can do. I may be difficult to please, but I could take a good deal more than that.

"That is not to be wondered at," he said; "but let us consider what we shall do."

"There is no way that I see," she replied, "that it can be managed."

"What?" he said; "have you no woman in the house to whom you can explain the difficulty?"

"Yes, by God! I have one," she said, "in whom I have such confidence that I would tell her anything in the world I wanted kept secret? without fearing that she would ever repeat it."

"What more do we want then?" he said. "The rest concerns you and her."

The lady who was anxious to be with her lover, called the damsel, and said,

"My dear, you must help me to-night to do something which is very dear to my heart."

"Madam," said the damsel, "I am ready and glad, as I ought to be, to serve you and obey you in any way possible; command me, and I will perform your orders."

"I thank you, my dear," said madam, "and be sure that you will lose nothing by it. This is what is the matter. The knight here is the man whom I love best in all the world, and I would not that he left here without my having a few words with him. Now he cannot tell me what is in his heart unless we be alone together, and you are the only person to take my place by the side of monseigneur. He is accustomed, as you know, to turn in the night and touch me, and then he leaves me and goes to sleep again."

"I will do your pleasure, madam; there is nothing that you can command that I will not do."

"Well, my dear," she said, "you will go to bed as I do, keeping a good way off from monseigneur, and take care that if he should speak to you not to reply, and suffer him to do whatever he may like."

"I will do your pleasure, madam."

Supper-time came. There is no need to describe the meal, suffice it to say there was good cheer and plenty of it, and after supper, sports, and the visitor took madam's arm, and the other gentlemen escorted the other damsels. The host came last, and enquired about the knight's travels from an old gentleman who had accompanied him.

Madame did not forget to tell her lover that one of her women would take her place that night, and that she would come to him; at which he was very joyful, and thanked her much, and wished that the hour had come.

They returned to the reception hall, where monseigneur said good night to his guest, and his wife did the same. The visitor went to his chamber, which was large and well-furnished, and there was a fine sideboard laden with spices and preserves, and good wine of many sorts.

He soon undressed, and drank a cup, and made his attendants drink also, and then sent them to bed, and remained alone, waiting for the lady, who was with her husband. Both she and her husband undressed and got into bed.

The damsel was in the ruelle, and as soon as my lord was in bed, she took the place of her mistress, who—as her heart desired—made but one bound to the chamber of the lover, who was anxiously awaiting her.

Thus were they all lodged—monseigneur with the chambermaid, and his guest with madame—and you may guess that these two did not pass all the night in sleeping.

Monseigneur, as was his wont, awoke an hour before day-break, and turned to the chamber-maid, believing it to be his wife, and to feel her he put out his hand, which by chance encountered one of her breasts, which were large and firm, and he knew at once that it was not his wife, for she was not well furnished in that respect.

"Ha, ha!" he said to himself, "I understand what it is! They are playing me a trick, and I will play them another."