He turned towards the girl, and with some trouble managed to break a lance, but she let him do it without uttering a word or half a word.

When he had finished, he began to call as loudly as he could to the man who was sleeping with his wife.

"Hallo! my lord of such a place! Where are you? Speak to me!"

The other, when he heard himself called, was much astonished, and the lady quite overwhelmed with shame.

"Alas!" she said, "our deeds are discovered: I am a lost woman!"

Her husband called out,

"Hallo, monseigneur! hallo, my guest! Speak to me."

The other ventured to speak, and said,

"What is it, so please you, monsiegneur?"

"I will make this exchange with you whenever you like."

"What exchange?" he asked.

"An old, worn-out false, treacherous woman, for a good, pretty, and fresh young girl. That is what I have gained by the exchange and I thank you for it."

None of the others knew what to reply, even the poor chamber-maid wished she were dead, both on account of the dishonour to her mistress and the unfortunate loss of her own virginity.

The visitor left the lady and the castle as soon as could, without thanking his host, or saying farewell. And never again did he go there, so he never knew how she settled the matter with her husband afterwards, so I can tell you no more.

*****



STORY THE THIRTY-SIXTH — AT WORK.

By Monseigneur De La Roche.

Of a squire who saw his mistress, whom he greatly loved, between two other gentlemern, and did not notice that she had hold of both of them till another knight informed him of the matter as you will hear.

A kind and noble gentleman, who wished to spend his time in the service of the Court of Love, devoted himself, heart, body, and goods, to a fair and honest damsel who well deserved it, and who was specially suited to do what she liked with men; and his amour with her lasted long. And he thought that he stood high in her good graces, though to say the truth, he was no more a favourite than the others, of whom there were many.

It happened one day that this worthy gentleman found his lady, by chance, in the embrasure of a window, between a knight and a squire, to whom she was talking. Sometimes she would speak to one apart and not let the other hear, another time she did the same to the other, to please both of them, but the poor lover was greatly vexed and jealous, and did not dare to approach the group.

The only thing to do was to walk away from her, although he desired her presence more than anything else in the world. His heart told him that this conversation would not tend to his advantage, in which he was not far wrong. For, if his eyes had not been blinded by affection, he could easily have seen what another, who was not concerned, quickly perceived, and showed him, in this wise.

When he saw and knew for certain that the lady had neither leisure nor inclination to talk to him, he retired to a couch and lay down, but he could not sleep.

Whilst he was thus sulking, there came a gentleman, who saluted all the company, and seeing that the damsel was engaged, withdrew to the recess where the squire was lying sleepless upon the couch; and amongst other conversation the squire said,

"By my faith, monseigneur, look towards the window; there are some people who are making themselves comfortable. Do you not see how pleasantly they are talking."

"By St. John, I see them," said the knight, "and see that they are doing something more than talking."

"What else?" said the other.

"What else? Do you not see that she has got hold of both of them?"

"Got hold of them!"

"Truly yes, poor fellow! Where are your eyes? But there is a great difference between the two, for the one she holds in her left hand is neither so big nor so long as that which she holds in her right hand."

"Ha!" said the squire, "you say right. May St. Anthony burn the wanton;" and you may guess that he was not well pleased.

"Take no heed," said the knight, "and bear your wrong as patiently as you can. It is not here that you have to show your courage: make a virtue of necessity."

Having thus spoken, the worthy knight approached the window where the three were standing, and noticed by chance that the knight on the left, hand, was standing on tip-toe, attending to what the fair damsel and the squire were saying and doing.

Giving him a slight tap on his hat, the knight said,

"Mind your own business in the devil's name, and don't trouble about other people."

The other withdrew, and began to laugh, but the damsel, who was not the sort of woman to care about trifles, scarcely showed any concern, but quietly let go her hold without brushing or changing colour, though she was sorry in her heart to let out of her hand what she could have well used in another place.

As you may guess, both before and after that time, either of those two would most willingly have done her a service, and the poor, sick lover was obliged to be a witness of the greatest misfortune which could happen to him, and his poor heart would have driven him to despair, if reason had not come to his help, and caused him to abandon his love affairs, out of which he had never derived any benefit.

*****



STORY THE THIRTY-SEVENTH — THE USE OF DIRTY WATER.

By Monseigneur De La Roche.

Of a jealous man who recorded all the tricks which he could hear or learn by which wives had deceived their husbands in old times; but at last he was deceived by means of dirty water which the lover of the said lady threw out of window upon her as she was going to Mass, as you shall hear hereafter.

Whilst others are thinking and ransacking their memories for adventures and deeds fit to be narrated and added to the present history, I will relate to you, briefly, how the most jealous man in this kingdom, in his time, was deceived. I do not suppose that he was the only one who ever suffered this misfortune, but at any rate I will not omit to describe the clever trick that was played upon him.

This jealous old hunks was a great historian, and had often read and re-read all sorts of stories; but the principal end and aim of all his study was to learn and know all the ways and manners in which wives had deceived their husbands. For—thank God—old histories like Matheolus (*), Juvenal, the Fifteen Joys of Marriage (**), and more others than I can count, abound in descriptions of deceits, tricks, and deceptions of that sort.

(*) Le Lime, de Matheolus, a poem of the early part of the 15th Century, written by Jean le Febvre, Bishop of Therouenne. It is a violent satire against women.

(**) A curious old work the authorship of which is still doubtful. It is often ascribed to Antoine de la Sale, who is believed to have partly written and edited the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles. The allusion is interesting as showing that the Quinze Joyes de mariage was written before the present work.

Our jealous husband had always one or other of these books in his hand, and was as fond of them as a fool is of his bauble,—reading or studying them; and indeed he had made from these books a compendium for his own use, in which all the tricks and deceits practised by wives on their husbands were noted and described.

This he had done in order to be forewarned and on his guard, should his wife perchance use any of the plans or subterfuges chronicled or registered in his book. For he watched his wife as carefully as the most jealous Italian would, and still was not content, so ruled was he by this cursed passion of jealousy.

In this delectable state did the poor man live three or four years with his wife, and the only amusement she had in that time was to escape out of his hateful presence by going to Mass, and then she was always accompanied by an old servant, who was charged to watch over her.

A gentle knight, who had heard how the fair lady was watched, one day met the damsel, who was both beautiful and witty, and told her how willing he was to do her a service, that he sighed for her love, and condoled with her evil fortune in being allied to the most jealous wretch there was on the face of the earth, and saying, moreover, that she was the sole person on earth for whom he cared.

"And since I cannot tell you here how much I love you, and many other things which I hope you will be glad to hear, I will, if you wish, put it all in writing and give it you to-morrow, begging also that any small service that I most willingly do for you, be not refused."

She gladly listened, but owing to the presence of Dangier, (*) who was near, hardly replied; nevertheless she said she would be glad to have his letter when it came.

(*) See note page 159.

Her lover was very joyful when he took leave of her, and with good cause, and the damsel said farewell to him in a kind and gracious manner, but the old woman, who watched her, did not fail to ask her what conversation had taken place between her and the man who had just left.

"He brought me news of my mother," she replied; "at which I am very joyful, for she is in good health."

The old woman asked no more, and they returned home.

On the morrow, the lover, provided with a letter written God knows in what terms, met the lady, and gave her this letter so quickly and cunningly that the old servant, who was watching, saw nothing.

The letter was opened by her most joyfully when she was alone. The gist of the contents was that he had fallen in love with her, and that he knew not a day's happiness when he was absent from her, and finally hoped that she would of her kindness appoint a suitable place where she could give him a reply to this letter.

She wrote a reply in which she said she could love no one but her husband, to whom she owed all faith and loyalty; nevertheless, she was pleased to know the writer was so much in love with her, but, though she could promise him no reward, would be glad to hear what he had to say, but certainly that could not be, because her husband never left her except when she went to church, and then she was guarded, and more than guarded, by the dirtiest old hag that ever interfered with anybody.

The lover, dressed quite differently to what he had been the preceding day, met the lady, who knew him at once, and as he passed close to her, received from her hand the letter already mentioned. That he was anxious to know the contents was no marvel. He went round a corner, and there, at his leisure, learned the condition of affairs, which seemed to be progressing favourably.

It needed but time and place to carry out his enterprise, and he thought night and day how this was to be accomplished. At last he thought of a first-rate trick, for he remembered that a lady friend of his lived between the church where his lady went to Mass and her house, and he told her the history of his love affair, concealing nothing from her, and begging her to help him.

"Whatever I can do for you, I will do with all my heart," she said.

"I thank you," said he. "Would you mind if I met her here?"

"Faith!" she said, "to please you, I do not mind!"

"Well!" he replied, "if ever it is in my power to do you a service, you may be sure that I will remember this kindness."

He was not satisfied till he had written again to his lady-love and given her the letter, in which he said that he had made an arrangement with a certain woman, "who is a great friend of mine, a respectable woman, who can loyally keep a secret, and who knows you well and loves you, and who will lend us her house where we may meet. And this is the plan I have devised. I will be to-morrow in an upper chamber which looks on the street, and I will have by me a large pitcher of water mingled with ashes, which I will upset on you suddenly as you pass. And I shall be so disguised that neither your old woman, nor anyone else in the world, will recognise me. When you have been drenched with this water, you will pretend to be very angry and surprised, and take refuge in the house, and send your Dangier to seek another gown; and while she is on the road we will talk together."

To shorten the story, the letter was given, and the lady, who was very well pleased, sent a reply.

The next day came, and the lady was drenched by her lover with a pitcher of water and cinders, in such fashion that her kerchief, gown, and other habiliments were all spoiled and ruined. God knows that she was very astonished and displeased, and rushed into the house, as though she were beside herself, and ignorant of where she was.

When she saw the lady of the house, she complained bitterly of the mischief which had been done, and I cannot tell you how much she grieved over this misadventure. Now she grieved for her kerchief, now for her gown, and another time for her other clothes,—in short, if anyone had heard her, they would have thought the world was coming to an end.

The old woman, who was also in a great rage, had a knife in her hand, with which she scraped the gown as well as she could.

"No, no, my friend! you only waste your time. It cannot be cleaned as easily as that: you cannot do any good. I must have another gown and another kerchief-there is nothing else to be done. Go home and fetch them, and make haste and come back, or we shall lose the Mass in addition to our other troubles."

The old woman seeing that there was imperative need of the clothes, did not dare to refuse her mistress, and took the gown and kerchief under her mantle, and went home.

She had scarcely turned on her heels, before her mistress was conducted to the chamber where her lover was, who was pleased to see her in a simple petticoat and with her hair down.

Whilst they are talking together, let us return to the old woman, who went back to the house, where she found her master, who did not wait for her to speak, but asked her at once,

"What have you done with my wife? where is she?"

"I have left her," she replied, "at such a person's house, in such a place."

"And for what purpose?" said he.

Then she showed him the gown and the kerchief, and told him about the pitcher of water and ashes, and said that she had been sent to seek other clothes, for her mistress could not leave the place where she was in that state.

"Is that so?" said he. "By Our Lady! that trick is not in my book! Go! Go! I know well what has happened."

He would have added that he was cuckolded, and I believe he was at that time, and he never again kept a record of the various tricks that had been played on husbands. Moreover, it is believed that he never forgot the trick which had been played on him. There was no need for him to write it down—he preserved a lively memory of it the few good days that he had to live.

*****



STORY THE THIRTY-EIGHTH — A ROD FOR ANOTHER'S BACK. [38]

By The Seneschal Of Guyenne.

Of a citizen of Tours who bought a lamprey which he sent to his wife to cook in order that he might give a feast to the priest, and the said wife sent it to a Cordelier, who was her lover, and how she made a woman who was her neighbour sleep with her husband, and how the woman was beaten, and what the wife made her husband believe, as you will hear hereafter.

There was formerly a merchant of Tours, who, to give a feast to his cure and other worthy people, bought a large lamprey, and sent it to his house, and charged his wife to cook it, as she well knew how to do.

"And see," said he, "that the dinner is ready at twelve o'clock, for I shall bring our cure, and some other people" (whom he named).

"All shall be ready," she replied, "bring whom you will."

She prepared a lot of nice fish, and when she saw the lamprey she wished that her paramour, a Cordelier, could have it, and said to herself,

"Ah, Brother Bernard, why are you not here? By my oath, you should not leave till you had tasted this lamprey, or, if you liked, you should take it to your own room, and I would not fail to keep you company."

It was with great regret that the good woman began to prepare the lamprey for her husband, for she was thinking how the Cordelier could have it. She thought so much about it that she finally determined to send the lamprey by an old woman, who knew her secret. She did so, and told the Cordelier that she would come at night, and sup and sleep with him.

When the Cordelier heard that she was coming, you may guess that he was joyful and contented, and he told the old woman that he would get some good wine to do honour to the lamprey. The old woman returned, and delivered his message.

About twelve o'clock came our merchant, the cure, and the other guests, to eat this lamprey, which had now gone far out of their reach. When they were all in the merchant's house, he took them all into the kitchen to show them the big lamprey that he was going to give them, and called his wife, and said,

"Show us our lamprey, I want to tell our guests how cheap I bought it."

"What lamprey?" she asked.

"The lamprey that I gave you for our dinner, along with the other fish."

"I have seen no lamprey," she said; "I think you must be dreaming. Here are a carp, two pike, and I know not what fish beside, but I have seen no lamprey to day."

"What?" said he. "Do you think I am drunk?"

"Yes," replied the cure and the other guests, "we think no less. You are too niggardly to buy such a lamprey."

"By God," said his wife, "he is either making fun of you or he is dreaming—for certainly I have never seen this lamprey."

Her husband grew angry, and cried,

"You lie, you whore! Either you have eaten it, or you have hidden it somewhere. I promise you it will be the dearest lamprey you ever had."

With that he turned to the cure and the others, and swore by God's death and a hundred other oaths, that he had given his wife a lamprey which had cost him a franc; but they, to tease him and torment him still more, pretended not to believe him, and that they were very disappointed, and said;

"We were invited to dinner at such houses, but we refused in order to come here, thinking we were going to eat this lamprey; but, as far as we can see, there is no chance of that."

Their host, who was in a terrible rage, picked up a stick, and advanced towards his wife to thrash her, but the others held him back, and dragged him by force out of the house, and with much trouble appeased him as well as they could. Then, since they could not have the lamprey, the cure had the table laid, and they made as good cheer as they could.

The good dame meanwhile sent for one of her neighbours, who was a widow, but still good-looking and lively, and invited her to dinner; and when she saw her opportunity, she said;

"My dear neighbour, it would be very kind of you to do me a great service and pleasure, and if you will do this for me, I will repay you in a manner that will please you."

"And what do you want me to do?" asked the other.

"I will tell you," said she. "My husband is so violent in his night-work that it is astounding, and, in fact, last night he so tumbled me, that by my oath I am afraid of him to-night. Therefore I would beg of you to take my place, and if ever I can do anything for you in return, you may command me—body and goods."

The good neighbour, to oblige her, promised to take her place—for which she was greatly thanked.

Now you must know that our merchant when he returned from dinner, laid in a good stock of birch rods, which he carried secretly into his house, and hid near his bed, saying to himself that if his wife worried him she should be well paid.

But he did not do this so secretly but what his wife was on her guard and prepared, for she knew by long experience her husband's brutality.

He did not sup at home, but stopped out late, and came home when he expected she would be in bed and naked. But his design failed, for late that evening she made her neighbour undress and go to bed in her place, and charged her expressly not to speak to her husband when he came, but pretend to be dumb and ill. And she did more, for she put out the fire both in the chamber and in the kitchen. That being done, she told her neighbour that as soon as ever her husband rose in the morning, she was to leave and return to her own house, and she promised that she would.

The neighbour being thus put to bed, the brave woman went off to the Cordelier to eat the lamprey and gain her pardons, as was her custom.

While she was feasting there, the merchant came home after supper, full of spite and anger about the lamprey, and to execute the plan he had conceived, took his rods in his hand and then searched for a light for the candle, but found no fire even in the chimney.

When he saw that, he went to bed without saying a word, and slept till dawn, when he rose and dressed, and took his rods, and so thrashed his wife's substitute, in revenge for the lamprey, till she bled all over, and the sheets of the bed were as bloody as though a bullock had been flayed on them, but the poor woman did not dare to say a word, or even to show her face.

His rods being all broken, and his arm tired, he left the house, and the poor woman, who had expected to enjoy the pleasant pastime of the sports of love, went home soon afterwards to bemoan her ill-luck and her wounds, and not without cursing and threatening the woman who had brought this upon her.

Whilst the husband was still away from home, the good woman returned from seeing the Cordelier, and found the bed-chamber all strewn with birch twigs, the bed all crumpled, and the sheets covered with blood, and she then knew that her neighbour had suffered bodily injury, as she had expected. She at once remade the bed, and put on fresh and clean sheets, and swept the chamber, and then she went to see her neighbour, whom she found in a pitiable condition, and it need not be said was not able to give her any consolation.

As soon as she could, she returned home, and undressed, and laid down on the fair white bed that she had prepared, and slept well till her husband returned from the town, his anger quite dissipated by the revenge he had taken, and came to his wife whom he found in bed pretending to sleep.

"What is the meaning of this, mademoiselle?" he said. "Is it not time to get up?"

"Oh dear!" she said, "is it day yet? By my oath I never heard you get up. I was having a dream which had lasted a long time."

"I expect," he replied, "that you were dreaming about the lamprey, were you not? It would not be very wonderful if you did, for I gave you something to remember it by this morning."

"By God!" she said, "I never thought about you or your lamprey."

"What?" said he. "Have you so soon forgotten?"

"Forgotten?" she answered. "Why not? a dream is soon forgotten."

"Well, then, did you dream about the bundle of birch rods I used on you not two hours ago?"

"On me?" she asked.

"Yes, certainly; on you," he said. "I know very well I thrashed you soundly, as the sheets of the bed would show."

"By my oath, dear friend," she replied, "I do not know what you did or dreamed, but for my part I recollect very well that this morning you indulged in the sports of love with much desire; I am sure that if you dreamed you did anything else to me it must be like yesterday, when you made sure you had given me the lamprey."

"That would be a strange dream," said he. "Show yourself that I may see you."

She turned down the bed-clothes and showed herself quite naked, and without mark or wound. He saw also that the sheets were fair and white, and without any stain. It need not be said that he was much astonished, and he thought the matter over for a long time, and was silent. At last he said;

"By my oath, my dear, I imagined that I gave you a good beating this morning, even till you bled—but I see well I did nothing of the kind, and I do not know exactly what did happen."

"Marry!" she said "Get the idea that you have beaten me out of your head, for you never touched me, as you can see. Make up your mind that you dreamed it."

"I am sure you are right," said he, "and I beg of you to pardon me, for I did wrong to abuse you before all the strangers I brought to the house."

"That is easily pardoned," she replied; "but at any rate take care that you are not so rash and hasty another time."

"No, I will not be, my dear!" said he.

Thus, as you have heard, was the merchant deceived by his wife, and made to believe that he had dreamed that he had bought the lamprey; also in the other matters mentioned above.

*****



STORY THE THIRTY-NINTH — BOTH WELL SERVED. [39]

By Monseigneur De Saint Pol.

Of a knight who, whilst he was waiting for his mistress amused himself three times with her maid, who had been sent to keep him company that he might not be dull; and afterwards amused himself three times with the lady, and how the husband learned it all from the maid, as you will hear.

A noble knight of the Marches of Haynau—rich, powerful, brave, and a good fellow—was in love with a fair lady for a long time, and was so esteemed and secretly loved by her, that whenever he liked he repaired to a private and remote part of her castle, where she came to visit him, and they conversed at their leisure of their pleasant mutual love.

Not a soul knew of their pleasant pastime, except a damsel who served the lady, and who had kept the matter secret for a long time, and had served the dame so willingly in all her affairs that she was worthy of a great reward. Moreover, she was such a good girl, that not only had she gained the affection of her mistress for her services in this and other matters, but the husband of the lady esteemed her as much as his wife did, because he found her good, trustworthy, and diligent.

It chanced one day that the lady knew her aforesaid lover to be in the house, but could not go to him as soon as she wished, because her husband detained her; at which she was much vexed, and sent the damsel to tell him that he must yet have patience, and that, as soon as she could get rid of her husband, she would come to him.

The damsel went to the knight, who was awaiting the lady, and delivered her message, and he, being a courteous knight, thanked her much for her message, and made her sit by him; then tenderly kissed her two or three times. She did not object, which gave the knight encouragement to proceed to other liberties, which also were not refused him.

This being finished, she returned to her mistress, and told her that her lover was anxiously awaiting her.

"Alas!" said the lady, "I know full well he is, but my husband will not go to bed, and there are a lot of people here whom I cannot leave. God curse them! I would much rather be with him. He is very dull, is he not—all alone up there?"

"Faith! I believe he is," replied the damsel, "but he comforts himself as well as he can with the hope of your coming.''

"That I believe, but at any rate he has been all alone, and without a light, for more than two hours; it must be very lonely. I beg you, my dear, to go back to him again and make excuses for me, and stay with him. May the devil take the people who keep me here!"

"I will do what you please, madam, but it seems to me that he loves you so much you have no need to make excuses; and also, that, if I go, you will have no woman here, and perhaps monseigneur may ask for me and I cannot be found."

"Do not trouble about that," said the lady. "I will manage that all right if he should ask for you. But it vexes me that my friend should be alone—go and see what he is doing, I beg."

"I will go, since you wish it," she replied.

That she was pleased with her errand need not be said, though to conceal her willingness she had made excuses to her mistress. She soon came to the knight, who was still waiting, and said to him;

"Monseigneur, madame has sent me to you again to make her excuses for keeping you so long waiting, and to tell you how vexed she is."

"You may tell her," said he, "that she may come at her leisure, and not to hurry on my account, for you can take her place."

With that he kissed and cuddled her, and did not suffer her to depart till he had tumbled her twice, which was not much trouble to him, for he was young and vigorous, and fond of that sport.

The damsel bore it all patiently, and would have been glad to often have the same luck, if she could without prejudice to her mistress.

When she was about to leave, she begged the knight to say nothing to her mistress.

"Have no fear," said he.

"I beg of you to be silent," she said.

Then she returned to her mistress, who asked what her friend was doing?

"He is still," the damsel replied, "awaiting you."

"But," said the lady, "is he not vexed and angry?"

"No," said the damsel, "since he had company. He is much obliged to you for having sent me, and if he often had to wait would like to have me to talk to him to pass the time,—and, faith! I should like nothing better, for he is the pleasantest man I ever talked to. God knows that it was good to hear him curse the folks who detained you—all except monseigneur; he would say nothing against him."

"St. John! I wish that he and all his company were in the river, so that I could get away."

In due time monseigneur—thank God—sent away his servants, retired to his chamber, undressed, and went to bed. Madame, dressed only in a petticoat, put on her night-dress, took her prayer-book, and began,—devoutly enough God knows—to say her psalms and paternosters, but monseigneur, who was as wide awake as a rat, was anxious for a little conversation, and wished madame to put off saying her prayers till the morrow, and talk to him.

"Pardon me," she replied, "but I cannot talk to you now—God comes first you know. Nothing would go right in the house all the week if I did not give God what little praise I can, and I should expect bad luck if I did not say my prayers now."

"You sicken me with all this bigotry," said monseigneur. "What is the use of saying all these prayers? Come on, come on! and leave that business to the priests. Am I not right, Jehannette?" he added, addressing the damsel before mentioned.

"Monseigneur," she replied, "I do not know what to say, except that as madame is accustomed to serve God, let her do so."

"There, there!" said madame to her husband, "I see well that you want to argue, and I wish to finish my prayers, so we shall not agree. I will leave Jehannette to talk to you, and will go to my little chamber behind to petition God."

Monseigneur was satisfied, and madame went off at full gallop to her friend, the knight, who received her with God knows how great joy, and the honour that he did her was to bend her knees and lay her down.

But you must know that whilst madame was saying her prayers with her lover, it happened, I know not how, that her husband begged Jehannette, who was keeping him company, to grant him her favours.

To cut matters short, by his promises and fine words she was induced to obey him, but the worst of it was that madame, when she returned from seeing her lover, who had tumbled her twice before she left, found her husband and Jehannette, her waiting-woman, engaged in the very same work which she had been performing, at which she was much astonished; and still more so were her husband and Jehannette at being thus surprised.

When madame saw that, God knows how she saluted them, though she would have done better to hold her tongue; and she vented her rage so on poor Jehannette that it seemed as though she must have a devil in her belly, or she could not have used such abominable words.

Indeed she did more and worse, for she picked up a big stick and laid it across the girl's shoulders, on seeing which, monseigneur, who was already vexed and angry, jumped up and so beat his wife that she could not rise.

Having then nothing but her tongue, she used it freely God knows, but addressed most of her venomous speeches to poor Jehannette, who no longer able to bear them, told monseigneur of the goings-on of his wife, and where she had been to say her prayers, and with whom.

The whole company was troubled—monseigneur because he had good cause to suspect his wife, and madame, who was wild with rage, well beaten, and accused by her waiting-woman.

How this unfortunate household lived after that, those who know can tell.

*****



STORY THE FORTIETH — THE BUTCHER'S WIFE WHO PLAYED THE GHOST IN THE CHIMNEY.

By Michault De Changy.

Of a Jacobin who left his mistress, a butcher's wife, for another woman who was younger and prettier, and how the said butcher's wife tried to enter his house by the chimney.

It happened formerly at Lille, that a famous clerk and preacher of the order of St. Dominic, converted, by his holy and eloquent preaching, the wife of a butcher; in such wise that she loved him more than all the world, and was never perfectly happy when he was not with her.

But in the end Master Monk tired of her, and wished that she would not visit him so often, at which she was as vexed as she could be, but the rebuff only made her love him the more.

The monk, seeing that, forbade her to come to his chamber, and charged his clerk not to admit her, whatever she might say; at which she was more vexed and infuriated than ever, and small marvel.

If you ask me why the monk did this, I should reply that it was not from devotion, or a desire to lead a chaste life, but that he had made the acquaintance of another woman, who was prettier, much younger, and richer, and with whom he was on such terms that she had a key to his chamber.

Thus it was that the butcher's wife never came to him, as she had been accustomed, so that his new mistress could in all leisure and security come and gain her pardons and pay her tithe, like the women of Ostelleria, of whom mention has been made.

One day, after dinner, there was a great feast held in the chamber of Master Monk, and his mistress had promised to come and bring her share both of wine and meat. And as some of the other brothers in that monastery were of the same kidney, he secretly invited two or three of them; and God knows they had good cheer at this dinner, which did not finish without plenty of drink.

Now you must know that the butcher's wife was acquainted with many of the servants of these preachers, and she saw them pass her house, some bearing wine, some pasties, some tarts, and so many other things that it was wonderful.

She could not refrain from asking what feast was going forward at their house? And the answer was that all this dainties were for such an one,—that is to say her monk—who had some great people to dinner.

"And who are they?" she asked.

"Faith! I know not," he said. "I only carry my wine to the door, and there our master takes it from us. I know not who is there!"

"I see," she said, "that it is a secret. Well, well! go on and do your duty."

Soon there passed another servant, of whom she asked the same questions, and he replied as his fellow had done, but rather more, for he said,

"I believe there is a damsel there;—but she wishes her presence to be neither seen nor known."

She guessed who it was, and was in a great rage, and said to herself that she would keep an eye upon the woman who had robbed her of the love of her friend, and, no doubt, if she had met her she would have read her a pretty lesson, and scratched her face.

She set forth with the intention of executing the plan she had conceived. When she arrived at the place, she waited long to meet the person she most hated in the world, but she had not the patience to wait till her rival came out of the chamber where the feast was being held, so at last she determined to use a ladder that a tiler, who was at work at the roof, had left there whilst he went to dinner.

She placed this ladder against the kitchen chimney of the house, with the intention of dropping in and saluting the company, for she knew well that she could not enter in any other way.

The ladder being placed exactly as she wished it, she ascended it to the chimney, round which she tied a fairly thick cord that by chance she found there. Having tied that firmly, as she believed, she entered the said chimney and began to descend; but the worst of it was that she stuck there without being able to go up or down, however much she tried—and this was owing to her backside being so big and heavy, and to the fact that the cord broke, so that she could not climb back. She was in sore distress, God knows, and did not know what to say or do. She reflected that it would be better to await the arrival of the tiler, and make an appeal to him when he came to look for his ladder and his rope; but this hope was taken from her, for the tiler did not come to work until the next morning, on account of the heavy rain, of which she had her share, for she was quite drenched.

When the evening grew late, the poor woman heard persons talking in the kitchen, whereupon she began to shout, at which they were much astonished and frightened, for they knew not who was calling them, or whence the voice came. Nevertheless, astonished as they were, they listened a little while, and heard the voice now in front and now behind, shrieking shrilly. They believed it was a spirit, and went to tell their master, who was in the dormitory, and was not brave enough to come and see what it was, but put it off till the morning.

You may guess what long hours the poor woman spent, being all night in the chimney. And, by bad luck, it rained heavily for a long time.

The next day, early in the morning, the tiler came to work, to make up for the time the rain had made him lose on the previous day. He was quite astonished to find his ladder in another place than where he left it, and the rope tied round the chimney, and did not know who had done it. He determined to fetch the rope, and mounted the ladder and came to the chimney, and undid the cord, and put his head down the chimney, where he saw the butcher's wife, looking more wretched than a drowned cat, at which he was much astonished.

"What are you doing here, dame?" he asked. "Do you want to rob the poor monks who live here?"

"Alas, friend," she replied, "by my oath I do not. I beg of you to help me to get out, and I will give you whatever you ask."

"I will do nothing of the kind," he said, "if I do not know who you are and whence you come."

"I will tell you if you like," she said, "but I beg of you not to repeat it."

Then she told him all about her love affair with the monk, and why she had come there. The tiler took pity on her, and with some trouble, and by means of his rope, pulled her out, and brought her down to the ground. And she promised him that if he held his tongue she would give him beef and mutton enough to supply him and his family all the year, which she did. And the other kept the matter so secret that everybody heard of it.

*****



STORY THE FORTY-FIRST — LOVE IN ARMS.

By Monseigneur De La Roche.

Of a knight who made his wife wear a hauberk whenever he would do you know what; and of a clerk who taught her another method which she almost told her husband, but turned it off suddenly.

A noble knight of Haynau, who was wise, cunning, and a great traveller, found such pleasure in matrimony, that after the death of his good and prudent wife, he could not exist long unmarried, and espoused a beautiful damsel of good condition, who was not one of the cleverest people in the world, for, to tell the truth, she was rather dull-witted, which much pleased her husband, because he thought he could more easily bend her to his will.

He devoted all his time and study to training her to obey him, and succeeded as well as he could possibly have wished. And, amongst other matters, whenever he would indulge in the battle of love with her—which was not as often as she would have wished—he made her put on a splendid hauberk, at which she was at first much astonished, and asked why she was armed, and he replied that she could not withstand his amorous assaults if she were not armed. So she was content to wear the hauberk; and her only regret was that her husband was not more fond of making these assaults, for they were more trouble than pleasure to him.

If you should ask why her lord made her wear this singular costume, I should reply that he hoped that the pain and inconvenience of the hauberk would prevent his wife from being too fond of these amorous assaults; but, wise as he was, he made a great mistake, for if in each love-battle the hauberk had broken her back and bruised her belly, she would not have refused to put it on, so sweet and pleasant did she find that which followed.

They thus lived together for a long time, till her husband was ordered to serve his prince in the war, in another sort of battle to that above-mentioned, so he took leave of his wife and went where he was ordered, and she remained at home in the charge of an old gentleman, and of certain damsels who served her.

Now you must know that there was in the house a good fellow, a clerk, who was treasurer of the household, and who sang and played the harp well. After dinner he would often play, which gave madame great pleasure, and she would often come to him when she heard the sound of his harp.

She came so often that the clerk at last made love to her, and she, being desirous to put on her hauberk again, listened to his petition, and replied;

"Come to me at a certain time, in such a chamber, and I will give you a reply that will please you."

She was greatly thanked, and at the hour named, the clerk did not fail to rap at the door of the chamber the lady had indicated, where she was quietly awaiting him with her fine hauberk on her back.

She opened the door, and the clerk saw her armed, and thinking that some one was concealed there to do him a mischief, was so scared that, in his fright, he tumbled down backwards I know not how many stairs, and might have broken his neck, but luckily he was not hurt, for, being in a good cause, God protected him.

Madame, who saw his danger, was much vexed and displeased; she ran down and helped him to rise, and asked why he was in such fear? He told her that truly he thought he had fallen into an ambush.

"You have nothing to fear," she said, "I am not armed with the intention of doing you any hurt," and so saying they mounted the stairs together, and entered the chamber.

"Madame," said the clerk, "I beg of you to tell me, if you please, why you have put on this hauberk?"

She blushed and replied, "You know very well."

"By my oath, madame, begging your pardon," said he, "if I had known I should not have asked."

"My husband," she replied, "whenever he would kiss me, and talk of love, makes me dress in this way; and as I know that you have come here for that purpose, I prepared myself accordingly."

"Madame," he said, "you are right, and I remember now that it is the manner of knights to arm their ladies in this way. But clerks have another method, which, in my opinion is much nicer and more comfortable."

"Please tell me what that is," said the lady.

"I will show you," he replied. Then he took off the hauberk, and the rest of her apparel down to her chemise, and he also undressed himself, and they got into the fair bed that was there, and—both being disarmed even of their chemises—passed two or three hours very pleasantly. And before leaving, the clerk showed her the method used by clerks, which she greatly praised, as being much better than that of knights. They often met afterwards, also in the same way, without its becoming known, although the lady was not over-cunning.

After a certain time, her husband returned from the war, at which she was not inwardly pleased, though outwardly she tried to pretend to be. His coming was known, and God knows how great a dinner was prepared. Dinner passed, and grace being said, the knight—to show he was a good fellow, and a loving husband—said to her,

"Go quickly to our chamber, and put on your hauberk." She, remembering the pleasant time she had had with her clerk, replied quickly,

"Ah, monsieur, the clerks' way is the best."

"The clerks' way!" he cried. "And how do you know their way?" and he began to fret and to change colour, and suspect something; but he never knew the truth, for his suspicions were quickly dissipated.

Madame was not such a fool but what she could see plainly that her husband was not pleased at what she had said, and quickly bethought herself of a way of getting out of the difficulty.

"I said that the clerks' way is the best; and I say it again."

"And what is that?" he asked.

"They drink after grace."

"Indeed, by St. John, you speak truly!" he cried. "Verily it is their custom, and it is not a bad one; and since you so much care for it, we will keep it in future."

So wine was brought and they drank it, and then Madame went to put on her hauberk, which she would willingly have done without, for the gentle clerk had showed her another way which pleased her better.

Thus, as you have heard, was Monsieur deceived by his wife's ready reply. No doubt her wits had been sharpened by her intercourse with the clerk, and after that he showed her plenty of other tricks, and in the end he and her husband became great friends.

*****



STORY THE FORTY-SECOND — THE MARRIED PRIEST. [42]

By Meriadech.

Of a village clerk who being at Rome and believing that his wife was dead became a priest, and was appointed cure of his own town, and when he returned, the first person he met was his wife.

In the year '50 (*) just passed, the clerk of a village in the diocese of Noyon, that he might gain the pardons, which as every one knows were then given at Rome (**), set out in company with many respectable people of Noyon, Compeigne, and the neighbouring places.

(*) 1450

(**) Special indulgences were granted that year on account of the Jubilee

But, before leaving, he carefully saw to his private affairs, arranged for the support of his wife and family, and entrusted the office of sacristan, which he held, to a young and worthy clerk to hold until his return.

In a fairly brief space of time, he and his companions arrived at Rome, and performed their devotions and their pilgrimage as well as they knew how. But you must know that our clerk met, by chance, at Rome, one of his old school-fellows, who was in the service of a great Cardinal, and occupied a high position, and who was very glad to meet his old friend, and asked him how he was. And the other told him everything—first of all that he was, alas! married, how many children he had, and how that he was a parish clerk.

"Ah!" said his friend, "by my oath! I am much grieved that you are married."

"Why?" asked the other.

"I will tell you," said he; "such and such a Cardinal has charged me to find him a secretary, a native of our province. This would have suited you, and you would have been largely remunerated, were it not that your marriage will cause you to return home, and, I fear, lose many benefits that you cannot now get."

"By my oath!" said the clerk, "my marriage is no great consequence, for—to tell you the truth—the pardon was but an excuse for getting out of the country, and was not the principal object of my journey; for I had determined to enjoy myself for two or three years in travelling about, and if, during that time, God should take my wife, I should only be too happy. So I beg and pray of you to think of me and to speak well for me to this Cardinal, that I may serve him; and, by my oath, I will so bear myself that you shall have no fault to find with me; and, moreover, you will do me the greatest service that ever one friend did another."

"Since that is your wish," said his friend, "I will oblige you at once, and will lodge you too if you wish."

"Thank you, friend," said the other.

To cut matters short, our clerk lodged with the Cardinal, and wrote and told his wife of his new position, and that he did not intend to return home as soon as he had intended when he left. She consoled herself, and wrote back that she would do the best she could.

Our worthy clerk conducted himself so well in the service of the Cardinal, and gained such esteem, that his master had no small regret that his secretary was incapable of holding a living, for which he was exceedingly well fitted.

Whilst our clerk was thus in favour, the cure of his village died, and thus left the living vacant during one of the Pope's months. (*) The Sacristan who held the place of his friend who had gone to Rome, determined that he would hurry to Rome as quickly as he could, and do all in his power to get the living for himself. He lost no time, and in a few days, after much trouble and fatigue, found himself at Rome, and rested not till he had discovered his friend—the clerk who served the Cardinal.

After mutual salutations, the clerk asked after his wife, and the other, expecting to give him much pleasure and further his own interests in the request he was about to make, replied that she was dead—in which he lied, for I know that at this present moment (**) she can still worry her husband.

(*) During eight months of the year, the Pope had the right of bestowing all livings which became vacant.

(**) That is when the story was written.

"Do you say that my wife is dead?" cried the clerk. "May God pardon her all her sins."

"Yes, truly," replied the other; "the plague carried her off last year, along with many others."

He told this lie, which cost him dear, because he knew that the clerk had only left home on account of his wife, who was of a quarrelsome disposition, and he thought the most pleasant news he could bring was to announce her death, and truly so it would have been, but the news was false.

"And what brings you to this country?" asked the clerk after many and various questions.

"I will tell you, my friend and companion. The cure of our town is dead; so I came to you to ask if by any means I could obtain the benefice. I would beg of you to help me in this matter. I know that it is in your power to procure me the living, with the help of monseigneur, your master."

The clerk, thinking that his wife was dead, and the cure of his native town vacant, thought to himself that he would snap up this living, and others too if he could get them. But, all the same, he said nothing to his friend, except that it would not be his fault if the other were not cure of their town,—for which he was much thanked.

It happened quite otherwise, for, on the morrow, our Holy Father, at the request of the Cardinal, the master of our clerk, gave the latter the living.

Thereupon this clerk, when he heard the news, came to his companion, and said to him,

"Ah, friend, by my oath, your hopes are dissipated, at which I am much vexed."

"How so?" asked the other.

"The cure of our town is given," he said, "but I know not to whom. Monseigneur, my master, tried to help you, but it was not in his power to accomplish it."

At which the other was vexed, after he had come so far and expended so much. So he sorrowfully took leave of his friend, and returned to his own country, without boasting about the lie he had told.

But let us return to our clerk, who was as merry as a grig at the news of the death of his wife, and to whom the benefice of his native town had been given, at the request of his master, by the Holy Father, as a reward for his services. And let us record how he became a priest at Rome, and chanted his first holy Mass, and took leave of his master for a time, in order to return and take possession of his living.

When he entered the town, by ill luck the first person that he chanced to meet was his wife, at which he was much astonished I can assure you, and still more vexed.

"What is the meaning of this, my dear?" he asked. "They told me you were dead!"

"Nothing of the kind," she said. "You say so, I suppose, because you wish it, as you have well proved, for you have left me for five years, with a number of young children to take care of."

"My dear," he said, "I am very glad to see you in good health, and I praise God for it with all my heart. Cursed be he who brought me false news."

"Amen!" she replied.

"But I must tell you, my dear, that I cannot stay now; I am obliged to go in haste to the Bishop of Noyon, on a matter which concerns him; but I will return to you as quickly as I can."

He left his wife, and took his way to Noyon; but God knows that all along the road he thought of his strange position.

"Alas!" he said, "I am undone and dishonoured. A priest! a clerk! and married! I suppose I am the first miserable wretch to whom that ever occurred!"

He went to the Bishop of Noyon, who was much surprised at hearing his case, and did not know what to advise him, so sent him back to Rome.

When he arrived there, he related his adventure at length to his master, who was bitterly annoyed, and on the morrow repeated it to our Holy Father, in the presence of the Sacred College and all the Cardinals.

So it was ordered that he should remain priest, and married, and cure also; and that he should live with his wife as a married man, honourably and without reproach, and that his children should be legitimate and not bastards, although their father was a priest. Moreover, that if it was found he lived apart from his wife, he should lose the living.

Thus, as you have heard, was this gallant punished for believing the false news of his friend, and was obliged to go and live in his own parish, and, which was worse, with his wife, with whose company he would have gladly dispensed if the Church had not ordered it otherwise.

*****



STORY THE FORTY-THIRD — A BARGAIN IN HORNS.

By Monseigneur De Fiennes.

Of a labourer who found a man with his wife, and forwent his revenge for a certain quantity of wheat, but his wife insisted that he should complete the work he had begun.

There lived formerly, in the district of Lille, a worthy man who was a labourer and tradesman, and who managed, by the good offices of himself and his friends, to obtain for a wife a very pretty young girl, but who was not rich, neither was her husband, but he was very covetous, and diligent in business, and loved to gain money.

And she, for her part, attended to the household as her husband desired; who therefore had a good opinion of her, and often went about his business without any suspicion that she was other than good.

But whilst the poor man thus came and went, and left his wife alone, a good fellow came to her, and, to cut the story short, was in a short time the deputy for the trusting husband, who still believed that he had the best wife in the world, and the one who most thought about the increase of his honour and his worldly wealth.

It was not so, for she gave him not the love she owed him, and cared not whether he had profit or loss by her. The good merchant aforesaid, being out as usual, his wife soon informed her friend, who did not fail to come as he was desired, at once. And not to lose his time, he approached his mistress, and made divers amorous proposals to her, and in short the desired pleasure was not refused him any more than on the former occasions, which had not been few.

By bad luck, whilst the couple were thus engaged, the husband arrived, and found them at work, and was much astonished, for he did not know that his wife was a woman of that sort.

"What is this?" he said. "By God's death, scoundrel, I will kill you on the spot."

The other, who had been caught in the act, and was much scared, knew not what to say, but as he was aware that the husband was miserly and covetous, he said quickly:

"Ah, John, my friend, I beg your mercy; pardon me if I have done you any wrong, and on my word I will give you six bushels of wheat."

"By God!" said he, "I will do nothing of the kind. You shall die by my hands and I will have your life if I do not have twelve bushels."

The good wife, who heard this dispute, in order to restore peace, came forward, and said to her husband.

"John, dear, let him finish what he has begun, I beg, and you shall have eight bushels. Shall he not?" she added, turning to her lover.

"I am satisfied," he said, "though on my oath it is too much, seeing how dear corn is."

"It is too much?" said the good man. "Morbleu! I much regret that I did not say more, for you would have to pay a much heavier fine if you were brought to justice: however, make up your mind that I will have twelve bushels, or you shall die."

"Truly, John," said his wife, "you are wrong to contradict me. It seems to me that you ought to be satisfied with eight bushels, for you know that is a large quantity of wheat."

"Say no more," he replied, "I will have twelve bushels, or I will kill him and you too."

"The devil," quoth the lover; "you drive a bargain; but at least, if I must pay you, let me have time."

"That I agree to, but I will have my twelve bushels."

The dispute ended thus, and it was agreed that he was to pay in two instalments,—six bushels on the morrow, and the others on St. Remy's day, then near.

All this was arranged by the wife, who then said to her husband.

"You are satisfied, are you not, to receive your wheat in the manner I have said?"

"Certainly," he replied.

"Then go," she said, "whilst he finishes the work he had begun when you interrupted him; otherwise the contract will not be binding."

"By St. John! is it so?" said the lover.

"I always keep my word," said the good merchant. "By God, no man shall say I am a cheat or a liar. You will finish the job you have begun, and I am to have my twelve bushels of wheat on the terms agreed. That was our contract—was it not?"

"Yes, truly," said his wife.

"Good bye, then," said the husband, "but at any rate be sure that I have six bushels of wheat to-morrow."

"Don't be afraid," said the other. "I will keep my word." So the good man left the house, quite joyful that he was to have twelve bushels of wheat, and his wife and her lover recommenced more heartily than ever. I have heard that the wheat was duly delivered on the dates agreed.

*****



STORY THE FORTY-FOURTH — THE MATCH-MAKING PRIEST.

By Monseigneur De La Roche.

Of a village priest who found a husband for a girl with whom he was in love, and who had promised him that when she was married she would do whatever he wished, of which he reminded her on the wedding-day, and the husband heard it, and took steps accordingly, as you will hear.

In the present day they are many priests and cures who are good fellows, and who can as easily commit follies and imprudences as laymen can.

In a pretty village of Picardy, there lived formerly a cure of a lecherous disposition. Amongst the other pretty girls and women of his parish, he cast eyes on a young and very pretty damsel of nubile age, and was bold enough to tell her what he wanted.

Won over by his fair words, and the hundred thousand empty promises he made, she was almost ready to listen to his requests, which would have been a great pity, for she was a nice and pretty girl with pleasant manners, and had but one fault,—which was that she was not the most quick-witted person in the world.

I do not know why it occurred to her to answer him in that manner, but one day she told the cure, when he was making hot love to her, that she was not inclined to do what he required until she was married, for if by chance, as happened every day, she had a baby, she would always be dishonoured and reproached by her father, mother, brothers, and all her family, which she could not bear, nor had she strength to sustain the grief and worry which such a misfortune would entail.

"Nevertheless, if some day I am married, speak to me again, and I will do what I can for you, but not otherwise; so give heed to what I say and believe me once for all."

The cure was not over-pleased at this definite reply, bold and sensible as it was, but he was so amorous that he would not abandon all hope, and said to the girl;

"Are you so firmly decided, my dear, not to do anything for me until you are married?"

"Certainly, I am," she replied.

"And if you are married, and I am the means and the cause, you will remember it afterwards, and honestly and loyally perform what you have promised?"

"By my oath, yes," she said, "I promise you."

"Thank you," he said, "make your mind easy, for I promise you faithfully that if you are not married soon it will not be for want of efforts or expense on my part, for I am sure that you cannot desire it more than I do; and in order to prove that I am devoted to you soul and body, you will see how I will manage this business."

"Very well, monsieur le cure," she said, "we shall see what you will do."

With that she took leave of him, and the good cure, who was madly in love with her, was not satisfied till he had seen her father. He talked over various matters with him, and at last the worthy priest spoke to the old man about his daughter, and said,

"Neighbour, I am much astonished, as also are many of your neighbours and friends, that you do not let your daughter marry. Why do you keep her at home when you know how dangerous it is? Not that—God forbid—I say, or wish to say, that she is not virtuous, but every day we see girls go wrong because they do not marry at the proper age. Forgive me for so openly stating my opinion, but the respect I have for you, and the duty I owe you as your unworthy pastor, require and compel me to tell you this."

"By the Lord, monsieur le cure," said the good man, "I know that your words are quite true, and I thank you for them, and do not think that I have kept her so long at home from any selfish motive, for if her welfare is concerned I will do all I can for her, as I ought. You would not wish, nor is it usual, that I should buy a husband for her, but if any respectable young man should come along, I will do everything that a good father should."

"Well said," replied the cure, "and on my word, you could not do better than marry her off quickly. It is a great thing to be able to see your grandchildren round you before you become too old. What do you say to so-and-so, the son of your neighbour?—He seems to me a good, hard-working man, who would make a good husband."

"By St. John!" said the old man, "I have nothing but good to say about him. For my own part, I know him to be a good young man and a good worker. His father and mother, and all his relatives, are respectable people, and if they do me the honour to ask my daughter's hand in marriage for him, I shall reply in a manner that will satisfy them."

"You could not say more," replied the cure, "and, if it please God, the matter shall be arranged as I wish, and as I know for a fact that this marriage would be to the benefit of both parties, I will do my best to farther it, and with this I will now say farewell to you."

If the cure had played his part well with the girl's father, he was quite as clever in regard to the father of the young man. He began with a preamble to the effect that his son was of an age to marry, and ought to settle down, and brought a hundred thousand reasons to show that the world would be lost if his son were not soon married.

"Monsieur le cure," replied also the second old man, "there is much truth in what you say, and if I were now as well off as I was, I know not how many years ago, he would not still be unmarried; for there is nothing in the world I desire more than to see him settled, but want of money has prevented it, and so he must have patience until the Lord sends us more wealth than we have at present."

"Then," said the cure, "if I understand you aright, it is only money that is wanting."

"Faith! that is so," said the old man. "If I had now as much as I had formerly, I should soon seek a wife for him."

"I have concerned myself," said the cure, "because I desire the welfare and prosperity of your son, and find that the daughter of such an one (that is to say his ladylove) would exactly suit him. She is pretty and virtuous, and her father is well off, and, as I know, would give some assistance, and—which is no small matter—is a wise man of good counsel, and a friend to whom you and your son could have recourse. What do you say?"

"Certainly," said the good man, "if it please God that my son should be fortunate enough to be allied to such a good family; and if I thought that he could anyhow succeed in that, I would get together what money I could, and would go round to all my friends, for I am sure that he could never find anyone more suitable."

"I have not chosen badly then," said the cure. "And what would you say if I spoke about this matter to her father, and conducted it to its desired end, and, moreover, lent you twenty francs for a certain period that we could arrange?"

"By my oath, monsieur le cure," said the good man, "you offer me more than I deserve. If you did this, you would render a great service to me and mine."

"Truly," answered the cure, "I have not said anything that I do not mean to perform; so be of good cheer, for I hope to see this matter at an end."

To shorten matters, the cure, hoping to have the woman when once she was married, arranged the matter so well that, with the twenty francs he lent, the marriage was settled, and the wedding day arrived.

Now it is the custom that the bride and bridegroom confess on that day. The bridegroom came first, and when he had finished, he withdrew to a little distance saying his orisons and his paternosters. Then came the bride, who knelt down before the cure and confessed. When she had said all she had to say, he spoke to her in turn, and so loudly, that the bridegroom, who was not far off, heard every word, and said,

"My dear, I beg you to remember now the promise you formerly made me. You promised me that when you were married that I should ride you; and now you are married, thank God, by my means and endeavours, and through the money that I have lent."

"Monsieur le cure," she said, "have no fear but what I will keep the promise I have made, if God so please."

"Thank you," he replied, and then gave her absolution after this devout confession, and suffered her to depart.

The bridegroom, who had heard these words, was not best pleased, but nevertheless thought it not the right moment to show his vexation.

After all the ceremonies at the church were over, the couple returned home, and bed-time drew near. The bridegroom whispered to a friend of his whom he dearly loved, to fetch a big handful of birch rods, and hide them secretly under the bed, and this the other did.

When the time came, the bride went to bed, as is the custom, and kept to the edge of the bed, and said not a word. The bridegroom came soon after, and lay on the other edge of the bed without approaching her, or saying a word and in the morning he rose without doing anything else, and hid his rods again under the bed.

When he had left the room, there came several worthy matrons who found the bride in bed, and asked her how the night had passed, and what she thought of her husband?

"Faith!" she said, "there was his place over there"—pointing to the edge of the bed—"and here was mine. He never came near me, and I never went near him."

They were all much astonished, and did not know what to think, but at last they agreed that if he had not touched her, it was from some religious motive, and they thought no more of it for that once.

The second night came, and the bride lay down in the place she had occupied the previous night, and the bridegroom, still furnished with his rods, did the same and nothing more; and this went on for two more nights, at which the bride was much displeased, and did not fail to tell the matrons the next day, who knew not what to think.

"It is to be feared he is not a man, for he has continued four nights in that manner. He must be told what he has to do; so if to-night he does not begin,"—they said to the bride—"draw close to him and cuddle and kiss him, and ask him if married people do not do something else besides? And if he should ask you what you want him to do? tell him that you want him to ride you, and you will hear what he will say."

"I will do so," she said.

She failed not, for that night she lay in her usual place, and her husband took up his old quarters, and made no further advances than he had on the previous nights. So she turned towards him, and throwing her arms round him, said;

"Come here husband! Is this the pleasant time I was to expect? This is the fifth night I have slept with you, and you have not deigned to come near me! On my word I should never have wished to be married if I had not thought married people did something else."

"And what did they tell you married people did?" he asked.

"They say," she replied, "that the one rides the other. I want you to ride me."

"Ride!" he said. "I would not like to do that.—I would not be so unkind."

"Oh, I beg of you to do it—for that is what married people do."

"You want me to do it?" he asked.

"I beg of you to do it," she said, and so saying she kissed him tenderly.

"By my oath!" he said, "I will do it, since you ask me to though much to my regret, for I am sure that you will not like it."

Without saying another word he took his stock of rods, and stripped his wife, and thrashed her soundly, back and belly, legs and thighs, till she was bathed in blood. She screamed, she cried, she struggled, and it was piteous to see her, and she cursed the moment that she had ever asked to be ridden.

"I told you so," said her husband, and then took her in his arms and "rode" her so nicely that she forgot the pain of the beating.

"What do you call that you have just done?" she asked.

"It is called," he said, "'to blow up the backside'."

"Blow up the backside!" she said. "The expression is not so pretty as 'to ride', but the operation is much nicer, and, now that I have learned the difference, I shall know what to ask for in future."

Now you must know that the cure was always on the look-out for when the newly married bride should come to church, to remind her of her promise. The first time she appeared, he sidled up to the font, and when she passed him, he gave her holy water, and said in a low voice,

"My dear! you promised me that I should ride you when you were married! You are married now, thank God, and it is time to think when and how you will keep your word."

"Ride?" she said. "By God, I would rather see you hanged or drowned! Don't talk to me about riding. But I will let you blow up my backside if you like!"

"And catch your quartain fever!" said the cure, "beastly dirty, ill-mannered whore that you are! Am I to be rewarded after all I have done for you, by being permitted to blow up your backside!"

So the cure went off in a huff, and the bride took her seat that she might hear the holy Mass, which the good cure was about to read.

And thus, in the manner which you have just heard, did the cure lose his chance of enjoying the girl, by his own fault and no other's, because he spoke too loudly to her the day when he confessed her, for her husband prevented him, in the way described above, by making his wife believe that the act of 'riding' was called 'to blow up the backside'.

*****



STORY THE FORTY-FIFTH — THE SCOTSMAN TURNED WASHERWOMAN

By Monseigneur De La Roche.

Of a young Scotsman who was disguised as a woman for the space of fourteen years, and by that means slept with many girls and married women, but was punished in the end, as you will hear.

None of the preceding stories have related any incidents which happened in Italy, but only those which occurred in France, Germany, England, Flanders, and Brabant,—therefore I will relate, as something new, an incident which formerly happened in Rome, and was as follows.

At Rome was a Scotsman of the age of about 22, who for the space of fourteen years had disguised himself as a woman, without it being publicly known all that time that he was a man. He called himself Margaret, and there was hardly a good house in Rome where he was not known, and he was specially welcomed by all the women, such as waiting-women, and wenches of the lower orders, and also many of the greatest ladies in Rome.

This worthy Scotsman carried on the trade of laundress, and had learned to bleach sheets, and called himself the washerwoman, and under that pretence frequented, as has been said, all the best houses in Rome, for there was no woman who could bleach sheets as he did.

But you must know that he did much else beside, for when he found himself with some pretty girl, he showed her that he was a man. Often, in order to prepare the lye, he stopped one or two nights in the aforesaid houses, and they made him sleep with the maid, or sometimes with the daughter; and very often, if her husband were not there, the mistress would have his company. And God knows that he had a good time, and, thanks to the way he employed his body, was welcome everywhere, and many wenches and waiting maids would fight as to who was to have him for a bedfellow.

The citizens of Rome heard such a good account of him from their wives, that they willingly welcomed him to their houses, and if they went abroad, were glad to have Margaret to keep house along with their wives, and, what is more, made her sleep with them, so good and honest was she esteemed, as has been already said.

For the space of fourteen years did Margaret continue this way of living, but the mischief was at last brought to light by a young girl, who told her father that she had slept with Margaret and been assaulted by her, and that in reality she was a man. The father informed the officers of justice, and it was found that she had all the members and implements that men carry, and, in fact, was a man and not a woman.

So it was ordered that he should be put in a cart and led through all the city of Rome, and at every street corner his genitals should be exposed.

This was done, and God knows how ashamed and vexed poor Margaret was. But you must know that when the cart stopped at a certain corner, and all the belongings of Margaret were being exhibited, a Roman said out loud;

"Look at that scoundrel! he has slept more than twenty nights with my wife!"

Many others said the same, and many who did not say it knew it well, but, for their honours sake, held their tongue. Thus, in the manner you have heard, was the poor Scotsman punished for having pretended to be a woman, and after that punishment was banished from Rome; at which the women were much displeased, for never was there such a good laundress, and they were very sorry that they had so unfortunately lost her.

*****



STORY THE FORTY-SIXTH — HOW THE NUN PAID FOR THE PEARS. [46]

By Monseigneur De Thianges (*).

Of a Jacobin and a nun, who went secretly to an orchard to enjoy pleasant pastime under a pear-tree; in which tree was hidden one who knew of the assignation, and who spoiled their sport for that time, as you will hear.

(*) The name of the author of this story is spelled in four different ways in different editions of these tales—Viz, Thieurges, Thienges, Thieuges and Thianges.

It is no means unusual for monks to run after nuns. Thus it happened formerly that a Jacobin so haunted, visited, and frequented a nunnery in this kingdom, that his intention became known,—which was to sleep with one of the ladies there.

And God knows how anxious and diligent he was to see her whom he loved better than all the rest of the world, and continued to visit there so often, that the Abbess and many of the nuns perceived how matters stood, at which they were much displeased. Nevertheless, to avoid scandal, they said not a word to the monk, but gave a good scolding to the nun, who made many excuses, but the abbess, who was clear-sighted, knew by her replies and excuses that she was guilty.

So, on account of that nun, the Abbess restrained the liberty of all, and caused the doors of the cloisters and other places to be closed, so that the poor Jacobin could by no means come to his mistress. That greatly vexed him, and her also, I need not say, and you may guess that they schemed day and night by what means they could meet; but could devise no plan, such a strict watch did the Abbess keep on them.

It happened one day, that one of the nieces of the Abbess was married, and a great feast was made in the convent. There was a great assemblage of people from the country round, and the Abbess was very busy receiving the great people who had come to do honour to her niece.

The worthy Jacobin thought that he might get a glimpse of his mistress, and by chance be lucky enough to find an opportunity to speak to her. He came therefore, and found what he sought; for, because of the number of guests, the Abbess was prevented from keeping watch over the nun, and he had an opportunity to tell his mistress his griefs, and how much he regretted the good time that had passed; and she, who greatly loved him, gladly listened to him, and would have willingly made him happy. Amongst other speeches, he said;

"Alas! my dear, you know that it is long since we have had a quiet talk together such as we like; I beg of you therefore, if it is possible, whilst everyone is otherwise engaged than in watching us, to tell me where we can have a few words apart."

"So help me God, my friend," she replied, "I desire it no less than you do. But I do not know of any place where it can be done; for there are so many people in the house, and I cannot enter my chamber, there are so many strangers who have come to this wedding; but I will tell you what you can do. You know the way to the great garden; do you not?"

"By St. John! yes," he said.

"In the corner of the garden," she said, "there is a nice paddock enclosed with high and thick hedges, and in the middle is a large pear-tree, which makes the place cool and shady. Go there and wait for me, and as soon as I can get away, I will hurry to you."

The Jacobin greatly thanked her and went straight there. But you must know there was a young gallant who had come to the feast, who was standing not far from these lovers and had heard their conversation, and, as he knew the paddock, he determined that he would go and hide there, and see their love-making.

He slipped out of the crowd, and as fast as his feet could carry him, ran to this paddock, and arrived there before the Jacobin; and when he came there, he climbed into the great pear-tree—which had large branches, and was covered with leaves and pears,—and hid himself so well that he could not be easily seen.

He was hardly ensconced there when there came trotting along the worthy Jacobin, looking behind him to see if his mistress was following; and God knows that he was glad to find himself in that beautiful spot, and never lifted his eyes to the pear-tree, for he never suspected that there was anyone there, but kept his eyes on the road by which he had come.

He looked until he saw his mistress coming hastily, and she was soon with him, and they rejoiced greatly, and the good Jacobin took off his gown and his scapulary, and kissed and cuddled tightly the fair nun.

They wanted to do that for which they came thither, and prepared themselves accordingly, and in so doing the nun said;

"Pardieu, Brother Aubrey, I would have you know that you are about to enjoy one of the prettiest nuns in the Church. You can judge for yourself. Look what breasts I what a belly! what thighs! and all the rest."

"By my oath," said Brother Aubrey, "Sister Jehanne, my darling, you also can say that you have for a lover one of the best-looking monks of our Order, and as well furnished as any man in this kingdom," and with these words, taking in his hand the weapon with which he was about to fight, he brandished it before his lady's eyes, and cried, "What do you say? What do you think of it? Is it not a handsome one? Is it not worthy of a pretty girl?"

"Certainly it is," she said.

"And you shall have it."

"And you shall have," said he who was up in the pear-tree, "all the best pears on the tree;" and with that he took and shook the branches with both hands, and the pears rattled down on them and on the ground, at which Brother Aubrey was so frightened that he hardly had the sense to pick up his gown, but ran away as fast as he could without waiting, and did not feel safe till he was well away from the spot.

The nun was as much, or more, frightened, but before she could set off, the gallant had come down out of the tree, and taking her by the hand, prevented her leaving, and said; "My dear, you must not go away thus: you must first pay the fruiterer."

She saw that a refusal would appear unseasonable, and was fain to let the fruiterer complete the work which Brother Aubrey had left undone.

*****



STORY THE FORTY-SEVENTH — TWO MULES DROWNED TOGETHER. [47]

By Monseigneur De La Roche.

Of a President who knowing of the immoral conduct of his wife, caused her to be drowned by her mule, which had been kept without drink for a week, and given salt to eat—as is more clearly related hereafter.

In Provence there lived formerly a President of great and high renown, who was a most learned clerk and prudent man, valiant in arms, discreet in counsel, and, in short, had all the advantages which man could enjoy. (*)

(*) Though not mentioned here by name, the principal character in this story has been identified with Chaffrey Carles, President of the Parliament of Grenoble. On the front of a house in the Rue de Cleres, in Grenoble is carved a coat of arms held by an angel who has her finger on her lips. The arms are those of the Carles family and the figure is supposed to refer to this story. At any rate the secret was very badly kept, for the story seems to have been widely known within a few years of its occurrence.

One thing only was wanting to him, and that was the one that vexed him most, and with good cause—and it was that he had a wife who was far from good. The good lord saw and knew that his wife was unfaithful, and inclined to play the whore, but the sense that God had given him, told him that there was no remedy except to hold his tongue or die, for he had often both seen and read that nothing would cure a woman of that complaint.

But, at any rate, you may imagine that a man of courage and virtue, as he was, was far from happy, and that his misfortune rankled in his sorrowing heart. Yet as he outwardly appeared to know or see nothing of his wife's misconduct, one of his servants came to him one day when he was alone in his chamber, and said,

"Monsieur, I want to inform you, as I ought, of something which particularly touches your honour. I have watched your wife's conduct, and I can assure you that she does not keep the faith she promised, for a certain person (whom he named) occupies your place very often."

The good President, who knew as well or better than the servant who made the report, how his wife behaved, replied angrily;

"Ha! scoundrel, I am sure that you lie in all you say! I know my wife too well, and she is not what you say—no! Do you think I keep you to utter lies about a wife who is good and faithful to me! I will have no more of you; tell me what I owe you and then go, and never enter my sight again if you value your life!"

The poor servant, who thought he was doing his master a great service, said how much was due to him, received his money and went, but the President, seeing that the unfaithfulness became more and more evident, was as vexed and troubled as he could be. He could not devise any plan by which he could honestly get rid of her, but it happened that God willed, or fortune permitted that his wife was going to a wedding shortly, and he thought it might be made to turn out lucky for him.

He went to the servant who had charge of the horses, and a fine mule that he had, and said,

"Take care that you give nothing to drink to my mule either night or day, until I give you further orders, and whenever you give it its hay, mix a good handful of salt with it—but do not say a word about it."

"I will say nothing," said the servant, "and I will do whatever you command me."

When the wedding day of the cousin of the President's wife drew near, she said to her husband,

"Monsieur, if it be your pleasure, I would willingly attend the wedding of my cousin, which will take place next Sunday, at such a place."

"Very well, my dear; I am satisfied: go, and God guide you."

"Thank you, monsieur," she replied, "but I know not exactly how to go. I do not wish to take my carriage; your nag is so skittish that I am afraid to undertake the journey on it."

"Well, my dear, take my mule—it looks well, goes nicely and quietly, and is more sure-footed than any animal I ever saw."

"Faith!" she said, "I thank you: you are a good husband."

The day of departure arrived, and all the servants of Madame were ready, and also the women who were to serve her and accompany her, and two or three cavaliers who were to escort Madame, and they asked if Madame were also ready, and she informed them that she would come at once.

When she was dressed, she came down, and they brought her the mule which had not drank for eight days, and was mad with thirst, so much salt had it eaten. When she was mounted, the cavaliers went first, making their horses caracole, and thus did all the company pass through the town into the country, and on till they came to a defile through which the great river Rhone rushes with marvellous swiftness. And when the mule which had drank nothing for eight days saw the river, it sought neither bridge nor ford, but made one leap into the river with its load, which was the precious body of Madame.

All the attendants saw the accident, but they could give no help; so was Madame drowned, which was a great misfortune. And the mule, when it had drunk its fill, swam across the Rhone till it reached the shore, and was saved.

All were much troubled and sorrowful that Madame was lost, and they returned to the town. One of the servants went to the President, who was in his room expecting the news; and with much sorrow told him of the death of his wife.

The good President, who in his heart was more glad than sorry, showed great contrition, and fell down, and displayed much sorrow and regret for his good wife. He cursed the mule, and the wedding to which his wife was going.

"And by God!" he said, "it is a great reproach to all you people that were there that you did not save my poor wife, who loved you all so much; you are all cowardly wretches, and you have clearly shown it."

The servant excused himself, as did the others also, as well as they could, and left the President, who praised God with uplifted hands that he was rid of his wife.

He gave his wife's body a handsome funeral, but—as you may imagine—although he was of a fit and proper age, he took care never to marry again, lest he should once more incur the same misfortune.

*****



STORY THE FORTY-EIGHTH — THE CHASTE MOUTH.

By Monseigneur De La Roche.

Of a woman who would not suffer herself to be kissed, though she willingly gave up all the rest of her body except the mouth, to her lover—and the reason that she gave for this.

A noble youth fell in love with a young damsel who was married, and when he had made her acquaintance, told her, as plainly as he could, his case, and declared that he was ill for love of her,—and, to tell truth, he was much smitten.

She listened to him graciously enough, and after their first interview, he left well satisfied with the reply he had received. But if he had been love sick before he made the avowal, he was still more so afterwards. He could not sleep night or day for thinking of his mistress, and by what means he could gain her favour.

He returned to the charge when he saw his opportunity, and God knows, if he spoke well the first time, he played his part still better on the second occasion, and, by good luck, he found his mistress not disinclined to grant his request,—at which he was in no small degree pleased. And as he had not always the time or leisure to come and see her, he told her on that occasion of the desire he had to do her a service in any manner that he could, and she thanked him and was as kind as could be.

In short, he found in her so great courtesy, and kindness, and fair words, that he could not reasonably expect more, and thereupon wished to kiss, but she refused point-blank; nor could he even obtain a kiss when he said farewell, at which he was much astonished.

After he had left her, he doubted much whether he should ever gain her love, seeing that he could not obtain a single kiss, but he comforted himself by remembering the loving words she had said when they parted, and the hope she had given him.

He again laid siege to her; in short, came and went so often, that his mistress at last gave him a secret assignation, where they could say all that they had to say, in private. And when he took leave of her, he embraced her gently and would have kissed her, but she defended herself vigorously, and said to him, harshly;

"Go away, go away! and leave me alone! I do not want to be kissed!"

He excused his conduct as he best could, and left.

"What is this?" he said to himself. "I have never seen a woman like that! She gives me the best possible reception, and has already given me all that I have dared to ask—yet I cannot obtain one poor, little kiss."