Chapter XIII: Part 13

“My host, you and I have been friends for a long time. I will tell you what has brought me to your town now. About five or six days ago, a lot of good fellows were having supper at my house, and amongst other talk, I related how it was said throughout the country that there was no man better furnished than you”--and then he told him as nearly as possible all that had been said. “And it happened,” he continued, “that my wife listened attentively to what I said, and never rested till she obtained permission to come to this town. And by my oath, I verily suspect that her chief intention is to try if she can, if my words were true that I said about your big member. She will soon be here I expect, for she longs to come; so I pray you when she does come you will receive her gladly, and welcome her, and do all that she asks. But at all events do not deceive me; take care that you do not touch her. Appoint a time to come to her when she is in bed, and I will go in your place, and afterwards I will tell you some good news.”

“Let me alone,” said the host. “I will take care and act my part well.”

“At all events,” said the other, “be sure and serve me no trick, for I know well enough that she will be ready to.”

“By my oath,” said the host, “I assure you I will not come near her,” and he did not.

Soon after came our wench and her maid, both very tired, God knows; and the good host came forth, and received his guests as he had been enjoined, and as he had promised. He caused mademoiselle to be taken to a fair chamber, and a good fire to be made, and brought the best wine in the house, and sent for some fine fresh cherries, and came to banquet with her whilst supper was getting ready. When he saw his opportunity, he began to make his approaches to her, but in a roundabout way. To cut matters short, an agreement was made between them that he should come secretly at midnight to sleep with her.

This being arranged, he went and told the husband of the dame, who, at the hour named, went in mine host’s instead, and did the best he could, and rose before daybreak and returned to his own bed.

When it was day, the wench, quite vexed and melancholy, called her maid, and they rose, and dressed as hastily as they could, and would have paid the host, but he said he would take nothing from her. And with that she left without hearing Mass, or seeing St. Michael, or breakfasting either; and without saying a single word, returned home. But you must know that her husband was there already, and asked her what good news there was at Mont St. Michel. She, feeling as annoyed as she could be, hardly deigned to reply.

“And what sort of welcome,” asked her husband, “did mine host give you? By God, he is a good fellow!”

“A good fellow!” she said. “Nothing very wonderful! I will not give him more praise than is his due.”

“No, dame?” he replied. “By St. John, I should have thought that for love of me he would have given you a hearty welcome.”

“I care not about his welcome,” she said. “I do not go on a pilgrimage for the sake of his, or any one else’s welcome. I only think of my devotion.”

“Devotion, wife!” he answered. “By Our Lady, you had none! I know very well why you are so vexed and sorrowful. You did not find what you expected--that is the exact truth. Ha, ha, madam! I know the cause of your pilgrimage. You wanted to make trial of the physical gifts of our host of St. Michel, but, by St. John, I was on my guard, and always will be if I can help it. And that you may not think that I lied when I told you that he had such a big affair, by God, I said nothing but what is true. But you wanted something more than hearsay evidence, and, if I had not stopped you, you would in your ‘devotion’ have tried its power for yourself. You see I know all, and to remove any doubts you may have on the subject, I may tell you that I came last night at the appointed hour, and took his place--so be content with what I was able to do, and remain satisfied with what you have. This time I pardon you, but take care that it never occurs again.”

The damsel, confused and astonished at being thus caught, as soon as she could speak, begged his pardon, and promised never to do anything of the sort again. And I believe that she never did.

*****

STORY THE SIXTY-SIXTH -- THE WOMAN AT THE BATH.

By Philippe De Laon.

_Of an inn-keeper at Saint Omer who put to his son a question for which he was afterwards sorry when he heard the reply, at which his wife was much ashamed, as you will hear, later._

Some time ago I was at Saint Omer with a number of noble companions, some from the neighbourhood and Boulogne, and some from elsewhere, and after a game of tennis, we went to sup at the inn of a tavern-keeper, who is a well-to-do man and a good fellow, and who has a very pretty and buxom wife, by whom he has a fine boy, of the age of six or seven years.

We were all seated at supper, the inn-keeper, his wife, and her son, who stood near her, being with us, and some began to talk, others to sing and make good cheer, and our host did his best to make himself agreeable.

His wife had been that day to the warm baths, and her little son with her. So our host thought, to make the company laugh, to ask his son about the people who were at the baths with his mother, (*) and said;

“Come here, my son, and tell me truly which of all the women at the baths had the finest and the biggest c----?”

(*) The public baths were then much frequented, especially
by the lower classes. Men, women, and children all bathed
together.

The child being questioned before his mother, whom he feared as children usually do, looked at her, and did not speak.

The father, not expecting to find him so quiet, said again;

“Tell me, my son; who had the biggest c---- Speak boldly.”

“I don’t know, father,” replied the child, still glancing at his mother.

“By God, you lie,” said his father. “Tell me! I want to know.”

“I dare not,” said the boy, “my mother would beat me.”

“No, she will not,” said the father. “You need not mind. I will see she does not hurt you.”

Our hostess, the boy’s mother, not thinking that her son would tell (as he did) said to him.

“Answer boldly what your father asks you.”

“You will beat me,” he said.

“No, I will not,” she replied.

The father, now that the boy had permission to speak, again asked;

“Well, my son, on your word, did you look at the c----s of all the women who were at the baths?”

“By St. John, yes, father.”

“Were there plenty of them? Speak, and don’t lie.”

“I never saw so many. It seemed a real warren of c----s.”

“Well then; tell us now who had the finest and the biggest?”

“Truly,” replied the boy, “mother had the finest and biggest--but _he_ had such a large nose.”

“Such a large nose?” said the father. “Go along, go along! you are a good boy.”

We all began to laugh and to drink, and to talk about the boy who chattered so well. But his mother did not know which way to look, she was so ashamed, because her son had spoken about a nose, and I expect that he was afterwards well beaten for having told tales out of school. Our host was a good fellow, but he afterwards repented having put a question the answer to which made him blush. That is all for the present.

*****

STORY THE SIXTY-SEVENTH -- THE WOMAN WITH THREE HUSBANDS.

By Philippe De Laon.

_Of a “fur hat” of Paris, who wished to deceive a cobbler’s wife, but over-reached, himself, for he married her to a barber, and thinking that he was rid of her, would have wedded another, but she prevented him, as you will hear more plainly hereafter._

About three years ago a noteworthy adventure happened to one of the fur hats of the Parliament of Paris. (*) And that it should not be forgotten, I relate this story, not that I hold all the “fur caps” to be good and upright men; but because there was not a little, but a large measure of duplicity about this particular one, which is a strange and peculiar thing as every one knows.

(*) The councillors of Parliament wore a cap of fur,
bordered with ermine.

To come to my story, this fur hat,--that is to say this councillor of Parliament,--fell in love with the wife of a cobbler of Paris,--a good, and pretty woman, and ready-witted. The fur hat managed, by means of money and other ways, to get an interview with the cobbler’s fair wife on the quiet and alone, and if he had been enamoured of her before he enjoyed her, he was still more so afterwards, which she perceived and was on her guard, and resolved to stand off till she obtained her price.

His love for her was at such fever heat, that by commands, prayers, promises, and gifts, he tried to make her come to him, but she would not, in order to aggravate and increase his malady. He sent ambassadors of all sorts to his mistress, but it was no good--she would rather die than come.

Finally--to shorten the story--in order to make her come to him as she used formerly to do, he promised her in the presence of three or four witnesses, that he would take her to wife if her husband died.

As soon as she obtained this promise, she consented to visit him at various times when she could get away, and he continued to be as love-sick as ever. She, knowing her husband to be old, and having the aforesaid promise, already looked upon herself as the Councillor’s wife.

But a short time afterwards, the much-desired death of the cobbler was known and published, and his fair widow at once went with a bound to the abode of the fur cap, who received her gladly, and again promised to make her his wife.

These two good people--the fur cap, and his mistress, the cobbler’s widow--were now together; But it often happens that what can be got without trouble is not worth the trouble of getting, and so it was in this case, for our fur cap soon began to weary of the cobbler’s widow, and his love for her grew cold. She often pressed him to perform the marriage he had promised, but he said;

“By my word, my dear, I can never marry, for I am a churchman, and hold such and such benefices, as you know. The promise I formerly made you is null and void, and was caused by the great love I bear you, to win you to me the more easily.”

She, believing that he did belong to the Church, and seeing that she was as much mistress of his house as though she had been his wedded wife, went her accustomed way, and never troubled more about the marriage; but at last was persuaded by the fine words of our fur cap to leave him, and marry a barber, their neighbour, to whom the Councillor gave 300 gold crowns, and God knows that the woman also was well provided with clothes.

Now you must know that our fur cap had a definite object in arranging this marriage, which would never have come off if he had not told his mistress that in future he intended to serve God, and live on his benefices, and give up everything to the Church. But he did just the contrary, as soon as he had got rid of her by marrying her to the barber; for about a year later, he secretly treated for the hand of the daughter of a rich and notable citizen of Paris.

The marriage was agreed to and arranged, and a day fixed for the wedding. He also disposed of his benefices, which were only held by simple tonsure.

These things were known throughout Paris, and came to the knowledge of the cobbler’s widow, now the barber’s wife, and, as you may guess, she was much surprised.

“Oh, the traitor,” she said; “has he deceived me like this? He deserted me under pretence of serving God, and made me over to another man. But, by Our Lady of Clery, the matter shall not rest here.”

Nor did it, for she cited our fur cap before the Bishop, and there her advocate stated his case clearly and courteously, saying that the fur cap had promised the cobbler’s wife, in the presence of several witnesses, that if her husband died he would make her his wife. When her husband died, the Councillor had kept her for about a year, and then handed her over to a barber.

To shorten the story, the witnesses having been heard, and the case debated, the Bishop annulled the marriage of the cobbler’s widow to the barber, and enjoined and commanded the fur cap to take her as his wife, for so she was by right, since he had carnal connection with her after the aforesaid promise.

Thus was our fur cap brought to his senses. He missed marrying the citizen’s fair daughter, and lost the 300 crowns, which the barber had for keeping his wife for a year. And if the Councillor was ill-pleased to have his old mistress again, the barber was glad enough to get rid of her.

In the manner that you have heard, was one of the fur caps of the Parliament of Paris once served.

*****

STORY THE SIXTY-EIGHTH -- THE JADE DESPOILED.

By Messire Chrestien De Dygoigne.

_Of a married man who found his wife with another man, and devised means to get from her her money, clothes, jewels, and all, down to her chemise, and then sent her away in that condition, as shall be afterwards recorded._

It is no new and strange thing for wives to make their husbands jealous,--or indeed, by God, cuckolds. And so it happened formerly, in the city of Antwerp, that a married woman, who was not the chastest person in the world, was desired by a good fellow to do--you know what. And she, being kind and courteous, did not like to refuse the request, but gladly consented, and they two continued this life for a long time.

In the end, Fortune, tired of always giving them good luck, willed that the husband should catch them in the act, much to his own surprise. Perhaps though it would be hard to say which was the most surprised--the lover, or his mistress, or the husband. Nevertheless, the lover, with the aid of a good sword he had, made his escape without getting any harm. There remained the husband and wife, and what they said to each other may be guessed. After a few words on both sides, the husband, thinking to himself that as she had commenced to sin it would be difficult to break her of her bad habits, and that if she did sin again it might come to the knowledge of other people, and he might be dishonoured; and considering also that to beat or scold her would be only lost labour, determined to see if he could not drive her out, and never let her disgrace his house again. So he said to his wife;

“Well, I see that you are not such as you ought to be; nevertheless, hoping that you will never again behave as you have behaved, let no more be said. But let us talk of another matter. I have some business on hand which concerns me greatly, and you also. We must put in it all our jewels; and if you have any little hoard of money stored away, bring it forth, for it is required.”

“By my oath,” said the wench, “I will do so willingly, if you will pardon me the wrong I have done you.”

“Don’t speak about it,” he replied, “and no more will I.”

She, believing that she had absolution and remission of her sins, to please her husband, and atone for the scandal she had caused, gave him all the money she had, her gold rings, rich stuffs, certain well-stuffed purses, a number of very fine kerchiefs, many whole furs of great value--in short, all that she had, and that her husband could ask, she gave to do him pleasure.

“The devil!” quoth he; “still I have not enough.”

When he had everything, down to the gown and petticoat she wore, he said, “I must have that gown.”

“Indeed!” said she. “I have nothing else to wear. Do you want me to go naked?”

“You must,” he said, “give it me, and the petticoat also, and be quick about it, for either by good-will or force, I must have them.”

She, knowing that force was not on her side, stripped off her gown and petticoat, and stood in her chemise.

“There!” she said; “Have I done what pleases you?”

“Not always,” he replied. “If you obey me now, God knows you do so willingly--but let us leave that and talk of another matter. When I married you, you brought scarcely anything with you, and the little that you had you have dissipated or forfeited. There is no need for me to speak of your conduct--you know better than anyone what you are, and being what you are, I hereby renounce you, and say farewell to you for ever! There is the door! go your way; and if you are wise, you will never come into my presence again.”

The poor wench, more astounded than ever, did not dare to stay after this terrible reproof, so she left, and went, I believe, to the house of her lover, for the first night, and sent many ambassadors to try and get back her apparel and belongings, but it was no avail. Her husband was headstrong and obstinate, and would never hear her spoken about, and still less take her back, although he was much pressed both by his own friends and those of his wife.

She was obliged to earn other clothes, and instead of her husband live with a friend until her husband’s wrath is appeased, but, up to the present, he is still displeased with her, and will on no account see her.

*****

STORY THE SIXTY-NINTH -- THE VIRTUOUS LADY WITH TWO HUSBANDS. [69]

By Monseigneur.

_Of a noble knight of Flanders, who was married to a beautiful and noble lady. He was for many years a prisoner in Turkey, during which time his good and loving wife was, by the importunities of her friends, induced to marry another knight. Soon after she had remarried, she heard that her husband had returned from Turkey, whereupon she allowed herself to die of grief, because she had contracted a fresh marriage._

It is not only known to all those of the city of Ghent--where the incident that I am about to relate happened not long ago--but to all those of Flanders, and many others, that at the battle fought between the King of Hungary and Duke Jehan (whom may God absolve) on one side, and the Grand Turk and all his Turks on the other, (*) that many noble knights and esquires--French, Flemish, German, and Picardians--were taken prisoners, of whom some were put to death in the presence of the said Great Turk, others were imprisoned for life, and others condemned to slavery, amongst which last was a noble knight of the said country of Flanders, named Clayz Utenhoven.

(*) The battle of Nicopolis (28th September, 1396) when
Sigismond, King of Hungary, and Jean-sans-Peur, son of the
Duke of Burgundy, who had recruited a large army for the
purpose of raising the siege of Constantinople, were met and
overthrown by the Sultan, Bajazet I.

For many years he endured this slavery, which was no light task but an intolerable martyrdom to him, considering the luxuries upon which he had been nourished, and the condition in which he had lived.

Now you must know that he had formerly married at Ghent a beautiful and virtuous lady, who loved him and held him dear with all her heart, and who daily prayed to God that shortly she might see him again if he were still alive; and that if he were dead, He would of His grace pardon his sins, and include him in the number of those glorious martyrs, who to repel the infidel, and that the holy Catholic faith might be exalted, had given up their mortal lives.

This good lady, who was rich, beautiful, virtuous, and possessed of many noble friends, was continually pressed and assailed by her friends to remarry; they declaring and affirming that her husband was dead, and that if he were alive he would have returned like the others; or if he were a prisoner, she would have received notice to prepare his ransom. But whatever reasons were adduced, this virtuous lady could not be persuaded to marry again, but excused herself as well as she was able.

These excuses served her little or nothing, for her relatives and friends so pressed her that she was obliged to obey. But God knows that it was with no small regret, and after she had been for nine years deprived of the presence of her good and loyal husband, whom she believed to be long since dead, as did most or all who knew him; but God, who guards and preserves his servants and champions, had otherwise ordered it, for he still lived and performed his arduous labours as a slave.

To return to our story. This virtuous lady was married to another knight, and lived with him for half a year, without hearing anything further about her first husband.

By the will of God, however, this good and true knight, Messire Clays, who was still in Turkey, when his wife married again, and there working as a slave, was, by means of some Christian gentlemen and merchants, delivered, and returned in their galley.

As he was on his return, he met and found in passing through various places, many of his acquaintance, who were overjoyed at his delivery, for in truth he was a most valiant man, of great renown and many virtues; and so the most joyful rumour of his much wished-for deliverance spread into France, Artois, and Picardy, where his virtues were not less known than they were in Flanders, of which country he was a native. And from these countries it soon reached Flanders, and came to the ears of his beauteous and virtuous lady and spouse, who was astounded thereat, and her feelings so overcame her as to deprive her of her senses.

“Ah,” she said, as soon as she could speak, “my heart was never willing to do that which my relations and friends forced me to do. Alas! what will my most loving lord and husband say? I have not kept faith with him as I should, but--like a frail, frivolous, and weak-minded woman,--have given to another part and portion of that of which he alone should be lord and master! I cannot, and dare not await his coming. I am not worthy that he should look at me, or that I should be seen in his company,” and with these words her most chaste, virtuous, and loving heart failed her, and she fell fainting.

She was carried and laid upon a bed, and her senses returned to her, but from that time it was not in the power of man or woman to make her eat or sleep, and thus she continued three days, weeping continually, and in the greatest grief of mind that ever woman was. During which time she confessed and did all that a good Christian should, and implored pardon of all, and most especially of her husband.

Soon afterwards she died, which was a great misfortune; and it need not be told what grief fell upon the said lord, her husband, when he heard the news. His sorrow was such that he was in great danger of dying as his most loving wife had done; but God, who had saved him from many other great perils, preserved him also from this.

*****

STORY THE SEVENTIETH -- THE DEVIL’S HORN.

By Monseigneur.

_Of a noble knight of Germany, a great traveller in his time; who after he had made a certain voyage, took a vow to never make the sign of the Cross, owing to the firm faith and belief that he had in the holy sacrament of baptism--in which faith he fought the devil, as you will hear._

A noble knight of Germany, a great traveller, distinguished in arms, courteous, and largely endowed with all good virtues, had just returned from a long journey, and was in his castle, when he was asked by one of his vassals living in the same town, to be godfather to his child, which had been born on the same day that the knight returned.

To which request the knight willingly acceded, and although he had during his life held many children at the font, he had never before listened to the holy words pronounced by the priest at this holy and excellent sacrament as he did this time, and they seemed to him--as indeed they are-full of high and divine mystery.

The baptism being finished, he being liberal and courteous and willing to oblige his vassals, remained to dine in the town, instead of returning to his castle, and with him dined the curé, his fellow sponsor, and other persons of renown.

The discourse turned on various matters, when the knight began to greatly praise the excellent sacrament of baptism, and said in a loud and clear voice that all might hear;

“If I knew for a truth that at my baptism had been pronounced the great and holy words which I heard to-day at the baptism of my latest god-son, I would not believe that the devil could have any power or authority over me, except to tempt me, and I would refrain from ever making the sign of the Cross, not that--let it be well understood--I do not well know that sign is sufficient to repel the devil, but because I believe that the words pronounced at the baptism of every Christian (if they are such as I have to-day heard) are capable of driving away all the devils of hell, however many they might be.”

“Truly then, monseigneur,” replied the curé, “I assure you _in verbo sacerdotis_ that the same words which were said to-day at the baptism of your god-son were pronounced at your baptism. I know it well, for I myself baptised you, and I remember it as well as though it were yesterday. God be merciful to monseigneur your father--he asked me the day after your baptism, what I thought of his son; such and such were your sponsors, and such and such were present,” and he related all particulars about the baptism, and showed that it was certain that in not a word did it differ from that of his god-son.

“Since it is thus,” then said the noble knight, “I vow to God, my creator, that I have such firm faith in the holy sacrament of baptism that never again, for any danger, encounter, or assault that the devil may make against me, will I make the sign of the Cross, but solely by the memory of the sacrament of baptism I will drive him behind me; such a firm belief have I in this divine mystery, that it does not seem possible to me that the devil can hurt a man so shielded, for that rite needs no other aid if accompanied by true faith.”

The dinner passed, and I know not how many years after, the good knight was in a large town in Germany, about some business which drew him thither, and was lodged in an inn. As he was one night along with his servants, after supper, talking and jesting with them, he wished to retire, but as his servants were enjoying themselves he would not disturb them, so he took a candle and went alone. As he entered the closet he saw before him a most horrible and terrible monster, having large and long horns, eyes brighter than the flames of a furnace, arms thick and long, sharp and cutting claws,--in fact a most extraordinary monster, and a devil, I should imagine.

And for such the good knight took it, and was at first greatly startled at such a meeting. Nevertheless, he boldly determined to defend himself if he were attacked, and he remembered the vow he had made concerning the holy and divine mystery of baptism. And in this faith he walked up to the monster, whom I have called a devil, and asked him who he was and what he wanted?

The devil, without a word, attacked him, and the good knight defended himself, though he had no other weapons than his hands (for he was in his doublet, being about to go to bed) and the protection of his firm faith in the holy mystery of baptism.

The struggle lasted long, and the good knight was so weary that it was strange he could longer endure such an assault. But he was so well-armed by his faith that the blows of his enemy had but little effect. At last, when the combat had lasted a full hour, the good knight took the devil by the horns, and tore one of them out, and beat him therewith soundly.

Then he went away victorious, leaving the devil writhing on the ground, and went back to his servants, who were still enjoying themselves, as they had been doing when he left. They were much frightened to see their master sweating and out of breath, and with his face all scratched, and his doublet, shirt, and hose disarranged and torn.

“Ah, sir,” they cried; “whence come you, and who has thus mauled you?”

“Who?” he replied. “Why it was the devil, with whom I have fought so long that I am out of breath, and in the condition in which you see me; and I swear to you that I truly believe he would have strangled and devoured me, if I had not at that moment remembered my baptism, and the great mystery of that holy sacrament, and the vow that I made I know not how many years ago. And, believe me, I have kept that vow, and though I was in danger, I never made the sign of the Cross, but remembering the aforesaid holy sacrament, boldly defended myself, and have escaped scot free; for which I praise and thank our Lord who with the shield of faith hath preserved me safely. Let all the other devils in hell come; as long as this protection endures, I fear them not. Praise be to our blessed God who is able to endue his knights with such weapons.”

The servants of the good knight, when they heard their master relate this story, were very glad to find he had escaped so well, and much astonished at the horn he showed them, and which he had torn out of the devil’s head. And they could not discover, neither could any person who afterwards saw it, of what it was formed; if it were bone or horn, as other horns are, or, what it was.

Then one of the knight’s servants said that he would go and see if this devil were still where his master had left it, and if he found it he would fight it, and tear out its other horn. His master told him not to go, but he said he would.

“Do not do it,” said his master; “the danger is too great.”

“I care not,” replied the other; “I will go.”

“If you take my advice,” said his master, “you will not go.”

But he would disobey his master and go. He took in one hand a torch, and in the other a great axe, and went to the place where his master had met and fought the devil. What happened no one knows, but his master, who, fearing for his servant, followed him as quickly as he could, found neither man nor devil, nor ever heard what became of the man.

Thus, in the manner that you have heard, did this good knight fight against the devil, and overcome him by the virtue of the holy sacrament of baptism.

*****

STORY THE SEVENTY-FIRST -- THE CONSIDERATE CUCKOLD

By Monseigneur Le Duc.

_Of a knight of Picardy, who lodged at an inn in the town of St. Omer, and fell in love with the hostess, with whom he was amusing himself--you know how--when her husband discovered them; and how he behaved--as you will shortly hear._

At Saint Omer, not long ago, there happened an amusing incident, which is as true as the Gospel, and is known to many notable people worthy of faith and belief. In short, the story is as follows.

A noble knight of Picardy, who was lively and lusty, and a man of great authority and high position, came to an inn where the quartermaster of Duke Philip of Burgundy had appointed him to lodge. (*)

(*) The _fourrier_--which, for want of a better word, I have
translated as “quartermaster,”--was an officer of the
household of a prince or great lord. One of his duties was
to provide lodgings for all the retinue whenever his master
was travelling.

As soon as he had jumped off his horse, and put foot to the ground, his hostess--as is the custom in that part of the country--came forward smiling most affably, and received him most honourably, and, as he was the most kind and courteous of men, he embraced her and kissed her gently, for she was pretty and nice, healthy-looking and nattily dressed--in fact very tempting to kiss and cuddle--and at first sight each took a strong liking to the other.

The knight wondered by what means he could manage to enjoy the person of his hostess, and confided in one of his servants, who in a very short time so managed the affair that the two were brought together.

When the noble knight saw his hostess ready to listen to whatever he had to say, you may fancy that he was joyful beyond measure; and in his great haste and ardent desire to discuss the question he wanted to argue with her, forgot to shut the door of the room, which his servant, when he departed after bringing the woman in, had left half open.

The knight, without troubling about preludes, began an oration in dumb-show; and the hostess, who was not sorry to hear him, replied to his arguments in such a manner that they soon agreed well together, and never was music sweeter, or instruments in better tune, than it was for those two, by God’s mercy.

But it happened, by I know not what chance, that the host of the inn, the husband of the woman, was seeking his wife to tell her something, and passing by chance by the chamber where his wife and the knight were playing the cymbals, heard the sound. He turned towards the spot where this pleasant pastime was going on, and pushing open the door, saw the knight and his wife harnessed together, at which he was by far the most astonished of the three, and drew back quickly, fearing to prevent and disturb the said work which they were performing. But all that he did by way of menace or remonstrance was to call out from behind the door; “Morbleu! you are not only wicked but thoughtless. Have you not the sense, when you want to do anything of that sort, to shut the door behind you? Just fancy what it would have been if anyone else had found you! By God, you would have been ruined and dishonoured, and your misdeeds discovered and known to all the town! In the devil’s name, be more careful another time!” and without another word, he closed the door and went away; and the honest couple re-tuned their bagpipes, and finished the tune they had begun.

And when this was finished, each went his or her own way as unconcernedly as though nothing had happened; and the circumstance would I believe have never been known--or at least not so publicly as to come to your ears, and the ears of so many other people,--had it not been that the husband vexed himself so little about the matter that he thought less of being cuckolded than he did of finding the door unbolted.

*****

STORY THE SEVENTY-SECOND -- NECESSITY IS THE MOTHER OF INVENTION.

By Monseigneur De Commensuram.

_Of a gentleman of Picardy who was enamoured of the wife of a knight his neighbour; and how he obtained the lady’s favours and was nearly caught with her, and with great difficulty made his escape, as you will hear later._

Apropos of the previous story, there lived formerly in Picardy--and I believe he is living there now--a gentlemen who was so enamoured of the wife of a knight, his neighbour, that he deemed no day or hour happy if he were not with her, or at least had news of her;--and he was quite as dear to her--which is no small matter.

But the misfortune was that they could find no means of meeting secretly to open their hearts to each other, and in no case would they do so in the presence of a third person, however good a friend he or she might be. At last, after many sad nights and days, Love, who aids and succours his loyal servants when he pleases, procured for them the much-desired day, when the poor husband,--the most jealous man living--was obliged to leave his house on account of some pressing business by which he would gain a large sum if he were present, and would lose his money if he were absent. By gaining which sum he reaped an even better reward--that of being called a cuckold as well as a jealous man--for he had no sooner left his house than the gentleman, who was watching for no other quarry, popped into the house, and without staying long, at once performed that for which he came, and received from his lady all that a lover can and dare demand; as pleasantly and as leisurely as they could both wish.

And they did not suppose that the husband would surprise them, but looked forward to a time of unalloyed pleasure, hoping that the night would complete that which the most joyful day--by far too short--had begun, and really believing that the poor devil of a husband could not return before dinner-time the following day at the earliest.

But it happened otherwise, for the devil brought him home. I know not, and care not to know how it was that he could get through his business so quickly, suffice it to say that he came back that night, at which the company--that is to say the two lovers--was much alarmed, and so taken by surprise, (for they did not expect this inopportune return) that the poor gentleman could think of nothing else to do than to hide in the privy which was close to the chamber, hoping to escape by some means that his mistress would find before the knight came into the chamber.

It chanced that our knight, who that day had ridden sixteen or eighteen long leagues, was so tired and stiff that he would sup in his chamber, where he had his boots taken off, and would not go to the dining-hall.

You may guess that the poor gentleman paid dear for the pleasure he had had that day, for he was half dead with hunger, cold, and fear; and, to aggravate his misfortune, he was taken with such a horrible cough that it was wonderful that it was not heard in the chamber, where were assembled, the knight, the lady, and the other knights of the household.

The lady, whose eyes and ears were open for any sign of her lover, heard him by chance, and her heart sank within her, for she feared that her husband would hear also. Soon after supper she found an opportunity to go to the privy, and told her lover to take care, for God’s sake, and not cough like that.

“Alas, my dear,” he said, “I cannot help it. God knows how I am punished. And for God’s sake think of some way of getting me out of this.”

“I will,” she said, and with that she went away, and the good squire began his song over again, so loud indeed that he was much afraid he would be heard in the chamber; and might have been had not the lady talked very loudly in order to drown the noise.

When the squire had this fresh attack of coughing, he knew of nothing better to do to prevent being heard than to stuff his head down the hole of the privy, where he was well “incensed”, God knows, by the stuff therein, but he preferred that to being heard. In short, he was there a long time, with his head down the hole, spitting, sniffing, and coughing so much that it seemed as though he would never do anything else.

After this fit finished, the cough left him, and then he tried to draw out his head, but it was not in his power, so far had he pushed his shoulders through, and you may fancy that he was not very comfortable. In short he could not find means to get out, try as he would. He scraped his neck, and nearly pulled his ears off, and in the end, by God’s will, he pulled so hard that he tore away the seat of the privy, which hung round his neck. It was beyond his power to get out of it, but troublesome as it was, he preferred that to his previous position:

His mistress came and found him in that state, and was much astonished. She could not help him, and all the consolation she could give him was to tell him that she could find no means of getting him out of the house.

“Is that so?” he said. “Morbleu! I am well armed to fight any one, but I must have a sword in my hand.”

He was soon provided with a good one, and the lady, seeing his extraordinary appearance, although her heart was lull of doubt and uncertainty, could not refrain from laughing, and the squire also.

“Now I commend myself to God,” he said. “I am going to try if I can get out of the house; but first black my face well.”

She did so, and recommended him to God, and the poor fellow, with the seat of the privy round his neck, a drawn sword in his hand, and his face blacker than charcoal, sallied out into the room, and by luck the first person he met was the husband, who was in such mortal fear at the sight of him--believing it was the Devil himself--that he tumbled full length on the floor and nearly broke his neck, and was for a long time in a swoon.

His wife, seeing him in this condition, came forward, and pretending to show much more fear than she really felt, supported him in her arms, and asked him what was the matter. As soon as he came to himself, he said in broken accents, and with a piteous air; “Did you see that devil I met.”

“Yes, I did,” she replied, “and I nearly died of fright at the sight.”

“Why does it come to our house?” he asked, “And who could have sent it? I shall not recover myself for a year or two, I have been so frightened.”

“Nor shall I, by God,” said the pious lady. “I believe it must mean something. May God keep us, and protect us from all evil fortune. My heart forebodes some mischief from this vision.”

Every one in the castle gave his or her version of the devil with a drawn sword, and they all believed it was a real devil. The good lady, who held the key of the mystery, was very glad to see them of that opinion. Ever after that the said devil continued to do the work that everyone does so willingly, though the husband, and everybody except a discreet waiting woman, were ignorant of the fact.

*****

STORY THE SEVENTY-THIRD -- THE BIRD IN THE CAGE.

By Jehan Lambin.

_Of a curé who was in love with the wife of one of his parishioners, with whom the said curé was found by the husband of the woman, the neighbours having given him warning--and how the curé escaped, as you will hear._

In the district of Saint Pol, in a village near that town, there formerly resided a worthy man, a labourer, married to a fair and buxom woman with whom the curé of the village was in love. He was burning with love for her, but he foresaw that his intentions might be suspected, and thought that the best way to win her would be to first gain the friendship of her husband.

He confided this opinion to the woman, and asked her advice, and she replied that it was a very good plan to enable them to carry out their amorous intentions.

The curé, by flattery and subtle means, made the acquaintance of the good man, and managed him so well that he was always talking of “his curé”, and would not eat or do anything else without him. Every day he would have him to dinner and supper, in short there was nothing done at the good man’s house without the curé being present. By this means he could come to the house as often as he pleased, and whatever time he liked.

But the neighbours of this foolish labourer, seeing what he could not see, his eyes being bandaged by weakness and confidence,--told him that it was not right and proper to have the curé at his house every day, and that, if it continued, his wife’s reputation would suffer, these frequent visits having been noticed and spoken about by his neighbours and friends.

When the good man found himself thus sharply reproved by his neighbours for the frequent visits of the curé to his house, he was obliged to tell the curé that he must cease his constant calls, and forbade him by strict orders and menaces ever to come again until he was invited; affirming by a great oath that if ever he found the curé in his house there would be an account to settle between them, and it would not be pleasant for the visitor.

This prohibition displeased the curé more than I can tell you, but though vexed, he would not break off his love affair, for it was so deeply rooted in the hearts of both parties that it could not be easily eradicated. But hear how the curé managed after this prohibition. By an agreement with his mistress, he used to be informed of the times when her husband was absent, and then visit her. But he managed clumsily, for he could not pay his visits without the knowledge of the neighbours, who had been the cause of the interdict, and who were as much displeased at the cure’s acts as though they had been personally concerned.

The good man was again informed that the curé used to come and put out the fire at his house every night, (*) as he did before he was forbidden. The foolish husband, hearing that, was much astonished and also angry, and to remedy this state of affairs, thought of the means which I will relate.

(*) That is to say came at curfew time.

He told his wife that he was going, on a certain day which he named, to take to St. Orner a waggon-load of corn, and that the work might be well done, was going himself. When the day named for his departure arrived, he did, as is usual in Picardy, especially round St. Omer, that is loaded his waggon of corn at midnight, and at that hour took leave of his wife and departed with his waggon.

As soon as he was gone, his wife closed all the doors of the house. Now you must know that the St. Omer to which our merchant was going was the house of one of his friends who lived at the other end of the village. He arrived there, put his waggon in the courtyard of the said friend--who knew all the business--and sent him to keep watch and listen round the house to see if any thief might come.

When he arrived, he concealed himself at the corner of a thick hedge, from which spot he could see all the doors of the house of the merchant, of whom he was the friend and servant.

Hardly had he taken his place than there arrived the curé, who had come to light his candle--or rather to put it out--and softly and secretly knocked at the door, which was soon opened by one who was not inclined to sleep at that time, who came down in her chemise, and let in her confessor, and then closed the door and led him to the place where her husband ought to have been.

The watcher, when he perceived what was done, left his post, and went and informed the husband. Upon which news, the following plan was quickly arranged between them. The corn-merchant pretended to have returned from his journey on account of certain adventures which had, or might have, happened to him.

He knocked at the door, and shouted to his wife, who was much alarmed when she heard his voice, and made haste to conceal her lover, the curé, in a _casier_ that was in the chamber; and you must know that a _casier_ is a kind of pantry-cupboard, long and narrow and fairly deep, and very much like a trough.

As soon as the curé was concealed amongst the eggs, butter cheese, and other such victuals, the brave housewife, pretending to be half awake half asleep, let in her husband, and said.

“Oh, my dear husband, what can have happened that you have returned so quickly? There must be some reason why you did not go on your journey--for God’s sake tell it me quickly!”

The good man, who was as angry as he could be, although he did not show it, insisted on going to their bedroom and there telling her the cause of his sudden return. When he was where he expected to find the curé, that is to say in the bedroom, he began to relate his reasons for breaking his journey. Firstly, he said he had such suspicion of her virtue that he feared much to be numbered amongst the blue vestments, (*) or “our friends” as they are commonly called, and that it was because of this suspicion that he had returned so quickly. Also that when he was out of the house it had occurred to his mind that the curé was his deputy whilst he was away. So to put his suspicions to the test, he had come back, and now wanted the candle to see whether his wife had been sleeping alone during his absence.

(*) In the present day, yellow is the emblematic colour for
jealous or cuckolded husbands, but it would appear from this
passage that in the 15th century it was blue-possibly,
Bibliophile Jacob thinks, from its being the colour of the
_maquereau_.

When he had finished relating the causes of his return, the good woman cried,

“Oh, my dear husband, whence comes this baseless jealousy? Have you ever seen in my conduct anything that should not be seen in that of a good, faithful, and virtuous wife? Cursed be the hour I first knew you, since you suspect me of that which my heart could never imagine. You know me badly if you do not know how clean and pure my heart is, and will remain.”

The good man paid little heed to these words, but said that he wished to allay his suspicions, and to at once inspect every corner of the chamber as well as possible,--but he did not find what he sought.

Then he caught sight of the _casier_, and he guessed that the man he wanted was inside, but he made no sign, and calling his wife said;