Chapter XVI: Part 16

She pondered over the matter, and at last determined to take into her confidence a neighbour of hers, a sister-in-arms also of the _houlette_, for it seemed to her that she might go and see her canon, if accompanied by her neighbour, without causing any suspicion.

As it was devised, so was it done, and she went to see the canon, as though on an affair of great importance, and honourably escorted, as has been said.

To shorten the story, as soon as our _bourgeoises_ arrived, after all due salutations, the principal personage shut herself up with her lover, the canon, and he gave her a mount, as he well knew how.

The neighbour, seeing the other have a private audience with the master of the house, had no small envy, and was much displeased that she could not do the same.

When the first-named woman came out of the room, after receiving what she came for, she said to her neighbour;

“Shall We go?”

“Oh, indeed,” said the other, “am I to go away like that? If I do not receive the same courtesy that you did, by God I will reveal everything. I did not come to warm the wax for other people.”

When they saw what she wanted, they offered her the canon’s clerk, who was a stout and strong gallant well suited for the work, but she refused him point blank, saying that she deserved his master and would have none other.

The canon was obliged, to save his honour, to grant her request, and when that was accomplished, she wished to say farewell and leave.

But then the other would not, for she said angrily that it was she who had brought her neighbour, and for whom the meeting was primarily intended, and she ought to have a bigger share than the other, and that she would not leave unless she had another “truss of oats.”

The Canon was much alarmed when he heard this, and, although he begged the woman who wanted the extra turn not to insist, she would not be satisfied.

“Well,” he said, “I am content, since it needs must be; but never come back under similar conditions--I shall be out of town.”

When the battle was over, the damsel who had had an additional turn, when she took leave, asked the canon to give her something as a keepsake.

Without waiting to be too much importuned, and also to get rid of them, the good canon handed them the remainder of a piece of stuff for kerchiefs, which he gave them, and the “principal” received the gift, and they said farewell.

“It is,” he said, “all that I can give you just now; so take it in good part.”

They had not gone very far, and were in the street, when the neighbour, who had had nothing more than one turn, told her companion that she wanted her share of the gift.

“Very well,” said the other, “I have no objection. How much do you want?”

“Need you ask that,” said she. “I am going to have half, and you the same.”

“How dare you ask,” said the other, “more than you have earned? Have you no shame? You know well that you only went once with the canon, and I went twice, and, pardieu, it is not right that you should have as much as I.”

“Pardieu! I will have as much as you,” said the second.

“Did I not do my duty as well as you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Is not once as good as ten times? And now that you know my will, instead of standing here squabbling over a trifle, I recommend you to give me my half, or you will soon see a fight. Do you think you can do as you like with me?”

“Oh, indeed!” said the other, “will you try force? By God’s power you shall only have what is right,--that is to say one third part--and I will have the rest. Did I not have twice as much trouble as you?”

With that the other doubled up her fist and landed it in the face of her companion, the one for whom the meeting had been first arranged, who quickly returned the blow. In short they fought as though they would have killed each other, and called one another foul names. When the people in the street saw the fight between the two companions, who a short while previously had been so friendly, they were much astonished, and came and separated the combatants. Then the husbands were called, and each asked his wife the cause of the quarrel. Each tried to make the other in the wrong, without telling the real cause, and set their husbands against each other so that they fought, and the sergeants came and sent them to cool their heels in prison.

Justice intervened, and the two women were compelled to own that the fight was about a piece of stuff for a kerchief. The Council, seeing that the case did not concern them, sent it to the “King of the Bordels”, because the women were his subjects. And during the affair the poor husbands remained in gaol awaiting sentence, which, owing to the infinite number of cases, is likely to remain unsettled for a long time.

*****

STORY THE NINETY-THIRD -- HOW A GOOD WIFE WENT ON A PILGRIMAGE. [93]

By Messire Timoleon Vignier.

_Of a good wife who pretended to her husband that she was going on a pilgrimage, in order to find opportunity to be with her lover the parish-clerk--with whom her husband found her; and of what he said and did when he saw them doing you know what._

Whilst I have a good audience, let me relate a funny incident which happened in the district of Hainault.

In a village there, lived a married woman, who loved the parish clerk much more than she did her own husband, and in order to find means to be with the clerk, she feigned to her husband that she owed a pilgrimage to a certain saint, whose shrine was not far from there; which pilgrimage she had vowed to make when she was in travail with her last child, begging the saint that he would be content that she should go on a certain day she named. The good, simple husband, who suspected nothing, allowed her to go on this pilgrimage; and as he would have to remain alone he told her to prepare both his dinner and supper before she left, or else he would go and eat at the tavern.

She did as he ordered, and prepared a nice chicken and a piece of mutton, and when all these preparations were complete, she told her husband that everything was now ready, and that she was going to get some holy water, and then leave.

She went to church, and the first man she met was the one she sought, that is to say the clerk, to whom she told the news, that is to say how she had been permitted to go on a pilgrimage for the whole day.

“And this is what will occur,” she said. “I am sure that as soon as I am out of the house that he will go to the tavern, and not return until late in the evening, for I know him of old; and so I should prefer to remain in the house, whilst he is away, rather than go somewhere else. Therefore you had better come to our house in half an hour, and I will let you in by the back door, if my husband is not at home, and if he should be, we will set out on our pilgrimage.”

She went home, and there she found her husband, at which she was not best pleased.

“What! are you still here?” he asked.

“I am going to put on my shoes,” she said, “and then I shall not be long before I start.”

She went to the shoemaker, and whilst she was having her shoes put on, her husband passed in front of the cobbler’s house, with another man, a neighbour, with whom he often went to the tavern.

She supposed that because he was accompanied by this neighbour that they were going to the tavern; whereas he had no intention of the kind, but was going to the market to find a comrade or two and bring them back to dine with him, since he had a good dinner to offer them--that is to say the chicken and the mutton.

Let us leave the husband to find his comrades, and return to the woman who was having her shoes put on. As soon as that was completed, she returned home as quickly as she could, where she found the scholar wandering round the house, and said to him;

“My dear, we are the happiest people in the world, for I have seen my husband go to the tavern, I am sure, for one of his neighbours was leading him by the arm, and I know is not likely to let my man come back, and therefore let us be joyful. We have the whole day, till night, to ourselves. I have prepared a chicken, and a good piece of mutton, and we will enjoy ourselves;” and without another word they entered the house, but left the door ajar in order that the neighbours should suspect nothing.

Let us now return to the husband, who had found a couple of boon companions besides the one I have mentioned, and now brought them to his house to devour the chicken, and drink some good Beaune wine--or better, if they could get it.

When he came to the house, he entered first, and immediately saw our two lovers, who were taking a sample of the good work they had to do. And when he saw his wife with her legs in the air, he told her that she need not have troubled to bother the cobbler about her shoes, since she was going to make the pilgrimage in that way.

He called his companions, and said;

“Good sirs, just see how my wife looks after my interests. For fear that she should wear out her new shoes, she is making the journey on her back:--no other woman would have done that.”

He picked up the remainder of the fowl, and told her that she might finish her pilgrimage; then closed the door and left her with her clerk, without saying another word, and went off to the tavern. He was not scolded when he came back, nor on the other occasions either that he went there, because he had said little or nothing concerning the pilgrimage which his wife had made at home with her lover, the parish clerk.

*****

STORY THE NINETY-FOURTH -- DIFFICULT TO PLEASE.

(*) There is no author’s name to this story in any of the
editions.

_Of a curé who wore a short gown, like a gallant about to be married, for which cause he was summoned before the Ordinary, and of the sentence which was passed, and the defence he made, and the other tricks he played afterwards--as you will plainly hear._

In Picardy, in the diocese of Therouenne, there lived about a year and a half ago, in one of the large towns, a curé who aped the fashionable youth of the time. He wore a short gown, and high boots, as was the fashion at Court, and, in short, was as great a gallant as you would see,--which gave no small offence to all good Churchmen.

The Ordinary of Therouenne--who is generally known as the “big devil” --was informed of the behaviour of this curé, and cited him to appear to be punished, and ordered to change his method of dressing.

He appeared in his short gown, as though he cared little for the Ordinary, or thinking, perhaps, that he was going to be let off for his good looks, but this did not happen, for when he was before the judge, the “promoter” related the case at full length, and demanded that these clothes and other vanities should be forbidden him, and that he should be condemned to pay certain fines.

The judge, seeing at a glance what sort of man our curé was, forbade him, by all the penalties of canon law, to disguise himself in the way he had done, and ordered that he was to wear long gowns and long hair, and moreover, to pay a good sum of money.

The curé promised that he would do so, and never again be summoned for a similar offence. He left the Court and returned to his cure, and as soon as he came there, he called the draper and the tailor, and he had a gown made which trailed three quarters of an ell on the ground; for he told the tailor how he had been reproved for wearing a short gown, and ordered to wear a long one.

He put on this long robe, and allowed his beard and hair to grow, and in this habit performed his parochial duties, sang Mass, and did everything that a priest has to do.

The promoter was soon informed that the curé behaved in a way not compatible with good morals, whereupon a fresh summons was issued, and the priest appeared in his long gown.

“What is this?” asked the judge when the curé appeared before him. “It seems that you make fun of the statutes and ordinances of the Church! Why do you not dress like the other priests? If it were not for some of your friends I should send you to prison.”

“What, monseigneur!” said the curé. “Did you not order me to wear a long gown, and long hair? Have I not done as I was commanded? Is not my gown long enough? Is not my hair long? What do you wish me to do?”

“I wish,” said the judge, “and I command that your gown and hair should be half long, neither too much nor too little, and for this great fault that you have committed, I condemn you to pay a fine of ten pounds to the Prosecutor, twenty pounds to the Chapter, and as much to the Bishop of Therouenne for his charities.”

Our curé was much astonished, but there was nothing for it but to comply. He took leave of the judge, and returned to his house, considering how he should attire himself in order to obey the judge’s sentence. He sent for the tailor, whom he ordered to make a gown as long on one side as that we have mentioned, and, as short as the first one on the other side, then he had himself shaved on one side only--that on which the gown was short--and in this guise went about the streets, and performed his sacred duties; and although he was told this was not right of him, he paid no attention.

The Prosecutor was again informed, and cited him to appear a third time. When he appeared, God knows how angry the judge was--he was almost beside himself, and, could scarcely sit on the Bench when he saw the curé dressed like a mummer. If the priest had been mulcted before he was still more so this time, and was condemned to pay very heavy fines.

Then the curé, finding himself thus amerced in fines and amends, said to the judge.

“With all due respect, it seems to me that I have obeyed your orders. Hear what I have to say, and I will prove it.”

Then he covered his long beard with his hand, and said;

“If you like, I have no beard.” Then, covering the shaved side of his face, he said, “If you like, I have a long beard. Is not that what you ordered?”

The judge, seeing that he had to do with a joker, who was making fun of him, sent for a barber and a tailor, and before all the public, had the cure’s hair and beard dressed, and his gown cut to a proper and reasonable length; then he sent him back to his cure where he conducted himself properly--having learned the right manner at the expense of his purse.

*****

STORY THE NINETY-FIFTH -- THE SORE FINGER CURED. [95]

By Philippe De Laon.

_Of a monk who feigned to be very ill and in danger of death, that he might obtain the favours of a certain young woman in the manner which is described hereafter._

It is usually the case, thank God, that in many religious communities there are certain good fellows who can play “base instruments”.

Apropos of this, there was formerly in a convent at Paris, a good brother, a preacher, who was accustomed to visit his female neighbours. One day his choice lighted on a very pretty woman, a near neighbour, young, buxom, and spirited, and but recently married to a good fellow.

Master monk fell in love with her, and was always thinking and devising ways and means by which he could compass his desires--which were, in short, to do you know what. Now he decided, “That is what I’ll do.” Then he changed his mind. So many plans came into his head that he could not decide on any; but of one thing he was sure, and that was that words alone would never seduce her from the paths of virtue. “For she is too virtuous, and too prudent. I shall be obliged, if I want to gain my ends, to gain them by cunning and deception.”

Now listen to the plan the rascal devised, and how he dishonestly trapped the poor, little beast, and accomplished his immoral desires, as he proposed.

He pretended one day to have a bad finger--that which is nearest to the thumb, and is the first of the four on the right hand--and he wrapped it in linen bandages, and anointed it with strong-smelling ointments.

He went about with it thus for a day or two, hanging about the church porch, when he thought the aforesaid woman was coming, and God knows what pain he pretended to suffer.

The silly wench looked on him with pity, and seeing by his face that he appeared to be in great pain, she asked him what was the matter; and the cunning fox pitched up a piteous tale.

The day passed, and on the morrow, about the hour of vespers, when the good woman was at home alone, the patient came and sat by her, and acted the sick man, that anyone who had seen him would have believed that he was in great danger. Sometimes he would walk to the window, then back again to the woman, and put on so many strange tricks that you would have been astonished and deceived if you had seen him. And the poor foolish girl, who pitied him so that the tears almost started from her eyes, comforted him as best she could,

“Alas, Brother Aubrey, have you spoken to such and such physicians?”

“Yes, certainly, my dear,” he replied. “There is not a doctor or surgeon in Paris who has not studied my case.”

“And what do they say? Will you have to suffer this pain for a long time?”

“Alas! yes; until I die, unless God helps me; for there is but one remedy for ray complaint, and I would rather die than reveal what that is,--for it is very far from decent, and quite foreign to my holy profession.”

“What?” cried the poor girl. “Then there is a remedy! Then is it not very wrong and sinful of you to allow yourself to suffer thus? Truly it seems so to me, for you are in danger of losing sense and understanding, so sharp and terrible is the pain.”

“By God, very sharp and terrible it is,” said Brother Aubrey, “but there!--God sent it; praised be His name. I willingly suffer and bear all, and patiently await death, for that is the only remedy indeed--excepting one I mentioned to you--which can cure me.”

“But what is that?”

“I told you that I should not dare to say what it is,--and even if I were obliged to reveal what it is, I should never have the will or power to put it in execution.”

“By St. Martin!” said the good woman, “it appears to me that you are very wrong to talk like that. Pardieu! tell me what will cure you, and I assure you that I will do my utmost to help you. Do not wilfully throw away your life when help and succour can be brought. Tell me what it is, and you will see that I will help you--I will, pardieu, though it should cost me more than you imagine.” The monk, finding his neighbour was willing to oblige him, after a great number of refusals and excuses, which, for the sake of brevity, I omit, said in a low voice.

“Since you desire that I should tell you, I will obey. The doctors all agreed that there was but one remedy for my complaint, and that was to put my finger into the secret place of a clean and honest woman, and keep it there for a certain length of time, and afterwards apply a certain ointment of which they gave me the receipt. You hear what the remedy is, and as I am by disposition naturally modest, I would rather endure and suffer all my ills than breathe a word to a living soul. You alone know of my sad lot, and that in spite of me.”

“Well!” said the good woman, “what I said I would do I will do. I will willingly help to cure you, and am well pleased to be able to relieve you of the terrible pain which torments you, and find you a place in which you can put your sore finger.”

“May God repay you, damsel,” said the monk. “I should never have dared to make the request, but since you are kind enough to help me, I shall not be the cause of my own death. Let us go then, if it please you, to some secret place where no one can see us.”

“It pleases me well,” she replied.

So she led him to a fair chamber, and closed the door, and laid upon the bed, and the monk lifted up her clothes, and instead of the finger of his hand, put something hard and stiff in the place. When he had entered, she feeling that it was very big, said,

“How is it that your finger is so swollen? I never heard of anything like it.”

“Truly,” he replied, “it is the disease which made it like that.”

“It is wonderful,” she said.

Whilst this talk was going on, master monk accomplished that for which he had played the invalid so long. She when she felt--et cetera--asked what that was, and he replied,

“It is the boil on my finger which has burst. I am cured I think--thank God and you.”

“On my word I am pleased to hear it,” said the woman as she rose from the bed. “If you are not quite cured, come back as often as you like;--for to remove your pain there is nothing I would not do. And another time do not be so modest when it is a question of recovering your health.”

*****

STORY THE NINETY-SIXTH -- A GOOD DOG. [96]

_Of a foolish and rich village curé who buried his dog in the church-yard; for which cause he was summoned before his Bishop, and how he gave 60 gold crowns to the Bishop, and what the Bishop said to him--which you will find related here._

Listen if you please to what happened the other day to a simple village curé. This good curé had a dog which he had brought up, and which surpassed every other dog in the country in fetching a stick out of the water, or bringing a hat that his master had forgotten, and many other tricks. In short, this wise and good dog excelled in everything, and his master so loved him that he never tired of singing his praises.

At last, I know not how, whether he ate something that disagreed with him, or whether he was too hot or too cold, the poor dog became very ill, and died, and went straightway to wherever all good dogs do go.

What did the honest curé do? You must know that his vicarage adjoined the church-yard, and when he saw his poor dog quit this world, he thought so wise a beast ought not to be without a grave, so he dug a hole near the door of his house, and in the church-yard, and there buried his dog. I do not know if he gave the dog a monument and an epitaph, I only know that the news of the good dog’s death spread over the village, and at last reached the ears of the Bishop, together with the report that his master had given him holy burial.

The curé was summoned to appear before the Bishop, who sent a sergeant to fetch him.

“Alas!” said the curé, “what have I done, and why have I to appear before the Bishop? I am much surprised at receiving this summons.”

“As for me,” said the sergeant, “I do not know what it is for, unless it is because you buried your dog in the holy ground which is reserved for the bodies of Christians.”

“Ah,” thought the curé to himself, “that must be it,” and it occurred to him that he had done wrong, but he knew that he could easily escape being put into prison, by paying a fine, for the Lord Bishop--God be praised--was the most avaricious prelate in the Kingdom, and only kept those about him who knew how to bring grist to the mill.

“At any rate I shall have to pay, and it may as well be soon as late.”

On the appointed day, he appeared before the Bishop, who immediately delivered a long sermon about the sin of burying a dog in consecrated ground, and enlarged on the offence so wonderfully that he made it appear that the curé had done something worse than deny God; and at the end he ordered the curé to be put in prison.

When the curé found that he was to be shut up in the stone box, he demanded permission to be heard, and the Bishop gave him leave to speak.

You must know that there were a number of notable persons at this convocation--the judge, the prosecutor, the secretaries, and notaries, advocates, and procureurs, who were all much amused at this unusual case of the poor curé who had buried his dog in consecrated ground.

The curé spoke briefly in his defence, to this effect.

“Truly, my Lord Bishop, if you had known my poor dog as well as I did, you would not be surprised that I gave him Christian burial, for his like was never seen;” and then he began to recount his doings.

“And as he was so good and wise when he was living, he was still more so at his death; for he made a beautiful will, and, as he knew your poverty and need, he left you fifty golden crowns, which I now bring you.”

So saying, he drew the money from his bosom and gave it to the Bishop, who willingly received it, and greatly praised the good dog, and approved of his will, and was glad to know that he had received honourable sepulture.

*****

STORY THE NINETY-SEVENTH -- BIDS AND BIDDINGS.

By Monseigneur De Launoy.

_Of a number of boon companions making good cheer and drinking at a tavern, and how one of them had a quarrel with his wife when he returned home, as you will hear._

A number of good fellows had once assembled to make good cheer at the tavern and drink as much as they could. And when they had eaten and drunk to God’s praise and _usque ad Hebreos_ (*), and had paid their reckoning, some of them began to say, “How shall we be received by our wives when we return home?” “God knows if we shall be excommunicated.” “They will pluck us by the beard.” “By Our Lady!” said one, “I am afraid to go home.” “God help me! so am I,” said another. “I shall be sure to hear a sermon for Passion Sunday.” “Would to God that my wife were dumb--I should drink more boldly than I do now.”

(*) A pun on the word _ebreos_ (drunken).

So spoke all of them with one exception, and that was a good fellow who said,

“How now, good sirs? You all seem every miserable, and each has a wife who forbids him to go to the tavern, and is displeased if you drink. Thank God my wife is not one of that sort, for if I drink ten--or even a hundred-times a day that is not enough for her,--in short I never knew an instance in which she did not wish I had drunk as much again. For, when I come back from the tavern she always wishes that I had the rest of the barrel in my belly, and the barrel along with it. Is not that a sign that I do not drink enough to please her?”

When his companions heard this argument they began to laugh, and all praised his wife, and then each one went his own way.

The good fellow we have mentioned, went home, where he found his wife not over friendly, and ready to scold him; and as soon as she saw him she began the usual lecture, and, as usual, she wished the rest of the barrel in his belly.

“Thank you, my dear, you are always much kinder than all the other women in the town for they all get wild if their husbands drink too much, but you--may God repay you--always wish that I may have a good draught that would last me all my days.”

“I don’t know that I wish that,” she said, “but I pray to God that you may drink such a lot some day that you may burst.”

Whilst they were conversing thus affectionately, the soup-kettle on the fire began to boil over, because the fire was too hot, and the good man, who noticed that his wife did not take it off the fire, said;

“Don’t you see, wife, that the pot is boiling over?”

She was still angry and indignant, and replied;

“Yes, master, I see it.”

“Well then, take it off, confound you! Do as I bid you.”

“I will,” she replied, “I will bid twelve pence.” (*)

(*) There is a pun in the French on the two meanings of the
verb _hausser_,--“to raise” and to “augment” or “run up.”

“Oh, indeed, dame,” said he, “is that your reply? Take off that pot, in God’s name!”

“Well!” she said. “I will put it at seven _sous_. Is that high enough?”

“Ha, ha!” he said. “By St. John that shall not pass without three blows with a good stick.”

He picked up a thick stick, and laid it with all his might across her back, saying as he did so,

“The lot is knocked down to you.”

She began to cry, and the neighbours all assembled and asked what was the matter? The good man told them and they all laughed--except the woman who had had the lot knocked down to her.

*****

STORY THE NINETY-EIGHTH -- THE UNFORTUNATE LOVERS.

By The Editor.

_Of a knight of this kingdom and his wife, who had a fair daughter aged fifteen or sixteen. Her father would have married her to a rich old knight, his neighbour, but she ran away with another knight, a young man who loved her honourably; and, by strange mishap, they both died sad deaths without having ever co-habited,--as you will hear shortly._

In the frontiers of France, there lived, amongst other nobles, a knight who was rich and noble, not only by illustrious descent, but by his own virtuous and honourable deeds, who had, by the wife he had married, an only daughter, a very beautiful virgin, well-educated as her condition required, and aged fifteen or sixteen years, or thereabouts.

This good and noble knight, seeing that his daughter was of a fit and proper age for the holy sacrament of wedlock, much wished to give her in marriage to a knight, his neighbour, who was powerful, not so much by noble birth as by great possessions and riches, and was also from 60 to 80 years old, or thereabouts.

This wish so filled the head of the father of whom I spoke, that he would not rest until formal promises were made between him and his wife, the mother of the girl, and the aforesaid old knight, touching his marriage to the girl, who, for her part, knew and suspected nothing of all these arrangements, promises, and treaties.

Not far from the castle of the knight, the father of this damsel, there lived another knight, a young man, valiant and brave, and moderately rich, but not so rich as the old man of whom I spoke, and this youth was greatly in love with the fair damsel. She also was much attached to him, on account of his fame and great renown, and they often spoke to each other, though with much trouble and difficulty, for her father, who suspected their love, tried by all ways and means to prevent their seeing each other. Nevertheless, he could not destroy the great and pure love which united their hearts, and when fortune favoured them with an opportunity, they discussed nothing but the means whereby they might accomplish their whole and sole desire and marry each other.

The time approached when the damsel was to be given to the old knight, and her father told her of the contract he had made, and named the day on which she was to be married; at which she was greatly angered, but thought to herself that she might find a way out of the difficulty.

She sent a message to her lover, the young knight, to tell him to come to her secretly as soon as he could; and when he came she told him how she was betrothed to the old knight, and asked her lover’s advice as to how this marriage was to be broken off, for that she would never have any other man but him.

The knight replied,

“My dearest lady, since of your kindness you offer me that which I should never have dared to ask without great shame, I thank you humbly, and if it be your will, I will tell you what we will do. We will appoint a day for me to come to this town accompanied by many of my friends, and at a given hour you will repair to a certain place, both of which we will arrange now that I am alone with you. You will mount on my horse, and I will conduct you to my castle. And then, if we can manage to pacify your father and mother, we will fulfil our promises of plighted troth.”

She replied that the plan was a good one, and she would carry it out properly. She told him that on such a day, at such an hour, he would find her at a certain place, and that she would do all that he had arranged.

The appointed day arrived, and the young knight appeared at the place mentioned, and there he found the lady, who mounted on his horse, and they rode fast until they were far from there.

The good knight, fearing that he should fatigue his dearly beloved mistress, slackened his speed, and spread his retainers on every road to see that they were not followed, and he rode across the fields, without keeping to any path or road, and as gently as he could, and charged his servants that they should meet at a large village which he named, and where he intended to stop and eat. This village was remote, and away from the high road.

They rode until they came to this village, where the local _fête_ was being held, which had brought together all sorts of people. They entered the best tavern in the place, and at once demanded food and drink, for it was late after dinner, and the damsel was much fatigued. A good fire was made, and food prepared for the servants of the knight who had not yet arrived.

Hardly had the knight and the lady entered the tavern than there came four big swashbucklers--waggoners or drovers, or perhaps worse--who noisily entered the tavern, and demanded where was the _bona roba_ that some ruffian had brought there, riding behind him on his horse, for they would drink with her, and amuse themselves with her.

The host who knew the knight well, and was aware that the rascals spake not the truth, told them gently that the girl was not what they imagined.

“Morbleu!” they replied; “if you do not bring her at once, we will batter down the door, and bring her by force in spite of the two of you.”

When the host heard this, and found that his explanation was no use, he named the knight, who was renowned through all that district, but unknown to many of the common people, because he had long been out of the country, acquiring honour and renown in wars in distant countries. The host told them also that the damsel was a young virgin, a relative of the knight, and of noble parentage.

“You can, messieurs,” he said, “without danger to yourself or others, quench your lust with many of the women who have come to the village on the occasion of the _fête_ expressly for you and the like of you, and for God’s sake leave in peace this noble damsel, and think of the great danger that you run, the evil that you wish to commit and the small hope that you have of success.”

“Drop your sermons,” shouted the rascals, inflamed with carnal lust, “and bring her to us quietly; or if not we will cause a scandal, for we will bring her down openly, and each of us four will do as he likes with her.”

These speeches being finished, the good host went up to the chamber where the knight and the damsel were, and called the knight apart, and told him this news, which when he had heard, without being troubled in the least, he went down wearing his sword, to talk to the four swashbucklers, and asked them politely what they wanted?

And they, being foul-mouthed and abusive blackguards, replied that they wanted the _bona roba_ that he kept shut up in his chamber, and that, if he did not give her up quietly, they would take her from him by force.

“Fair sirs,” said the knight, “if you knew me well you would be aware that I should not take about women of that sort. I have never done such a folly, thank God. And even if I ever did--which God forbid--I should never do it in this district, where I and all my people are well known--my nobility and reputation would not suffer me to do it. This damsel is a young virgin, a near relative, related also to a noble house, and we are travelling for our pleasure, accompanied by my servants, who although they are not here at present, will come directly, and I am waiting for them. Moreover, do not flatter yourselves that I should be such a coward as to let her be insulted, or suffer injury of any kind; but I would protect and defend her as long as my strength endured, and until I died.”

Before the knight had finished speaking, the villains interrupted him, and in the first place denied that he was the person he said, because he was alone, and that knight never travelled without a great number of servants. Therefore they recommended him, if he were wise, to bring the girl down, otherwise they would take her by force, whatever consequences might ensue.

When this brave and valiant knight found that fair words were of no use, and that force was the only remedy, he summoned up all his courage, and resolved that the villains should not have the damsel, and that he was ready to die in her defence.

At last one of the four advanced to knock with his bludgeon at the door of the chamber, and the others followed him, and were bravely beaten back by the knight. Then began a fight which lasted long, and although the two parties were so unequally matched, the good knight vanquished and repulsed the four villains, and as he pursued them to drive them away, one of them, who had a sword, turned suddenly and plunged it in the body of the knight, and pierced him through, so that he fell dead at once, at which they were very glad. Then they compelled the host to quietly bury the body in the garden of the inn.

When the good knight was dead, the villains came and knocked at the door of the chamber where the damsel was impatiently awaiting the return of her lover, and they pushed open the door.

As soon as she saw the brigands enter, she guessed that the knight was dead, and said;

“Alas, where is my protector? Where is my sole refuge? What has become of him? Why does he thus wound my heart and leave me here alone?”

The scoundrels, seeing that she was much troubled, thought to falsely deceive her by fair words, and told her the knight had gone to another house, and had commanded them to go to her and protect her; but she would not believe them, for her heart told her that they had killed him. She began to lament, and to cry more bitterly than ever.

“What is this?” they said. “Why all these tricks and manners? Do you think we don’t know you? If you imagine your bully is still alive, you are mistaken--we have rid the country of him. Therefore make your mind up that we are all four going to enjoy you.” At these words one of them advanced, and seized her roughly, saying that he would have her company.

When the poor damsel saw herself thus forced, and that she could not soften their hearts, she said;

“Alas! sirs, since you will force me, and my humble prayers cannot soften you, at least have this decency; that if I abandon myself to you it shall be privately, that is to say each separately without the presence of the others.”

They agreed to this, though with a bad grace, and then they made her choose which of the four should first have her company. She chose the one that she fancied was the mildest and best-tempered, but he was the worst of all. The door was closed, and then the poor damsel threw herself at the scoundrel’s feet, and with many piteous appeals, begged that he would have pity on her. But he was obstinate, and declared that he would have his will of her.

When she saw that he was so cruel, and that her prayers could not melt him, she said.

“Well then, since so it must be, I am content; but I beg of you to close the windows that we may be more secret.”

He willingly consented, and whilst he was closing them, she drew a little knife that she wore at her girdle, and uttering one long, piteous cry, she cut her throat, and gave up the ghost.

When the scoundrel saw her lying on the ground, he fled along with his companions, and it is to be supposed that they were afterwards punished according to their deserts.

Thus did these two sweet lovers end their days, one directly after the other, without ever having tasted of the joys and pleasures in which they hoped to have lived together all their days.

*****

STORY THE NINETY-NINTH -- THE METAMORPHOSIS. [99]

By The Editor.

_Relates how a Spanish Bishop, not being able to procure fish, ate two partridges on a Friday, and how he told his servants that he had converted them by his prayers into fish--as will more plainly be related below._

If you wish, you shall hear now, before it is too late, a little story about a brave Spanish Bishop who went to Rome to transact some business for his master the King of Castille.

This brave prelate, whom I intend to make furnish this last story, arrived one day at a little village in Lombardy, it being then early on a Friday evening, and ordered his steward to have supper early, and to go into the town and buy what he could, for he (the Bishop) was very hungry, not having broken his fast all that day.

His servant obeyed him, and went to the market, and to all the fishmongers in the town, to procure some fish, but, to make the story short, not a single fish, in spite of all the efforts made by the steward, could be found.

But, on returning to the inn, he met a countryman, who had two fine partridges which he would sell very cheaply. The steward thought he would secure them, and they would serve to make the Bishop a feast on Sunday.

He bought them, a great bargain, and came to his master with the two partridges in his hand, all alive, and fat, and plump, and told him of his failure to get any fish, at which my Lord was not best pleased.

“And what can we have for supper?”

“My Lord,” replied the steward, “I will get them to prepare you eggs in a hundred thousand different ways, and you can have apples and pears. Our host has also some rich cheese. We will do our best; have patience, a supper is soon over, and you shall fare better to-morrow, God willing. We shall be in a town which is much better provided with fish than this, and on Sunday you cannot fail to dine well, for here are two partridges which are plump and succulent.”

The Bishop looked at the two partridges, and found them as the steward said, plump, and in good condition, so he thought they would take the place of the fish which he had lost. So he caused them to be killed and prepared for the spit.

When the steward saw that his master wished to have them roasted, he was astounded, and said to his master;

“My lord, it is well to kill them, but to roast them now for Sunday seems a pity.”

But the steward lost his time, for, in spite of his remonstrances, they were put on the spit and roasted.

The good prelate watched them cooking, and the poor steward was scandalized, and did not know what to make of his master’s ill-ordered appetite.

When the partridges were roasted, the table laid, the wine brought in, eggs cooked in various ways, and served to a turn, the prelate seated himself, said grace, and asked for the partridges, with mustard.

His steward wished to know what his master would do with these birds, and brought them to him fresh from the fire, and emitting an odour enough to make a friar’s mouth water.

The good Bishop attacked the partridges, and began to cut and eat with such haste, that he did not give his squire, who came to carve for him, sufficient time to lay his bread, and sharpen his knife.

When the steward saw his master eating the birds, he was so amazed that he could no longer keep silent, and said to him;

“Oh, my lord, what are you doing? Are you a Jew or a Saracen, that you do not keep Friday? By my faith, I am astonished at such doings.”

“Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue!” said the good prelate, who had his hands and his beard covered with fat and gravy. “You are a fool, and know not what you are saying. I am doing no harm. You know well and believe, that by the words spoken by me and other priests, we make of the host, which is nothing but flour and water, the precious body of Jesus Christ. Can I not by the same means?--I who have seen so many things at the court of Rome and many other places--know by what words I may transform these partridges, which are flesh, into fish, although they still retain the form of partridges? So indeed I have done. I have long known how to do this. They were no sooner put to the fire than by certain words I know, I so charmed them that I converted them into the substance of fish, and you might--all of you who are here--eat, as I do, without sin. But as you would still believe them to be flesh, they would do you harm, so I alone will commit the sin.”

The steward and the other attendants began to laugh, and pretended to believe the highly-coloured story that their master had told them, and ever after that were up to the trick, and related it joyously in many places.

*****

STORY THE HUNDREDTH AND LAST -- THE CHASTE LOVER.

By Philippe De Laon.

_Of a rich merchant of the city of Genoa, who married a fair damsel, who owing to the absence of her husband, sent for a wise clerk--a young, fit, and proper man--to help her to that of which she had need; and of the fast that he caused her to make--as you will find more plainly below._

In the powerful and well-populated city of Genoa, there, lived some time ago, a merchant who was very rich, and whose business consisted in sending much merchandise by sea to foreign lands, and especially to Alexandria. So occupied was he with the management of his ships, and in heaping up riches, that during all his days, from his tender youth till the time that he was fifty years of age, he never cared or wanted to do anything else.

When he had arrived at this last mentioned age, he began to think about his condition, and to see that he had spent and employed all his days and years in heaping up riches without ever having for a single minute or moment been inclined to think of marrying and having children, to whom the great wealth, that he had by great diligence and labour amassed and acquired, would succeed. This thought caused him much mental sorrow, and he was greatly vexed that he had thus spent his youth.

This grief and regret lasted many days, during which time it happened that in the above-named city, the young children, after they had solemnized some festival, did as they were accustomed each year, and variously apparelled and disguised, some this way and some that, came in great numbers to the place where the public rejoicings of the city are usually held, to play in the presence of their fathers and mothers, and to have their costumes praised and admired.

At this assembly was our merchant, still moody and vexed, and the sight of so many fathers and mothers taking pleasure in watching their children dance and sport, increased the grief that was preying on his mind, and, unable to watch them any longer, he returned to his house, sad and vexed, and retired to his lonely chamber, where he remained some time, uttering complaints of this kind;

“Ah, poor, miserable, old man that I am and always have been, and for whom fate and destiny are hard, bitter, and unpleasant. Oh, wretched man! worn out and weary by watching and work, suffered and borne by land and sea. Your great riches and heaped-up treasures, which with many perilous adventures, hard work, and sweat you have amassed, and for which you have expended all your time, are but vain, for you have never thought who will possess them, and to whom by human law you should leave your memory and your name when you are dead and gone. Oh, wicked man, how could you have been careless of that of which you should have taken most heed? Marriage never pleased you, and you always feared and refused it, and even disliked and scorned the good and just counsels of those who would have found you a wife, in order that you might have offspring who would perpetuate your name, your praise, and your renown. Oh, how happy are those parents who leave good and wise children to succeed them! How many fathers have I seen to-day playing with their children, who would call themselves most happy, and think they had well employed their time, if, after their decease, they could leave their children but one small part of the great wealth that I possess! But what pleasure and solace can I ever have? What name or fame shall I leave after my death? Where is the son who will cherish my memory when I am dead? Blessed be that holy condition of marriage by which the memory and recollection of fathers is preserved, and by which fiefs, possessions, and heritages are permanently secured to their happy children!”