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Title: The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio

Author: Giovanni Boccaccio

Translator: John Payne

Release date: December 3, 2007 [eBook #23700]
Most recently updated: October 2, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23700

Credits: Ted Garvin, Linda Cantoni, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
DECAMERON OF GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO ***

Transcriber's Notes:

The original text does not observe the normal convention of
placing quotation marks at the beginnings of paragraphs within
a multiple-paragraph quotation. This idiosyncrasy has been
preserved in this e-text.
Archaic spellings have been preserved, but obvious printer
errors have been corrected.
In the untranslated Italian passage in Day 3, Story 10, the
original is missing the accents, which have been added using
an Italian edition of Decameron (Milan: Mursia, 1977) as a
guide.
This e-text contains some Greek and Arabic words, which may
not display correctly in all browsers. Hover the mouse over the
word to see a pop-up transliteration, e.g., βιβλος.
John Payne's translation of The Decameron was originally
published in a private printing for The Villon Society, London,
1886. The American edition from which this e-text was
prepared is undated.

The

Decameron
of

Giovanni Boccaccio
Translated by
John Payne

WALTER J. BLACK, INC.
171 Madison Avenue
NEW YORK, N.Y.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

PROEM.

DAY THE FIRST 1
The First Story. Master Ciappelletto dupeth a holy friar with a false
confession and dieth; and having been in his lifetime the worst of men,
he is, after his death, reputed a saint and called Saint Ciappelletto 16
The Second Story. Abraham the Jew, at the instigation of Jehannot de
Chevigné, goeth to the Court of Rome and seeing the depravity of the
clergy, returneth to Paris and there becometh a Christian 25
The Third Story. Melchizedek the Jew, with a story of three rings, escapeth
a parlous snare set for him by Saladin 28
The Fourth Story. A monk, having fallen into a sin deserving of very
grievous punishment, adroitly reproaching the same fault to his abbot,
quitteth himself of the penalty 30
The Fifth Story. The Marchioness of Monferrato, with a dinner of hens and
certain sprightly words, curbeth the extravagant passion of the King of
France 33
The Sixth Story. An honest man, with a chance pleasantry, putteth to
shame the perverse hypocrisy of the religious orders 35
The Seventh Story. Bergamino, with a story of Primasso and the Abbot of
Cluny, courteously rebuketh a fit of parsimony newly come to Messer
Cane della Scala 37
The Eighth Story. Guglielmo Borsiere with some quaint words rebuketh
the niggardliness of Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi 40

The Ninth Story. The King of Cyprus, touched to the quick by a Gascon
lady, from a mean-spirited prince becometh a man of worth and
valiance 42
The Tenth Story. Master Alberto of Bologna civilly putteth a lady to the
blush who thought to have shamed him of being enamoured of her 43

DAY THE SECOND 48
The First Story. Martellino feigneth himself a cripple and maketh believe
to wax whole upon the body of St. Arrigo. His imposture being
discovered, he is beaten and being after taken [for a thief,] goeth in
peril of being hanged by the neck, but ultimately escapeth 49
The Second Story. Rinaldo d'Asti, having been robbed, maketh his way to
Castel Guglielmo, where he is hospitably entertained by a widow lady
and having made good his loss, returneth to his own house, safe and
sound 52
The Third Story. Three young men squander their substance and become
poor; but a nephew of theirs, returning home in desperation, falleth in
with an abbot and findeth him to be the king's daughter of England,
who taketh him to husband and maketh good all his uncles' losses,
restoring them to good estate 57
The Fourth Story. Landolfo Ruffolo, grown poor, turneth corsair and being
taken by the Genoese, is wrecked at sea, but saveth himself upon a
coffer full of jewels of price and being entertained in Corfu by a
woman, returneth home rich 63
The Fifth Story. Andreuccio of Perugia, coming to Naples to buy horses, is
in one night overtaken with three grievous accidents, but escapeth
them all and returneth home with a ruby 66
The Sixth Story. Madam Beritola, having lost her two sons, is found on a
desert island with two kids and goeth thence into Lunigiana, where one
of her sons, taking service with the lord of the country, lieth with his
daughter and is cast into prison. Sicily after rebelling against King
Charles and the youth being recognized by his mother, he espouseth

his lord's daughter, and his brother being likewise found, they are all
three restored to high estate 75
The Seventh Story. The Soldan of Babylon sendeth a daughter of his to be
married to the King of Algarve, and she, by divers chances, in the
space of four years cometh to the hands of nine men in various places.
Ultimately, being restored to her father for a maid, she goeth to the
King of Algarve to wife, as first she did 85
The Eighth Story. The Count of Antwerp, being falsely accused, goeth into
exile and leaveth his two children in different places in England,
whither, after awhile, returning in disguise and finding them in good
case, he taketh service as a horseboy in the service of the King of
France and being approved innocent, is restored to his former estate
100
The Ninth Story. Bernabo of Genoa, duped by Ambrogiuolo, loseth his
good and commandeth that his innocent wife be put to death. She
escapeth and serveth the Soldan in a man's habit. Here she lighteth
upon the deceiver of her husband and bringeth the latter to
Alexandria, where, her traducer being punished, she resumeth
woman's apparel and returneth to Genoa with her husband, rich 111
The Tenth Story. Paganino of Monaco stealeth away the wife of Messer
Ricciardo di Chinzica, who, learning where she is, goeth thither and
making friends with Paganino, demandeth her again of him. The latter
concedeth her to him, an she will; but she refuseth to return with him
and Messer Ricciardo dying, she becometh the wife of Paganino 120

DAY THE THIRD 127
The First Story. Masetto of Lamporecchio feigneth himself dumb and
becometh gardener to a convent of women, who all flock to lie with
him 129
The Second Story. A horsekeeper lieth with the wife of King Agilulf, who,
becoming aware thereof, without word said, findeth him out and
polleth him; but the polled man polleth all his fellows on like wise and
so escapeth ill hap 134

The Third Story. Under colour of confession and of exceeding niceness of
conscience, a lady, being enamoured of a young man, bringeth a grave
friar, without his misdoubting him thereof, to afford a means of giving
entire effect to her pleasure 137
The Fourth Story. Dom Felice teacheth Fra Puccio how he may become
beatified by performing a certain penance of his fashion, which the
other doth, and Dom Felice meanwhile leadeth a merry life of it with
the good man's wife 143
The Fifth Story. Ricciardo, surnamed Il Zima, giveth Messer Francesco
Vergellesi a palfrey of his and hath therefor his leave to speak with his
wife. She keeping silence, he in her person replieth unto himself, and
the effect after ensueth in accordance with his answer 147
The Sixth Story. Ricciardo Minutolo, being enamoured of the wife of
Filippello Fighinolfi and knowing her jealousy of her husband,
contriveth, by representing that Filippello was on the ensuing day to be
with his own wife in a bagnio, to bring her to the latter place, where,
thinking to be with her husband, she findeth that she hath abidden with
Ricciardo 152
The Seventh Story. Tedaldo Elisei, having fallen out with his mistress,
departeth Florence and returning thither, after awhile, in a pilgrim's
favour, speaketh with the lady and maketh her cognisant of her error;
after which he delivereth her husband, who had been convicted of
murdering him, from death and reconciling him with his brethren,
thenceforward discreetly enjoyeth himself with his mistress 157
The Eighth Story. Ferondo, having swallowed a certain powder, is
entombed for dead and being taken forth of the sepulchre by the abbot,
who enjoyeth his wife the while, is put in prison and given to believe
that he is in purgatory; after which, being raised up again, he reareth
for his own a child begotten of the abbot on his wife 169
The Ninth Story. Gillette de Narbonne recovereth the King of France of a
fistula and demandeth for her husband Bertrand de Roussillon, who
marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to Florence,
where, he paying court to a young lady, Gillette, in the person of the

latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons; wherefore after,
holding her dear, he entertaineth her for his wife 176
The Tenth Story. Alibech, turning hermit, is taught by Rustico, a monk, to
put the devil in hell, and being after brought away thence, becometh
Neerbale his wife 182

DAY THE FOURTH 189
The First Story. Tancred, Prince of Salerno, slayeth his daughter's lover
and sendeth her his heart in a bowl of gold; whereupon, pouring
poisoned water over it, she drinketh thereof and dieth 194
The Second Story. Fra Alberto giveth a lady to believe that the angel
Gabriel is enamoured of her and in his shape lieth with her sundry
times; after which, for fear of her kinsmen, he casteth himself forth of
her window into the canal and taketh refuge in the house of a poor
man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of
the woods, to the Piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his
brethren and put in prison 201
The Third Story. Three young men love three sisters and flee with them
into Crete, where the eldest sister for jealousy slayeth her lover. The
second, yielding herself to the Duke of Crete, saveth her sister from
death, whereupon her own lover slayeth her and fleeth with the eldest
sister. Meanwhile the third lover and the youngest sister are accused of
the new murder and being taken, confess it; then, for fear of death,
they corrupt their keepers with money and flee to Rhodes, where they
die in poverty 208
The Fourth Story. Gerbino, against the plighted faith of his grandfather,
King Guglielmo of Sicily, attacketh a ship of the King of Tunis, to carry
off a daughter of his, who being put to death of those on board, he
slayeth these latter and is after himself beheaded 213
The Fifth Story. Lisabetta's brothers slay her lover, who appeareth to her
in a dream and showeth her where he is buried, whereupon she privily
disinterreth his head and setteth it in a pot of basil. Thereover making

moan a great while every day, her brothers take it from her and she for
grief dieth a little thereafterward 216
The Sixth Story. Andrevuola loveth Gabriotto and recounteth to him a
dream she hath had, whereupon he telleth her one of his own and
presently dieth suddenly in her arms. What while she and a waiting
woman of hers bear him to his own house, they are taken by the
officers of justice and carried before the provost, to whom she
discovereth how the case standeth. The provost would fain force her,
but she suffereth it not and her father, coming to hear of the matter,
procureth her to be set at liberty, she being found innocent;
whereupon, altogether refusing to abide longer in the world, she
becometh a nun 220
The Seventh Story. Simona loveth Pasquino and they being together in a
garden, the latter rubbeth a leaf of sage against his teeth and dieth.
She, being taken and thinking to show the judge how her lover died,
rubbeth one of the same leaves against her teeth and dieth on like wise
225
The Eighth Story. Girolamo loveth Salvestra and being constrained by his
mother's prayers to go to Paris, returneth and findeth his mistress
married; whereupon he entereth her house by stealth and dieth by her
side; and he being carried to a church, Salvestra dieth beside him 228
The Ninth Story. Sir Guillaume de Roussillon giveth his wife to eat the
heart of Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing by him slain and loved of her,
which she after coming to know, casteth herself from a high casement
to the ground and dying, is buried with her lover 232
The Tenth Story. A physician's wife putteth her lover for dead in a chest,
which two usurers carry off to their own house, gallant and all. The
latter, who is but drugged, cometh presently to himself and being
discovered, is taken for a thief; but the lady's maid avoucheth to the
seignory that she herself had put him into the chest stolen by the two
usurers, whereby he escapeth the gallows and the thieves are amerced
in certain monies 235

DAY THE FIFTH 243
The First Story. Cimon, loving, waxeth wise and carrieth off to sea
Iphigenia his mistress. Being cast into prison at Rhodes, he is
delivered thence by Lysimachus and in concert with him carrieth off
Iphigenia and Cassandra on their wedding-day, with whom the twain
flee into Crete, where the two ladies become their wives and whence
they are presently all four recalled home 244
The Second Story. Costanza loveth Martuccio Gomito and hearing that he
is dead, embarketh for despair alone in a boat, which is carried by the
wind to Susa. Finding her lover alive at Tunis, she discovereth herself
to him and he, being great in favour with the king for counsels given,
espouseth her and returneth rich with her to Lipari 252
The Third Story. Pietro Boccamazza, fleeing with Agnolella, falleth among
thieves; the girl escapeth through a wood and is led [by fortune] to a
castle, whilst Pietro is taken by the thieves, but presently, escaping
from their hands, winneth, after divers adventures, to the castle where
his mistress is and espousing her, returneth with her to Rome 256
The Fourth Story. Ricciardo Manardi, being found by Messer Lizio da
Valbona with his daughter, espouseth her and abideth in peace with
her father 261
The Fifth Story. Guidotto da Cremona leaveth to Giacomino da Pavia a
daughter of his and dieth. Giannole di Severino and Minghino di
Mingole fall in love with the girl at Faenza and come to blows on her
account. Ultimately she is proved to be Giannole's sister and is given
to Minghino to wife 265
The Sixth Story. Gianni di Procida being found with a young lady, whom
he loved and who had been given to King Frederick of Sicily, is bound
with her to a stake to be burnt; but, being recognized by Ruggieri dell'
Oria, escapeth and becometh her husband 269
The Seventh Story. Teodoro, being enamoured of Violante, daughter of
Messer Amerigo his lord, getteth her with child and is condemned to
be hanged; but, being recognized and delivered by his father, as they

are leading him to the gallows, scourging him the while, he taketh
Violante to wife 273
The Eighth Story. Nastagio degli Onesti, falling in love with a lady of the
Traversari family, spendeth his substance, without being beloved in
return, and betaking himself, at the instance of his kinsfolk, to Chiassi,
he there seeth a horseman give chase to a damsel and slay her and
cause her to be devoured of two dogs. Therewithal he biddeth his
kinsfolk and the lady whom he loveth to a dinner, where his mistress
seeth the same damsel torn in pieces and fearing a like fate, taketh
Nastagio to husband 278
The Ninth Story. Federigo degli Alberighi loveth and is not loved. He
wasteth his substance in prodigal hospitality till there is left him but
one sole falcon, which, having nought else, he giveth his mistress to
eat, on her coming to his house; and she, learning this, changeth her
mind and taking him to husband, maketh him rich again 282
The Tenth Story. Pietro di Vinciolo goeth to sup abroad, whereupon his
wife letteth fetch her a youth to keep her company, and her husband
returning, unlooked for, she hideth her gallant under a hen-coop.
Pietro telleth her how there had been found in the house of one
Arcolano, with whom he was to have supped, a young man brought in
by his wife, and she blameth the latter. Presently, an ass, by mischance,
setteth foot on the fingers of him who is under the coop and he roareth
out, whereupon Pietro runneth thither and espying him, discovereth his
wife's unfaith, but ultimately cometh to an accord with her for his own
lewd ends 286

DAY THE SIXTH 294
The First Story. A gentleman engageth to Madam Oretta to carry her a-
horseback with a story, but, telling it disorderly, is prayed by her to set
her down again 296
The Second Story. Cisti the baker with a word of his fashion maketh
Messer Geri Spina sensible of an indiscreet request of his 297

The Third Story. Madam Nonna de' Pulci, with a ready retort to a not
altogether seemly pleasantry, imposeth silence on the Bishop of
Florence 299
The Fourth Story. Chichibio, cook to Currado Gianfigliazzi, with a ready
word spoken to save himself, turneth his master's anger into laughter
and escapeth the punishment threatened him by the latter 301
The Fifth Story. Messer Forese da Rabatta and Master Giotto the painter
coming from Mugello, each jestingly rallieth the other on his scurvy
favour 303
The Sixth Story. Michele Scalza proveth to certain young men that the
cadgers of Florence are the best gentlemen of the world or the
Maremma and winneth a supper 304
The Seventh Story. Madam Filippa, being found by her husband with a
lover of hers and brought to justice, delivereth herself with a prompt
and pleasant answer and causeth modify the statute 306
The Eighth Story. Fresco exhorteth his niece not to mirror herself in the
glass if, as she saith, it irketh her to see disagreeable folk 308
The Ninth Story. Guido Cavalcanti with a pithy speech courteously
flouteth certain Florentine gentlemen who had taken him by surprise
309
The Tenth Story. Fra Cipolla promiseth certain country folk to show them
one of the angel Gabriel's feathers and finding coals in place thereof,
avoucheth these latter to be of those which roasted St. Lawrence 311

DAY THE SEVENTH 322
The First Story. Gianni Lotteringhi heareth knock at his door by night and
awakeneth his wife, who giveth him to believe that it is a phantom;
whereupon they go to exorcise it with a certain orison and the
knocking ceaseth 323
The Second Story. Peronella hideth a lover of hers in a vat, upon her
husband's unlooked for return, and hearing from the latter that he hath

sold the vat, avoucheth herself to have sold it to one who is presently
therewithin, to see if it be sound; whereupon the gallant, jumping out
of the vat, causeth the husband scrape it out for him and after carry it
home to his house 326
The Third Story. Fra Rinaldo lieth with his gossip and being found of her
husband closeted with her in her chamber, they give him to believe that
he was in act to conjure worms from his godson 329
The Fourth Story. Tofano one night shutteth his wife out of doors, who,
availing not to re-enter by dint of entreaties, feigneth to cast herself
into a well and casteth therein a great stone. Tofano cometh forth of
the house and runneth thither, whereupon she slippeth in and locking
him out, bawleth reproaches at him from the window 333
The Fifth Story. A jealous husband, in the guise of a priest, confesseth his
wife, who giveth him to believe that she loveth a priest, who cometh to
her every night; and whilst the husband secretly keepeth watch at the
door for the latter, the lady bringeth in a lover of hers by the roof and
lieth with him 336
The Sixth Story. Madam Isabella, being in company with Leonetto her
lover, is visited by one Messer Lambertuccio, of whom she is beloved;
her husband returning, [unexpected,] she sendeth Lambertuccio forth
of the house, whinger in hand, and the husband after escorteth
Leonetto home 341
The Seventh Story. Lodovico discovereth to Madam Beatrice the love he
beareth her, whereupon she sendeth Egano her husband into the
garden, in her own favour, and lieth meanwhile with Lodovico, who,
presently arising, goeth and cudgelleth Egano in the garden 344
The Eighth Story. A man waxeth jealous of his wife, who bindeth a piece of
packthread to her great toe anights, so she may have notice of her
lover's coming. One night her husband becometh aware of this device
and what while he pursueth the lover, the lady putteth another woman
to bed in her room. This latter the husband beateth and cutteth off her
hair, then fetcheth his wife's brothers, who, finding his story
[seemingly] untrue, give him hard words 348

The Ninth Story. Lydia, wife of Nicostratus, loveth Pyrrhus, who, so he
may believe it, requireth of her three things, all which she doth.
Moreover, she solaceth herself with him in the presence of Nicostratus
and maketh the latter believe that that which he hath seen is not real
353
The Tenth Story. Two Siennese love a lady, who is gossip to one of them;
the latter dieth and returning to his companion, according to premise
made him, relateth to him how folk fare in the other world 360

DAY THE EIGHTH 365
The First Story. Gulfardo borroweth of Guasparruolo certain monies, for
which he hath agreed with his wife that he shall lie with her, and
accordingly giveth them to her; then, in her presence, he telleth
Guasparruolo that he gave them to her, and she confesseth it to be true
365
The Second Story. The parish priest of Varlungo lieth with Mistress
Belcolore and leaveth her a cloak of his in pledge; then, borrowing a
mortar of her, he sendeth it back to her, demanding in return the cloak
left by way of token, which the good woman grudgingly giveth him
back 367
The Third Story. Calandrino, Bruno and Buffalmacco go coasting along
the Mugnone in search of the heliotrope and Calandrino thinketh to
have found it. Accordingly he returneth home, laden with stones, and
his wife chideth him; whereupon, flying out into a rage, he beateth her
and recounteth to his companions that which they know better than he
371
The Fourth Story. The rector of Fiesole loveth a widow lady, but is not
loved by her and thinking to lie with her, lieth with a serving-wench of
hers, whilst the lady's brothers cause the bishop find him in this case
377
The Fifth Story. Three young men pull the breeches off a Marchegan judge
in Florence, what while he is on the bench, administering justice 380

The Sixth Story. Bruno and Buffalmacco, having stolen a pig from
Calandrino, make him try the ordeal with ginger boluses and sack and
give him (instead of the ginger) two dogballs compounded with aloes,
whereby it appeareth that he himself hath had the pig and they make
him pay blackmail, and he would not have them tell his wife 383
The Seventh Story. A scholar loveth a widow lady, who, being enamoured
of another, causeth him spend one winter's night in the snow awaiting
her, and he after contriveth, by his sleight, to have her abide naked, all
one mid-July day, on the summit of a tower, exposed to flies and gads
and sun 387
The Eighth Story. Two men consorting together, one lieth with the wife of
his comrade, who, becoming aware thereof, doth with her on such wise
that the other is shut up in a chest, upon which he lieth with his wife,
he being inside the while 403
The Ninth Story. Master Simone the physician, having been induced by
Bruno and Buffalmacco to repair to a certain place by night, there to
be made a member of a company, that goeth a-roving, is cast by
Buffalmacco into a trench full of ordure and there left 406
The Tenth Story. A certain woman of Sicily artfully despoileth a merchant
of that which he had brought to Palermo; but he, making believe to
have returned thither with much greater plenty of merchandise than
before, borroweth money of her and leaveth her water and tow in
payment 418

DAY THE NINTH 427
The First Story. Madam Francesca, being courted of one Rinuccio
Palermini and one Alessandro Chiarmontesi and loving neither the
one nor the other, adroitly riddeth herself of both by causing one enter
for dead into a sepulchre and the other bring him forth thereof for
dead, on such wise that they cannot avail to accomplish the condition
imposed 428
The Second Story. An abbess, arising in haste and in the dark to find one
of her nuns, who had been denounced to her, in bed with her lover and,

thinking to cover her head with her coif, donneth instead thereof the
breeches of a priest who is abed with her; the which the accused nun
observing and making her aware thereof, she is acquitted and hath
leisure to be with her lover 432
The Third Story. Master Simone, at the instance of Bruno and Buffalmacco
and Nello, maketh Calandrino believe that he is with child; wherefore
he giveth them capons and money for medicines and recovereth
without bringing forth 435
The Fourth Story. Cecco Fortarrigo gameth away at Buonconvento all his
good and the monies of Cecco Angiolieri [his master;] moreover,
running after the latter, in his shirt, and avouching that he hath robbed
him, he causeth him be taken of the countryfolk; then, donning
Angiolieri's clothes and mounting his palfrey, he maketh off and
leaveth the other in his shirt 438
The Fifth Story. Calandrino falleth in love with a wench and Bruno
writeth him a talisman, wherewith when he toucheth her, she goeth
with him; and his wife finding them together, there betideth him
grievous trouble and annoy 441
The Sixth Story. Two young gentlemen lodge the night with an innkeeper,
whereof one goeth to lie with the host's daughter, whilst his wife
unwittingly coucheth with the other; after which he who lay with the
girl getteth him to bed with her father and telleth him all, thinking to
bespeak his comrade. Therewithal they come to words, but the wife,
perceiving her mistake, entereth her daughter's bed and thence with
certain words appeaseth everything 446
The Seventh Story. Talano di Molese dreameth that a wolf mangleth all his
wife's neck and face and biddeth her beware thereof; but she payeth no
heed to his warning and it befalleth her even as he had dreamed 450
The Eighth Story. Biondello cheateth Ciacco of a dinner, whereof the other
craftily avengeth himself, procuring him to be shamefully beaten 451
The Ninth Story. Two young men seek counsel of Solomon, one how he
may be loved and the other how he may amend his froward wife, and

in answer he biddeth the one love and the other get him to
Goosebridge 454
The Tenth Story. Dom Gianni, at the instance of his gossip Pietro,
performeth a conjuration for the purpose of causing the latter's wife to
become a mare; but, whenas he cometh to put on the tail, Pietro
marreth the whole conjuration, saying that he will not have a tail 457

DAY THE TENTH 462
The First Story. A knight in the king's service of Spain thinking himself ill
guerdoned, the king by very certain proof showeth him that this is not
his fault, but that of his own perverse fortune, and after largesseth him
magnificently 462
The Second Story. Ghino di Tacco taketh the Abbot of Cluny and having
cured him of the stomach-complaint, letteth him go; whereupon the
Abbot, returning to the court of Rome, reconcileth him with Pope
Boniface and maketh him a Prior of the Hospitallers 464
The Third Story. Mithridanes, envying Nathan his hospitality and
generosity and going to kill him, falleth in with himself, without
knowing him, and is by him instructed of the course he shall take to
accomplish his purpose; by means whereof he findeth him, as he
himself had ordered it, in a coppice and recognizing him, is ashamed
and becometh his friend 468
The Fourth Story. Messer Gentile de' Carisendi, coming from Modona,
taketh forth of the sepulchre a lady whom he loveth and who hath been
buried for dead. The lady, restored to life, beareth a male child and
Messer Gentile restoreth her and her son to Niccoluccio Caccianimico,
her husband 472
The Fifth Story. Madam Dianora requireth of Messer Ansaldo a garden as
fair in January as in May, and he by binding himself [to pay a great
sum of money] to a nigromancer, giveth it to her. Her husband granteth
her leave to do Messer Ansaldo's pleasure, but he, hearing of the
former's generosity, absolveth her of her promise, whereupon the

nigromancer, in his turn, acquitteth Messer Ansaldo of his bond,
without willing aught of his 478
The Sixth Story. King Charles the Old, the Victorious, falleth enamoured
of a young girl, but after, ashamed of his fond thought, honourably
marrieth both her and her sister 481
The Seventh Story. King Pedro of Arragon, coming to know the fervent
love borne him by Lisa, comforteth the lovesick maid and presently
marrieth her to a noble young gentleman; then, kissing her on the
brow, he ever after avoucheth himself her knight 485
The Eighth Story. Sophronia, thinking to marry Gisippus, becometh the
wife of Titus Quintius Fulvus and with him betaketh herself to Rome,
whither Gisippus cometh in poor case and conceiving himself slighted
of Titus, declareth, so he may die, to have slain a man. Titus,
recognizing him, to save him, avoucheth himself to have done the deed,
and the true murderer, seeing this, discovereth himself; whereupon
they are all three liberated by Octavianus and Titus, giving Gisippus
his sister to wife, hath all his good in common with him 491
The Ninth Story. Saladin, in the disguise of a merchant, is honourably
entertained by Messer Torello d'Istria, who, presently undertaking the
[third] crusade, appointeth his wife a term for her marrying again. He
is taken [by the Saracens] and cometh, by his skill in training hawks,
under the notice of the Soldan, who knoweth him again and
discovering himself to him, entreateth him with the utmost honour.
Then, Torello falling sick for languishment, he is by magical art
transported in one night [from Alexandria] to Pavia, where, being
recognized by his wife at the bride-feast held for her marrying again,
he returneth with her to his own house 503
The Tenth Story. The Marquess of Saluzzo, constrained by the prayers of
his vassals to marry, but determined to do it after his own fashion,
taketh to wife the daughter of a peasant and hath of her two children,
whom he maketh believe to her to put to death; after which, feigning to
be grown weary of her and to have taken another wife, he letteth bring
his own daughter home to his house, as she were his new bride, and
turneth his wife away in her shift; but, finding her patient under

everything, he fetcheth her home again, dearer than ever, and showing
her her children grown great, honoureth and letteth honour her as
marchioness 510

CONCLUSION OF THE AUTHOR 525

Here Beginneth the Book Called
Decameron and Surnamed Prince
Galahalt Wherein Are Contained
an Hundred Stories in Ten Days
Told by Seven Ladies and Three
Young Men

Proem

A kindly thing it is to have compassion of the afflicted and albeit it well
beseemeth every one, yet of those is it more particularly required who have
erst had need of comfort and have found it in any, amongst whom, if ever
any had need thereof or held it dear or took pleasure therein aforetimes,
certes, I am one of these. For that, having from my first youth unto this
present been beyond measure inflamed with a very high and noble passion
(higher and nobler, perchance, than might appear, were I to relate it, to sort
with my low estate) albeit by persons of discretion who had intelligence
thereof I was commended therefor and accounted so much the more worth,
natheless a passing sore travail it was to me to bear it, not, certes, by reason
of the cruelty of the beloved lady, but because of the exceeding ardour
begotten in my breast of an ill-ordered appetite, for which, for that it
suffered me not to stand content at any reasonable bounds, caused me
ofttimes feel more chagrin than I had occasion for. In this my affliction the
pleasant discourse of a certain friend of mine and his admirable
consolations afforded me such refreshment that I firmly believe of these it
came that I died not. But, as it pleased Him who, being Himself infinite,
hath for immutable law appointed unto all things mundane that they shall
have an end, my love,—beyond every other fervent and which nor stress of
reasoning nor counsel, no, nor yet manifest shame nor peril that might
ensue thereof, had availed either to break or to bend,—of its own motion, in
process of time, on such wise abated that of itself at this present it hath left
me only that pleasance which it is used to afford unto whoso adventureth
himself not too far in the navigation of its profounder oceans; by reason
whereof, all chagrin being done away, I feel it grown delightsome, whereas
it used to be grievous. Yet, albeit the pain hath ceased, not, therefore, is the
memory fled of the benefits whilom received and the kindnesses bestowed
on me by those to whom, of the goodwill they bore me, my troubles were
grievous; nor, as I deem, will it ever pass away, save for death. And for that
gratitude, to my thinking, is, among the other virtues, especially
commendable and its contrary blameworthy, I have, that I may not appear

ungrateful, bethought myself, now that I can call myself free, to endeavour,
in that little which is possible to me, to afford some relief, in requital of that
which I received aforetime,—if not to those who succoured me and who,
belike, by reason of their good sense or of their fortune, have no occasion
therefor,—to those, at least, who stand in need thereof. And albeit my
support, or rather I should say my comfort, may be and indeed is of little
enough avail to the afflicted, natheless meseemeth it should rather be
proffered whereas the need appeareth greater, as well because it will there
do more service as for that it will still be there the liefer had. And who will
deny that this [comfort], whatsoever [worth] it be, it behoveth much more
to give unto lovesick ladies than unto men? For that these within their
tender bosoms, fearful and shamefast, hold hid the fires of love (which
those who have proved know how much more puissance they have than
those which are manifest), and constrained by the wishes, the pleasures, the
commandments of fathers, mothers, brothers and husbands, abide most time
enmewed in the narrow compass of their chambers and sitting in a manner
idle, willing and willing not in one breath, revolve in themselves various
thoughts which it is not possible should still be merry. By reason whereof if
there arise in their minds any melancholy, bred of ardent desire, needs must
it with grievous annoy abide therein, except it be done away by new
discourse; more by token that they are far less strong than men to endure.
With men in love it happeneth not on this wise, as we may manifestly see.
They, if any melancholy or heaviness of thought oppress them, have many
means of easing it or doing it away, for that to them, an they have a mind
thereto, there lacketh not commodity of going about hearing and seeing
many things, fowling, hunting, fishing, riding, gaming and trafficking; each
of which means hath, altogether or in part, power to draw the mind unto
itself and to divert it from troublous thought, at least for some space of
time, whereafter, one way or another, either solacement superveneth or else
the annoy groweth less. Wherefore, to the end that the unright of Fortune
may by me in part be amended, which, where there is the less strength to
endure, as we see it in delicate ladies, hath there been the more niggard of
support, I purpose, for the succour and solace of ladies in love (unto
others[1] the needle and the spindle and the reel suffice) to recount an
hundred stories or fables or parables or histories or whatever you like to
style them, in ten days' time related by an honourable company of seven
ladies and three young men made in the days of the late deadly pestilence,

together with sundry canzonets sung by the aforesaid ladies for their
diversion. In these stories will be found love-chances,[2] both gladsome and
grievous, and other accidents of fortune befallen as well in times present as
in days of old, whereof the ladies aforesaid, who shall read them, may at
once take solace from the delectable things therein shown forth and useful
counsel, inasmuch as they may learn thereby what is to be eschewed and
what is on like wise to be ensued,—the which methinketh cannot betide
without cease of chagrin. If it happen thus (as God grant it may) let them
render thanks therefor to Love, who, by loosing me from his bonds, hath
vouchsafed me the power of applying myself to the service of their
pleasures.

Day the First
Here Beginneth the First Day of the
Decameron Wherein (After
Demonstration Made by the Author
of the Manner in Which it Came to
Pass That the Persons Who Are
Hereinafter Presented
Foregathered for the Purpose of
Devising Together) Under the
Governance of Pampinea Is
Discoursed of That Which Is Most
Agreeable Unto Each

As often, most gracious ladies, as, taking thought in myself, I mind me how

very pitiful you are all by nature, so often do I recognize that this present
work will, to your thinking, have a grievous and a weariful beginning,
inasmuch as the dolorous remembrance of the late pestiferous mortality,
which it beareth on its forefront, is universally irksome to all who saw or
otherwise knew it. But I would not therefore have this affright you from
reading further, as if in the reading you were still to fare among sighs and
tears. Let this grisly beginning be none other to you than is to wayfarers a
rugged and steep mountain, beyond which is situate a most fair and
delightful plain, which latter cometh so much the pleasanter to them as the
greater was the hardship of the ascent and the descent; for, like as dolour
occupieth the extreme of gladness, even so are miseries determined by
imminent joyance. This brief annoy (I say brief, inasmuch as it is contained
in few pages) is straightway succeeded by the pleasance and delight which I
have already promised you and which, belike, were it not aforesaid, might
not be looked for from such a beginning. And in truth, could I fairly have
availed to bring you to my desire otherwise than by so rugged a path as this
will be I had gladly done it; but being in a manner constrained thereto, for
that, without this reminiscence of our past miseries, it might not be shown
what was the occasion of the coming about of the things that will hereafter
be read, I have brought myself to write them.[3]
I say, then, that the years [of the era] of the fruitful Incarnation of the Son of
God had attained to the number of one thousand three hundred and forty-
eight, when into the notable city of Florence, fair over every other of Italy,
there came the death-dealing pestilence, which, through the operation of the
heavenly bodies or of our own iniquitous dealings, being sent down upon
mankind for our correction by the just wrath of God, had some years before
appeared in the parts of the East and after having bereft these latter of an
innumerable number of inhabitants, extending without cease from one place
to another, had now unhappily spread towards the West. And thereagainst
no wisdom availing nor human foresight (whereby the city was purged of
many impurities by officers deputed to that end and it was forbidden unto
any sick person to enter therein and many were the counsels given[4] for the
preservation of health) nor yet humble supplications, not once but many
times both in ordered processions and on other wise made unto God by
devout persons,—about the coming in of the Spring of the aforesaid year, it
began on horrible and miraculous wise to show forth its dolorous effects.

Yet not as it had done in the East, where, if any bled at the nose, it was a
manifest sign of inevitable death; nay, but in men and women alike there
appeared, at the beginning of the malady, certain swellings, either on the
groin or under the armpits, whereof some waxed of the bigness of a
common apple, others like unto an egg, some more and some less, and these
the vulgar named plague-boils. From these two parts the aforesaid death-
bearing plague-boils proceeded, in brief space, to appear and come
indifferently in every part of the body; wherefrom, after awhile, the fashion
of the contagion began to change into black or livid blotches, which showed
themselves in many [first] on the arms and about the thighs and [after
spread to] every other part of the person, in some large and sparse and in
others small and thick-sown; and like as the plague-boils had been first (and
yet were) a very certain token of coming death, even so were these for
every one to whom they came.
To the cure of these maladies nor counsel[5] of physician nor virtue of any
medicine appeared to avail or profit aught; on the contrary,—whether it was
that the nature of the infection suffered it not or that the ignorance of the
physicians (of whom, over and above the men of art, the number, both men
and women, who had never had any teaching of medicine, was become
exceeding great,) availed not to know whence it arose and consequently
took not due measures thereagainst,—not only did few recover thereof, but
well nigh all died within the third day from the appearance of the aforesaid
signs, this sooner and that later, and for the most part without fever or other
accident.[6] And this pestilence was the more virulent for that, by
communication with those who were sick thereof, it gat hold upon the
sound, no otherwise than fire upon things dry or greasy, whenas they are
brought very near thereunto. Nay, the mischief was yet greater; for that not
only did converse and consortion with the sick give to the sound infection
of cause of common death, but the mere touching of the clothes or of
whatsoever other thing had been touched or used of the sick appeared of
itself to communicate the malady to the toucher. A marvellous thing to hear
is that which I have to tell and one which, had it not been seen of many
men's eyes and of mine own, I had scarce dared credit, much less set down
in writing, though I had heard it from one worthy of belief. I say, then, that
of such efficience was the nature of the pestilence in question in
communicating itself from one to another, that, not only did it pass from

man to man, but this, which is much more, it many times visibly did;—to
wit, a thing which had pertained to a man sick or dead of the aforesaid
sickness, being touched by an animal foreign to the human species, not only
infected this latter with the plague, but in a very brief space of time killed it.
Of this mine own eyes (as hath a little before been said) had one day,
among others, experience on this wise; to wit, that the rags of a poor man,
who had died of the plague, being cast out into the public way, two hogs
came up to them and having first, after their wont, rooted amain among
them with their snouts, took them in their mouths and tossed them about
their jaws; then, in a little while, after turning round and round, they both,
as if they had taken poison, fell down dead upon the rags with which they
had in an ill hour intermeddled.
From these things and many others like unto them or yet stranger divers
fears and conceits were begotten in those who abode alive, which well nigh
all tended to a very barbarous conclusion, namely, to shun and flee from the
sick and all that pertained to them, and thus doing, each thought to secure
immunity for himself. Some there were who conceived that to live
moderately and keep oneself from all excess was the best defence against
such a danger; wherefore, making up their company, they lived removed
from every other and shut themselves up in those houses where none had
been sick and where living was best; and there, using very temperately of
the most delicate viands and the finest wines and eschewing all
incontinence, they abode with music and such other diversions as they
might have, never suffering themselves to speak with any nor choosing to
hear any news from without of death or sick folk. Others, inclining to the
contrary opinion, maintained that to carouse and make merry and go about
singing and frolicking and satisfy the appetite in everything possible and
laugh and scoff at whatsoever befell was a very certain remedy for such an
ill. That which they said they put in practice as best they might, going about
day and night, now to this tavern, now to that, drinking without stint or
measure; and on this wise they did yet more freely in other folk's houses, so
but they scented there aught that liked or tempted them, as they might
lightly do, for that every one—as he were to live no longer—had abandoned
all care of his possessions, as of himself, wherefore the most part of the
houses were become common good and strangers used them, whenas they
happened upon them, like as the very owner might have done; and with all

this bestial preoccupation, they still shunned the sick to the best of their
power.
In this sore affliction and misery of our city, the reverend authority of the
laws, both human and divine, was all in a manner dissolved and fallen into
decay, for [lack of] the ministers and executors thereof, who, like other
men, were all either dead or sick or else left so destitute of followers that
they were unable to exercise any office, wherefore every one had license to
do whatsoever pleased him. Many others held a middle course between the
two aforesaid, not straitening themselves so exactly in the matter of diet as
the first neither allowing themselves such license in drinking and other
debauchery as the second, but using things in sufficiency, according to their
appetites; nor did they seclude themselves, but went about, carrying in their
hands, some flowers, some odoriferous herbs and other some divers kinds
of spiceries,[7] which they set often to their noses, accounting it an excellent
thing to fortify the brain with such odours, more by token that the air
seemed all heavy and attainted with the stench of the dead bodies and that
of the sick and of the remedies used.
Some were of a more barbarous, though, peradventure, a surer way of
thinking, avouching that there was no remedy against pestilences better than
—no, nor any so good as—to flee before them; wherefore, moved by this
reasoning and recking of nought but themselves, very many, both men and
women, abandoned their own city, their own houses and homes, their
kinsfolk and possessions, and sought the country seats of others, or, at the
least, their own, as if the wrath of God, being moved to punish the iniquity
of mankind, would not proceed to do so wheresoever they might be, but
would content itself with afflicting those only who were found within the
walls of their city, or as if they were persuaded that no person was to remain
therein and that its last hour was come. And albeit these, who opined thus
variously, died not all, yet neither did they all escape; nay, many of each
way of thinking and in every place sickened of the plague and languished
on all sides, well nigh abandoned, having themselves, what while they were
whole, set the example to those who abode in health.
Indeed, leaving be that townsman avoided townsman and that well nigh no
neighbour took thought unto other and that kinsfolk seldom or never visited
one another and held no converse together save from afar, this tribulation

had stricken such terror to the hearts of all, men and women alike, that
brother forsook brother, uncle nephew and sister brother and oftentimes
wife husband; nay (what is yet more extraordinary and well nigh incredible)
fathers and mothers refused to visit or tend their very children, as they had
not been theirs. By reason whereof there remained unto those (and the
number of them, both males and females, was incalculable) who fell sick,
none other succour than that which they owed either to the charity of
friends (and of these there were few) or the greed of servants, who tended
them, allured by high and extravagant wage; albeit, for all this, these latter
were not grown many, and those men and women of mean understanding
and for the most part unused to such offices, who served for well nigh
nought but to reach things called for by the sick or to note when they died;
and in the doing of these services many of them perished with their gain.
Of this abandonment of the sick by neighbours, kinsfolk and friends and of
the scarcity of servants arose an usage before well nigh unheard, to wit, that
no woman, how fair or lovesome or well-born soever she might be, once
fallen sick, recked aught of having a man to tend her, whatever he might be,
or young or old, and without any shame discovered to him every part of her
body, no otherwise than she would have done to a woman, so but the
necessity of her sickness required it; the which belike, in those who
recovered, was the occasion of lesser modesty in time to come. Moreover,
there ensued of this abandonment the death of many who peradventure, had
they been succoured, would have escaped alive; wherefore, as well for the
lack of the opportune services which the sick availed not to have as for the
virulence of the plague, such was the multitude of those who died in the city
by day and by night that it was an astonishment to hear tell thereof, much
more to see it; and thence, as it were of necessity, there sprang up among
those who abode alive things contrary to the pristine manners of the
townsfolk.
It was then (even as we yet see it used) a custom that the kinswomen and
she-neighbours of the dead should assemble in his house and there condole
with those who more nearly pertained unto him, whilst his neighbours and
many other citizens foregathered with his next of kin before his house,
whither, according to the dead man's quality, came the clergy, and he with
funeral pomp of chants and candles was borne on the shoulders of his peers
to the church chosen by himself before his death; which usages, after the

virulence of the plague began to increase, were either altogether or for the
most part laid aside, and other and strange customs sprang up in their stead.
For that, not only did folk die without having a multitude of women about
them, but many there were who departed this life without witness and few
indeed were they to whom the pious plaints and bitter tears of their kinsfolk
were vouchsafed; nay, in lieu of these things there obtained, for the most
part, laughter and jests and gibes and feasting and merrymaking in
company; which usance women, laying aside womanly pitifulness, had
right well learned for their own safety.
Few, again, were they whose bodies were accompanied to the church by
more than half a score or a dozen of their neighbours, and of these no
worshipful and illustrious citizens, but a sort of blood-suckers, sprung from
the dregs of the people, who styled themselves pickmen[8] and did such
offices for hire, shouldered the bier and bore it with hurried steps, not to
that church which the dead man had chosen before his death, but most times
to the nearest, behind five or six[9] priests, with little light[10] and whiles
none at all, which latter, with the aid of the said pickmen, thrust him into
what grave soever they first found unoccupied, without troubling
themselves with too long or too formal a service.
The condition of the common people (and belike, in great part, of the
middle class also) was yet more pitiable to behold, for that these, for the
most part retained by hope[11] or poverty in their houses and abiding in their
own quarters, sickened by the thousand daily and being altogether untended
and unsuccoured, died well nigh all without recourse. Many breathed their
last in the open street, whilst other many, for all they died in their houses,
made it known to the neighbours that they were dead rather by the stench of
their rotting bodies than otherwise; and of these and others who died all
about the whole city was full. For the most part one same usance was
observed by the neighbours, moved more by fear lest the corruption of the
dead bodies should imperil themselves than by any charity they had for the
departed; to wit, that either with their own hands or with the aid of certain
bearers, whenas they might have any, they brought the bodies of those who
had died forth of their houses and laid them before their doors, where,
especially in the morning, those who went about might see corpses without
number; then they fetched biers and some, in default thereof, they laid upon
some board or other. Nor was it only one bier that carried two or three

corpses, nor did this happen but once; nay, many might have been counted
which contained husband and wife, two or three brothers, father and son or
the like. And an infinite number of times it befell that, two priests going
with one cross for some one, three or four biers, borne by bearers, ranged
themselves behind the latter,[12] and whereas the priests thought to have but
one dead man to bury, they had six or eight, and whiles more. Nor therefore
were the dead honoured with aught of tears or candles or funeral train; nay,
the thing was come to such a pass that folk recked no more of men that died
than nowadays they would of goats; whereby it very manifestly appeared
that that which the natural course of things had not availed, by dint of small
and infrequent harms, to teach the wise to endure with patience, the very
greatness of their ills had brought even the simple to expect and make no
account of. The consecrated ground sufficing not to the burial of the vast
multitude of corpses aforesaid, which daily and well nigh hourly came
carried in crowds to every church,—especially if it were sought to give each
his own place, according to ancient usance,—there were made throughout
the churchyards, after every other part was full, vast trenches, wherein those
who came after were laid by the hundred and being heaped up therein by
layers, as goods are stowed aboard ship, were covered with a little earth, till
such time as they reached the top of the trench.
Moreover,—not to go longer searching out and recalling every particular of
our past miseries, as they befell throughout the city,—I say that, whilst so
sinister a time prevailed in the latter, on no wise therefor was the
surrounding country spared, wherein, (letting be the castles,[13] which in
their littleness[14] were like unto the city,) throughout the scattered villages
and in the fields, the poor and miserable husbandmen and their families,
without succour of physician or aid of servitor, died, not like men, but well
nigh like beasts, by the ways or in their tillages or about the houses,
indifferently by day and night. By reason whereof, growing lax like the
townsfolk in their manners and customs, they recked not of any thing or
business of theirs; nay, all, as if they looked for death that very day, studied
with all their wit, not to help to maturity the future produce of their cattle
and their fields and the fruits of their own past toils, but to consume those
which were ready to hand. Thus it came to pass that the oxen, the asses, the
sheep, the goats, the swine, the fowls, nay, the very dogs, so faithful to
mankind, being driven forth of their own houses, went straying at their

pleasure about the fields, where the very corn was abandoned, without
being cut, much less gathered in; and many, well nigh like reasonable
creatures, after grazing all day, returned at night, glutted, to their houses,
without the constraint of any herdsman.
To leave the country and return to the city, what more can be said save that
such and so great was the cruelty of heaven (and in part, peradventure, that
of men) that, between March and the following July, what with the
virulence of that pestiferous sickness and the number of sick folk ill tended
or forsaken in their need, through the fearfulness of those who were whole,
it is believed for certain that upward of an hundred thousand human beings
perished within the walls of the city of Florence, which, peradventure,
before the advent of that death-dealing calamity, had not been accounted to
hold so many? Alas, how many great palaces, how many goodly houses,
how many noble mansions, once full of families, of lords and of ladies,
abode empty even to the meanest servant! How many memorable families,
how many ample heritages, how many famous fortunes were seen to remain
without lawful heir! How many valiant men, how many fair ladies, how
many sprightly youths, whom, not others only, but Galen, Hippocrates or
Æsculapius themselves would have judged most hale, breakfasted in the
morning with their kinsfolk, comrades and friends and that same night
supped with their ancestors in the other world!
I am myself weary of going wandering so long among such miseries;
wherefore, purposing henceforth to leave such part thereof as I can fitly, I
say that,—our city being at this pass, well nigh void of inhabitants,—it
chanced (as I afterward heard from a person worthy of credit) that there
foregathered in the venerable church of Santa Maria Novella, one Tuesday
morning when there was well nigh none else there, seven young ladies, all
knit one to another by friendship or neighbourhood or kinship, who had
heard divine service in mourning attire, as sorted with such a season. Not
one of them had passed her eight-and-twentieth year nor was less than
eighteen years old, and each was discreet and of noble blood, fair of favour
and well-mannered and full of honest sprightliness. The names of these
ladies I would in proper terms set out, did not just cause forbid me, to wit,
that I would not have it possible that, in time to come, any of them should
take shame by reason of the things hereinafter related as being told or
hearkened by them, the laws of disport being nowadays somewhat

straitened, which at that time, for the reasons above shown, were of the
largest, not only for persons of their years, but for those of a much riper
age; nor yet would I give occasion to the envious, who are still ready to
carp at every praiseworthy life, on anywise to disparage the fair fame of
these honourable ladies with unseemly talk. Wherefore, so that which each
saith may hereafterward be apprehended without confusion, I purpose to
denominate them by names altogether or in part sorting with each one's
quality.[15] The first of them and her of ripest age I shall call Pampinea, the
second Fiammetta, the third Filomena and the fourth Emilia. To the fifth we
will give the name of Lauretta, to the sixth that of Neifile and the last, not
without cause, we will style Elisa.[16] These, then, not drawn of any set
purpose, but foregathering by chance in a corner of the church, having
seated themselves in a ring, after divers sighs, let be the saying of
paternosters and fell to devising with one another many and various things
of the nature of the time. After awhile, the others being silent, Pampinea
proceeded to speak thus:
"Dear my ladies, you may, like myself, have many times heard that whoso
honestly useth his right doth no one wrong; and it is the natural right of
every one who is born here below to succour, keep and defend his own life
as best he may, and in so far is this allowed that it hath happened whiles
that, for the preservation thereof, men have been slain without any fault. If
this much be conceded of the laws, which have in view the well-being of all
mortals, how much more is it lawful for us and whatsoever other, without
offence unto any, to take such means as we may for the preservation of our
lives? As often as I consider our fashions of this morning and those of many
other mornings past and bethink me what and what manner discourses are
ours, I feel, and you likewise must feel, that each of us is in fear for herself.
Nor do I anywise wonder at this; but I wonder exceedingly, considering that
we all have a woman's wit, that we take no steps to provide ourselves
against that which each of us justly feareth. We abide here, to my seeming,
no otherwise than as if we would or should be witness of how many dead
bodies are brought hither for burial or to hearken if the friars of the place,
whose number is come well nigh to nought, chant their offices at the due
hours or by our apparel to show forth unto whosoever appeareth here the
nature and extent of our distresses. If we depart hence, we either see dead
bodies or sick persons carried about or those, whom for their misdeeds the

authority of the public laws whilere condemned to exile, overrun the whole
place with unseemly excesses, as if scoffing at the laws, for that they know
the executors thereof to be either dead or sick; whilst the dregs of our city,
fattened with our blood, style themselves pickmen and ruffle it everywhere
in mockery of us, riding and running all about and flouting us with our
distresses in ribald songs. We hear nothing here but 'Such an one is dead' or
'Such an one is at the point of death'; and were there any to make them, we
should hear dolorous lamentations on all sides. And if we return to our
houses, I know not if it is with you as with me, but, for my part, when I find
none left therein of a great household, save my serving-maid, I wax fearful
and feel every hair of my body stand on end; and wherever I go or abide
about the house, meseemeth I see the shades of those who are departed and
who wear not those countenances that I was used to see, but terrify me with
a horrid aspect, I know not whence newly come to them.
By reason of these things I feel myself alike ill at ease here and abroad and
at home, more by token that meseemeth none, who hath, as we have, the
power and whither to go, is left here, other than ourselves; or if any such
there be, I have many a time both heard and perceived that, without making
any distinction between things lawful and unlawful, so but appetite move
them, whether alone or in company, both day and night, they do that which
affordeth them most delight. Nor is it the laity alone who do thus; nay, even
those who are shut in the monasteries, persuading themselves that what
befitteth and is lawful to others alike sortable and unforbidden unto them,
[17] have broken the laws of obedience and giving themselves to carnal
delights, thinking thus to escape, are grown lewd and dissolute. If thus,
then, it be, as is manifestly to be seen, what do we here? What look we for?
What dream we? Why are we more sluggish and slower to provide for our
safety than all the rest of the townsfolk? Deem we ourselves of less price
than others, or do we hold our life to be bounden in our bodies with a
stronger chain than is theirs and that therefore we need reck nothing of
aught that hath power to harm it? We err, we are deceived; what folly is
ours, if we think thus! As often as we choose to call to mind the number and
quality of the youths and ladies overborne of this cruel pestilence, we may
see a most manifest proof thereof.
Wherefore, in order that we may not, through wilfulness or nonchalance,
fall into that wherefrom we may, peradventure, an we but will, by some

means or other escape, I know not if it seem to you as it doth to me, but
methinketh it were excellently well done that we, such as we are, depart this
city, as many have done before us, and eschewing, as we would death, the
dishonourable example of others, betake ourselves quietly to our places in
the country, whereof each of us hath great plenty, and there take such
diversion, such delight and such pleasance as we may, without anywise
overpassing the bounds of reason. There may we hear the small birds sing,
there may we see the hills and plains clad all in green and the fields full of
corn wave even as doth the sea; there may we see trees, a thousand sorts,
and there is the face of heaven more open to view, the which, angered
against us though it be, nevertheless denieth not unto us its eternal beauties,
far goodlier to look upon than the empty walls of our city. Moreover, there
is the air far fresher[18] and there at this season is more plenty of that which
behoveth unto life and less is the sum of annoys, for that, albeit the
husbandmen die there, even as do the townsfolk here, the displeasance is
there the less, insomuch as houses and inhabitants are rarer than in the city.
Here, on the other hand, if I deem aright, we abandon no one; nay, we may
far rather say with truth that we ourselves are abandoned, seeing that our
kinsfolk, either dying or fleeing from death, have left us alone in this great
tribulation, as it were we pertained not unto them. No blame can therefore
befall the ensuing of this counsel; nay, dolour and chagrin and belike death
may betide us, an we ensue it not. Wherefore, an it please you, methinketh
we should do well to take our maids and letting follow after us with the
necessary gear, sojourn to-day in this place and to-morrow in that, taking
such pleasance and diversion as the season may afford, and on this wise
abide till such time (an we be not earlier overtaken of death) as we shall see
what issue Heaven reserveth unto these things. And I would remind you that
it is no more forbidden unto us honourably to depart than it is unto many
others of our sex to abide in dishonour."
The other ladies, having hearkened to Pampinea, not only commended her
counsel, but, eager to follow it, had already begun to devise more
particularly among themselves of the manner, as if, arising from their
session there, they were to set off out of hand. But Filomena, who was
exceeding discreet, said, "Ladies, albeit that which Pampinea allegeth is
excellently well said, yet is there no occasion for running, as meseemeth
you would do. Remember that we are all women and none of us is child

enough not to know how [little] reasonable women are among themselves
and how [ill], without some man's guidance, they know how to order
themselves. We are fickle, wilful, suspicious, faint-hearted and timorous,
for which reasons I misdoubt me sore, an we take not some other guidance
than our own, that our company will be far too soon dissolved and with less
honour to ourselves than were seemly; wherefore we should do well to
provide ourselves, ere we begin."
"Verily," answered Elisa, "men are the head of women, and without their
ordinance seldom cometh any emprise of ours to good end; but how may
we come by these men? There is none of us but knoweth that of her
kinsmen the most part are dead and those who abide alive are all gone
fleeing that which we seek to flee, in divers companies, some here and
some there, without our knowing where, and to invite strangers would not
be seemly, seeing that, if we would endeavour after our welfare, it behoveth
us find a means of so ordering ourselves that, wherever we go for diversion
and repose, scandal nor annoy may ensue thereof."
Whilst such discourse was toward between the ladies, behold, there entered
the church three young men,—yet not so young that the age of the youngest
of them was less than five-and-twenty years,—in whom neither the
perversity of the time nor loss of friends and kinsfolk, no, nor fear for
themselves had availed to cool, much less to quench, the fire of love. Of
these one was called Pamfilo,[19] another Filostrato[20] and the third Dioneo,
[21] all very agreeable and well-bred, and they went seeking, for their
supreme solace, in such a perturbation of things, to see their mistresses,
who, as it chanced, were all three among the seven aforesaid; whilst certain
of the other ladies were near kinswomen of one or other of the young men.
No sooner had their eyes fallen on the ladies than they were themselves
espied of them; whereupon quoth Pampinea, smiling, "See, fortune is
favourable to our beginnings and hath thrown in our way young men of
worth and discretion, who will gladly be to us both guides and servitors, an
we disdain not to accept of them in that capacity." But Neifile, whose face
was grown all vermeil for shamefastness, for that it was she who was
beloved of one of the young men, said, "For God's sake, Pampinea, look
what thou sayest! I acknowledge most frankly that there can be nought but
all good said of which one soever of them and I hold them sufficient unto a

much greater thing than this, even as I opine that they would bear, not only
ourselves, but far fairer and nobler dames than we, good and honourable
company. But, for that it is a very manifest thing that they are enamoured of
certain of us who are here, I fear lest, without our fault or theirs, scandal
and blame ensue thereof, if we carry them with us." Quoth Filomena, "That
skilleth nought; so but I live honestly and conscience prick me not of aught,
let who will speak to the contrary; God and the truth will take up arms for
me. Wherefore, if they be disposed to come, verily we may say with
Pampinea that fortune is favourable to our going."
The other ladies, hearing her speak thus absolutely, not only held their
peace, but all with one accord agreed that the young men should be called
and acquainted with their project and bidden to be pleased bear them
company in their expedition. Accordingly, without more words, Pampinea,
who was knit by kinship to one of them, rising to her feet, made for the
three young men, who stood fast, looking upon them, and saluting them
with a cheerful countenance, discovered to them their intent and prayed
them, on behalf of herself and her companions, that they would be pleased
to bear them company in a pure and brotherly spirit. The young men at the
first thought themselves bantered, but, seeing that the lady spoke in good
earnest, they made answer joyfully that they were ready, and without losing
time about the matter, forthright took order for that which they had to do
against departure.
On the following morning, Wednesday to wit, towards break of day, having
let orderly make ready all things needful and despatched them in advance
whereas they purposed to go,[22] the ladies, with certain of their waiting-
women, and the three young men, with as many of their serving-men,
departing Florence, set out upon their way; nor had they gone more than
two short miles from the city, when they came to the place fore-appointed
of them, which was situate on a little hill, somewhat withdrawn on every
side from the high way and full of various shrubs and plants, all green of
leafage and pleasant to behold. On the summit of this hill was a palace, with
a goodly and great courtyard in its midst and galleries[23] and saloons and
bedchambers, each in itself most fair and adorned and notable with jocund
paintings, with lawns and grassplots round about and wonder-goodly
gardens and wells of very cold water and cellars full of wines of price,
things more apt unto curious drinkers than unto sober and modest ladies.

The new comers, to their no little pleasure, found the place all swept and
the beds made in the chambers and every thing full of such flowers as might
be had at that season and strewn with rushes.
As soon as they had seated themselves, Dioneo, who was the merriest
springald in the world and full of quips and cranks, said, "Ladies, your wit,
rather than our foresight, hath guided us hither, and I know not what you
purpose to do with your cares; as for my own, I left them within the city
gates, whenas I issued thence with you awhile agone; wherefore, do you
either address yourselves to make merry and laugh and sing together with
me (in so far, I mean, as pertaineth to your dignity) or give me leave to go
back for my cares and abide in the afflicted city." Whereto Pampinea, no
otherwise than as if in like manner she had banished all her own cares,
answered blithely, "Dioneo, thou sayst well; it behoveth us live merrily, nor
hath any other occasion caused us flee from yonder miseries. But, for that
things which are without measure may not long endure, I, who began the
discourse wherethrough this so goodly company came to be made, taking
thought for the continuance of our gladness, hold it of necessity that we
appoint some one to be principal among us, whom we may honour and
obey as chief and whose especial care it shall be to dispose us to live
joyously. And in order that each in turn may prove the burden of solicitude,
together with the pleasure of headship; and that, the chief being thus drawn,
in turn, from one and the other sex, there may be no cause for jealousy, as
might happen, were any excluded from the sovranty, I say that unto each be
attributed the burden and the honour for one day. Let who is to be our first
chief be at the election of us all. For who shall follow, be it he or she whom
it shall please the governor of the day to appoint, whenas the hour of
vespers draweth near, and let each in turn, at his or her discretion, order and
dispose of the place and manner wherein we are to live, for such time as his
or her seignory shall endure."
Pampinea's words pleased mightily, and with one voice they elected her
chief of the first day; whereupon Filomena, running nimbly to a laurel-tree
—for that she had many a time heard speak of the honour due to the leaves
of this plant and how worship-worth they made whoso was deservedly
crowned withal—and plucking divers sprays therefrom, made her thereof a
goodly and honourable wreath, which, being set upon her head, was

thenceforth, what while their company lasted, a manifest sign unto every
other of the royal office and seignory.
Pampinea, being made queen, commanded that every one should be silent;
then, calling the serving-men of the three young gentlemen and her own and
the other ladies' women, who were four in number, before herself and all
being silent, she spoke thus: "In order that I may set you a first example, by
which, proceeding from good to better, our company may live and last in
order and pleasance and without reproach so long as it is agreeable to us, I
constitute, firstly, Parmeno, Dioneo's servant, my seneschal and commit
unto him the care and ordinance of all our household and [especially] that
which pertaineth to the service of the saloon. Sirisco, Pamfilo's servant, I
will shall be our purveyor and treasurer and ensue the commandments of
Parmeno. Tindaro shall look to the service of Filostrato and the other two
gentlemen in their bed chambers, what time the others, being occupied
about their respective offices, cannot attend thereto. Misia, my woman, and
Filomena's Licisca shall still abide in the kitchen and there diligently
prepare such viands as shall be appointed them of Parmeno. Lauretta's
Chimera and Fiammetta's Stratilia it is our pleasure shall occupy themselves
with the ordinance of the ladies' chambers and the cleanliness of the places
where we shall abide; and we will and command all and several, as they
hold our favour dear, to have a care that, whithersoever they go or
whencesoever they return and whatsoever they hear or see, they bring us
from without no news other than joyous." These orders summarily given
and commended of all, Pampinea, rising blithely to her feet, said, "Here be
gardens, here be meadows, here be store of other delectable places, wherein
let each go a-pleasuring at will; and when tierce[24] soundeth, let all be here,
so we may eat in the cool."
The merry company, being thus dismissed by the new queen, went straying
with slow steps, young men and fair ladies together, about a garden,
devising blithely and diverting themselves with weaving goodly garlands of
various leaves and carolling amorously. After they had abidden there such
time as had been appointed them of the queen, they returned to the house,
where they found that Parmeno had made a diligent beginning with his
office, for that, entering a saloon on the ground floor, they saw there the
tables laid with the whitest of cloths and beakers that seemed of silver and
everything covered with the flowers of the broom; whereupon, having

washed their hands, they all, by command of the queen, seated themselves
according to Parmeno's ordinance. Then came viands delicately drest and
choicest wines were proffered and the three serving-men, without more,
quietly tended the tables. All, being gladdened by these things, for that they
were fair and orderly done, ate joyously and with store of merry talk, and
the tables being cleared away,[25] the queen bade bring instruments of
music, for that all the ladies knew how to dance, as also the young men, and
some of them could both play and sing excellent well. Accordingly, by her
commandment, Dioneo took a lute and Fiammetta a viol and began softly to
sound a dance; whereupon the queen and the other ladies, together with the
other two young men, having sent the serving-men to eat, struck up a round
and began with a slow pace to dance a brawl; which ended, they fell to
singing quaint and merry ditties. On this wise they abode till it seemed to
the queen time to go to sleep,[26] and she accordingly dismissed them all;
whereupon the young men retired to their chambers, which were withdrawn
from the ladies' lodging, and finding them with the beds well made and as
full of flowers as the saloon, put off their clothes and betook themselves to
rest, whilst the ladies, on their part, did likewise.
None[27] had not long sounded when the queen, arising, made all the other
ladies arise, and on like wise the three young men, alleging overmuch sleep
to be harmful by day; and so they betook themselves to a little meadow,
where the grass grew green and high nor there had the sun power on any
side. There, feeling the waftings of a gentle breeze, they all, as their queen
willed it, seated themselves in a ring on the green grass; while she bespoke
them thus, "As ye see, the sun is high and the heat great, nor is aught heard
save the crickets yonder among the olives; wherefore it were doubtless folly
to go anywhither at this present. Here is the sojourn fair and cool, and here,
as you see, are chess and tables,[28] and each can divert himself as is most to
his mind. But, an my counsel be followed in this, we shall pass away this
sultry part of the day, not in gaming,—wherein the mind of one of the
players must of necessity be troubled, without any great pleasure of the
other or of those who look on,—but in telling stories, which, one telling,
may afford diversion to all the company who hearken; nor shall we have
made an end of telling each his story but the sun will have declined and the
heat be abated, and we can then go a-pleasuring whereas it may be most
agreeable to us. Wherefore, if this that I say please you, (for I am disposed

to follow your pleasure therein,) let us do it; and if it please you not, let
each until the hour of vespers do what most liketh him." Ladies and men
alike all approved the story-telling, whereupon, "Then," said the queen,
"since this pleaseth you, I will that this first day each be free to tell of such
matters as are most to his liking." Then, turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her
right hand, she smilingly bade him give beginning to the story-telling with
one of his; and he, hearing the commandment, forthright began thus, whilst
all gave ear to him.

THE FIRST STORY
Day the First

MASTER CIAPPELLETTO DUPETH A HOLY FRIAR
WITH A FALSE CONFESSION AND DIETH; AND
HAVING BEEN IN HIS LIFETIME THE WORST
OF MEN, HE IS, AFTER HIS DEATH, REPUTED
A SAINT AND CALLED SAINT CIAPPELLETTO.

"It is a seemly thing, dearest ladies, that whatsoever a man doth, he give it
beginning from the holy and admirable name of Him who is the maker of
all things. Wherefore, it behoving me, as the first, to give commencement to
our story-telling, I purpose to begin with one of His marvels, to the end that,
this being heard, our hope in Him, as in a thing immutable, may be
confirmed and His name be ever praised of us. It is manifest that, like as
things temporal are all transitory and mortal, even so both within and
without are they full of annoy and anguish and travail and subject to infinite
perils, against which it is indubitable that we, who live enmingled therein
and who are indeed part and parcel thereof, might avail neither to endure
nor to defend ourselves, except God's especial grace lent us strength and
foresight; which latter, it is not to be believed, descendeth unto us and upon
us by any merit of our own, but of the proper motion of His own benignity
and the efficacy of the prayers of those who were mortals even as we are
and having diligently ensued His commandments, what while they were on
life, are now with Him become eternal and blessed and unto whom we,—
belike not daring to address ourselves unto the proper presence of so august
a judge,—proffer our petitions of the things which we deem needful unto
ourselves, as unto advocates[29] informed by experience of our frailty. And
this more we discern in Him, full as He is of compassionate liberality
towards us, that, whereas it chanceth whiles (the keenness of mortal eyes
availing not in any wise to penetrate the secrets of the Divine intent), that

we peradventure, beguiled by report, make such an one our advocate unto
His majesty, who is outcast from His presence with an eternal banishment,
—nevertheless He, from whom nothing is hidden, having regard rather to
the purity of the suppliant's intent than to his ignorance or to the reprobate
estate of him whose intercession be invoketh, giveth ear unto those who
pray unto the latter, as if he were in very deed blessed in His aspect. The
which will manifestly appear from the story which I purpose to relate; I say
manifestly, ensuing, not the judgment of God, but that of men.
It is told, then, that Musciatto Franzesi,[30] being from a very rich and
considerable merchant in France become a knight and it behoving him
thereupon go into Tuscany with Messire Charles Sansterre,[31] brother to the
king of France,[32] who had been required and bidden thither by Pope
Boniface,[33] found his affairs in one part and another sore embroiled, (as
those of merchants most times are,) and was unable lightly or promptly to
disentangle them; wherefore he bethought himself to commit them unto
divers persons and made shift for all, save only he abode in doubt whom he
might leave sufficient to the recovery of the credits he had given to certain
Burgundians. The cause of his doubt was that he knew the Burgundians to
be litigious, quarrelsome fellows, ill-conditioned and disloyal, and could
not call one to mind, in whom he might put any trust, curst enough to cope
with their perversity. After long consideration of the matter, there came to
his memory a certain Master Ciapperello da Prato, who came often to his
house in Paris and whom, for that he was little of person and mighty nice in
his dress, the French, knowing not what Cepparello[34] meant and thinking
it be the same with Cappello, to wit, in their vernacular, Chaplet, called
him, not Cappello, but Ciappelletto,[35] and accordingly as Ciappelletto he
was known everywhere, whilst few knew him for Master Ciapperello.
Now this said Ciappelletto was of this manner life, that, being a scrivener,
he thought very great shame whenas any of his instrument was found (and
indeed he drew few such) other than false; whilst of the latter[36] he would
have drawn as many as might be required of him and these with a better
will by way of gift than any other for a great wage. False witness he bore
with especial delight, required or not required, and the greatest regard being
in those times paid to oaths in France, as he recked nothing of forswearing
himself, he knavishly gained all the suits concerning which he was called
upon to tell the truth upon his faith. He took inordinate pleasure and was

mighty diligent in stirring up troubles and enmities and scandals between
friends and kinsfolk and whomsoever else, and the greater the mischiefs he
saw ensue thereof, the more he rejoiced. If bidden to manslaughter or
whatsoever other naughty deed, he went about it with a will, without ever
saying nay thereto; and many a time of his proper choice he had been
known to wound men and do them to death with his own hand. He was a
terrible blasphemer of God and the saints, and that for every trifle, being the
most choleric man alive. To church he went never and all the sacraments
thereof he flouted in abominable terms, as things of no account; whilst, on
the other hand, he was still fain to haunt and use taverns and other lewd
places. Of women he was as fond as dogs of the stick; but in the contrary he
delighted more than any filthy fellow alive. He robbed and pillaged with as
much conscience as a godly man would make oblation to God; he was a
very glutton and a great wine bibber, insomuch that bytimes it wrought him
shameful mischief, and to boot, he was a notorious gamester and a caster of
cogged dice. But why should I enlarge in so many words? He was belike
the worst man that ever was born.[37] His wickedness had long been upheld
by the power and interest of Messer Musciatto, who had many a time
safeguarded him as well from private persons, to whom he often did a
mischief, as from the law, against which he was a perpetual offender.
This Master Ciappelletto then, coming to Musciatto's mind, the latter, who
was very well acquainted with his way of life, bethought himself that he
should be such an one as the perversity of the Burgundians required and
accordingly, sending for him, he bespoke him thus: 'Master Ciappelletto, I
am, as thou knowest, about altogether to withdraw hence, and having to do,
amongst others, with certain Burgundians, men full of guile, I know none
whom I may leave to recover my due from them more fitting than thyself,
more by token that thou dost nothing at this present; wherefore, an thou wilt
undertake this, I will e'en procure thee the favour of the Court and give thee
such part as shall be meet of that which thou shalt recover.'
Don Ciappelletto, who was then out of employ and ill provided with the
goods of the world, seeing him who had long been his stay and his refuge
about to depart thence, lost no time in deliberation, but, as of necessity
constrained, replied that he would well. They being come to an accord,
Musciatto departed and Ciappelletto, having gotten his patron's procuration
and letters commendatory from the king, betook himself into Burgundy,

where well nigh none knew him, and there, contrary to his nature, began
courteously and blandly to seek to get in his payments and do that wherefor
he was come thither, as if reserving choler and violence for a last resort.
Dealing thus and lodging in the house of two Florentines, brothers, who
there lent at usance and who entertained him with great honour for the love
of Messer Musciatto, it chanced that he fell sick, whereupon the two
brothers promptly fetched physicians and servants to tend him and
furnished him with all that behoved unto the recovery of his health. But
every succour was in vain, for that, by the physicians' report, the good man,
who was now old and had lived disorderly, grew daily worse, as one who
had a mortal sickness; wherefore the two brothers were sore concerned and
one day, being pretty near the chamber where he lay sick, they began to take
counsel together, saying one to the other, 'How shall we do with yonder
fellow? We have a sorry bargain on our hands of his affair, for that to send
him forth of our house, thus sick, were a sore reproach to us and a manifest
sign of little wit on our part, if the folk, who have seen us first receive him
and after let tend and medicine him with such solicitude, should now see
him suddenly put out of our house, sick unto death as he is, without it being
possible for him to have done aught that should displease us. On the other
hand, he hath been so wicked a man that he will never consent to confess or
take any sacrament of the church; and he dying without confession, no
church will receive his body; nay, he will be cast into a ditch, like a dog.
Again, even if he do confess, his sins are so many and so horrible that the
like will come of it, for that there is nor priest nor friar who can or will
absolve him thereof; wherefore, being unshriven, he will still be cast into
the ditches. Should it happen thus, the people of the city, as well on account
of our trade, which appeareth to them most iniquitous and of which they
missay all day, as of their itch to plunder us, seeing this, will rise up in riot
and cry out, "These Lombard dogs, whom the church refuseth to receive,
are to be suffered here no longer";—and they will run to our houses and
despoil us not only of our good, but may be of our lives, to boot; wherefore
in any case it will go ill with us, if yonder fellow die.'
Master Ciappelletto, who, as we have said, lay near the place where the two
brothers were in discourse, being quick of hearing, as is most times the case
with the sick, heard what they said of him and calling them to him, bespoke
them thus: 'I will not have you anywise misdoubt of me nor fear to take any

hurt by me. I have heard what you say of me and am well assured that it
would happen even as you say, should matters pass as you expect; but it
shall go otherwise. I have in my lifetime done God the Lord so many an
affront that it will make neither more nor less, an I do Him yet another at
the point of death; wherefore do you make shift to bring me the holiest and
worthiest friar you may avail to have, if any such there be,[38] and leave the
rest to me, for that I will assuredly order your affairs and mine own on such
wise that all shall go well and you shall have good cause to be satisfied.'
The two brothers, albeit they conceived no great hope of this, nevertheless
betook themselves to a brotherhood of monks and demanded some holy and
learned man to hear the confession of a Lombard who lay sick in their
house. There was given them a venerable brother of holy and good life and
a past master in Holy Writ, a very reverend man, for whom all the
townsfolk had a very great and special regard, and they carried him to their
house; where, coming to the chamber where Master Ciappelletto lay and
seating himself by his side, he began first tenderly to comfort him and after
asked him how long it was since he had confessed last; whereto Master
Ciappelletto, who had never confessed in his life, answered, 'Father, it hath
been my usance to confess every week once at the least and often more; it is
true that, since I fell sick, to wit, these eight days past, I have not confessed,
such is the annoy that my sickness hath given me.' Quoth the friar, 'My son,
thou hast done well and so must thou do henceforward. I see, since thou
confessest so often, that I shall be at little pains either of hearing or
questioning.' 'Sir,' answered Master Ciappelletto, 'say not so; I have never
confessed so much nor so often but I would still fain make a general
confession of all my sins that I could call to mind from the day of my birth
to that of my confession; wherefore I pray you, good my father, question me
as punctually of everything, nay, everything, as if I had never confessed;
and consider me not because I am sick, for that I had far liefer displease this
my flesh than, in consulting its ease, do aught that might be the perdition of
my soul, which my Saviour redeemed with His precious blood.'
These words much pleased the holy man and seemed to him to argue a well-
disposed mind; wherefore, after he had much commended Master
Ciappelletto for that his usance, he asked him if he had ever sinned by way
of lust with any woman. 'Father,' replied Master Ciappelletto, sighing, 'on
this point I am ashamed to tell you the truth, fearing to sin by way of

vainglory.' Quoth the friar, 'Speak in all security, for never did one sin by
telling the truth, whether in confession or otherwise.' 'Then,' said Master
Ciappelletto, 'since you certify me of this, I will tell you; I am yet a virgin,
even as I came forth of my mother's body.' 'O blessed be thou of God!' cried
the monk. 'How well hast thou done! And doing thus, thou hast the more
deserved, inasmuch as, an thou wouldst, thou hadst more leisure to do the
contrary than we and whatsoever others are limited by any rule.'
After this he asked him if he had ever offended against God in the sin of
gluttony; whereto Master Ciappelletto answered, sighing, Ay had he, and
that many a time; for that, albeit, over and above the Lenten fasts that are
yearly observed of the devout, he had been wont to fast on bread and water
three days at the least in every week,—he had oftentimes (and especially
whenas he had endured any fatigue, either praying or going a-pilgrimage)
drunken the water with as much appetite and as keen a relish as great
drinkers do wine. And many a time he had longed to have such homely
salads of potherbs as women make when they go into the country; and
whiles eating had given him more pleasure than himseemed it should do to
one who fasteth for devotion, as did he. 'My son,' said the friar, 'these sins
are natural and very slight and I would not therefore have thee burden thy
conscience withal more than behoveth. It happeneth to every man, how
devout soever he be, that, after long fasting, meat seemeth good to him, and
after travail, drink.'
'Alack, father mine,' rejoined Ciappelletto, 'tell me not this to comfort me;
you must know I know that things done for the service of God should be
done sincerely and with an ungrudging mind; and whoso doth otherwise
sinneth.' Quoth the friar, exceeding well pleased, 'I am content that thou
shouldst thus apprehend it and thy pure and good conscience therein
pleaseth me exceedingly. But, tell me, hast thou sinned by way of avarice,
desiring more than befitted or withholding that which it behoved thee not to
withhold?' 'Father mine,' replied Ciappelletto, 'I would not have you look to
my being in the house of these usurers; I have nought to do here; nay, I
came hither to admonish and chasten them and turn them from this their
abominable way of gain; and methinketh I should have made shift to do so,
had not God thus visited me. But you must know that I was left a rich man
by my father, of whose good, when he was dead, I bestowed the most part
in alms, and after, to sustain my life and that I might be able to succour

Christ's poor, I have done my little traffickings, and in these I have desired
to gain; but still with God's poor have I shared that which I gained,
converting my own half to my occasion and giving them the other, and in
this so well hath my Creator prospered me that my affairs have still gone
from good to better.'
'Well hast thou done,' said the friar; 'but hast thou often been angered?' 'Oh,'
cried Master Ciappelletto, 'that I must tell you I have very often been! And
who could keep himself therefrom, seeing men do unseemly things all day
long, keeping not the commandments of God neither fearing His judgment?
Many times a day I had liefer been dead than alive, seeing young men
follow after vanities and hearing them curse and forswear themselves,
haunting the taverns, visiting not the churches and ensuing rather the ways
of the world than that of God.' 'My son,' said the friar, 'this is a righteous
anger, nor for my part might I enjoin thee any penance therefor. But hath
anger at any time availed to move thee to do any manslaughter or to
bespeak any one unseemly or do any other unright?' 'Alack, sir,' answered
the sick man, 'you, who seem to me a man of God, how can you say such
words? Had I ever had the least thought of doing any one of the things
whereof you speak, think you I believe that God would so long have
forborne me? These be the doings of outlaws and men of nought, whereof I
never saw any but I said still, "Go, may God amend thee!"'
Then said the friar, 'Now tell me, my son (blessed be thou of God), hast
thou never borne false witness against any or missaid of another, or taken
others' good, without leave of him to whom it pertained?' 'Ay, indeed, sir,'
replied Master Ciappelletto; 'I have missaid of others; for that I had a
neighbour aforetime, who, with the greatest unright in the world, did nought
but beat his wife, insomuch that I once spoke ill of him to her kinsfolk, so
great was the compassion that overcame me for the poor woman, whom he
used as God alone can tell, whenassoever he had drunken overmuch.' Quoth
the friar, 'Thou tellest me thou hast been a merchant. Hast thou never
cheated any one, as merchants do whiles!' 'I' faith, yes, sir,' answered
Master Ciappelletto; 'but I know not whom, except it were a certain man,
who once brought me monies which he owed me for cloth I had sold him
and which I threw into a chest, without counting. A good month after, I
found that they were four farthings more than they should have been;
wherefore, not seeing him again and having kept them by me a full year,

that I might restore them to him, I gave them away in alms.' Quoth the friar,
'This was a small matter, and thou didst well to deal with it as thou didst.'
Then he questioned him of many other things, of all which he answered
after the same fashion, and the holy father offering to proceed to absolution,
Master Ciappelletto said, 'Sir, I have yet sundry sins that I have not told
you.' The friar asked him what they were, and he answered, 'I mind me that
one Saturday, after none, I caused my servant sweep out the house and had
not that reverence for the Lord's holy day which it behoved me have.' 'Oh,'
said the friar, 'that is a light matter, my son.' 'Nay,' rejoined Master
Ciappelletto, 'call it not a light matter, for that the Lord's Day is greatly to
be honoured, seeing that on such a day our Lord rose from the dead.' Then
said the friar, 'Well, hast thou done aught else?' 'Ay, sir,' answered Master
Ciappelletto; 'once, unthinking what I did, I spat in the church of God.'
Thereupon the friar fell a-smiling, and said, 'My son, that is no thing to be
recked of; we who are of the clergy, we spit there all day long.' 'And you do
very ill,' rejoined Master Ciappelletto; 'for that there is nought which it so
straitly behoveth to keep clean as the holy temple wherein is rendered
sacrifice to God.'
Brief, he told him great plenty of such like things and presently fell a-
sighing and after weeping sore, as he knew full well to do, whenas he
would. Quoth the holy friar, 'What aileth thee, my son?' 'Alas, sir,' replied
Master Ciappelletto, 'I have one sin left, whereof I never yet confessed me,
such shame have I to tell it; and every time I call it to mind, I weep, even as
you see, and meseemeth very certain that God will never pardon it me.' 'Go
to, son,' rejoined the friar; 'what is this thou sayest? If all the sins that were
ever wrought or are yet to be wrought of all mankind, what while the world
endureth, were all in one man and he repented him thereof and were
contrite therefor, as I see thee, such is the mercy and loving-kindness of
God that, upon confession, He would freely pardon them to him. Wherefore
do thou tell it in all assurance.' Quoth Master Ciappelletto, still weeping
sore, 'Alack, father mine, mine is too great a sin, and I can scarce believe
that it will ever be forgiven me of God, except your prayers strive for me.'
Then said the friar, 'Tell it me in all assurance, for I promise thee to pray
God for thee.'

Master Ciappelletto, however, still wept and said nought; but, after he had
thus held the friar a great while in suspense, he heaved a deep sigh and said,
'Father mine, since you promise me to pray God for me, I will e'en tell it
you. Know, then, that, when I was little, I once cursed my mother.' So
saying, he fell again to weeping sore. 'O my son,' quoth the friar, 'seemeth
this to thee so heinous a sin? Why, men blaspheme God all day long and He
freely pardoneth whoso repenteth him of having blasphemed Him; and
deemest thou not He will pardon thee this? Weep not, but comfort thyself;
for, certes, wert thou one of those who set Him on the cross, He would
pardon thee, in favour of such contrition as I see in thee.' 'Alack, father
mine, what say you?' replied Ciappelletto. 'My kind mother, who bore me
nine months in her body, day and night, and carried me on her neck an
hundred times and more, I did passing ill to curse her and it was an
exceeding great sin; and except you pray God for me, it will not be forgiven
me.'
The friar, then, seeing that Master Ciappelletto had no more to say, gave
him absolution and bestowed on him his benison, holding him a very holy
man and devoutly believing all that he had told him to be true. And who
would not have believed it, hearing a man at the point of death speak thus?
Then, after all this, he said to him, 'Master Ciappelletto, with God's help
you will speedily be whole; but, should it come to pass that God call your
blessed and well-disposed soul to Himself, would it please you that your
body be buried in our convent?' 'Ay, would it, sir,' replied Master
Ciappelletto. 'Nay, I would fain no be buried otherwhere, since you have
promised to pray God for me; more by token that I have ever had a special
regard for your order. Wherefore I pray you that whenas you return to your
lodging, you must cause bring me that most veritable body of Christ, which
you consecrate a-mornings upon the altar, for that, with your leave, I
purpose (all unworthy as I am) to take it and after, holy and extreme
unction, to the intent that, if I have lived as a sinner, I may at the least die
like a Christian.' The good friar replied that it pleased him much and that he
said well and promised to see it presently brought him; and so was it done.
Meanwhile, the two brothers, misdoubting them sore lest Master
Ciappelletto should play them false, had posted themselves behind a
wainscot, that divided the chamber where he lay from another, and
listening, easily heard and apprehended that which he said to the friar and

had whiles so great a mind to laugh, hearing the things which he confessed
to having done, that they were like to burst and said, one to other, 'What
manner of man is this, whom neither old age nor sickness nor fear of death,
whereunto he seeth himself near, nor yet of God, before whose judgment-
seat he looketh to be ere long, have availed to turn from his wickedness nor
hinder him from choosing to die as he hath lived?' However, seeing that he
had so spoken that he should be admitted to burial in a church, they recked
nought of the rest.
Master Ciappelletto presently took the sacrament and, growing rapidly
worse, received extreme unction, and a little after evensong of the day he
had made his fine confession, he died; whereupon the two brothers, having,
of his proper monies, taken order for his honourable burial, sent to the
convent to acquaint the friars therewith, bidding them come thither that
night to hold vigil, according to usance, and fetch away the body in the
morning, and meanwhile made ready all that was needful thereunto.
The holy friar, who had shriven him, hearing that he had departed this life,
betook himself to the prior of the convent and, letting ring to chapter, gave
out to the brethren therein assembled that Master Ciappelletto had been a
holy man, according to that which he had gathered from his confession, and
persuaded them to receive his body with the utmost reverence and devotion,
in the hope that God should show forth many miracles through him. To this
the prior and brethren credulously consented and that same evening, coming
all whereas Master Ciappelletto lay dead, they held high and solemn vigil
over him and on the morrow, clad all in albs and copes, book in hand and
crosses before them, they went, chanting the while, for his body and
brought it with the utmost pomp and solemnity to their church, followed by
well nigh all the people of the city, men and women.
As soon as they had set the body down in the church, the holy friar, who
had confessed him, mounted the pulpit and fell a-preaching marvellous
things of the dead man and of his life, his fasts, his virginity, his simplicity
and innocence and sanctity, recounting, amongst other things, that which he
had confessed to him as his greatest sin and how he had hardly availed to
persuade him that God would forgive it him; thence passing on to reprove
the folk who hearkened, 'And you, accursed that you are,' quoth he, 'for
every waif of straw that stirreth between your feet, you blaspheme God and

the Virgin and all the host of heaven.' Moreover, he told them many other
things of his loyalty and purity of heart; brief, with his speech, whereto
entire faith was yielded of the people of the city, he so established the dead
man in the reverent consideration of all who were present that, no sooner
was the service at an end, than they all with the utmost eagerness flocked to
kiss his hands and feet and the clothes were torn off his back, he holding
himself blessed who might avail to have never so little thereof; and needs
must they leave him thus all that day, so he might be seen and visited of all.
The following night he was honourably buried in a marble tomb in one of
the chapels of the church and on the morrow the folk began incontinent to
come and burn candles and offer up prayers and make vows to him and
hang images of wax[39] at his shrine, according to the promise made. Nay,
on such wise waxed the frame of his sanctity and men's devotion to him that
there was scarce any who, being in adversity, would vow himself to another
saint than him; and they styled and yet style him Saint Ciappelletto and
avouch that God through him hath wrought many miracles and yet worketh,
them every day for whoso devoutly commendeth himself unto him.
Thus, then, lived and died Master Cepperello[40] da Prato and became a
saint, as you have heard; nor would I deny it to be possible that he is
beatified in God's presence, for that, albeit his life was wicked and perverse,
he may at his last extremity have shown such contrition that peradventure
God had mercy on him and received him into His kingdom; but, for that this
is hidden from us, I reason according to that which, is apparent and say that
he should rather be in the hands of the devil in perdition than in Paradise.
And if so it be, we may know from this how great is God's loving-kindness
towards us, which, having regard not to our error, but to the purity of our
faith, whenas we thus make an enemy (deeming him a friend) of His our
intermediary, giveth ear unto us, even as if we had recourse unto one truly
holy, as intercessor for His favour. Wherefore, to the end that by His grace
we may be preserved safe and sound in this present adversity and in this so
joyous company, let us, magnifying His name, in which we have begun our
diversion, and holding Him in reverence, commend ourselves to Him in our
necessities, well assured of being heard." And with this he was silent.

THE SECOND STORY

Day the First

ABRAHAM THE JEW, AT THE INSTIGATION OF
JEHANNOT DE CHEVIGNÉ, GOETH TO THE
COURT OF ROME AND SEEING THE
DEPRAVITY OF THE CLERGY, RETURNETH
TO PARIS AND THERE BECOMETH A
CHRISTIAN

Pamfilo's story was in part laughed at and altogether commended by the
ladies, and it being come to its end, after being diligently hearkened, the
queen bade Neifile, who sat next him, ensue the ordinance of the
commenced diversion by telling one[41] of her fashion. Neifile, who was
distinguished no less by courteous manners than by beauty, answered
blithely that she would well and began on this wise: "Pamfilo hath shown
us in his story that God's benignness regardeth not our errors, when they
proceed from that which is beyond our ken; and I, in mine, purpose to show
you how this same benignness,—patiently suffering the defaults of those
who, being especially bounden both with words and deeds to bear true
witness thereof[42] yet practise the contrary,—exhibiteth unto us an
infallible proof of itself, to the intent that we may, with the more constancy
of mind, ensue that which we believe.
As I have heard tell, gracious ladies, there was once in Paris a great
merchant and a very loyal and upright man, whose name was Jehannot de
Chevigné and who was of great traffic in silks and stuffs. He had particular
friendship for a very rich Jew called Abraham, who was also a merchant
and a very honest and trusty man, and seeing the latter's worth and loyalty,
it began to irk him sore that the soul of so worthy and discreet and good a
man should go to perdition for default of faith; wherefore he fell to
beseeching him on friendly wise leave the errors of the Jewish faith and
turn to the Christian verity, which he might see still wax and prosper, as
being holy and good, whereas his own faith, on the contrary, was manifestly
on the wane and dwindling to nought. The Jew made answer that he held no
faith holy or good save only the Jewish, that in this latter he was born and
therein meant to live and die, nor should aught ever make him remove
therefrom.

Jehannot for all that desisted not from him, but some days after returned to
the attack with similar words, showing him, on rude enough wise (for that
merchants for the most part can no better), for what reasons our religion is
better than the Jewish; and albeit the Jew was a past master in their law,
nevertheless, whether it was the great friendship he bore Jehannot that
moved him or peradventure words wrought it that the Holy Ghost put into
the good simple man's mouth, the latter's arguments began greatly to please
him; but yet, persisting in his own belief, he would not suffer himself to be
converted. Like as he abode obstinate, even so Jehannot never gave over
importuning him, till at last the Jew, overcome by such continual insistence,
said, 'Look you, Jehannot, thou wouldst have me become a Christian and I
am disposed to do it; insomuch, indeed, that I mean, in the first place, to go
to Rome and there see him who, thou sayest, is God's Vicar upon earth and
consider his manners and fashions and likewise those of his chief brethren.
[43] If these appear to me such that I may, by them, as well as by your
words, apprehend that your faith is better than mine, even as thou hast
studied to show me, I will do as I have said; and if it be not so, I will remain
a Jew as I am.'
When Jehannot heard this, he was beyond measure chagrined and said in
himself, 'I have lost my pains, which meseemed I had right well bestowed,
thinking to have converted this man; for that, an he go to the court of Rome
and see the lewd and wicked life of the clergy, not only will he never
become a Christian, but, were he already a Christian, he would infallibly
turn Jew again.' Then, turning to Abraham, he said to him, 'Alack, my
friend, why wilt thou undertake this travail and so great a charge as it will
be to thee to go from here to Rome? More by token that, both by sea and by
land, the road is full of perils for a rich man such as thou art. Thinkest thou
not to find here who shall give thee baptism? Or, if peradventure thou have
any doubts concerning the faith which I have propounded to thee, where are
there greater doctors and men more learned in the matter than are here or
better able to resolve thee of that which thou wilt know or ask? Wherefore,
to my thinking, this thy going is superfluous. Bethink thee that the prelates
there are even such as those thou mayst have seen here, and indeed so much
the better as they are nearer unto the Chief Pastor. Wherefore, an thou wilt
be counselled by me, thou wilt reserve this travail unto another time against
some jubilee or other, whereunto it may be I will bear thee company.' To

this the Jew made answer, 'I doubt not, Jehannot, but it is as thou tellest me;
but, to sum up many words in one, I am altogether determined, an thou
wouldst have me do that whereof thou hast so instantly besought me, to go
thither; else will I never do aught thereof.' Jehannot, seeing his
determination, said, 'Go and good luck go with thee!' And inwardly assured
that he would never become a Christian, when once he should have seen the
court of Rome, but availing[44] nothing in the matter, he desisted.
The Jew mounted to horse and as quickliest he might betook himself to the
court of Rome, he was honourably entertained of his brethren, and there
abiding, without telling any the reason of his coming, he began diligently to
enquire into the manners and fashions of the Pope and Cardinals and other
prelates and of all the members of his court, and what with that which he
himself noted, being a mighty quick-witted man, and that which he gathered
from others, he found all, from the highest to the lowest, most shamefully
given to the sin of lust, and that not only in the way of nature, but after the
Sodomitical fashion, without any restraint of remorse or shamefastness,
insomuch that the interest of courtezans and catamites was of no small avail
there in obtaining any considerable thing.
Moreover, he manifestly perceived them to be universally gluttons, wine-
bibbers, drunkards and slaves to their bellies, brute-beast fashion, more than
to aught else after lust. And looking farther, he saw them all covetous and
greedy after money, insomuch that human, nay, Christian blood, no less
than things sacred, whatsoever they might be, whether pertaining to the
sacrifices of the altar or to the benefices of the church, they sold and bought
indifferently for a price, making a greater traffic and having more brokers
thereof than folk at Paris of silks and stuffs or what not else. Manifest
simony they had christened 'procuration' and gluttony 'sustentation,' as if
God apprehended not,—let be the meaning of words but,—the intention of
depraved minds and would suffer Himself, after the fashion of men, to be
duped by the names of things. All this, together with much else which must
be left unsaid, was supremely displeasing to the Jew, who was a sober and
modest man, and himseeming he had seen enough, he determined to return
to Paris and did so.
As soon as Jehannot knew of his return, he betook himself to him, hoping
nothing less than that he should become a Christian, and they greeted each

other with the utmost joy. Then, after Abraham had rested some days,
Jehannot asked him how himseemed of the Holy Father and of the cardinals
and others of his court. Whereto the Jew promptly answered, 'Meseemeth,
God give them ill one and all! And I say this for that, if I was able to
observe aright, no piety, no devoutness, no good work or example of life or
otherwhat did I see there in any who was a churchman; nay, but lust,
covetise, gluttony and the like and worse (if worse can be) meseemed to be
there in such favour with all that I hold it for a forgingplace of things
diabolical rather than divine. And as far as I can judge, meseemeth your
chief pastor and consequently all the others endeavour with all diligence
and all their wit and every art to bring to nought and banish from the world
the Christian religion, whereas they should be its foundation and support.
And for that I see that this whereafter they strive cometh not to pass, but
that your religion continually increaseth and waxeth still brighter and more
glorious, meseemeth I manifestly discern that the Holy Spirit is verily the
foundation and support thereof, as of that which is true and holy over any
other. Wherefore, whereas, aforetime I abode obdurate and insensible to
thine exhortations and would not be persuaded to embrace thy faith, I now
tell thee frankly that for nothing in the world would I forbear to become a
Christian. Let us, then, to church and there have me baptized, according to
the rite and ordinance of your holy faith.'
Jehannot, who looked for a directly contrary conclusion to this, was the
joyfullest man that might be, when he heard him speak thus, and repairing
with him to our Lady's Church of Paris, required the clergy there to give
Abraham baptism. They, hearing that the Jew himself demanded it,
straightway proceeded to baptize him, whilst Jehannot raised him from the
sacred font[45] and named him Giovanni. After this, he had him thoroughly
lessoned by men of great worth and learning in the tenets of our holy faith,
which he speedily apprehended and thenceforward was a good man and a
worthy and one of a devout life."

THE THIRD STORY
Day the First

MELCHIZEDEK THE JEW, WITH A STORY OF
THREE RINGS, ESCAPETH A PARLOUS SNARE
SET FOR HIM BY SALADIN

Neifile having made an end of her story, which was commended of all,
Filomena, by the queen's good pleasure, proceeded to speak thus: "The
story told by Neifile bringeth to my mind a parlous case the once betided a
Jew; and for that, it having already been excellent well spoken both of God
and of the verity of our faith, it should not henceforth be forbidden us to
descend to the doings of mankind and the events that have befallen them, I
will now proceed to relate to you the case aforesaid, which having heard,
you will peradventure become more wary in answering the questions that
may be put to you. You must know, lovesome[46] companions[47] mine, that,
like as folly ofttimes draweth folk forth of happy estate and casteth them
into the utmost misery, even so doth good sense extricate the wise man
from the greatest perils and place him in assurance and tranquillity. How
true it is that folly bringeth many an one from fair estate unto misery is seen
by multitude of examples, with the recounting whereof we have no present
concern, considering that a thousand instances thereof do every day
manifestly appear to us; but that good sense is a cause of solacement I will,
as I promised, briefly show you by a little story.
Saladin,—whose valour was such that not only from a man of little account
it made him Soldan of Babylon, but gained him many victories over kings
Saracen and Christian,—having in divers wars and in the exercise of his
extraordinary munificences expended his whole treasure and having an
urgent occasion for a good sum of money nor seeing whence he might avail
to have it as promptly as it behoved him, called to mind a rich Jew, by name
Melchizedek, who lent at usance in Alexandria, and bethought himself that
this latter had the wherewithal to oblige him, and he would; but he was so

miserly that he would never have done it of his freewill and Saladin was
loath to use force with him; wherefore, need constraining him, he set his
every wit awork to find a means how the Jew might be brought to serve him
in this and presently concluded to do him a violence coloured by some
show of reason.
Accordingly he sent for Melchizedek and receiving him familiarly, seated
him by himself, then said to him, 'Honest man, I have understood from
divers persons that thou art a very learned man and deeply versed in matters
of divinity; wherefore I would fain know of thee whether of the three Laws
thou reputest the true, the Jewish, the Saracen or the Christian.' The Jew,
who was in truth a man of learning and understanding, perceived but too
well that Saladin looked to entrap him in words, so he might fasten a
quarrel on him, and bethought himself that he could not praise any of the
three more than the others without giving him the occasion he sought.
Accordingly, sharpening his wits, as became one who felt himself in need
of an answer by which he might not be taken at a vantage, there speedily
occurred to him that which it behoved him reply and he said, 'My lord, the
question that you propound to me is a nice one and to acquaint you with
that which I think of the matter, it behoveth me tell you a little story, which
you shall hear.
An I mistake not, I mind me to have many a time heard tell that there was
once a great man and a rich, who among other very precious jewels in his
treasury, had a very goodly and costly ring, whereunto being minded, for its
worth and beauty, to do honour and wishing to leave it in perpetuity to his
descendants, he declared that whichsoever of his sons should, at his death,
be found in possession thereof, by his bequest unto him, should be
recognized as his heir and be held of all the others in honour and reverence
as chief and head. He to whom the ring was left by him held a like course
with his own descendants and did even as his father had done. In brief the
ring passed from hand to hand, through many generations, and came at last
into the possession of a man who had three goodly and virtuous sons, all
very obedient to their father wherefore he loved them all three alike. The
young men, knowing the usance of the ring, each for himself, desiring to be
the most honoured among his folk, as best he might, besought his father,
who was now an old man, to leave him the ring, whenas he came to die.
The worthy man, who loved them all alike and knew not himself how to

choose to which he had liefer leave the ring, bethought himself, having
promised it to each, to seek to satisfy all three and privily let make by a
good craftsman other two rings, which were so like unto the first that he
himself scarce knew which was the true. When he came to die, he secretly
gave each one of his sons his ring, wherefore each of them, seeking after
their father's death, to occupy the inheritance and the honour and denying it
to the others, produced his ring, in witness of his right, and the three rings
being found so like unto one another that the true might not be known, the
question which was the father's very heir abode pending and yet pendeth.
And so say I to you, my lord, of the three Laws to the three peoples given of
God the Father, whereof you question me; each people deemeth itself to
have his inheritance, His true Law and His commandments; but of which in
very deed hath them, even as of the rings, the question yet pendeth.'
Saladin perceived that the Jew had excellently well contrived to escape the
snare which he had spread before his feet; wherefore he concluded to
discover to him his need and see if he were willing to serve him; and so
accordingly he did, confessing to him that which he had it in mind to do,
had he not answered him on such discreet wise. The Jew freely furnished
him with all that he required, and the Soldan after satisfied him in full;
moreover, he gave him very great gifts and still had him to friend and
maintained him about his own person in high and honourable estate."

THE FOURTH STORY
Day the First

A MONK, HAVING FALLEN INTO A SIN
DESERVING OF VERY GRIEVOUS
PUNISHMENT, ADROITLY REPROACHING
THE SAME FAULT TO HIS ABBOT, QUITTETH
HIMSELF OF THE PENALTY

Filomena, having despatched her story, was now silent, whereupon Dioneo,
who sat next her, knowing already, by the ordinance begun, that it fell to his
turn to tell, proceeded, without awaiting farther commandment from the
queen, to speak on this wise: "Lovesome ladies, if I have rightly
apprehended the intention of you all, we are here to divert ourselves with
story-telling; wherefore, so but it be not done contrary to this our purpose, I
hold it lawful unto each (even as our queen told us a while agone) to tell
such story as he deemeth may afford most entertainment. Accordingly
having heard how, by the good counsels of Jehannot de Chevigné, Abraham
had his soul saved and how Melchizedek, by his good sense, defended his
riches from Saladin's ambushes, I purpose, without looking for reprehension
from you, briefly to relate with what address a monk delivered his body
from a very grievous punishment.
There was in Lunigiana, a country not very far hence, a monastery whilere
more abounding in sanctity and monks than it is nowadays, and therein,
among others, was a young monk, whose vigour and lustiness neither fasts
nor vigils availed to mortify. It chanced one day, towards noontide, when all
the other monks slept, that, as he went all alone round about the convent,[48]
which stood in a very solitary place, he espied a very well-favoured lass,
belike some husbandman's daughter of the country, who went about the
fields culling certain herbs, and no sooner had he set eyes on her than he
was violently assailed by carnal appetite. Wherefore, accosting her, he
entered into parley with her and so led on from one thing to another that he

came to an accord with her and brought her to his cell, unperceived of any;
but whilst, carried away by overmuch ardour, he disported himself with her
less cautiously than was prudent, it chanced that the abbot arose from sleep
and softly passing by the monk's cell, heard the racket that the twain made
together; whereupon he came stealthily up to the door to listen, that he
might the better recognize the voices, and manifestly perceiving that there
was a woman in the cell, was at first minded to cause open to him, but after
bethought himself to hold another course in the matter and, returning to his
chamber, awaited the monk's coming forth.
The latter, all taken up as he was with the wench and his exceeding pleasure
and delight in her company, was none the less on his guard and himseeming
he heard some scuffling of feet in the dormitory, he set his eye to a crevice
and plainly saw the abbot stand hearkening unto him; whereby he
understood but too well that the latter must have gotten wind of the wench's
presence in his cell and knowing that sore punishment would ensue to him
thereof, he was beyond measure chagrined. However, without discovering
aught of his concern to the girl, he hastily revolved many things in himself,
seeking to find some means of escape, and presently hit upon a rare device,
which went straight to the mark he aimed at. Accordingly, making a show
of thinking he had abidden long enough with the damsel, he said to her, 'I
must go cast about for a means how thou mayest win forth hence, without
being seen; wherefore do thou abide quietly until my return.'
Then, going forth and locking the cell door on her, he betook himself
straight to the abbot's chamber and presenting him with the key, according
as each monk did, whenas he went abroad, said to him, with a good
countenance, 'Sir, I was unable to make an end this morning of bringing off
all the faggots I had cut; wherefore with your leave I will presently go to the
wood and fetch them away.' The abbot, deeming the monk unaware that he
had been seen of him, was glad of such an opportunity to inform himself
more fully of the offence committed by him and accordingly took the key
and gave him the leave he sought. Then, as soon as he saw him gone, he fell
to considering which he should rather do, whether open his cell in the
presence of all the other monks and cause them to see his default, so they
might after have no occasion to murmur against himself, whenas he should
punish the offender, or seek first to learn from the girl herself how the thing
had passed; and bethinking himself that she might perchance be the wife or

daughter of such a man that he would be loath to have done her the shame
of showing her to all the monks, he determined first to see her and after
come to a conclusion; wherefore, betaking himself to the cell, he opened it
and, entering, shut the door after him.
The girl, seeing the abbot enter, was all aghast and fell a-weeping for fear of
shame; but my lord abbot, casting his eyes upon her and seeing her young
and handsome, old as he was, suddenly felt the pricks of the flesh no less
importunate than his young monk had done and fell a-saying in himself,
'Marry, why should I not take somewhat of pleasure, whenas I may, more
by token that displeasance and annoy are still at hand, whenever I have a
mind to them? This is a handsome wench and is here unknown of any in the
world. If I can bring her to do my pleasure, I know not why I should not do
it. Who will know it? No one will ever know it and a sin that's hidden is
half forgiven. Maybe this chance will never occur again. I hold it great
sense to avail ourselves of a good, whenas God the Lord sendeth us thereof.'
So saying and having altogether changed purpose from that wherewith he
came, he drew near to the girl and began gently to comfort her, praying her
not to weep, and passing from one word to another, he ended by
discovering to her his desire. The girl, who was neither iron nor adamant,
readily enough lent herself to the pleasure of the abbot, who, after he had
clipped and kissed her again and again, mounted upon the monk's pallet and
having belike regard to the grave burden of his dignity and the girl's tender
age and fearful of irking her for overmuch heaviness, bestrode not her
breast, but set her upon his own and so a great while disported himself with
her.
Meanwhile, the monk, who had only made believe to go to the wood and
had hidden himself in the dormitory, was altogether reassured, whenas he
saw the abbot enter his cell alone, doubting not but his device should have
effect, and when he saw him lock the door from within, he held it for
certain. Accordingly, coming forth of his hiding-place, he stealthily betook
himself to a crevice, through which he both heard and saw all that the abbot
did and said. When it seemed to the latter that he had tarried long enough
with the damsel, he locked her in the cell and returned to his own chamber,
whence, after awhile, he heard the monk stirring and deeming him returned
from the wood, thought to rebuke him severely and cast him into prison, so

himself might alone possess the prey he had gotten; wherefore, sending for
him, he very grievously rebuked him and with a stern countenance and
commanded that he should be put in prison.
The monk very readily answered, 'Sir, I have not yet pertained long enough
to the order of St. Benedict to have been able to learn every particular
thereof, and you had not yet shown me that monks should make of women a
means of mortification,[49] as of fasts and vigils; but, now that you have
shown it me, I promise you, so you will pardon me this default, never again
to offend therein, but still to do as I have seen you do.' The abbot, who was
a quick-witted man, readily understood that the monk not only knew more
than himself, but had seen what he did; wherefore, his conscience pricking
him for his own default, he was ashamed to inflict on the monk a
punishment which he himself had merited even as he. Accordingly,
pardoning him and charging him keep silence of that which he had seen,
they privily put the girl out of doors and it is believed that they caused her
return thither more than once thereafterward."

THE FIFTH STORY
Day the First

THE MARCHIONESS OF MONFERRATO, WITH A
DINNER OF HENS AND CERTAIN SPRIGHTLY
WORDS, CURBETH THE EXTRAVAGANT
PASSION OF THE KING OF FRANCE

The story told by Dioneo at first pricked the hearts of the listening ladies
with somewhat of shamefastness, whereof a modest redness appearing in
their faces gave token; but after, looking one at other and being scarce able
to keep their countenance, they listened, laughing in their sleeves. The end
thereof being come, after they had gently chidden him, giving him to
understand that such tales were not fit to be told among ladies, the queen,
turning to Fiammetta, who sat next him on the grass, bade her follow on the
ordinance. Accordingly, she began with a good grace and a cheerful
countenance, "It hath occurred to my mind, fair my ladies,—at once
because it pleaseth me that we have entered upon showing by stories how
great is the efficacy of prompt and goodly answers and because, like as in
men it is great good sense to seek still to love a lady of higher lineage than
themselves,[50] so in women it is great discretion to know how to keep
themselves from being taken with the love of men of greater condition than
they,—to set forth to you, in the story which it falleth to me to tell, how
both with deeds and words a noble lady guarded herself against this and
diverted another therefrom.
The Marquis of Monferrato, a man of high worth and gonfalonier[51] of the
church, had passed beyond seas on the occasion of a general crusade
undertaken by the Christians, arms in hand, and it being one day discoursed
of his merit at the court of King Phillippe le Borgne,[52] who was then
making ready to depart France upon the same crusade, it was avouched by a
gentleman present that there was not under the stars a couple to match with
the marquis and his lady, for that, even as he was renowned among knights

for every virtue, so was she the fairest and noblest of all the ladies in the
world. These words took such hold upon the mind of the King of France
that, without having seen the marchioness, he fell of a sudden ardently in
love with her and determined to take ship for the crusade, on which he was
to go, no otherwhere than at Genoa, in order that, journeying thither by
land, he might have an honourable occasion of visiting the marchioness,
doubting not but that, the marquis being absent, he might avail to give
effect to his desire.
As he had bethought himself, so he put his thought into execution; for,
having sent forward all his power, he set out, attended only by some few
gentlemen, and coming within a day's journey of the marquis's domains,
despatched a vauntcourier to bid the lady expect him the following morning
to dinner. The marchioness, who was well advised and discreet, replied
blithely that in this he did her the greatest of favours and that he would be
welcome and after bethought herself what this might mean that such a king
should come to visit her in her husband's absence, nor was she deceived in
the conclusion to which she came, to wit, that the report of her beauty drew
him thither. Nevertheless, like a brave lady as she was, she determined to
receive him with honour and summoning to her counsels sundry gentlemen
of those who remained there, with their help, she let provide for everything
needful. The ordinance of the repast and of the viands she reserved to
herself alone and having forthright caused collect as many hens as were in
the country, she bade her cooks dress various dishes of these alone for the
royal table.
The king came at the appointed time and was received by the lady with
great honour and rejoicing. When he beheld her, she seemed to him fair and
noble and well-bred beyond that which he had conceived from the courtier's
words, whereat he marvelled exceedingly and commended her amain,
waxing so much the hotter in his desire as he found the lady overpassing his
foregone conceit of her. After he had taken somewhat of rest in chambers
adorned to the utmost with all that pertaineth to the entertainment of such a
king, the dinner hour being come, the king and the marchioness seated
themselves at one table, whilst the rest, according to their quality, were
honourably entertained at others. The king, being served with many dishes
in succession, as well as with wines of the best and costliest, and to boot
gazing with delight the while upon the lovely marchioness, was mightily

pleased with his entertainment; but, after awhile, as the viands followed one
upon another, he began somewhat to marvel, perceiving that, for all the
diversity of the dishes, they were nevertheless of nought other than hens,
and this although he knew the part where he was to be such as should
abound in game of various kinds and although he had, by advising the lady
in advance of his coming, given her time to send a-hunting. However, much
as he might marvel at this, he chose not to take occasion of engaging her in
parley thereof, otherwise than in the matter of her hens, and accordingly,
turning to her with a merry air, 'Madam,' quoth he, 'are hens only born in
these parts, without ever a cock?' The marchioness, who understood the
king's question excellent well, herseeming God had vouchsafed her,
according to her wish, an opportune occasion of discovering her mind,
turned to him and answered boldly, 'Nay, my lord; but women, albeit in
apparel and dignities they may differ somewhat from others, are natheless
all of the same fashion here as elsewhere.'
The King, hearing this, right well apprehended the meaning of the banquet
of hens and the virtue hidden in her speech and perceived that words would
be wasted upon such a lady and that violence was out of the question;
wherefore, even as he had ill-advisedly taken fire for her, so now it behoved
him sagely, for his own honour's sake, stifle his ill-conceived passion.
Accordingly, without making any more words with her, for fear of her
replies, he dined, out of all hope; and the meal ended, thanking her for the
honourable entertainment he had received from her and commending her to
God, he set out for Genoa, so by his prompt departure he might make
amends for his unseemly visit."

THE SIXTH STORY
Day the First

AN HONEST MAN, WITH A CHANCE PLEASANTRY,
PUTTETH TO SHAME THE PERVERSE
HYPOCRISY OF THE RELIGIOUS ORDERS

Emilia, who sat next after Fiammetta,—the courage of the marchioness and
the quaint rebuke administered by her to the King of France having been
commended of all the ladies,—began, by the queen's pleasure, boldly to
speak as follows: "I also, I will not keep silence of a biting reproof given by
an honest layman to a covetous monk with a speech no less laughable than
commendable.
There was, then, dear lasses, no great while agone, in our city, a Minor friar
and inquisitor of heretical pravity, who, for all he studied hard to appear a
devout and tender lover of the Christian religion, as do they all, was no less
diligent in enquiring of who had a well-filled purse than of whom he might
find wanting in the things of the Faith. Thanks to this his diligence, he lit by
chance upon a good simple man, richer, by far in coin than in wit, who, of
no lack of religion, but speaking thoughtlessly and belike overheated with
wine or excess of mirth, chanced one day to say to a company of his friends
that he had a wine so good that Christ himself might drink thereof. This
being reported to the inquisitor and he understanding that the man's means
were large and his purse well filled, ran in a violent hurry cum gladiis et
fustibus[53] to clap up a right grievous suit against him, looking not for an
amendment of misbelief in the defendant, but for the filling of his own hand
with florins to ensue thereof (as indeed it did,) and causing him to be cited,
asked him if that which had been alleged against him were true.
The good man replied that it was and told him how it chanced; whereupon
quoth the most holy inquisitor, who was a devotee of St. John Goldenbeard,
[54] 'Then hast thou made Christ a wine-bibber and curious in wines of

choice, as if he were Cinciglione[55] or what not other of your drunken sots
and tavern-haunters; and now thou speakest lowly and wouldst feign this to
be a very light matter! It is not as thou deemest; thou hast merited the fire
therefor, an we were minded to deal with thee as we ought.' With these and
many other words he bespoke him, with as menacing a countenance as if
the poor wretch had been Epicurus denying the immortality of the soul, and
in brief so terrified him that the good simple soul, by means of certain
intermediaries, let grease his palm with a good dose of St. John
Goldenmouth's ointment[56] (the which is a sovereign remedy for the
pestilential covetise of the clergy and especially of the Minor Brethren, who
dare not touch money), so he should deal mercifully with him.
This unguent, being of great virtue (albeit Galen speaketh not thereof in any
part of his Medicines), wrought to such purpose that the fire denounced
against him was by favour commuted into [the wearing, by way of penance,
of] a cross, and to make the finer banner, as he were to go a crusading
beyond seas, the inquisitor imposed it him yellow upon black. Moreover,
whenas he had gotten the money, he detained him about himself some days,
enjoining him, by way of penance, hear a mass every morning at Santa
Croce and present himself before him at dinner-time, and after that he might
do what most pleased him the rest of the day; all which he diligently
performed.
One morning, amongst others, it chanced that at the Mass he heard a
Gospel, wherein these words were chanted, 'For every one ye shall receive
an hundred and shall possess eternal life.'[57] This he laid fast up in his
memory and according to the commandment given him, presented him at
the eating hour before the inquisitor, whom he found at dinner. The friar
asked him if he had heard mass that morning, whereto he promptly
answered, 'Ay have I, sir.' Quoth the inquisitor, 'Heardest thou aught therein
whereof thou doubtest or would question?' 'Certes,' replied the good man, 'I
doubt not of aught that I heard, but do firmly believe all to be true. I did
indeed hear something which caused and yet causeth me have the greatest
compassion of you and your brother friars, bethinking me of the ill case
wherein you will find yourselves over yonder in the next life.' 'And what
was it that moved thee to such compassion of us?' asked the inquisitor. 'Sir,'
answered the other, 'it was that verse of the Evangel, which saith, "For
every one ye shall receive an hundred." 'That is true,' rejoined the

inquisitor; 'but why did these words move thee thus?' 'Sir,' replied the good
man, 'I will tell you. Since I have been used to resort hither, I have seen
give out every day to a multitude of poor folk now one and now two vast
great cauldrons of broth, which had been taken away from before yourself
and the other brethren of this convent, as superfluous; wherefore, if for each
one of these cauldrons of broth there be rendered you an hundred in the
world to come, you will have so much thereof that you will assuredly all be
drowned therein.'
All who were at the inquisitor's table fell a-laughing; but the latter, feeling
the hit at the broth-swilling[58] hypocrisy of himself and his brethren, was
mightily incensed, and but that he had gotten blame for that which he had
already done, he would have saddled him with another prosecution, for that
with a laughable speech he had rebuked him and his brother good-for-
noughts; wherefore, of his despite, he bade him thenceforward do what
most pleased him and not come before him again."

THE SEVENTH STORY
Day the First

BERGAMINO, WITH A STORY OF PRIMASSO AND
THE ABBOT OF CLUNY, COURTEOUSLY
REBUKETH A FIT OF PARSIMONY NEWLY
COME TO MESSER CANE DELLA SCALA

Emilia's pleasantness and her story moved the queen and all the rest to
laugh and applaud the rare conceit of this new-fangled crusader. Then, after
the laughter had subsided and all were silent again, Filostrato, whose turn it
was to tell, began to speak on this wise: "It is a fine thing, noble ladies, to
hit a mark that never stirreth; but it is well-nigh miraculous if, when some
unwonted thing appeareth of a sudden, it be forthright stricken of an archer.
The lewd and filthy life of the clergy, in many things as it were a constant
mark for malice, giveth without much difficulty occasion to all who have a
mind to speak of, to gird at and rebuke it; wherefore, albeit the worthy man,
who pierced the inquisitor to the quick touching the hypocritical charity of
the friars, who give to the poor that which it should behove them cast to the
swine or throw away, did well, I hold him much more to be commended of
whom, the foregoing tale moving me thereto, I am to speak and who with a
quaint story rebuked Messer Cane della Scala, a magnificent nobleman, of a
sudden and unaccustomed niggardliness newly appeared in him, figuring, in
the person of another, that which he purposed to say to him concerning
themselves; the which was on this wise.
As very manifest renown proclaimeth well nigh throughout the whole
world, Messer Cane della Scala, to whom in many things fortune was
favourable, was one of the most notable and most magnificent gentlemen
that have been known in Italy since the days of the Emperor Frederick the
Second. Being minded to make a notable and wonder-goodly entertainment
in Verona, whereunto many folk should have come from divers parts and
especially men of art[59] of all kinds, he of a sudden (whatever might have

been the cause) withdrew therefrom and having in a measure requited those
who were come thither, dismissed them all, save only one, Bergamino by
name, a man ready of speech and accomplished beyond the credence of
whoso had not heard him, who, having received neither largesse nor
dismissal, abode behind, in the hope that his stay might prove to his future
advantage. But Messer Cane had taken it into his mind that what thing
soever he might give him were far worse bestowed than if it had been
thrown into the fire, nor of this did he bespeak him or let tell him aught.
Bergamino, after some days, finding himself neither called upon nor
required unto aught that pertained to his craft and wasting his substance, to
boot, in the hostelry with his horses and his servants, began to be sore
concerned, but waited yet, himseeming he would not do well to depart.
Now he had brought with him three goodly and rich suits of apparel, which
had been given him of other noblemen, that he might make a brave
appearance at the festival, and his host pressing for payment, he gave one
thereof to him. After this, tarrying yet longer, it behoved him give the host
the second suit, an he would abide longer with him, and withal he began to
live upon the third, resolved to abide in expectation so long as this should
last and then depart. Whilst he thus fed upon the third suit, he chanced one
day, Messer Cane being at dinner, to present himself before him with a
rueful countenance, and Messer Cane, seeing this, more by way of rallying
him than of intent to divert himself with any of his speech, said to him,
'What aileth thee, Bergamino, to stand thus disconsolate? Tell us
somewhat.'[60] Whereupon Bergamino, without a moment's hesitation,
forthright, as if he had long considered it, related the following story to the
purpose of his own affairs.
'My lord,' said he, 'you must know that Primasso was a very learned
grammarian[61] and a skilful and ready verse-maker above all others, which
things rendered him so notable and so famous that, albeit he might not
everywhere be known by sight, there was well nigh none who knew him not
by name and by report. It chanced that, finding himself once at Paris in poor
case, as indeed he abode most times, for that worth is[62] little prized of
those who can most,[63] he heard speak of the Abbot of Cluny, who is
believed to be, barring the Pope, the richest prelate of his revenues that the
Church of God possesseth, and of him he heard tell marvellous and
magnificent things, in that he still held open house nor were meat and drink

ever denied to any who went whereas he might be, so but he sought it what
time the Abbot was at meat. Primasso, hearing this and being one who
delighted in looking upon men of worth and nobility, determined to go see
the magnificence of this Abbot and enquired how near he then abode to
Paris. It was answered him that he was then at a place of his maybe half a
dozen miles thence; wherefore Primasso thought to be there at dinner-time,
by starting in the morning betimes.
Accordingly, he enquired the way, but, finding none bound thither, he
feared lest he might go astray by mischance and happen on a part where
there might be no victual so readily to be found; wherefore, in order that, if
this should betide, he might not suffer for lack of food, he bethought
himself to carry with him three cakes of bread, judging that water (albeit it
was little to his taste) he should find everywhere. The bread he put in his
bosom and setting out, was fortunate enough to reach the Abbot's residence
before the eating-hour. He entered and went spying all about and seeing the
great multitude of tables set and the mighty preparations making in the
kitchen and what not else provided against dinner, said in himself, "Of a
truth this Abbot is as magnificent as folk say." After he had abidden awhile
intent upon these things, the Abbot's seneschal, eating-time being come,
bade bring water for the hands; which being done, he seated each man at
table, and it chanced that Primasso was set right over against the door of the
chamber, whence the Abbot should come forth into the eating-hall.
Now it was the usance in that house that neither wine nor bread nor aught
else of meat or drink should ever be set on the tables, except the Abbot were
first came to sit at his own table. Accordingly, the seneschal, having set the
tables, let tell the Abbot that, whenas it pleased him, the meat was ready.
The Abbot let open the chamber-door, that he might pass into the saloon,
and looking before him as he came, as chance would have it, the first who
met his eyes was Primasso, who was very ill accoutred and whom he knew
not by sight. When he saw him, incontinent there came into his mind an ill
thought and one that had never yet been there, and he said in himself, "See
to whom I give my substance to eat!" Then, turning back, he bade shut the
chamber-door and enquired of those who were about him if any knew
yonder losel who sat at table over against his chamber-door; but all
answered no.

Meanwhile Primasso, who had a mind to eat, having come a journey and
being unused to fast, waited awhile and seeing that the Abbot came not,
pulled out of his bosom one of the three cakes of bread he had brought with
him and fell to eating. The Abbot, after he had waited awhile, bade one of
his serving-men look if Primasso were gone, and the man answered, "No,
my lord; nay, he eateth bread, which it seemeth he hath brought with him."
Quoth the Abbot, "Well, let him eat of his own, an he have thereof; for of
ours he shall not eat to-day." Now he would fain have had Primasso depart
of his own motion, himseeming it were not well done to turn him away; but
the latter, having eaten one cake of bread and the Abbot coming not, began
upon the second; the which was likewise reported to the Abbot, who had
caused look if he were gone.
At last, the Abbot still tarrying, Primasso, having eaten the second cake,
began upon the third, and this again was reported to the Abbot, who fell a-
pondering in himself and saying, "Alack, what new maggot is this that is
come into my head to-day? What avarice! What despite! And for whom?
This many a year have I given my substance to eat to whosoever had a mind
thereto, without regarding if he were gentle or simple, poor or rich,
merchant or huckster, and have seen it with mine own eyes squandered by a
multitude of ribald knaves; nor ever yet came there to my mind the thought
that hath entered into me for yonder man. Of a surety avarice cannot have
assailed me for a man of little account; needs must this who seemeth to me
a losel be some great matter, since my soul hath thus repugned to do him
honour."
So saying, he desired to know who he was and finding that it was Primasso,
whom he had long known by report for a man of merit, come thither to see
with his own eyes that which he had heard of his magnificence, was
ashamed and eager to make him amends, studied in many ways to do him
honour. Moreover, after eating, he caused clothe him sumptuously, as
befitted his quality, and giving him money and a palfrey, left it to his own
choice to go or stay; whereupon Primasso, well pleased with his
entertainment, rendered him the best thanks in his power and returned on
horseback to Paris, whence he had set out afoot.
Messer Cane, who was a gentleman of understanding, right well
apprehended Bergamino's meaning, without further exposition, and said to

him, smiling, 'Bergamino, thou hast very aptly set forth to me thy wrongs
and merit and my niggardliness, as well as that which thou wouldst have of
me; and in good sooth, never, save now on thine account, have I been
assailed of parsimony; but I will drive it away with that same stick which
thou thyself hast shown me.' Then, letting pay Bergamino's host and
clothing himself most sumptuously in a suit of his own apparel, he gave
him money and a palfrey and committed to his choice for the nonce to go or
stay."

THE EIGHTH STORY
Day the First

GUGLIELMO BORSIERE WITH SOME QUAINT
WORDS REBUKETH THE NIGGARDLINESS OF
MESSER ERMINO DE' GRIMALDI

Next Filostrato sat Lauretta, who, after she had heard Bergamino's address
commended, perceiving that it behoved her tell somewhat, began, without
awaiting any commandment, blithely to speak thus: "The foregoing story,
dear companions,[64] bringeth me in mind to tell how an honest minstrel on
like wise and not without fruit rebuked the covetise of a very rich merchant,
the which, albeit in effect it resembleth the last story, should not therefore
be less agreeable to you, considering that good came thereof in the end.
There was, then, in Genoa, a good while agone, a gentleman called Messer
Ermino de' Grimaldi, who (according to general belief) far overpassed in
wealth of lands and monies the riches of whatsoever other richest citizen
was then known in Italy; and like as he excelled all other Italians in wealth,
even so in avarice and sordidness he outwent beyond compare every other
miser and curmudgeon in the world; for not only did he keep a strait purse
in the matter of hospitality, but, contrary to the general usance of the
Genoese, who are wont to dress sumptuously, he suffered the greatest
privations in things necessary to his own person, no less than in meat and in
drink, rather than be at any expense; by reason whereof the surname de'
Grimaldi had fallen away from him and he was deservedly called of all only
Messer Ermino Avarizia.
It chanced that, whilst, by dint of spending not, he multiplied his wealth,
there came to Genoa a worthy minstrel,[65] both well-bred and well-spoken,
by name Guglielmo Borsiere, a man no whit like those[66] of the present
day, who (to the no small reproach of the corrupt and blameworthy usances
of those[67] who nowadays would fain be called and reputed gentlefolk and

seigniors) are rather to be styled asses, reared in all the beastliness and
depravity of the basest of mankind, than [minstrels, bred] in the courts [of
kings and princes]. In those times it used to be a minstrel's office and his
wont to expend his pains in negotiating treaties of peace, where feuds or
despites had befallen between noblemen, or transacting marriages, alliances
and friendships, in solacing the minds of the weary and diverting courts
with quaint and pleasant sayings, ay, and with sharp reproofs, father-like,
rebuking the misdeeds of the froward,—and this for slight enough reward;
but nowadays they study to spend their time in hawking evil reports from
one to another, in sowing discord, in speaking naughtiness and obscenity
and (what is worse) doing them in all men's presence, in imputing evil
doings, lewdnesses and knaveries, true or false, one to other, and in
prompting men of condition with treacherous allurements to base and
shameful actions; and he is most cherished and honoured and most
munificently entertained and rewarded of the sorry unmannerly noblemen
of our time who saith and doth the most abominable words and deeds; a
sore and shameful reproach to the present age and a very manifest proof
that the virtues have departed this lower world and left us wretched mortals
to wallow in the slough of the vices.
But to return to my story, from which a just indignation hath carried me
somewhat farther astray than I purposed,—I say that the aforesaid
Guglielmo was honoured by all the gentlemen of Genoa and gladly seen of
them, and having sojourned some days in the city and hearing many tales of
Messer Ermino's avarice and sordidness, he desired to see him. Messer
Ermino having already heard how worthy a man was this Guglielmo
Borsiere and having yet, all miser as he was, some tincture of gentle
breeding, received him with very amicable words and blithe aspect and
entered with him into many and various discourses. Devising thus, he
carried him, together with other Genoese who were in his company, into a
fine new house of his which he had lately built and after having shown it all
to him, said, 'Pray, Messer Guglielmo, you who have seen and heard many
things, can you tell me of something that was never yet seen, which I may
have depictured in the saloon of this my house?' Guglielmo, hearing this his
preposterous question, answered, 'Sir, I doubt me I cannot undertake to tell
you of aught that was never yet seen, except it were sneezings or the like;
but, an it like you, I will tell you of somewhat which me thinketh you never

yet beheld.' Quoth Messer Ermino, not looking for such an answer as he
got, 'I pray you tell me what it is.' Whereto Guglielmo promptly replied,
'Cause Liberality to be here depictured.'
When Messer Ermino heard this speech, there took him incontinent such a
shame that it availed in a manner to change his disposition altogether to the
contrary of that which it had been and he said, 'Messer Guglielmo, I will
have it here depictured after such a fashion that neither you nor any other
shall ever again have cause to tell me that I have never seen nor known it.'
And from that time forth (such was the virtue of Guglielmo's words) he was
the most liberal and the most courteous gentleman of his day in Genoa and
he who most hospitably entreated both strangers and citizens."

THE NINTH STORY
Day the First

THE KING OF CYPRUS, TOUCHED TO THE QUICK
BY A GASCON LADY, FROM A MEAN-
SPIRITED PRINCE BECOMETH A MAN OF
WORTH AND VALIANCE

The Queen's last commandment rested with Elisa, who, without awaiting it,
began all blithely, "Young ladies, it hath often chanced that what all manner
reproofs and many pains[68] bestowed upon a man have not availed to bring
about in him hath been effected by a word more often spoken at hazard than
of purpose aforethought. This is very well shown in the story related by
Lauretta and I, in my turn, purpose to prove to you the same thing by means
of another and a very short one; for that, since good things may still serve,
they should be received with a mind attent, whoever be the sayer thereof.
I say, then, that in the days of the first King of Cyprus, after the conquest of
the Holy Land by Godefroi de Bouillon, it chanced that a gentlewoman of
Gascony went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre and returning thence,
came to Cyprus, where she was shamefully abused of certain lewd fellows;
whereof having complained, without getting any satisfaction, she thought to
appeal to the King for redress, but was told that she would lose her pains,
for that he was of so abject a composition and so little of worth that, far
from justifying others of their wrongs, he endured with shameful
pusillanimity innumerable affronts offered to himself, insomuch that whose
had any grudge [against him] was wont to vent his despite by doing him
some shame or insult.
The lady, hearing this and despairing of redress, bethought herself, by way
of some small solacement of her chagrin, to seek to rebuke the king's
pusillanimity; wherefore, presenting herself in tears before him, she said to
him, 'My lord, I come not into thy presence for any redress that I expect of

the wrong that hath been done me; but in satisfaction thereof, I prithee teach
me how thou dost to suffer those affronts which I understand are offered
unto thyself, so haply I may learn of thee patiently to endure mine own, the
which God knoweth, an I might, I would gladly bestow on thee, since thou
art so excellent a supporter thereof.'
The King, who till then had been sluggish and supine, awoke as if from
sleep and beginning with the wrong done to the lady, which he cruelly
avenged, thenceforth became a very rigorous prosecutor of all who
committed aught against the honour of his crown."

THE TENTH STORY
Day the First

MASTER ALBERTO OF BOLOGNA CIVILLY
PUTTETH A LADY TO THE BLUSH WHO
THOUGHT TO HAVE SHAMED HIM OF BEING
ENAMOURED OF HER

Elisa being now silent, the last burden of the story-telling rested with the
queen, who, with womanly grace beginning to speak, said, "Noble damsels,
like as in the lucid nights the stars are the ornament of the sky and as in
Spring-time the flowers of the green meadows, even so are commendable
manners and pleasing discourse adorned by witty sallies, which latter, for
that they are brief, are yet more beseeming to women than to men,
inasmuch as much and long speech, whenas it may be dispensed with, is
straitlier forbidden unto women than to men, albeit nowadays there are few
or no women left who understand a sprightly saying or, if they understand
it, know how to answer it, to the general shame be it said of ourselves and
of all women alive. For that virtue,[69] which was erst in the minds of the
women of times past, those of our day have diverted to the adornment of the
body, and she on whose back are to be seen the most motley garments and
the most gaudily laced and garded and garnished with the greatest plenty of
fringes and purflings and broidery deemeth herself worthy to be held of far
more account than her fellows and to be honoured above them, considering
not that, were it a question of who should load her back and shoulders with
bravery, an ass would carry much more thereof than any of them nor would
therefore be honoured for more than an ass.
I blush to avow it, for that I cannot say aught against other women but I say
it against myself; these women that are so laced and purfled and painted and
parti-coloured abide either mute and senseless, like marble statues, or, an
they be questioned, answer after such a fashion that it were far better to
have kept silence. And they would have you believe that their unableness to

converse among ladies and men of parts proceedeth from purity of mind,
and to their witlessness they give the name of modesty, as if forsooth no
woman were modest but she who talketh with her chamberwoman or her
laundress or her bake-wench; the which had Nature willed, as they would
have it believed, she had assuredly limited unto them their prattle on other
wise. It is true that in this, as in other things, it behoveth to have regard to
time and place and with whom one talketh; for that it chanceth bytimes that
women or men, thinking with some pleasantry or other to put another to the
blush and not having well measured their own powers with those of the
latter, find that confusion, which they thought to cast upon another, recoil
upon themselves. Wherefore, so you may know how to keep yourselves and
that, to boot, you may not serve as a text for the proverb which is current
everywhere, to wit, that women in everything still take the worst, I would
have you learn a lesson from the last of to-day's stories, which falleth to me
to tell, to the intent that, even as you are by nobility of mind distinguished
from other women, so likewise you may show yourselves no less removed
from them by excellence of manners.
It is not many years since there lived (and belike yet liveth) at Bologna a
very great and famous physician, known by manifest renown to well nigh
all the world. His name was Master Alberto and such was the vivacity of his
spirit that, albeit he was an old man of hard upon seventy years of age and
well nigh all natural heat had departed his body, he scrupled not to expose
himself to the flames of love; for that, having seen at an entertainment a
very beautiful widow lady, called, as some say, Madam Malgherida[70] de'
Ghisolieri, and being vastly taken with her, he received into his mature
bosom, no otherwise than if he had been a young gallant, the amorous fire,
insomuch that himseemed he rested not well by night, except the day
foregone he had looked upon the delicate and lovesome countenance of the
fair lady. Wherefore he fell to passing continually before her house, now
afoot and now on horseback, as the occasion served him, insomuch that she
and many other ladies got wind of the cause of his constant passings to and
fro and oftentimes made merry among themselves to see a man thus ripe of
years and wit in love, as if they deemed that that most pleasant passion of
love took root and flourished only in the silly minds of the young and not
otherwhere.

What while he continued to pass back and forth, it chanced one holiday
that, the lady being seated with many others before her door and espying
Master Alberto making towards them from afar, they one and all took
counsel together to entertain him and do him honour and after to rally him
on that his passion. Accordingly, they all rose to receive him and inviting
him [to enter,] carried him into a shady courtyard, whither they let bring the
choicest of wines and sweetmeats and presently enquired of him, in very
civil and pleasant terms, how it might be that he was fallen enamoured of
that fair lady, knowing her to be loved of many handsome, young and
sprightly gentlemen. The physician, finding himself thus courteously
attacked, put on a blithe countenance and answered, 'Madam, that I love
should be no marvel to any understanding person, and especially that I love
yourself, for that you deserve it; and albeit old men are by operation of
nature bereft of the vigour that behoveth unto amorous exercises, yet not for
all that are they bereft of the will nor of the wit to apprehend that which is
worthy to be loved; nay, this latter is naturally the better valued of them,
inasmuch as they have more knowledge and experience than the young. As
for the hope that moveth me, who am an old man, to love you who are
courted of many young gallants, it is on this wise: I have been many a time
where I have seen ladies lunch and eat lupins and leeks. Now, although in
the leek no part is good, yet is the head[71] thereof less hurtful and more
agreeable to the taste; but you ladies, moved by a perverse appetite,
commonly hold the head in your hand and munch the leaves, which are not
only naught, but of an ill savour. How know I, madam, but you do the like
in the election of your lovers? In which case, I should be the one chosen of
you and the others would be turned away.'
The gentlewoman and her companions were somewhat abashed and said,
'Doctor, you have right well and courteously chastised our presumptuous
emprise; algates, your love is dear to me, as should be that of a man of
worth and learning; wherefore, you may in all assurance command me, as
your creature, of your every pleasure, saving only mine honour.' The
physician, rising with his companions, thanked the lady and taking leave of
her with laughter and merriment, departed thence. Thus the lady, looking
not whom she rallied and thinking to discomfit another, was herself
discomfited; wherefrom, an you be wise, you will diligently guard
yourselves."

The sun had begun to decline towards the evening, and the heat was in great
part abated, when the stories of the young ladies and of the three young men
came to an end; whereupon quoth the queen blithesomely, "Henceforth,
dear companions, there remaineth nought more to do in the matter of my
governance for the present day, save to give you a new queen, who shall,
according to her judgment, order her life and ours, for that[72] which is to
come, unto honest pleasance. And albeit the day may be held to endure
from now until nightfall, yet,—for that whoso taketh not somewhat of time
in advance cannot, meseemeth, so well provide for the future and in order
that what the new queen shall deem needful for the morrow may be
prepared,—methinketh the ensuing days should commence at this hour.
Wherefore, in reverence of Him unto whom all things live and for our own
solacement, Filomena, a right discreet damsel, shall, as queen, govern our
kingdom for the coming day." So saying, she rose to her feet and putting off
the laurel-wreath, set it reverently on the head of Filomena, whom first
herself and after all the other ladies and the young men likewise saluted as
queen, cheerfully submitting themselves to her governance.
Filomena blushed somewhat to find herself invested with the queendom,
but, calling to mind the words a little before spoken by Pampinea,[73]—in
order that she might not appear witless, she resumed her assurance and in
the first place confirmed all the offices given by Pampinea; then, having
declared that they should abide whereas they were, she appointed that
which was to do against the ensuing morning, as well as for that night's
supper, and after proceeded to speak thus:
"Dearest companions, albeit Pampinea, more of her courtesy than for any
worth of mine, hath made me queen of you all, I am not therefore disposed
to follow my judgment alone in the manner of our living, but yours together
with mine; and that you may know that which meseemeth is to do and
consequently at your pleasure add thereto or abate thereof, I purpose briefly
to declare it to you.
If I have well noted the course this day held by Pampinea, meseemeth I
have found it alike praiseworthy and delectable; wherefore till such time as,
for overlong continuance or other reason, it grow irksome to us, I judge it

not to be changed. Order, then, being taken for [the continuance of] that
which we have already begun to do, we will, arising hence, go awhile a-
pleasuring, and whenas the sun shall be for going under, we will sup in the
cool of the evening, and after sundry canzonets and other pastimes, we shall
do well to betake ourselves to sleep. To-morrow, rising in the cool of the
morning, we will on like wise go somewhither a-pleasuring, as shall be
most agreeable to every one; and as we have done to-day, we will at the due
hour come back to eat; after which we will dance and when we arise from
sleep, as to-day we have done, we will return hither to our story-telling,
wherein meseemeth a very great measure to consist alike of pleasance and
of profit. Moreover, that which Pampinea had indeed no opportunity of
doing, by reason of her late election to the governance, I purpose now to
enter upon, to wit, to limit within some bound that whereof we are to tell
and to declare it[74] to you beforehand, so each of you may have leisure to
think of some goodly story to relate upon the theme proposed, the which, an
it please you, shall be on this wise; namely, seeing that since the beginning
of the world men have been and will be, until the end thereof, bandied
about by various shifts of fortune, each shall be holden to tell OF THOSE
WHO AFTER BEING BAFFLED BY DIVERS CHANCES HAVE WON
AT LAST TO A JOYFUL ISSUE BEYOND THEIR HOPE."
Ladies and men alike all commended this ordinance and declared
themselves ready to ensue it. Only Dioneo, the others all being silent, said,
"Madam, as all the rest have said, so say I, to wit that the ordinance given
by you is exceeding pleasant and commendable; but of especial favour I
crave you a boon, which I would have confirmed to me for such time as our
company shall endure, to wit, that I may not be constrained by this your law
to tell a story upon the given theme, an it like me not, but shall be free to
tell that which shall most please me. And that none may think I seek this
favour as one who hath not stories, in hand, from this time forth I am
content to be still the last to tell."
The queen,—who knew him for a merry man and a gamesome and was well
assured that he asked this but that he might cheer the company with some
laughable story, whenas they should be weary of discoursing,—with the
others' consent, cheerfully accorded him the favour he sought. Then, arising
from session, with slow steps they took their way towards a rill of very
clear water, that ran down from a little hill, amid great rocks and green

herbage, into a valley overshaded with many trees and there, going about in
the water, bare-armed and shoeless, they fell to taking various diversions
among themselves, till supper-time drew near, when they returned to the
palace and there supped merrily. Supper ended, the queen called for
instruments of music and bade Lauretta lead up a dance, whilst Emilia sang
a song, to the accompaniment of Dioneo's lute. Accordingly, Lauretta
promptly set up a dance and led it off, whilst Emilia amorously warbled the
following song:
I burn for mine own charms with
such a fire,
Methinketh that I ne'er
Of other love shall reck or have
desire.

Whene'er I mirror me, I see
therein[75]
That good which still contenteth
heart and spright;
Nor fortune new nor thought of old
can win
To dispossess me of such dear
delight.
What other object, then, could fill
my sight,
Enough of pleasance e'er
To kindle in my breast a new desire?

This good flees not, what time soe'er
I'm fain
Afresh to view it for my
solacement;
Nay, at my pleasure, ever and again
With such a grace it doth itself
present
Speech cannot tell it nor its full
intent

Be known of mortal e'er,
Except indeed he burn with like
desire.

And I, grown more enamoured every
hour,
The straitlier fixed mine eyes upon
it be,
Give all myself and yield me to its
power,
E'en tasting now of that it promised
me,
And greater joyance yet I hope to
see,
Of such a strain as ne'er
Was proven here below of love-
desire.
Lauretta having thus made an end of her ballad,[76]—in the burden of which
all had blithely joined, albeit the words thereof gave some much matter for
thought,—divers other rounds were danced and a part of the short night
being now spent, it pleased the queen to give an end to the first day;
wherefore, letting kindle the flambeaux, she commanded that all should
betake themselves to rest until the ensuing morning, and all, accordingly,
returning to their several chambers, did so.

HERE ENDETH THE FIRST DAY
OF THE DECAMERON

Day the Second

Here Beginneth the Second Day of the
Decameron Wherein Under the
Governance of Filomena Is
Discoursed of Those Who After
Being Baffled by Divers Chances
Have Won at Last to a Joyful Issue
Beyond Their Hope

The sun had already everywhere brought on the new day with its light and
the birds, carolling blithely among the green branches, bore witness thereof
unto the ear with their merry songs, when the ladies and the three young
men, arising all, entered the gardens and pressing the dewy grass with slow
step, went wandering hither and thither, weaving goodly garlands and
disporting themselves, a great while. And like as they had done the day
foregone, even so did they at present; to wit, having eaten in the cool and
danced awhile, they betook them to repose and arising thence after none,
came all, by command of their queen, into the fresh meadows, where they
seated themselves round about her. Then she, who was fair of favour and
exceeding pleasant of aspect, having sat awhile, crowned with her laurel
wreath, and looked all her company in the face, bade Neifile give beginning
to the day's stories by telling one of her fashion; whereupon the latter,
without making any excuse, blithely began to speak thus:

THE FIRST STORY
Day the Second

MARTELLINO FEIGNETH HIMSELF A CRIPPLE
AND MAKETH BELIEVE TO WAX WHOLE
UPON THE BODY OF ST. ARRIGO. HIS
IMPOSTURE BEING DISCOVERED, HE IS
BEATEN AND BEING AFTER TAKEN [FOR A
THIEF,] GOETH IN PERIL OF BEING HANGED
BY THE NECK, BUT ULTIMATELY ESCAPETH

"It chanceth oft, dearest ladies, that he who studieth to befool others, and
especially in things reverend, findeth himself with nothing for his pains but
flouts and whiles cometh not off scathless. Wherefore, that I may obey the
queen's commandment and give beginning to the appointed theme with a
story of mine, I purpose to relate to you that which, first misfortunately and
after happily, beyond his every thought, betided a townsman of ours.
No great while agone there was at Treviso a German called Arrigo, who,
being a poor man, served whoso required him to carry burdens for hire; and
withal he was held of all a man of very holy and good life. Wherefore, be it
true or untrue, when he died, it befell, according to that which the Trevisans
avouch, that, in the hour of his death, the bells of the great church of
Treviso began to ring, without being pulled of any. The people of the city,
accounting this a miracle, proclaimed this Arrigo a saint and running all to
the house where he lay, bore his body, for that of a saint, to the Cathedral,
whither they fell to bringing the halt, the impotent and the blind and others
afflicted with whatsoever defect or infirmity, as if they should all be made
whole by the touch of the body.
In the midst of this great turmoil and concourse of folk, it chanced that there
arrived at Treviso three of our townsmen, whereof one was called Stecchi,

another Martellino and the third Marchese, men who visited the courts of
princes and lords and diverted the beholders by travestying themselves and
counterfeiting whatsoever other man with rare motions and grimaces. Never
having been there before and seeing all the folk run, they marvelled and
hearing the cause, were for going to see what was toward; wherefore they
laid up their baggage at an inn and Marchese said, 'We would fain go look
upon this saint; but, for my part, I see not how we may avail to win thither,
for that I understand the Cathedral place is full of German and other men-
at-arms, whom the lord of this city hath stationed there, so no riot may
betide; more by token that they say the church is so full of folk that well
nigh none else might enter there.' 'Let not that hinder you,' quoth
Martellino, who was all agog to see the show; 'I warrant you I will find a
means of winning to the holy body.' 'How so?' asked Marchese, and
Martellino answered, 'I will tell thee. I will counterfeit myself a cripple and
thou on one side and Stecchi on the other shall go upholding me, as it were
I could not walk of myself, making as if you would fain bring me to the
saint, so he may heal me. There will be none but, seeing us, will make way
for us and let us pass.'
The device pleased Marchese and Stecchi and they went forth of the inn
without delay, all three. Whenas they came to a solitary place, Martellino
writhed his hands and fingers and arms and legs and eke his mouth and eyes
and all his visnomy on such wise that it was a frightful thing to look upon,
nor was there any saw him but would have avouched him to be verily all
fordone and palsied of his person. Marchese and Stecchi, taking him up,
counterfeited as he was, made straight for the church, with a show of the
utmost compunction, humbly beseeching all who came in their way for the
love of God to make room for them, the which was lightly yielded them.
Brief, every one gazing on them and crying well nigh all, 'Make way! Make
way!' they came whereas Saint Arrigo's body lay and Martellino was
forthright taken up by certain gentlemen who stood around and laid upon
the body, so he might thereby regain the benefit of health. Martellino,
having lain awhile, whilst all the folk were on the stretch to see what should
come of him, began, as right well he knew how, to make a show of opening
first one finger, then a hand and after putting forth an arm and so at last
coming to stretch himself out altogether. Which when the people saw, they

set up such an outcry in praise of Saint Arrigo as would have drowned the
very thunder.
Now, as chance would have it, there was therenigh a certain Florentine, who
knew Martellino very well, but had not recognized him, counterfeited as he
was, whenas he was brought thither. However, when he saw him grown
straight again, he knew him and straightway fell a-laughing and saying,
'God confound him! Who that saw him come had not deemed him palsied in
good earnest?' His words were overheard of sundry Trevisans, who asked
him incontinent, 'How! Was he not palsied?' 'God forbid!' answered the
Florentine. 'He hath ever been as straight as any one of us; but he knoweth
better than any man in the world how to play off tricks of this kind and
counterfeit what shape soever he will.'
When the others heard this, there needed nothing farther; but they pushed
forward by main force and fell a-crying out and saying, 'Seize yonder traitor
and scoffer at God and His saints, who, being whole of his body, hath come
hither, in the guise of a cripple, to make mock of us and of our saint!' So
saying, they laid hold of Martellino and pulled him down from the place
where he lay. Then, taking him by the hair of his head and tearing all the
clothes off his back, they fell upon him with cuffs and kicks; nor
himseemed was there a man in the place but ran to do likewise. Martellino
roared out, 'Mercy, for God's sake!' and fended himself as best he might, but
to no avail; for the crowd redoubled upon him momently. Stecchi and
Marchese, seeing this, began to say one to the other that things stood ill,
but, fearing for themselves, dared not come to his aid; nay, they cried out
with the rest to put him to death, bethinking them the while how they might
avail to fetch him out of the hands of the people, who would certainly have
slain him, but for a means promptly taken by Marchese; to wit, all the
officers of the Seignory being without the church, he betook himself as
quickliest he might, to him who commanded for the Provost and said, 'Help,
for God's sake! There is a lewd fellow within who hath cut my purse, with a
good hundred gold florins. I pray you take him, so I may have mine own
again.'
Hearing this, a round dozen of sergeants ran straightway whereas the
wretched Martellino was being carded without a comb and having with the
greatest pains in the world broken through the crowd, dragged him out of

the people's hands, all bruised and tumbled as he was, and haled him off to
the palace, whither many followed him who held themselves affronted of
him and hearing that he had been taken for a cutpurse and themseeming
they had no better occasion[77] of doing him an ill turn,[78] began each on
like wise to say that he had cut his purse. The Provost's judge, who was a
crabbed, ill-conditioned fellow, hearing this, forthright took him apart and
began to examine him of the matter; but Martellino answered jestingly, as if
he made light of his arrest; whereat the judge, incensed, caused truss him up
and give him two or three good bouts of the strappado, with intent to make
him confess that which they laid to his charge, so he might after have him
strung up by the neck.
When he was let down again, the judge asked him once more if that were
true which the folk avouched against him, and Martellino, seeing that it
availed him not to deny, answered, 'My lord, I am ready to confess the truth
to you; but first make each who accuseth me say when and where I cut his
purse, and I will tell you what I did and what not.' Quoth the judge, 'I will
well,' and calling some of his accusers, put the question to them; whereupon
one said that he had cut his purse eight, another six and a third four days
agone, whilst some said that very day. Martellino, hearing this, said, 'My
lord, these all lie in their throats and I can give you this proof that I tell you
the truth, inasmuch as would God it were as sure that I had never come
hither as it is that I was never in this place till a few hours agone; and as
soon as I arrived, I went, of my ill fortune, to see yonder holy body in the
church, where I was carded as you may see; and that this I say is true, the
Prince's officer who keepeth the register of strangers can certify you, he and
his book, as also can my host. If, therefore, you find it as I tell you, I
beseech you torture me not neither put me to death at the instance of these
wicked, men.'
Whilst things were at this pass, Marchese and Stecchi, hearing that the
judge of the Provostry was proceeding rigorously against Martellino and
had already given him the strappado, were sore affeared and said in
themselves, 'We have gone the wrong way to work; we have brought him
forth of the frying-pan and cast him into the fire.' Wherefore they went with
all diligence in quest of their host and having found him, related to him how
the case stood. He laughed and carried them to one Sandro Agolanti, who
abode in Treviso and had great interest with the Prince, and telling him

everything in order, joined with them in beseeching him to occupy himself
with Martellino's affairs. Sandro, after many a laugh, repaired to the Prince
and prevailed upon him to send for Martellino.
The Prince's messengers found Martellino still in his shirt before the judge,
all confounded and sore adread, for that the judge would hear nothing in his
excuse; nay, having, by chance, some spite against the people of Florence,
he was altogether determined to hang him by the neck and would on no
wise render him up to the Prince till such time as he was constrained thereto
in his despite. Martellino, being brought before the lord of the city and
having told him everything in order, besought him, by way of special
favour, to let him go about his business, for that, until he should be in
Florence again, it would still seem to him he had the rope about his neck.
The Prince laughed heartily at his mischance and let give each of the three a
suit of apparel, wherewith they returned home safe and sound, having,
beyond all their hope, escaped so great a peril."

THE SECOND STORY
Day the Second

RINALDO D'ASTI, HAVING BEEN ROBBED,
MAKETH HIS WAY TO CASTEL GUGLIELMO,
WHERE HE IS HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED
BY A WIDOW LADY AND HAVING MADE
GOOD HIS LOSS, RETURNETH TO HIS OWN
HOUSE, SAFE AND SOUND

The ladies laughed immoderately at Martellino's misfortunes narrated by
Neifile, as did also the young men and especially Filostrato, whom, for that
he sat next Neifile, the queen bade follow her in story-telling. Accordingly
he began without delay, "Fair ladies, needs must I tell you a story[79] of
things Catholic,[80] in part mingled with misadventures and love-matters,
which belike will not be other than profitable to hear, especially to those
who are wayfarers in the perilous lands of love, wherein whoso hath not
said St. Julian his Paternoster is oftentimes ill lodged, for all he have a good
bed.
In the days, then, of the Marquis Azzo of Ferrara, there came a merchant
called Rinaldo d'Asti to Bologna on his occasions, which having despatched
and returning homeward, it chanced that, as he issued forth of Ferrara and
rode towards Verona, he fell in with certain folk who seemed merchants, but
were in truth highwaymen and men of lewd life and condition, with whom
he unwarily joined company and entered into discourse. They, seeing him to
be a merchant and judging him to have monies about him, took counsel
together to rob him, at the first opportunity that should offer; wherefore,
that he might take no suspicion, they went devising with him, like decent
peaceable folk, of things honest and seemly and of loyalty, ordering
themselves toward him, in so far as they knew and could, with respect and
complaisance, so that he deemed himself in great luck to have met with
them, for that he was alone with a serving-man of his on horseback.

Thus faring on and passing from one thing to another, as it chanceth in
discourse, they presently fell to talking of the orisons that men offer up to
God, and one of the highwaymen, who were three in number, said to
Rinaldo, 'And you, fair sir, what orison do you use to say on a journey?'
Whereto he answered, 'Sooth to say, I am but a plain man and little versed
in these matters and have few orisons in hand; I live after the old fashion
and let a couple of shillings pass for four-and-twenty pence.[81]
Nevertheless, I have still been wont, when on a journey, to say of a
morning, what time I come forth of the inn, a Pater and an Ave for the soul
of St. Julian's father and mother, after which I pray God and the saint to
grant me a good lodging for the ensuing night. Many a time in my day have
I, in the course of my journeyings, been in great perils, from all of which I
have escaped and have still found myself at night, to boot, in a place of
safety and well lodged. Wherefore I firmly believe that St. Julian, in whose
honour I say it, hath gotten me this favour of God; nor meseemeth should I
fare well by day nor come to good harbourage at night, except I had said it
in the morning.' 'And did you say it[82] this morning?' asked he who had put
the question to him. 'Ay did I,' answered Rinaldo; whereupon quoth the
other in himself, knowing well how the thing was to go, 'May it stand thee
in stead![83] For, an no hindrance betide us, methinketh thou art e'en like to
lodge ill.' Then, to Rinaldo, 'I likewise,' quoth he, 'have travelled much and
have never said this orison, albeit I have heard it greatly commended, nor
ever hath it befallen me to lodge other than well; and this evening maybe
you shall chance to see which will lodge the better, you who have said it or
I who have not. True, I use, instead thereof, the Dirupisti or the Intemerata
or the De Profundis, the which, according to that which a grandmother of
mine used to tell me, are of singular virtue.'
Discoursing thus of various matters and faring on their way, on the look out
the while for time and place apt unto their knavish purpose, they came, late
in the day, to a place a little beyond Castel Guglielmo, where, at the fording
of a river, the three rogues, seeing the hour advanced and the spot solitary
and close shut in, fell upon Rinaldo and robbed him of money, clothes and
horse. Then, leaving him afoot and in his shirt, they departed, saying, 'Go
see if thy St. Julian will give thee a good lodging this night, even as ours[84]
will assuredly do for us.' And passing the stream, they went their ways.
Rinaldo's servant, seeing him attacked, like a cowardly knave as he was, did

nought to help him, but turning his horse's head, never drew bridle till he
came to Castel Guglielmo and entering the town, took up his lodging there,
without giving himself farther concern.
Rinaldo, left in his shirt and barefoot, it being very cold and snowing hard,
knew not what to do and seeing the night already at hand, looked about
him, trembling and chattering the while with his teeth, if there were any
shelter to be seen therenigh, where he might pass the night, so he should not
perish of cold; but, seeing none, for that a little before there had been war in
those parts and everything had been burnt, set off at a run, spurred by the
cold, towards Castel Guglielmo, knowing not withal if his servant were fled
thither or otherwise and thinking that, so he might but avail to enter therein,
God would send him some relief. But darkness overtook him near a mile
from the town, wherefore he arrived there so late that, the gates being shut
and the draw-bridges raised, he could get no admission. Thereupon,
despairing and disconsolate, he looked about, weeping, for a place where he
might shelter, so at the least it should not snow upon him, and chancing to
espy a house that projected somewhat beyond the walls of the town, he
determined to go bide thereunder till day. Accordingly, betaking himself
thither, he found there a door, albeit it was shut, and gathering at foot
thereof somewhat of straw that was therenigh, he laid himself down there,
tristful and woebegone, complaining sore to St. Julian and saying that this
was not of the faith he had in him.
However, the saint had not lost sight of him and was not long in providing
him with a good lodging. There was in the town a widow lady, as fair of
favour as any woman living, whom the Marquis Azzo loved as his life and
there kept at his disposition, and she abode in that same house, beneath the
projection whereof Rinaldo had taken shelter. Now, as chance would have
it, the Marquis had come to the town that day, thinking to lie the night with
her, and had privily let make ready in her house a bath and a sumptuous
supper. Everything being ready and nought awaited by the lady but the
coming of the Marquis, it chanced that there came a serving-man to the
gate, who brought him news, which obliged him to take horse forthright;
wherefore, sending to tell his mistress not to expect him, he departed in
haste. The lady, somewhat disconsolate at this, knowing not what to do,
determined to enter the bath prepared for the Marquis and after sup and go
to bed.

Accordingly she entered the bath, which was near the door, against which
the wretched merchant was crouched without the city-wall; wherefore she,
being therein, heard the weeping and trembling kept up by Rinaldo, who
seemed as he were grown a stork,[85] and calling her maid, said to her, 'Go
up and look over the wall who is at the postern-foot and what he doth there.'
The maid went thither and aided by the clearness of the air, saw Rinaldo in
his shirt and barefoot, sitting there, as hath been said, and trembling sore;
whereupon she asked him who he was. He told her, as briefliest he might,
who he was and how and why he was there, trembling the while on such
wise that he could scarce form the words, and after fell to beseeching her
piteously not to leave him there all night to perish of cold, [but to succour
him,] an it might be. The maid was moved to pity of him and returning to
her mistress, told her all. The lady, on like wise taking compassion on him
and remembering that she had the key of the door aforesaid, which served
whiles for the privy entrances of the Marquis, said, 'Go softly and open to
him; here is this supper and none to eat it and we have commodity enough
for his lodging.'
The maid, having greatly commended her mistress for this her humanity,
went and opening to Rinaldo, brought him in; whereupon the lady, seeing
him well nigh palsied with cold, said to him, 'Quick, good man, enter this
bath, which is yet warm.' Rinaldo, without awaiting farther invitation,
gladly obeyed and was so recomforted with the warmth of the bath that
himseemed he was come back from death to life. The lady let fetch him a
suit of clothes that had pertained to her husband, then lately dead, which
when he had donned, they seemed made to his measure, and whilst awaiting
what she should command him, he fell to thanking God and St. Julian for
that they had delivered him from the scurvy night he had in prospect and
had, as he deemed, brought him to good harbourage.
Presently, the lady, being somewhat rested,[86] let make a great fire in her
dining-hall and betaking herself thither, asked how it was with the poor
man; whereto the maid answered, 'Madam, he hath clad himself and is a
handsome man and appeareth a person of good condition and very well-
mannered.' Quoth the lady, 'Go, call him and bid him come to the fire and
sup, for I know he is fasting.' Accordingly, Rinaldo entered the hall and
seeing the gentlewoman, who appeared to him a lady of quality, saluted her
respectfully and rendered her the best thanks in his power for the kindness

done him. The lady, having seen and heard him and finding him even as her
maid had said, received him graciously and making him sit familiarly with
her by the fire, questioned him of the chance that had brought him thither;
whereupon he related everything to her in order. Now she had heard
somewhat of this at the time of his servant's coming into the town,
wherefore she gave entire belief to all he said and told him, in turn, what
she knew of his servant and how he might lightly find him again on the
morrow. Then, the table being laid, Rinaldo, at the lady's instance, washed
his hands and sat down with her to supper. Now he was tall of his person
and comely and pleasant of favour and very engaging and agreeable of
manners and a man in the prime of life; wherefore the lady had several
times cast her eyes on him and found him much to her liking, and her
desires being already aroused for the Marquis, who was to have come to lie
with her, she had taken a mind to him. Accordingly, after supper, whenas
they were risen from table, she took counsel with her maid whether
herseemed she would do well, the Marquis having left her in the lurch, to
use the good which fortune had sent her. The maid, seeing her mistress's
drift, encouraged her as best she might to ensue it; whereupon the lady,
returning to the fireside, where she had left Rinaldo alone, fell to gazing
amorously upon him and said to him, 'How now, Rinaldo, why bide you
thus melancholy? Think you you cannot be requited the loss of a horse and
of some small matter of clothes? Take comfort and be of good cheer; you
are in your own house. Nay, I will e'en tell you more, that, seeing you with
those clothes on your back, which were my late husband's, and meseeming
you were himself, there hath taken me belike an hundred times to-night a
longing to embrace you and kiss you: and but that I feared to displease you,
I had certainly done it.'
Rinaldo, who was no simpleton, hearing these words and seeing the lady's
eyes sparkle, advanced towards her with open arms, saying, 'Madam,
considering that I owe it to you to say that I am now alive and having
regard to that from which you delivered me, it were great unmannerliness in
me, did I not study to do everything that may be agreeable to you;
wherefore do you embrace me and kiss me to your heart's content, and I
will kiss and clip you more than willingly.' There needed no more words.
The lady, who was all afire with amorous longing, straightway threw herself
into his arms and after she had strained him desirefully to her bosom and

bussed him a thousand times and had of him been kissed as often, they went
off to her chamber, and there without delay betaking themselves to bed,
they fully and many a time, before the day should come, satisfied their
desires one of the other. Whenas the day began to appear, they arose,—it
being her pleasure, so the thing might not be suspected of any,—and she,
having given him some sorry clothes and a purse full of money and shown
him how he should go about to enter the town and find his servant, put him
forth at the postern whereby he had entered, praying him keep the matter
secret.
As soon as it was broad day and the gates were opened, he entered the
town, feigning to come from afar, and found his servant. Therewithal he
donned the clothes that were in the saddle-bags and was about to mount the
man's horse and depart, when, as by a miracle, it befell that the three
highwaymen, who had robbed him overnight, having been a little after
taken for some other misdeed of them committed, were brought into the
town and on their confession, his horse and clothes and money were
restored to him, nor did he lose aught save a pair of garters, with which the
robbers knew not what they had done. Rinaldo accordingly gave thanks to
God and St. Julian and taking horse, returned home, safe and sound, leaving
the three rogues to go kick on the morrow against the wind."[87]

THE THIRD STORY
Day the Second

THREE YOUNG MEN SQUANDER THEIR
SUBSTANCE AND BECOME POOR; BUT A
NEPHEW OF THEIRS, RETURNING HOME IN
DESPERATION, FALLETH IN WITH AN ABBOT
AND FINDETH HIM TO BE THE KING'S
DAUGHTER OF ENGLAND, WHO TAKETH
HIM TO HUSBAND AND MAKETH GOOD ALL
HIS UNCLES' LOSSES, RESTORING THEM TO
GOOD ESTATE

The adventures of Rinaldo d'Asti were hearkened with admiration and his
devoutness commended by the ladies, who returned thanks to God and St.
Julian for that they had succoured him in his utmost need. Nor yet (though
this was said half aside) was the lady reputed foolish, who had known how
to take the good God had sent her in her own house. But, whilst they
discoursed, laughing in their sleeves, of the pleasant night she had had,
Pampinea, seeing herself beside Filostrato and deeming, as indeed it befell,
that the next turn would rest with her, began to collect her thoughts and take
counsel with herself what she should say; after which, having received the
queen's commandment, she proceeded to speak thus, no less resolutely than
blithely, "Noble ladies, the more it is discoursed of the doings of Fortune,
the more, to whoso is fain to consider her dealings aright, remaineth to be
said thereof; and at this none should marvel, an he consider advisedly that
all the things, which we foolishly style ours, are in her hands and are
consequently, according to her hidden ordinance, transmuted by her without
cease from one to another and back again, without any method known unto
us. Wherefore, albeit this truth is conclusively demonstrated in everything
and all day long and hath already been shown forth in divers of the
foregoing stories, nevertheless, since it is our queen's pleasure that we
discourse upon this theme, I will, not belike without profit for the listeners,

add to the stories aforesaid one of my own, which methinketh should
please.
There was once in our city a gentleman, by name Messer Tedaldo, who, as
some will have it, was of the Lamberti family, albeit others avouch that he
was of the Agolanti, arguing more, belike, from the craft after followed by
his sons,[88] which was like unto that which the Agolanti have ever
practised and yet practise, than from aught else. But, leaving be of which of
these two houses he was, I say that he was, in his time, a very rich
gentleman and had three sons, whereof the eldest was named Lamberto, the
second Tedaldo and the third Agolante, all handsome and sprightly youths,
the eldest of whom had not reached his eighteenth year when it befell that
the aforesaid Messer Tedaldo died very rich and left all his possessions,
both moveable and immoveable, to them, as his legitimate heirs. The young
men, seeing themselves left very rich both in lands and monies, began to
spend without check or reserve or other governance than that of their own
pleasure, keeping a vast household and many and goodly horses and dogs
and hawks, still holding open house and giving largesse and making tilts
and tournaments and doing not only that which pertaineth unto men of
condition, but all, to boot, that it occurred to their youthful appetite to will.
They had not long led this manner of life before the treasure left by their
father melted away and their revenues alone sufficing not unto their current
expenses, they proceeded to sell and mortgage their estates, and selling one
to-day and another to-morrow, they found themselves well nigh to nought,
without perceiving it, and poverty opened their eyes, which wealth had kept
closed. Whereupon Lamberto, one day, calling the other two, reminded
them how great had been their father's magnificence and how great their
own and setting before them what wealth had been theirs and the poverty to
which they were come through their inordinate expenditure, exhorted them,
as best he knew, ere their distress should become more apparent, to sell
what little was left them and get them gone, together with himself. They did
as he counselled them and departing Florence, without leavetaking or
ceremony, stayed not till they came to England, where, taking a little house
in London and spending very little, they addressed themselves with the
utmost diligence to lend money at usance. In this fortune was so favourable
to them that in a few years they amassed a vast sum of money, wherewith,

returning to Florence, one after another, they bought back great part of their
estates and purchased others to boot and took unto themselves wives.
Nevertheless, they still continued to lend money in England and sent
thither, to look to their affairs, a young man, a nephew of theirs, Alessandro
by name, whilst themselves all three at Florence, for all they were become
fathers of families, forgetting to what a pass inordinate expenditure had
aforetime brought them, began to spend more extravagantly than ever and
were high in credit with all the merchants, who trusted them for any sum of
money, however great. The monies remitted them by Alessandro, who had
fallen to lending to the barons upon their castles and other their possessions,
which brought him great profit, helped them for some years to support these
expenses; but, presently, what while the three brothers spent thus freely and
lacking money, borrowed, still reckoning with all assurance upon England,
it chanced that, contrary to all expectation, there broke out war in England
between the king and his son, through which the whole island was divided
into two parties, some holding with the one and some with the other; and by
reason thereof all the barons' castles were taken from Alessandro nor was
there any other source of revenue that answered him aught. Hoping that
from day to day peace should be made between father and son and
consequently everything restored to him, both interest and capital,
Alessandro departed not the island and the three brothers in Florence no
wise abated their extravagant expenditure, borrowing more and more every
day. But, when, after several years, no effect was seen to follow upon their
expectation, the three brothers not only lost their credit, but, their creditors
seeking to be paid their due, they were suddenly arrested and their
possessions sufficing not unto payment, they abode in prison for the
residue, whilst their wives and little ones betook themselves, some into the
country, some hither and some thither, in very ill plight, unknowing what to
expect but misery for the rest of their lives.
Meanwhile, Alessandro, after waiting several years in England for peace,
seeing that it came not and himseeming that not only was his tarrying there
in vain, but that he went in danger of his life, determined to return to Italy.
Accordingly, he set out all alone and as chance would have it, coming out
of Bruges, he saw an abbot of white friars likewise issuing thence,
accompanied by many monks and with a numerous household and a great
baggage-train in his van. After him came two old knights, kinsmen of the

King, whom Alessandro accosted as acquaintances and was gladly admitted
into their company. As he journeyed with them, he asked them softly who
were the monks that rode in front with so great a train and whither they
were bound; and one of them answered, 'He who rideth yonder is a young
gentleman of our kindred, who hath been newly elected abbot of one of the
most considerable abbeys of England, and for that he is younger than is
suffered by the laws for such a dignity, we go with him to Rome to obtain
of the Holy Father that he dispense him of his defect of overmuch
youthfulness and confirm him in the dignity aforesaid; but this must not be
spoken of with any.'
The new abbot, faring on thus, now in advance of his retinue and now in
their rear, as daily we see it happen with noblemen on a journey, chanced by
the way to see near him Alessandro, who was a young man exceedingly
goodly of person and favour, well-bred, agreeable and fair of fashion as any
might be, and who at first sight pleased him marvellously, as nought had
ever done, and calling him to his side, fell a-discoursing pleasantly with
him, asking him who he was and whence he came and whither he was
bound; whereupon Alessandro frankly discovered to him his whole case and
satisfied his questions, offering himself to his service in what little he
might. The abbot, hearing his goodly and well-ordered speech, took more
particular note of his manners and inwardly judging him to be a man of
gentle breeding, for all his business had been mean, grew yet more
enamoured of his pleasantness and full of compassion for his mishaps,
comforted him on very friendly wise, bidding him be of good hope, for that,
an he were a man of worth, God would yet replace him in that estate
whence fortune had cast him down, nay, in a yet higher. Moreover, he
prayed him, since he was bound for Tuscany, that it would please him bear
him company, inasmuch as himself was likewise on the way thitherward;
whereupon Alessandro returned him thanks for his encouragement and
declared himself ready to his every commandment.
The abbot, in whose breast new feelings had been aroused by the sight of
Alessandro, continuing his journey, it chanced that, after some days, they
came to a village not overwell furnished with hostelries, and the abbot
having a mind to pass the night there, Alessandro caused him alight at the
house of an innkeeper, who was his familiar acquaintance, and let prepare
him his sleeping-chamber in the least incommodious place of the house;

and being now, like an expert man as he was, grown well nigh a master of
the household to the abbot, he lodged all his company, as best he might,
about the village, some here and some there. After the abbot had supped,
the night being now well advanced and every one gone to bed, Alessandro
asked the host where he himself could lie; whereto he answered, 'In truth, I
know not; thou seest that every place is full and I and my household must
needs sleep upon the benches. Algates, in the abbot's chamber there be
certain grain-sacks, whereto I can bring thee and spread thee thereon some
small matter of bed, and there, an it please thee, thou shalt lie this night, as
best thou mayst.' Quoth Alessandro, 'How shall I go into the abbot's
chamber, seeing thou knowest it is little and of its straitness none of his
monks might lie there? Had I bethought me of this, ere the curtains were
drawn, I would have let his monks lie on the grain-sacks and have lodged
myself where they sleep.' 'Nay,' answered the host, 'the case standeth thus;
[89] but, an thou wilt, thou mayst lie whereas I tell thee with all the ease in
the world. The abbot is asleep and his curtains are drawn; I will quickly lay
thee a pallet-bed there, and do thou sleep on it.' Alessandro, seeing that this
might be done without giving the abbot any annoy, consented thereto and
settled himself on the grain-sacks as softliest he might.
The abbot, who slept not, nay, whose thoughts were ardently occupied with
his new desires, heard what passed between Alessandro and the host and
noted where the former laid himself to sleep, and well pleased with this,
began to say in himself, 'God hath sent an occasion unto my desires; an I
take it not, it may be long ere the like recur to me.' Accordingly, being
altogether resolved to take the opportunity and himseeming all was quiet in
the inn, he called to Alessandro in a low voice and bade him come couch
with him. Alessandro, after many excuses, put off his clothes and laid
himself beside the abbot, who put his hand on his breast and fell to touching
him no otherwise than amorous damsels use to do with their lovers; whereat
Alessandro marvelled exceedingly and misdoubted him the abbot was
moved by unnatural love to handle him on that wise; but the latter promptly
divined his suspicions, whether of presumption or through some gesture of
his, and smiled; then, suddenly putting off a shirt that he wore, he took
Alessandro's hand and laying it on his own breast, said, 'Alessandro, put
away thy foolish thought and searching here, know that which I conceal.'

Alessandro accordingly put his hand to the abbot's bosom and found there
two little breasts, round and firm and delicate, no otherwise than as they
were of ivory, whereby perceiving that the supposed prelate was a woman,
without awaiting farther bidding, he straightway took her in his arms and
would have kissed her; but she said to him, 'Ere thou draw nearer to me,
hearken to that which I have to say to thee. As thou mayst see, I am a
woman and not a man, and having left home a maid, I was on my way to
the Pope, that he might marry me. Be it thy good fortune or my mishap, no
sooner did I see thee the other day than love so fired me for thee, that never
yet was woman who so loved man. Wherefore, I am resolved to take thee,
before any other, to husband; but, an thou wilt not have me to wife, begone
hence forthright and return to thy place.'
Alessandro, albeit he knew her not, having regard to her company and
retinue, judged her to be of necessity noble and rich and saw that she was
very fair; wherefore, without overlong thought, he replied that, if this
pleased her, it was mighty agreeable to him. Accordingly, sitting up with
him in bed, she put a ring into his hand and made him espouse her[90] before
a picture wherein our Lord was portrayed, after which they embraced each
other and solaced themselves with amorous dalliance, to the exceeding
pleasure of both parties, for so much as remained of the night.
When the day came, after they had taken order together concerning their
affairs, Alessandro arose and departed the chamber by the way he had
entered, without any knowing where he had passed the night. Then, glad
beyond measure, he took to the road again with the abbot and his company
and came after many days to Rome. There they abode some days, after
which the abbot, with the two knights and Alessandro and no more, went in
to the Pope and having done him due reverence, bespoke him thus, 'Holy
Father, as you should know better than any other, whoso is minded to live
well and honestly should, inasmuch as he may, eschew every occasion that
may lead him to do otherwise; the which that I, who would fain live
honestly, may throughly do, having fled privily with a great part of the
treasures of the King of England my father, (who would have given me to
wife to the King of Scotland, a very old prince, I being, as you see, a young
maid), I set out, habited as you see me, to come hither, so your Holiness
might marry me. Nor was it so much the age of the King of Scotland that
made me flee as the fear, if I were married to him, lest I should, for the

frailty of my youth, be led to do aught that might be contrary to the Divine
laws and the honour of the royal blood of my father. As I came, thus
disposed, God, who alone knoweth aright that which behoveth unto every
one, set before mine eyes (as I believe, of His mercy) him whom it pleased
Him should be my husband, to wit, this young man,' showing Alessandro,
'whom you see here beside me and whose fashions and desert are worthy of
however great a lady, although belike the nobility of his blood is not so
illustrious as the blood-royal. Him, then, have I taken and him I desire, nor
will I ever have any other than he, however it may seem to my father or to
other folk. Thus, the principal occasion of my coming is done away; but it
pleased me to make an end of my journey, at once that I might visit the holy
and reverential places, whereof this city is full, and your Holiness and that
through you I might make manifest, in your presence and consequently in
that of the rest of mankind, the marriage contracted between Alessandro and
myself in the presence of God alone. Wherefore I humbly pray you that this
which hath pleased God and me may find favour with you and that you will
vouchsafe us your benison, in order that with this, as with more assurance
of His approof whose Vicar you are, we may live and ultimately die
together.'
Alessandro marvelled to hear that the damsel was the King's daughter of
England and was inwardly filled with exceeding great gladness; but the two
knights marvelled yet more and were so incensed, that, had they been
otherwhere than in the Pope's presence, they had done Alessandro a
mischief and belike the lady also. The Pope also, on his part, marvelled
exceedingly both at the habit of the lady and at her choice; but, seeing that
there was no going back on that which was done, he consented to satisfy her
of her prayer. Accordingly, having first appeased the two knights, whom he
knew to be angered, and made them well at one again with the lady and
Alessandro, he took order for that which was to do, and the day appointed
by him being come, before all the cardinals and many other men of great
worship, come, at his bidding, to a magnificent bride-feast prepared by him,
he produced the lady, royally apparelled, who showed so fair and so
agreeable that she was worthily commended of all, and on like wise
Alessandro splendidly attired, in bearing and appearance no whit like a
youth who had lent at usury, but rather one of royal blood, and now much
honoured of the two knights. There he caused solemnly celebrate the

marriage afresh and after goodly and magnificent nuptials made, he
dismissed them with his benison.
It pleased Alessandro, and likewise the lady, departing Rome, to betake
themselves to Florence, whither report had already carried the news. There
they were received by the townsfolk with the utmost honour and the lady
caused liberate the three brothers, having first paid every man [his due].
Moreover, she reinstated them and their ladies in their possessions and with
every one's goodwill, because of this, she and her husband departed
Florence, carrying Agolante with them, and coming to Paris, were
honourably entertained by the King. Thence the two knights passed into
England and so wrought with the King that the latter restored to his
daughter his good graces and with exceeding great rejoicing received her
and his son-in-law, whom he a little after made a knight with the utmost
honour and gave him the Earldom of Cornwall. In this capacity he approved
himself a man of such parts and made shift to do on such wise that he
reconciled the son with his father, whereof there ensued great good to the
island, and thereby he gained the love and favour of all the people of the
country.
Moreover, Agolante thoroughly recovered all that was there due to him and
his brethren and returned to Florence, rich beyond measure, having first
been knighted by Count Alessandro. The latter lived long and gloriously
with his lady, and according as some avouch, what with his wit and valour
and the aid of his father-in-law, he after conquered Scotland and was
crowned King thereof."

THE FOURTH STORY
Day the Second

LANDOLFO RUFFOLO, GROWN POOR, TURNETH
CORSAIR AND BEING TAKEN BY THE
GENOESE, IS WRECKED AT SEA, BUT SAVETH
HIMSELF UPON A COFFER FULL OF JEWELS
OF PRICE AND BEING ENTERTAINED IN
CORFU BY A WOMAN, RETURNETH HOME
RICH

Lauretta, who sat next Pampinea, seeing her come to the glorious ending
of her story, began, without awaiting more, to speak on this wise: "Most
gracious ladies, there can, to my judgment, be seen no greater feat of
fortune than when we behold one raised from the lowest misery to royal
estate, even as Pampinea's story hath shown it to have betided her
Alessandro. And for that from this time forth whosoever relateth of the
appointed matter must of necessity speak within these limits,[91] I shall
think no shame to tell a story, which, albeit it compriseth in itself yet greater
distresses hath not withal so splendid an issue. I know well, indeed, that,
having regard unto that, my story will be hearkened with less diligence; but,
as I can no otherwise, I shall be excused.
The sea-coast from Reggio to Gaeta is commonly believed to be well nigh
the most delightful part of Italy, and therein, pretty near Salerno, is a
hillside overlooking the sea, which the countryfolk call Amalfi Side, full of
little towns and gardens and springs and of men as rich and stirring in the
matter of trade as any in the world. Among the said cities is one called
Ravello and therein, albeit nowadays there are rich men there, there was
aforetime one, Landolfo Ruffolo by name, who was exceeding rich and
who, his wealth sufficing him not, came nigh, in seeking to double it, to
lose it all and himself withal. This man, then, having, after the usance of
merchants, laid his plans, bought a great ship and freighting it all of his own

monies with divers merchandise, repaired therewith to Cyprus. There he
found sundry other ships come with the same kind and quality of
merchandise as he had brought, by reason of which not only was he
constrained to make great good cheap of his own venture, but it behoved
him, an he would dispose of his goods, well nigh to throw them away,
whereby he was brought near unto ruin.
Sore chagrined at this mischance and knowing not what to do, seeing
himself thus from a very rich man in brief space grown in a manner poor, he
determined either to die or repair his losses by pillage, so he might not
return thither poor, whence he had departed rich. Accordingly, having found
a purchaser for his great ship, with the price thereof and that which he had
gotten of his wares, he bought a little vessel, light and apt for cruising and
arming and garnishing it excellent well with everything needful unto such a
service, addressed himself to make his purchase of other men's goods and
especially of those of the Turks. In this trade fortune was far kinder to him
than she had been in that of a merchant, for that, in some year's space, he
plundered and took so many Turkish vessels that he found he had not only
gotten him his own again that he had lost in trade, but had more than
doubled his former substance. Whereupon, schooled by the chagrin of his
former loss and deeming he had enough, he persuaded himself, rather than
risk a second mischance, to rest content with that which he had, without
seeking more. Accordingly he resolved to return therewith to his own
country and being fearful of trade, concerned not himself to employ his
money otherwise, but, thrusting his oars into the water, set out homeward in
that same little vessel wherewith he had gained it.
He had already reached the Archipelago when there arose one evening a
violent south-east wind, which was not only contrary to his course, but
raised so great a sea that his little vessel could not endure it; wherefore he
took refuge in a bight of the sea, made by a little island, and there abode
sheltered from the wind and purposing there to await better weather. He had
not lain there long when two great Genoese carracks, coming from
Constantinople, made their way with great difficulty into the little harbour,
to avoid that from which himself had fled. The newcomers espied the little
ship and hearing that it pertained to Landolfo, whom they already knew by
report to be very rich, blocked against it the way by which it might depart
and addressed themselves, like men by nature rapacious and greedy of gain,

[92] to make prize of it. Accordingly, they landed part of their men well
harnessed and armed with crossbows and posted them on such wise that
none might come down from the bark, an he would not be shot; whilst the
rest, warping themselves in with small boats and aided by the current, laid
Landolfo's little ship aboard and took it out of hand, crew and all, without
missing a man. Landolfo they carried aboard one of the carracks, leaving
him but a sorry doublet; then, taking everything out of the ship, they
scuttled her.
On the morrow, the wind having shifted, the carracks made sail westward
and fared on their voyage prosperously all that day; but towards evening
there arose a tempestuous wind which made the waves run mountains high
and parted the two carracks one from the other. Moreover, from stress of
wind it befell that that wherein was the wretched and unfortunate Landolfo
smote with great violence upon a shoal over against the island of
Cephalonia and parting amidships, broke all in sunder no otherwise than a
glass dashed against a wall. The sea was in a moment all full of bales of
merchandise and chests and planks, that floated on the surface, as is wont to
happen in such cases, and the poor wretches on board, swimming, those
who knew how, albeit it was a very dark night and the sea was exceeding
great and swollen, fell to laying hold of such things as came within their
reach. Among the rest the unfortunate Landolfo, albeit many a time that day
he had called for death, (choosing rather to die than return home poor as he
found himself,) seeing it near at hand, was fearful thereof and like the
others, laid hold of a plank that came to his hand, so haply, an he put off
drowning awhile, God might send him some means of escape.
Bestriding this, he kept himself afloat as best he might, driven hither and
thither of the sea and the wind, till daylight, when he looked about him and
saw nothing but clouds and sea and a chest floating on the waves, which
bytimes, to his sore affright, drew nigh unto him, for that he feared lest
peradventure it should dash against him on such wise as to do him a
mischief; wherefore, as often as it came near him, he put it away from him
as best he might with his hand, albeit he had little strength thereof. But
presently there issued a sudden flaw of wind out of the air and falling on the
sea, smote upon the chest and drove it with such violence against Landolfo's
plank that the latter was overset and he himself perforce went under water.
However, he struck out and rising to the surface, aided more by fear than by

strength, saw the plank far removed from him, wherefore, fearing he might
be unable to reach it again, he made for the chest, which was pretty near
him, and laying himself flat with his breast on the lid thereof, guided it with
his arms as best he might.[93]
On this wise, tossed about by the sea now hither and now thither, without
eating, as one indeed who had not the wherewithal, but drinking more than
he could have wished, he abode all that day and the ensuing night,
unknowing where he was and descrying nought but sea; but, on the
following day, whether it was God's pleasure or stress of wind that wrought
it, he came, grown well nigh a sponge and clinging fast with both hands to
the marges of the chest, even as we see those do who are like to drown, to
the coast of the island of Corfu, where a poor woman chanced to be
scouring her pots and pans and making them bright with sand and salt
water. Seeing Landolfo draw near and discerning in him no [human] shape,
she drew back, affrighted and crying out. He could not speak and scarce
saw, wherefore he said nothing; but presently, the sea carrying him
landward, the woman descried the shape of the chest and looking straitlier,
perceived first the arms outspread upon it and then the face and guessed it
for that which it was.
Accordingly, moved with compassion, she entered somedele into the sea,
which was now calm, and seizing Landolfo by the hair, dragged him ashore,
chest and all. There having with difficulty unclasped his hands from the
chest, she set the latter on the head of a young daughter of hers, who was
with her, and carried him off, as he were a little child, to her hut, where she
put him in a bagnio and so chafed and bathed him with warm water that the
strayed heat returned to him, together with somewhat of his lost strength.
Then, taking him up out of the bath, whenas it seemed good to her, she
comforted him with somewhat of good wine and confections and tended
him some days, as best she might, till he had recovered his strength and
knew where he was, when she judged it time to restore him his chest, which
she had kept safe for him, and to tell him that he might now prosecute his
fortune.
Landolfo, who had no recollection of the chest, yet took it, when the good
woman presented it to him, thinking it could not be so little worth but that it
might defray his expenses for some days, but, finding it very light, was sore

abated of his hopes. Nevertheless, what while his hostess was abroad, he
broke it open, to see what it contained, and found therein store of precious
stones, both set and unset. He had some knowledge of these matters and
seeing them, knew them to be of great value; wherefore he praised God,
who had not yet forsaken him, and was altogether comforted. However, as
one who had in brief space been twice cruelly baffled by fortune, fearing a
third misadventure, he bethought himself that it behoved him use great
wariness and he would bring those things home; wherefore, wrapping them,
as best he might, in some rags, he told the good woman that he had no more
occasion for the chest, but that, an it pleased her, she should give him a bag
and take the chest herself. This she willingly did and he, having rendered
her the best thanks in his power for the kindness received from her,
shouldered his bag and going aboard a bark, passed over to Brindisi and
thence made his way, along the coast, to Trani.
Here he found certain townsmen of his, who were drapers and clad him for
the love of God,[94] after he had related to them all his adventures, except
that of the chest; nay more, they lent him a horse and sent him, under
escort, to Ravello, whither he said he would fain return. There, deeming
himself in safety and thanking God who had conducted him thither, he
opened his bag and examining everything more diligently than he had yet
done, found he had so many and such stones that, supposing he sold them at
a fair price or even less, he was twice as rich again as when he departed
thence. Then, finding means to dispose of his jewels, he sent a good sum of
money to Corfu to the good woman who had brought him forth of the sea,
in requital of the service received, and the like to Trani to those who had
reclothed him. The rest he kept for himself and lived in honour and worship
to the end of his days, without seeking to trade any more."

THE FIFTH STORY
Day the Second

ANDREUCCIO OF PERUGIA, COMING TO NAPLES
TO BUY HORSES, IS IN ONE NIGHT
OVERTAKEN WITH THREE GRIEVOUS
ACCIDENTS, BUT ESCAPETH THEM ALL AND
RETURNETH HOME WITH A RUBY

"The stones found by Landolfo," began Fiammetta, to whose turn it came to
tell, "have brought to my mind a story scarce less full of perilous scapes
than that related by Lauretta, but differing therefrom inasmuch as the
adventures comprised in the latter befell in the course of belike several
years and these of which I have to tell in the space of a single night, as you
shall hear.
There was once in Perugia, as I have heard tell aforetime, a young man, a
horse-courser, by name Andreuccio di Pietro,[95] who, hearing that horses
were good cheap at Naples, put five hundred gold florins in his purse and
betook himself thither with other merchants, having never before been away
from home. He arrived there one Sunday evening, towards vespers, and
having taken counsel with his host, sallied forth next morning to the market,
where he saw great plenty of horses. Many of them pleased him and he
cheapened one and another, but could not come to an accord concerning
any. Meanwhile, to show that he was for buying, he now and again, like a
raw unwary clown as he was, pulled out the purse of florins he had with
him, in the presence of those who came and went. As he was thus engaged,
with his purse displayed, it chanced that a Sicilian damsel, who was very
handsome, but disposed for a small matter to do any man's pleasure, passed
near him, without his seeing her, and catching sight of the purse, said
straightway in herself, 'Who would fare better than I, if yonder money were
mine!' And passed on.

Now there was with her an old woman, likewise a Sicilian, who, seeing
Andreuccio, let her companion pass on and running to him, embraced him
affectionately, which when the damsel saw, she stepped aside to wait for
her, without saying aught. Andreuccio, turning to the old woman and
recognizing her, gave her a hearty greeting and she, having promised to
visit him at his inn, took leave, without holding overlong parley there,
whilst he fell again to chaffering, but bought nothing that morning. The
damsel, who had noted first Andreuccio's purse and after her old woman's
acquaintance with him, began cautiously to enquire of the latter, by way of
casting about for a means of coming at the whole or part of the money, who
and whence he was and what he did there and how she came to know him.
The old woman told her every particular of Andreuccio's affairs well nigh
as fully as he himself could have done, having long abidden with his father,
first in Sicily and after at Perugia, and acquainted her, to boot, where he
lodged and wherefore he was come thither.
The damsel, being thus fully informed both of his name and parentage,
thereby with subtle craft laid her plans for giving effect to her desire and
returning home, set the old woman awork for the rest of the day, so she
might not avail to return to Andreuccio. Then, calling a maid of hers, whom
she had right well lessoned unto such offices, she despatched her, towards
evensong, to the inn where Andreuccio lodged. As chance would have it,
she found him alone at the door and enquired at him of himself. He
answered that he was the man she sought, whereupon she drew him aside
and said to him, 'Sir, an it please you, a gentlewoman of this city would fain
speak with you.' Andreuccio, hearing this, considered himself from head to
foot and himseeming he was a handsome varlet of his person, he concluded
(as if there were no other well-looking young fellow to be found in Naples,)
that the lady in question must have fallen in love with him. Accordingly, he
answered without further deliberation that he was ready and asked the girl
when and where the lady would speak with him; whereto she answered, 'Sir,
whenas it pleaseth you to come, she awaiteth you in her house'; and
Andreuccio forthwith rejoined, without saying aught to the people of the
inn, 'Go thou on before; I will come after thee.'
Thereupon the girl carried him to the house of her mistress, who dwelt in a
street called Malpertugio,[96] the very name whereof denoteth how
reputable a quarter it is. But he, unknowing neither suspecting aught thereof

and thinking to go to most honourable place and to a lady of quality, entered
the house without hesitation,—preceded by the serving-maid, who called
her mistress and said, 'Here is Andreuccio,'—and mounting the stair, saw
the damsel come to the stairhead to receive him. Now she was yet in the
prime of youth, tall of person, with a very fair face and very handsomely
dressed and adorned. As he drew near her, she came down three steps to
meet him with open arms and clasping him round the neck, abode awhile
without speaking, as if hindered by excess of tenderness; then kissed him on
the forehead, weeping, and said, in a somewhat broken voice, 'O my
Andreuccio, thou art indeed welcome.'
He was amazed at such tender caresses and answered, all confounded,
'Madam, you are well met.' Thereupon, taking him by the hand, she carried
him up into her saloon and thence, without saying another word to him, she
brought him into her chamber, which was all redolent of roses and orange
flowers and other perfumes. Here he saw a very fine bed, hung round with
curtains, and store of dresses upon the pegs and other very goodly and rich
gear, after the usance of those parts; by reason whereof, like a freshman as
he was, he firmly believed her to be no less than a great lady. She made him
sit with her on a chest that stood at the foot of the bed and bespoke him
thus, 'Andreuccio, I am very certain thou marvellest at these caresses that I
bestow on thee and at my tears, as he may well do who knoweth me not and
hath maybe never heard speak of me; but I have that to tell thee which is
like to amaze thee yet more, namely, that I am thy sister; and I tell thee that,
since God hath vouchsafed me to look upon one of my brothers, (though
fain would I see you all,) before my death, henceforth I shall not die
disconsolate; and as perchance thou has never heard of this, I will tell it
thee.
Pietro, my father and thine, as I doubt not thou knowest, abode long in
Palermo and there for his good humour and pleasant composition was and
yet is greatly beloved of those who knew him; but, among all his lovers, my
mother, who was a lady of gentle birth and then a widow, was she who most
affected him, insomuch that, laying aside the fear of her father and brethren,
as well as the care of her own honour, she became so private with him that I
was born thereof and grew up as thou seest me. Presently, having occasion
to depart Palermo and return to Perugia, he left me a little maid with my
mother nor ever after, for all that I could hear, remembered him of me or

her; whereof, were he not my father, I should blame him sore, having regard
to the ingratitude shown by him to my mother (to say nothing of the love it
behoved him bear me, as his daughter, born of no serving-wench nor
woman of mean extraction) who had, moved by very faithful love, without
anywise knowing who he might be, committed into his hands her
possessions and herself no less. But what [skilleth it]? Things ill done and
long time passed are easier blamed than mended; algates, so it was.
He left me a little child in Palermo, where being grown well nigh as I am
now, my mother, who was a rich lady, gave me to wife to a worthy
gentleman of Girgenti, who, for her love and mine, came to abide at
Palermo and there, being a great Guelph,[97] he entered into treaty with our
King Charles,[98] which, being discovered by King Frederick,[99] ere effect
could be given to it, was the occasion of our being enforced to flee from
Sicily, whenas I looked to be the greatest lady was ever in the island;
wherefore, taking such few things as we might (I say few, in respect of the
many we had) and leaving our lands and palaces, we took refuge in this
city, where we found King Charles so mindful of our services that he hath
in part made good to us the losses we had sustained for him, bestowing on
us both lands and houses, and still maketh my husband, thy kinsman that is,
a goodly provision, as thou shalt hereafter see. On this wise come I in this
city, where, Godamercy and no thanks to thee, sweet my brother, I now
behold thee.' So saying, she embraced him over again and kissed him on the
forehead, still weeping for tenderness.
Andreuccio, hearing this fable so orderly, so artfully delivered by the
damsel, without ever stammering or faltering for a word, and remembering
it to be true that his father had been in Palermo, knowing, moreover, by
himself the fashions of young men and how lightly they fall in love in their
youth and seeing the affectionate tears and embraces and the chaste kisses
that she lavished on him, held all she told him for more than true;
wherefore, as soon as she was silent, he answered her, saying, 'Madam, it
should seem to you no very great matter if I marvel, for that in truth,
whether it be that my father, for whatsoever reason, never spoke of your
mother nor of yourself, or that if he did, it came not to my notice, I had no
more knowledge of you than if you had never been, and so much the dearer
is it to me to find you my sister here, as I am alone in this city and the less
expected this. Indeed, I know no man of so high a condition that you should

not be dear to him, to say nothing of myself, who am but a petty trader. But
I pray you make me clear of one thing; how knew you that I was here?'
Whereto she made answer, 'A poor woman, who much frequenteth me, gave
me this morning to know of thy coming, for that, as she telleth me, she
abode long with our father both at Palermo and at Perugia; and but that
meseemed it was a more reputable thing that thou shouldst visit me in my
own house than I thee in that of another, I had come to thee this great while
agone.' After this, she proceeded to enquire more particularly of all his
kinsfolk by name, and he answered her of all, giving the more credence, by
reason of this, to that which it the less behoved him to believe.
The talk being long and the heat great, she called for Greek wine and
confections and let give Andreuccio to drink, after which he would have
taken leave, for that it was supper-time; but she would on no wise suffer it
and making a show of being sore vexed, embraced him and said, 'Ah, woe
is me! I see but too clearly how little dear I am to thee! Who would believe
that thou couldst be with a sister of thine, whom thou hast never yet seen
and in whose house thou shouldst have lighted down, whenas thou earnest
hither, and offer to leave her, to go sup at the inn? Indeed, thou shalt sup
with me, and albeit my husband is abroad, which grieveth me mightily, I
shall know well how to do thee some little honour, such as a woman may.'
To which Andreuccio, unknowing what else he should say, answered, 'I
hold you as dear as a sister should be held; but, an I go not, I shall be
expected to supper all the evening and shall do an unmannerliness.' 'Praised
be God!' cried she. 'One would think I had no one in the house to send to
tell them not to expect thee; albeit thou wouldst do much greater courtesy
and indeed but thy duty an thou sentest to bid thy companions come hither
to supper; and after, am thou must e'en begone, you might all go away
together.'
Andreuccio replied that he had no desire for his companions that evening;
but that, since it was agreeable to her, she might do her pleasure of him.
Accordingly, she made a show of sending to the inn to say that he was not
to be expected to supper, and after much other discourse, they sat down to
supper and were sumptuously served with various meats, whilst she adroitly
contrived to prolong the repast till it was dark night. Then, when they rose
from table and Andreuccio would have taken his leave, she declared that
she would on no wise suffer this, for that Naples was no place to go about

in by night especially for a stranger, and that, whenas she sent to the inn to
say that he was not to be expected to supper, she had at the same time given
notice that he would lie abroad. Andreuccio, believing this and taking
pleasure in being with her, beguiled as he was by false credence, abode
where he was, and after supper they held much and long discourse, not
without reason,[100] till a part of the night was past, when she withdrew with
her women into another room, leaving Andreuccio in her own chamber,
with a little lad to wait upon him, if he should lack aught.
The heat being great, Andreuccio, as soon as he found himself alone,
stripped to his doublet and putting off his hosen, laid them at the bedhead;
after which, natural use soliciting him to rid himself of the overmuch
burden of his stomach, he asked the boy where this might be done, who
showed him a door in one corner of the room and said, 'Go in there.'
Accordingly he opened the door and passing through in all assurance,
chanced to set foot on a plank, which, being broken loose from the joist at
the opposite end, [flew up] and down they went, plank and man together.
God so favoured him that he did himself no hurt in the fall, albeit he fell
from some height; but he was all bemired with the ordure whereof the place
was full; and in order that you may the better apprehend both that which
hath been said and that which ensueth, I will show you how the place lay.
There were in a narrow alley, such as we often see between two houses, a
pair of rafters laid from one house to another, and thereon sundry boards
nailed and the place of session set up; of which boards that which gave way
with Andreuccio was one.
Finding himself, then, at the bottom of the alley and sore chagrined at the
mishap, he fell a-bawling for the boy; but the latter, as soon as he heard him
fall, had run to tell his mistress, who hastened to his chamber and searching
hurriedly if his clothes were there, found them and with them the money,
which, in his mistrust, he still foolishly carried about him. Having now
gotten that for which, feigning herself of Palermo and sister to a Perugian,
she had set her snare, she took no more reck of him, but hastened to shut the
door whereby he had gone out when he fell.
Andreuccio, getting no answer from the boy, proceeded to call loudlier, but
to no purpose; whereupon, his suspicions being now aroused, he began too
late to smoke the cheat. Accordingly, he scrambled over a low wall that shut

off the alley from the street, and letting himself down into the road, went up
to the door of the house, which he knew very well, and there called long
and loud and shook and beat upon it amain, but all in vain. Wherefore,
bewailing himself, as one who was now fully aware of his mischance, 'Ah,
woe is me!' cried he. 'In how little time have I lost five hundred florins and
a sister!' Then, after many other words, he fell again to battering the door
and crying out and this he did so long and so lustily that many of the
neighbours, being awakened and unable to brook the annoy, arose and one
of the courtezan's waiting-women, coming to the window, apparently all
sleepy-eyed, said peevishly, 'Who knocketh below there?'
'What?' cried Andreuccio. 'Dost thou not know me? I am Andreuccio,
brother to Madam Fiordaliso.' Whereto quoth she, 'Good man, an thou have
drunken overmuch, go sleep and come back to-morrow morning. I know no
Andreuccio nor what be these idle tales thou tellest. Begone in peace and let
us sleep, so it please thee.' 'How?' replied Andreuccio. 'Thou knowest not
what I mean? Certes, thou knowest; but, if Sicilian kinships be of such a
fashion that they are forgotten in so short a time, at least give me back my
clothes and I will begone with all my heart.' 'Good man,' rejoined she, as if
laughing, 'methinketh thou dreamest'; and to say this and to draw in her
head and shut the window were one and the same thing. Whereat
Andreuccio, now fully certified of his loss, was like for chagrin to turn his
exceeding anger into madness and bethought himself to seek to recover by
violence that which he might not have again with words; wherefore, taking
up a great stone, he began anew to batter the door more furiously than ever.
At this many of the neighbours, who had already been awakened and had
arisen, deeming him some pestilent fellow who had trumped up this story to
spite the woman of the house and provoked at the knocking he kept up,
came to the windows and began to say, no otherwise than as all the dogs of
a quarter bark after a strange dog, ''Tis a villainous shame to come at this
hour to decent women's houses and tell these cock-and-bull stories. For
God's sake, good man, please you begone in peace and let us sleep. An thou
have aught to mell with her, come back to-morrow and spare us this annoy
to-night.' Taking assurance, perchance, by these words, there came to the
window one who was within the house, a bully of the gentlewoman's,
whom Andreuccio had as yet neither heard nor seen, and said, in a terrible
big rough voice, 'Who is below there?'

Andreuccio, hearing this, raised his eyes and saw at the window one who,
by what little he could make out, himseemed should be a very masterful
fellow, with a bushy black beard on his face, and who yawned and rubbed
his eyes, as he had arisen from bed or deep sleep; whereupon, not without
fear, he answered, 'I am a brother of the lady of the house.' The other waited
not for him to make an end of his reply, but said, more fiercely than before,
'I know not what hindereth me from coming down and cudgelling thee what
while I see thee stir, for a pestilent drunken ass as thou must be, who will
not let us sleep this night.' Then, drawing back into the house, he shut the
window; whereupon certain of the neighbours, who were better acquainted
with the fellow's quality, said softly to Andreuccio, 'For God's sake, good
man, begone in peace and abide not there to-night to be slain; get thee gone
for thine own good.'
Andreuccio, terrified at the fellow's voice and aspect and moved by the
exhortations of the neighbours, who seemed to him to speak out of charity,
set out to return to his inn, in the direction of the quarter whence he had
followed the maid, without knowing whither to go, despairing of his money
and woebegone as ever man was. Being loathsome to himself, for the
stench that came from him, and thinking to repair to the sea to wash
himself, he turned to the left and followed a street called Ruga Catalana,
[101] that led towards the upper part of the city. Presently, he espied two men
coming towards him with a lantern and fearing they might be officers of the
watch or other ill-disposed folk, he stealthily took refuge, to avoid them, in
a hovel, that he saw hard by. But they, as of malice aforethought, made
straight for the same place and entering in, began to examine certain irons
which one of them laid from off his shoulder, discoursing various things
thereof the while.
Presently, 'What meaneth this?' quoth one. 'I smell the worst stench
meseemeth I ever smelt.' So saying, he raised the lantern and seeing the
wretched Andreuccio, enquired, in amazement. 'Who is there?' Andreuccio
made no answer, but they came up to him with the light and asked him what
he did there in such a pickle; whereupon he related to them all that had
befallen him, and they, conceiving where this might have happened, said,
one to the other, 'Verily, this must have been in the house of Scarabone
Buttafuocco.' Then, turning to him, 'Good man,' quoth one, 'albeit thou hast
lost thy money, thou hast much reason to praise God that this mischance

betided thee, so that thou fellest nor couldst after avail to enter the house
again; for, hadst thou not fallen, thou mayst be assured that, when once thou
wast fallen asleep, thou hadst been knocked on the head and hadst lost thy
life as well as thy money. But what booteth it now to repine? Thou mayst as
well look to have the stars out of the sky as to recover a farthing of thy
money; nay, thou art like to be murdered, should yonder fellow hear that
thou makest any words thereof.' Then they consulted together awhile and
presently said to him, 'Look you, we are moved to pity for thee; wherefore,
an thou wilt join with us in somewhat we go about to do, it seemeth to us
certain that there will fall to thee for thy share much more than the value of
that which thou hast lost.' Whereupon Andreuccio, in his desperation,
answered that he was ready.
Now there had been that day buried an archbishop of Naples, by name
Messer Filippo Minutolo, and he had been interred in his richest ornaments
and with a ruby on his finger worth more than five hundred florins of gold.
Him they were minded to despoil and this their intent they discovered to
Andreuccio, who, more covetous than well-advised, set out with them for
the cathedral. As they went, Andreuccio still stinking amain, one of the
thieves said, 'Can we not find means for this fellow to wash himself a little,
be it where it may, so he may not stink so terribly?' 'Ay can we,' answered
the other. 'We are here near a well, where there useth to be a rope and pulley
and a great bucket; let us go thither and we will wash him in a trice.'
Accordingly they made for the well in question and found the rope there,
but the bucket had been taken away; wherefore they took counsel together
to tie him to the rope and let him down into the well, so he might wash
himself there, charging him shake the rope as soon as he was clean, and
they would pull him up.
Hardly had they let him down when, as chance would have it, certain of the
watch, being athirst for the heat and with running after some rogue or
another, came to the well to drink, and the two rogues, setting eyes on them,
made off incontinent, before the officers saw them. Presently, Andreuccio,
having washed himself at the bottom of the well, shook the rope, and the
thirsty officers, laying by their targets and arms and surcoats, began to haul
upon the rope, thinking the bucket full of water at the other end. As soon as
Andreuccio found himself near the top, he let go the rope and laid hold of
the marge with both hands; which when the officers saw, overcome with

sudden affright, they dropped the rope, without saying a word, and took to
their heels as quickliest they might. At this Andreuccio marvelled sore, and
but that he had fast hold of the marge, would have fallen to the bottom, to
his no little hurt or maybe death. However, he made his way out and finding
the arms, which he knew were none of his companions' bringing, he was yet
more amazed; but, knowing not what to make of it and misdoubting [some
snare], he determined to begone without touching aught and accordingly
made off he knew not whither, bewailing his ill-luck.
As he went, he met his two comrades, who came to draw him forth of the
well; and when they saw him, they marvelled exceedingly and asked him
who had drawn him up. Andreuccio replied that he knew not and told them
orderly how it had happened and what he had found by the wellside,
whereupon the others, perceiving how the case stood, told him, laughing,
why they had fled and who these were that had pulled him up. Then,
without farther parley, it being now middle night, they repaired to the
cathedral and making their way thereinto lightly enough, went straight to
the archbishop's tomb, which was of marble and very large. With their irons
they raised the lid, which was very heavy, and propped it up so as a man
might enter; which being done, quoth one, 'Who shall go in?' 'Not I,'
answered the other. 'Nor I,' rejoined his fellow; 'let Andreuccio enter.' 'That
will I not,' said the latter; whereupon the two rogues turned upon him and
said, 'How! Thou wilt not? Cock's faith, an thou enter not, we will clout
thee over the costard with one of these iron bars till thou fall dead.'
Andreuccio, affrighted, crept into the tomb, saying in himself the while,
'These fellows will have me go in here so they may cheat me, for that, when
I shall have given them everything, they will begone about their business,
whilst I am labouring to win out of the tomb, and I shall abide empty-
handed.' Accordingly, he determined to make sure of his share beforehand;
wherefore, as soon as he came to the bottom, calling to mind the precious
ring whereof he had heard them speak, he drew it from the archbishop's
finger and set it on his own. Then he passed them the crozier and mitre and
gloves and stripping the dead man to his shirt, gave them everything, saying
that there was nothing more. The others declared that the ring must be there
and bade him seek everywhere; but he replied that he found it not and
making a show of seeking it, kept them in play awhile. At last, the two
rogues, who were no less wily than himself, bidding him seek well the

while, took occasion to pull away the prop that held up the lid and made off,
leaving him shut in the tomb.
What became of Andreuccio, when he found himself in this plight, you may
all imagine for yourselves. He strove again and again to heave up the lid
with his head and shoulders, but only wearied himself in vain; wherefore,
overcome with chagrin and despair, he fell down in a swoon upon the
archbishop's dead body; and whoso saw him there had hardly known which
was the deader, the prelate or he. Presently, coming to himself, he fell into a
passion of weeping, seeing he must there without fail come to one of two
ends, to wit, either he must, if none came thither to open the tomb again, die
of hunger and stench, among the worms of the dead body, or, if any came
and found him there, he would certainly be hanged for a thief.
As he abode in this mind, exceeding woebegone, he heard folk stirring in
the Church and many persons speaking and presently perceived that they
came to do that which he and his comrades had already done; whereat fear
redoubled upon him. But, after the newcomers had forced open the tomb
and propped up the lid, they fell into dispute of who should go in, and none
was willing to do it. However, after long parley, a priest said, 'What fear ye?
Think you he will eat you? The dead eat not men. I will go in myself.' So
saying, he set his breast to the marge of the tomb and turning his head
outward, put in his legs, thinking to let himself drop. Andreuccio, seeing
this, started up and catching the priest by one of his legs, made a show of
offering to pull him down into the tomb. The other, feeling this, gave a
terrible screech and flung precipitately out of the tomb; whereupon all the
others fled in terror, as they were pursued by an hundred thousand devils,
leaving the tomb open.
Andreuccio, seeing this, scrambled hastily out of the tomb, rejoiced beyond
all hope, and made off out of the church by the way he had entered in. The
day now drawing near, he fared on at a venture, with the ring on his finger,
till he came to the sea-shore and thence made his way back to his inn,
where he found his comrades and the host, who had been in concern for him
all that night. He told them what had betided him and themseemed, by the
host's counsel, that he were best depart Naples incontinent. Accordingly, he
set out forthright and returned to Perugia, having invested his money in a
ring, whereas he came to buy horses."

THE SIXTH STORY

Day the Second

MADAM BERITOLA, HAVING LOST HER TWO
SONS, IS FOUND ON A DESERT ISLAND WITH
TWO KIDS AND GOETH THENCE INTO
LUNIGIANA, WHERE ONE OF HER SONS,
TAKING SERVICE WITH THE LORD OF THE
COUNTRY, LIETH WITH HIS DAUGHTER AND
IS CAST INTO PRISON. SICILY AFTER
REBELLING AGAINST KING CHARLES AND
THE YOUTH BEING RECOGNIZED BY HIS
MOTHER, HE ESPOUSETH HIS LORD'S
DAUGHTER, AND HIS BROTHER BEING
LIKEWISE FOUND, THEY ARE ALL THREE
RESTORED TO HIGH ESTATE

Ladies and young men alike laughed heartily at Andreuccio's adventures, as
related by Fiammetta, and Emilia, seeing the story ended, began, by the
queen's commandment, to speak thus: "Grievous things and woeful are the
various shifts of Fortune, whereof,—for that, whenassoever it is discoursed
of them, it is an awakenment for our minds, which lightly fall asleep under
her blandishments,—methinketh it should never be irksome either to the
happy or the unhappy to hear tell, inasmuch as it rendereth the former wary
and consoleth the latter. Wherefore, albeit great things have already been
recounted upon this subject, I purpose to tell you thereanent a story no less
true than pitiful, whereof, for all it had a joyful ending, so great and so
longsome was the bitterness that I can scarce believe it to have been
assuaged by any subsequent gladness.
You must know, dearest ladies, that, after the death of the Emperor
Frederick the Second, Manfred was crowned King of Sicily, in very high
estate with whom was a gentleman of Naples called Arrighetto Capece, who
had to wife a fair and noble lady, also of Naples, by name Madam Beritola
Caracciola. The said Arrighetto, who had the governance of the island in his
hands, hearing that King Charles the First[102] had overcome and slain
Manfred at Benevento and that all the realm had revolted to him and having
scant assurance of the short-lived fidelity of the Sicilians, prepared for

flight, misliking to become a subject of his lord's enemy; but, his intent
being known of the Sicilians, he and many other friends and servants of
King Manfred were suddenly made prisoners and delivered to King
Charles, together with possession of the island.
Madam Beritola, in this grievous change of affairs, knowing not what was
come of Arrighetto and sore adread of that which had befallen, abandoned
all her possessions for fear of shame and poor and pregnant as she was,
embarked, with a son of hers and maybe eight years of age, Giusfredi by
name, in a little boat and fled to Lipari, where she gave birth to another
male child, whom she named Scacciato,[103] and getting her a nurse, took
ship with all three to return to her kinsfolk at Naples. But it befell otherwise
than as she purposed; for that the ship, which should have gone to Naples,
was carried by stress of wind to the island of Ponza,[104] where they entered
a little bight of the sea and there awaited an occasion for continuing their
voyage. Madam Beritola, going up, like the rest, into the island and finding
a remote and solitary place, addressed herself to make moan for her
Arrighetto, all alone there.
This being her daily usance, it chanced one day that, as she was occupied in
bewailing herself, there came up a pirate galley, unobserved of any, sailor or
other, and taking them all at unawares, made off with her prize. Madam
Beritola, having made an end of her diurnal lamentation, returned to the
sea-shore, as she was used to do, to visit her children, but found none there;
whereat she first marvelled and after, suddenly misdoubting her of that
which had happened, cast her eyes out to sea and saw the galley at no great
distance, towing the little ship after it; whereby she knew but too well that
she had lost her children, as well as her husband, and seeing herself there
poor and desolate and forsaken, unknowing where she should ever again
find any of them, she fell down aswoon upon the strand, calling upon her
husband and her children. There was none there to recall her distracted
spirits with cold water or other remedy, wherefore they might at their
leisure go wandering whither it pleased them; but, after awhile, the lost
senses returning to her wretched body, in company with tears and
lamentations, she called long upon her children and went a great while
seeking them in every cavern. At last, finding all her labour in vain and
seeing the night coming on, she began, hoping and knowing not what, to be

careful for herself and departing the sea-shore, returned to the cavern where
she was wont to weep and bemoan herself.
She passed the night in great fear and inexpressible dolour and the new day
being come and the hour of tierce past, she was fain, constrained by hunger,
for that she had not supped overnight, to browse upon herbs; and having fed
as best she might, she gave herself, weeping, to various thoughts of her
future life. Pondering thus, she saw a she-goat enter a cavern hard by and
presently issue thence and betake herself into the wood; whereupon she
arose and entering whereas the goat had come forth, found there two little
kidlings, born belike that same day, which seemed to her the quaintest and
prettiest things in the world. Her milk being yet undried from her recent
delivery, she tenderly took up the kids and set them to her breast. They
refused not the service, but sucked her as if she had been their dam and
thenceforth made no distinction between the one and the other. Wherefore,
herseeming she had found some company in that desert place, and growing
no less familiar with the old goat than with her little ones, she resigned
herself to live and die there and abode eating of herbs and drinking water
and weeping as often as she remembered her of her husband and children
and of her past life.
The gentle lady, thus grown a wild creature, abiding on this wise, it befell,
after some months, that there came on like wise to the place whither she had
aforetime been driven by stress of weather, a little vessel from Pisa and
there abode some days. On broad this bark was a gentleman named Currado
[of the family] of the Marquises of Malespina, who, with his wife, a lady of
worth and piety, was on his return home from a pilgrimage to all the holy
places that be in the kingdom of Apulia. To pass away the time, Currado set
out one day, with his lady and certain of his servants and his dogs, to go
about the island, and not far from Madam Beritola's place of harbourage,
the dogs started the two kids, which were now grown pretty big, as they
went grazing. The latter, chased by the dogs, fled to no other place but into
the cavern where was Madam Beritola, who, seeing this, started to her feet
and catching up a staff, beat off the dogs. Currado and his wife, who came
after them, seeing the lady, who was grown swart and lean and hairy,
marvelled, and she yet more at them. But after Currado had, at her instance,
called off his dogs, they prevailed with her, by dint of much entreaty, to tell
them who she was and what she did there; whereupon she fully discovered

to them her whole condition and all that had befallen her, together with her
firm resolution [to abide alone in the island].
Currado, who had know Arrighetto Capece very well, hearing this, wept for
pity, and did his utmost to divert her with words from so barbarous a
purpose, offering to carry her back to her own house or to keep her with
himself, holding her in such honour as his sister, until God should send her
happier fortune. The lady not yielding to these proffers, Currado left his
wife with her, bidding the latter cause bring thither to eat and clothe the
lady, who was all in rags, with some of her own apparel, and charging her
contrive, by whatsoever means, to bring her away with her. Accordingly, the
gentle lady, being left with Madam Beritola, after condoling with her amain
of her misfortunes, sent for raiment and victual and prevailed on her, with
all the pains in the world, to don the one and eat the other.
Ultimately, after many prayers, Madam Beritola protesting that she would
never consent to go whereas she might be known, she persuaded her to go
with her into Lunigiana, together with the two kids and their dam, which
latter were meantime returned and had greeted her with the utmost
fondness, to the no small wonderment of the gentlewoman. Accordingly, as
soon as fair weather was come, Madam Beritola embarked with Currado
and his lady in their vessel, carrying with her the two kids and the she-goat
(on whose account, her name being everywhere unknown, she was styled
Cavriuola[105]) and setting sail with a fair wind, came speedily to the mouth
of the Magra,[106] where they landed and went up to Currado's castle. There
Madam Beritola abode, in a widow's habit, about the person of Currado's
lady, as one of her waiting-women, humble, modest and obedient, still
cherishing her kids and letting nourish them.
Meanwhile, the corsairs, who had taken the ship wherein Madam Beritola
came to Ponza, but had left herself, as being unseen of them, betook
themselves with all the other folk to Genoa, where, the booty coming to be
shared among the owners of the galley, it chanced that the nurse and the two
children fell, amongst other things, to the lot of a certain Messer
Guasparrino d'Oria,[107] who sent them all three to his mansion, to be there
employed as slaves about the service of the house. The nurse, afflicted
beyond measure at the loss of her mistress and at the wretched condition
where into she found herself and the two children fallen, wept long and

sore; but, for that, albeit a poor woman, she was discreet and well-advised,
when she saw that tears availed nothing and that she was become a slave
together with them, she first comforted herself as best she might and after,
considering whither they were come, she bethought herself that, should the
two children be known, they might lightly chance to suffer hindrance;
wherefore, hoping withal that, sooner or later fortune might change and
they, an they lived, regain their lost estate, she resolved to discover to no
one who they were, until she should see occasion therefor, and told all who
asked her thereof that they were her sons. The elder she named, not
Giusfredi, but Giannotto di Procida (the name of the younger she cared not
to change), and explained to him, with the utmost diligence, why she had
changed his name, showing him in what peril he might be, an he were
known. This she set out to him not once, but many and many a time, and the
boy, who was quick of wit, punctually obeyed the enjoinment of his discreet
nurse.
Accordingly, the two boys and their nurse abode patiently in Messer
Guasparrino's house several years, ill-clad and worse shod and employed
about the meanest offices. But Giannotto, who was now sixteen years of
age, and had more spirit than pertained to a slave, scorning the baseness of
a menial condition, embarked on board certain galleys bound for Alexandria
and taking leave of Messer Guasparrino's service, journeyed to divers parts,
without any wise availing to advance himself. At last some three or four
years after his departure from Genoa, being grown a handsome youth and
tall of his person and hearing that his father, whom he thought dead, was yet
alive, but was kept by King Charles in prison and duresse, he went
wandering at a venture, well nigh despairing of fortune, till he came to
Lunigiana and there, as chance would have it, took service with Currado
Malespina, whom he served with great aptitude and acceptance. And albeit
he now and again saw his mother, who was with Currado's lady, he never
recognized her nor she him, so much had time changed the one and the
other from that which they were used to be, whenas they last set eyes on
each other.
Giannotto being, then, in Currado's service, it befell that a daughter of the
latter, by name Spina, being left the widow of one Niccolo da Grignano,
returned to her father's house and being very fair and agreeable and a girl of
little more than sixteen years of age, chanced to cast eyes on Giannotto and

he on her, and they became passionately enamoured of each other. Their
love was not long without effect and lasted several months ere any was
ware thereof. Wherefore, taking overmuch assurance, they began to order
themselves with less discretion than behoveth unto matters of this kind, and
one day, as they went, the young lady and Giannotto together, through a fair
and thickset wood, they pushed on among the trees, leaving the rest of the
company behind. Presently, themseeming they had far foregone the others,
they laid themselves down to rest in a pleasant place, full of grass and
flowers and shut in with trees, and there fell to taking amorous delight one
of the other.
In this occupation, the greatness of their delight making the time seem brief
to them, albeit they had been there a great while, they were surprised, first
by the girl's mother and after by Currado, who, chagrined beyond measure
at this sight, without saying aught of the cause, had them both seized by
three of his serving-men and carried in bonds to a castle of his and went off,
boiling with rage and despite and resolved to put them both to a shameful
death. The girl's mother, although sore incensed and holding her daughter
worthy of the severest punishment for her default, having by certain words
of Currado apprehended his intent towards the culprits and unable to brook
this, hastened after her enraged husband and began to beseech him that it
would please him not run madly to make himself in his old age the
murderer of his own daughter and to soil his hands with the blood of one of
his servants, but to find other means of satisfying his wrath, such as to clap
them in prison and there let them pine and bewail the fault committed. With
these and many other words the pious lady so wrought upon him that she
turned his mind from putting them to death and he bade imprison them,
each in a place apart, where they should be well guarded and kept with
scant victual and much unease, till such time as he should determine farther
of them. As he bade, so was it done, and what their life was in duresse and
continual tears and in fasts longer than might have behoved unto them, each
may picture to himself.
What while Giannotto and Spina abode in this doleful case and had therein
already abidden a year's space, unremembered of Currado, it came to pass
that King Pedro of Arragon, by the procurement of Messer Gian di Procida,
raised the island of Sicily against King Charles and took it from him,
whereat Currado, being a Ghibelline,[108] rejoiced exceedingly, Giannotto,

hearing of this from one of those who had him in guard, heaved a great sigh
and said, 'Ah, woe is me! These fourteen years have I gone ranging
beggarlike about the world, looking for nought other than this, which, now
that it is come, so I may never again hope for weal, hath found me in a
prison whence I have no hope ever to come forth, save dead.' 'How so?'
asked the gaoler. 'What doth that concern thee which great kings do to one
another? What hast thou to do in Sicily?' Quoth Giannotto, 'My heart is like
to burst when I remember me of that which my father erst had to do there,
whom, albeit I was but a little child, when I fled thence, yet do I mind me to
have been lord thereof, in the lifetime of King Manfred.' 'And who was thy
father?' asked the gaoler. 'My father's name,' answered Giannotto, 'I may
now safely make known, since I find myself in the peril whereof I was in
fear, an I discovered it. He was and is yet, an he live, called Arrighetto
Capece, and my name is, not Giannotto, but Giusfredi, and I doubt not a jot,
an I were quit of this prison, but I might yet, by returning to Sicily, have
very high place there.'
The honest man, without asking farther, reported Giannotto's words, as first
he had occasion, to Currado, who, hearing this,—albeit he feigned to the
gaoler to make light of it,—betook himself to Madam Beritola and
courteously asked her if she had had by Arrighetto a son named Giusfredi.
The lady answered, weeping, that, if the elder of her two sons were alive, he
would so be called and would be two-and-twenty years old. Currado,
hearing this, concluded that this must be he and bethought himself that,
were it so, he might at once do a great mercy and take away his own and his
daughter's shame by giving her to Giannotto to wife; wherefore, sending
privily for the latter, he particularly examined him touching all his past life
and finding, by very manifest tokens, that he was indeed Giusfredi, son of
Arrighetto Capece, he said to him, 'Giannotto, thou knowest what and how
great is the wrong thou hast done me in the person of my daughter, whereas,
I having ever well and friendly entreated thee, it behoved thee, as a servant
should, still to study and do for my honour and interest; and many there be
who, hadst thou used them like as thou hast used me, would have put thee
to a shameful death, the which my clemency brooked not. Now, if it be as
thou tellest me, to wit, that thou art the son of a man of condition and of a
noble lady, I purpose, an thou thyself be willing, to put an end to thy
tribulations and relieving thee from the misery and duresse wherein thou

abidest, to reinstate at once thine honour and mine own in their due stead.
As thou knowest, Spina, whom thou hast, though after a fashion
misbeseeming both thyself and her, taken with love-liking, is a widow and
her dowry is both great and good; as for her manners and her father and
mother, thou knowest them, and of thy present state I say nothing.
Wherefore, an thou will, I purpose that, whereas she hath unlawfully been
thy mistress, she shall now lawfully become thy wife and that thou shalt
abide here with me and with her, as my very son, so long as it shall please
thee.'
Now prison had mortified Giannotto's flesh, but had nothing abated the
generous spirit, which he derived from his noble birth, nor yet the entire
affection he bore his mistress; and albeit he ardently desired that which
Currado proffered him and saw himself in the latter's power, yet no whit did
he dissemble of that which the greatness of his soul prompted him to say;
wherefore he answered, 'Currado, neither lust of lordship nor greed of gain
nor other cause whatever hath ever made me lay snares, traitor-wise, for thy
life or thy good. I loved and love thy daughter and still shall love her, for
that I hold her worthy of my love, and if I dealt with her less than
honourably, in the opinion of the vulgar, my sin was one which still goeth
hand in hand with youth and which an you would do away, it behoveth you
first do away with youth. Moreover, it is an offence which, would the old
but remember them of having been young and measure the defaults of
others by their own and their own by those of others, would show less
grievous than thou and many others make it; and as a friend, and not as an
enemy, I committed it. This that thou profferest me I have still desired and
had I thought it should be vouchsafed me, I had long since sought it; and so
much the dearer will it now be to me, as my hope thereof was less. If, then,
thou have not that intent which thy words denote, feed me not with vain
hope; but restore me to prison and there torment me as thou wilt, for, so
long as I love Spina, even so, for the love of her, shall I still love thee,
whatsoever thou dost with me, and have thee in reverence.'
Currado, hearing this, marvelled and held him great of soul and his love
fervent and tendered him therefore the dearer; wherefore, rising to his feet,
he embraced him and kissed him and without more delay bade privily bring
Spina thither. Accordingly, the lady—who was grown lean and pale and
weakly in prison and showed well nigh another than she was wont to be, as

on like wise Giannotto another man—being come, the two lovers in
Currado's presence with one consent contracted marriage according to our
usance. Then, after some days, during which he had let furnish the newly-
married pair with all that was necessary or agreeable to them, he deemed it
time to gladden their mothers with the good news and accordingly calling
his lady and Cavriuola, he said to the latter, 'What would you say, madam,
an I should cause you have again your elder son as the husband of one of
my daughters?' Whereto she answered, 'Of that I can say to you no
otherwhat than that, could I be more beholden to you than I am, I should be
so much the more so as you would have restored to me that which is dearer
to me than mine own self; and restoring it to me on such wise as you say,
you would in some measure re-awaken in me my lost hope.' With this, she
held her peace, weeping, and Currado said to his lady, 'And thou, mistress,
how wouldst thou take it, were I to present thee with such a son-in-law?'
The lady replied, 'Even a common churl, so he pleased you, would please
me, let alone one of these,[109] who are men of gentle birth.' 'Then,' said
Currado, 'I hope, ere many days, to make you happy women in this.'
Accordingly, seeing the two young folk now restored to their former cheer,
he clad them sumptuously and said to Giusfredi, 'Were it not dear to thee,
over and above thy present joyance, an thou sawest thy mother here?'
Whereto he answered, 'I dare not flatter myself that the chagrin of her
unhappy chances can have left her so long alive; but, were it indeed so, it
were dear to me above all, more by token that methinketh I might yet, by
her counsel, avail to recover great part of my estate in Sicily.' Thereupon
Currado sent for both the ladies, who came and made much of the newly-
wedded wife, no little wondering what happy inspiration it could have been
that prompted Currado to such exceeding complaisance as he had shown in
joining Giannotto with her in marriage. Madam Beritola, by reason of the
words she had heard from Currado, began to consider Giannotto and some
remembrance of the boyish lineaments of her son's countenance being by
occult virtue awakened in her, without awaiting farther explanation, she ran,
open-armed, to cast herself upon his neck, nor did overabounding emotion
and maternal joy suffer her to say a word; nay, they so locked up all her
senses that she fell into her son's arms, as if dead.
The latter, albeit he was sore amazed, remembering to have many times
before seen her in that same castle and never recognized her, nevertheless

knew incontinent the maternal odour and blaming himself for his past
heedlessness, received her, weeping, in his arms and kissed her tenderly.
After awhile, Madam Beritola, being affectionately tended by Currado's
lady and Spina and plied both with cold water and other remedies, recalled
her strayed senses and embracing her son anew, full of maternal tenderness,
with many tears and many tender words, kissed him a thousand times,
whilst he all reverently beheld and entreated her. After these joyful and
honourable greetings had been thrice or four times repeated, to the no small
contentment of the bystanders, and they had related unto each other all that
had befallen them, Currado now, to the exceeding satisfaction of all,
signified to his friends the new alliance made by him and gave ordinance
for a goodly and magnificent entertainment.
Then said Giusfredi to him, 'Currado, you have made me glad of many
things and have long honourably entertained my mother; and now, that no
whit may remain undone of that which it is in your power to do, I pray you
gladden my mother and bride-feast and myself with the presence of my
brother, whom Messer Guasparrino d'Oria holdeth in servitude in his house
and whom, as I have already told you, he took with me in one of his cruises.
Moreover, I would have you send into Sicily one who shall thoroughly
inform himself of the state and condition of the country and study to learn
what is come of Arrighetto, my father, an he be alive or dead, and if he be
alive, in what estate; of all which having fully certified himself, let him
return to us.' Giusfredi's request was pleasing to Currado, and without any
delay he despatched very discreet persons both to Genoa and to Sicily.
He who went to Genoa there sought out Messer Guasparrino and instantly
besought him, on Currado's part, to send him Scacciato and his nurse,
orderly recounting to him all his lord's dealings with Giusfredi and his
mother. Messer Guasparrino marvelled exceedingly to hear this and said,
'True is it I would do all I may to pleasure Currado, and I have, indeed,
these fourteen years had in my house the boy thou seekest and one his
mother, both of whom I will gladly send him; but do thou bid him, on my
part, beware of lending overmuch credence to the fables of Giannotto, who
nowadays styleth himself Giusfredi, for that he is a far greater knave than
he deemeth.' So saying, he caused honourably entertain the gentleman and
sending privily for the nurse, questioned her shrewdly touching the matter.
Now she had heard of the Sicilian revolt and understood Arrighetto to be

alive, wherefore, casting off her former fears, she told him everything in
order and showed him the reasons that had moved her to do as she had
done.
Messer Guasparrino, finding her tale to accord perfectly with that of
Currado's messenger, began to give credit to the latter's words and having
by one means and another, like a very astute man as he was, made enquiry
of the matter and happening hourly upon things that gave him more and
more assurance of the fact, took shame to himself of his mean usage of the
lad, in amends whereof, knowing what Arrighetto had been and was, he
gave him to wife a fair young daughter of his, eleven years of age, with a
great dowry. Then, after making a great bride-feast thereon, he embarked
with the boy and girl and Currado's messenger and the nurse in a well-
armed galliot and betook himself to Lerici, where he was received by
Currado and went up, with all his company, to one of the latter's castles, not
far removed thence, where there was a great banquet toward.
The mother's joy at seeing her son again and that of the two brothers in each
other and of all three in the faithful nurse, the honour done of all to Messer
Guasparrino and his daughter and of him to all and the rejoicing of all
together with Currado and his lady and children and friends, no words
might avail to express; wherefore, ladies, I leave it to you to imagine.
Thereunto,[110] that it might be complete, it pleased God the Most High, a
most abundant giver, whenas He beginneth, to add the glad news of the life
and well-being of Arrighetto Capece; for that, the feast being at its height
and the guests, both ladies and men, yet at table for the first service, there
came he who had been sent into Sicily and amongst other things, reported
of Arrighetto that he, being kept in captivity by King Charles, whenas the
revolt against the latter broke out in the land, the folk ran in a fury to the
prison and slaying his guards, delivered himself and as a capital enemy of
King Charles, made him their captain and followed him to expel and slay
the French: wherefore he was become in especial favour with King Pedro,
[111] who had reinstated him in all his honours and possessions, and was
now in great good case. The messenger added that he had received himself
with the utmost honour and had rejoiced with inexpressible joy in the
recovery of his wife and son, of whom he had heard nothing since his
capture; moreover, he had sent a brigantine for them, with divers gentlemen
aboard, who came after him.

The messenger was received and hearkened with great gladness and
rejoicing, whilst Currado, with certain of his friends, set out incontinent to
meet the gentlemen who came for Madam Beritola and Giusfredi and
welcoming them joyously, introduced them into his banquet, which was not
yet half ended. There both the lady and Giusfredi, no less than all the
others, beheld them with such joyance that never was heard the like; and the
gentlemen, ere they sat down to meat, saluted Currado and his lady on the
part of Arrighetto, thanking them, as best they knew and might, for the
honour done both to his wife and his son and offering himself to their
pleasure,[112] in all that lay in his power. Then, turning to Messer
Guasparrino, whose kindness was unlooked for, they avouched themselves
most certain that, whenas that which he had done for Scacciato should be
known of Arrighetto, the like thanks and yet greater would be rendered him.
Thereafter they banqueted right joyously with the new-made bridegrooms at
the bride-feast of the two newly-wedded wives; nor that day alone did
Currado entertain his son-in-law and other his kinsmen and friends, but
many others. As soon as the rejoicings were somewhat abated, it appearing
to Madam Beritola and to Giusfredi and the others that it was time to
depart, they took leave with many tears of Currado and his lady and Messer
Guasparrino and embarked on board the brigantine, carrying Spina with
them; then, setting sail with a fair wind, they came speedily to Sicily, where
all alike, both sons and daughters-in-law, were received by Arrighetto in
Palermo with such rejoicing as might never be told; and there it is believed
that they all lived happily a great while after, in love and thankfulness to
God the Most High, as mindful of the benefits received."

THE SEVENTH STORY
Day the Second

THE SOLDAN OF BABYLON SENDETH A
DAUGHTER OF HIS TO BE MARRIED TO THE
KING OF ALGARVE, AND SHE, BY DIVERS
CHANCES, IN THE SPACE OF FOUR YEARS
COMETH TO THE HANDS OF NINE MEN IN
VARIOUS PLACES. ULTIMATELY, BEING
RESTORED TO HER FATHER FOR A MAID,
SHE GOETH TO THE KING OF ALGARVE TO
WIFE, AS FIRST SHE DID

Had Emilia's story been much longer protracted, it is like the compassion
had by the young ladies on the misfortunes of Madam Beritola would have
brought them to tears; but, an end being now made thereof, it pleased the
queen that Pamfilo should follow on with his story, and accordingly he,
who was very obedient, began thus, "Uneath, charming ladies, is it for us to
know that which is meet for us, for that, as may oftentimes have been seen,
many, imagining that, were they but rich, they might avail to live without
care and secure, have not only with prayers sought riches of God, but have
diligently studied to acquire them, grudging no toil and no peril in the quest,
and who,—whereas, before they became enriched, they loved their lives,—
once having gotten their desire, have found folk to slay them, for greed of
so ample an inheritance. Others of low estate, having, through a thousand
perilous battles and the blood of their brethren and their friends, mounted to
the summit of kingdoms, thinking in the royal estate to enjoy supreme
felicity, without the innumerable cares and alarms whereof they see and feel
it full, have learned, at the cost of their lives, that poison is drunken at royal
tables in cups of gold. Many there be who have with most ardent appetite
desired bodily strength and beauty and divers personal adornments and
perceived not that they had desired ill till they found these very gifts a cause
to them of death or dolorous life. In fine, not to speak particularly of all the

objects of human desire, I dare say that there is not one which can, with
entire assurance, be chosen by mortal men as secure from the vicissitudes of
fortune; wherefore, an we would do aright, needs must we resign ourselves
to take and possess that which is appointed us of Him who alone knoweth
that which behoveth unto us and is able to give it to us. But for that,
whereas men sin in desiring various things, you, gracious ladies, sin, above
all, in one, to wit, in wishing to be fair,—insomuch that, not content with
the charms vouchsafed you by nature, you still with marvellous art study to
augment them,—it pleaseth me to recount to you how ill-fortunedly fair
was a Saracen lady, whom it befell, for her beauty, to be in some four years'
space nine times wedded anew.
It is now a pretty while since there was a certain Soldan of Babylon,[113] by
name Berminedab, to whom in his day many things happened in accordance
with his pleasure.[114] Amongst many other children, both male and female,
he had a daughter called Alatiel, who, by report of all who saw her, was the
fairest woman to be seen in the world in those days, and having, in a great
defeat he had inflicted upon a vast multitude of Arabs who were come upon
him, been wonder-well seconded by the King of Algarve,[115] had, at his
request, given her to him to wife, of especial favour; wherefore, embarking
her aboard a ship well armed and equipped, with an honourable company of
men and ladies and store of rich and sumptuous gear and furniture, he
despatched her to him, commending her to God.
The sailors, seeing the weather favourable, gave their sails to the wind and
departing the port of Alexandria, fared on prosperously many days, and
having now passed Sardinia, deemed themselves near the end of their
voyage, when there arose one day of a sudden divers contrary winds, which,
being each beyond measure boisterous, so harassed the ship, wherein was
the lady, and the sailors, that the latter more than once gave themselves over
for lost. However, like valiant men, using every art and means in their
power, they rode it out two days, though buffeted by a terrible sea; but, at
nightfall of the third day, the tempest abating not, nay, waxing momently,
they felt the ship open, being then not far off Majorca, but knowing not
where they were neither availing to apprehend it either by nautical
reckoning or by sight, for that the sky was altogether obscured by clouds
and dark night; wherefore, seeing no other way of escape and having each
himself in mind and not others, they lowered a shallop into the water, into

which the officers cast themselves, choosing rather to trust themselves
thereto than to the leaking ship. The rest of the men in the ship crowded
after them into the boat, albeit those who had first embarked therein
opposed it, knife in hand,—and thinking thus to flee from death, ran straight
into it, for that the boat, availing not, for the intemperance of the weather, to
hold so many, foundered and they perished one and all.
As for the ship, being driven by a furious wind and running very swiftly,
albeit it was now well nigh water-logged, (none being left on board save the
princess and her women, who all, overcome by the tempestuous sea and by
fear, lay about the decks as they were dead,) it stranded upon a beach of the
island of Majorca and such and so great was the shock that it well nigh
buried itself in the sand some stone's cast from the shore, where it abode the
night, beaten by the waves, nor might the wind avail to stir it more. Broad
day came and the tempest somewhat abating, the princess, who was half
dead, raised her head and weak as she was, fell to calling now one, now
another of her household, but to no purpose, for that those she called were
too far distant. Finding herself unanswered of any and seeing no one, she
marvelled exceedingly and began to be sore afraid; then, rising up, as best
she might, she saw the ladies who were in her company and the other
women lying all about and trying now one and now another, found few who
gave any signs of life, the most of them being dead what with sore travail of
the stomach and what with affright; wherefore fear redoubled upon her.
Nevertheless, necessity constraining her, for that she saw herself alone there
and had neither knowledge nor inkling where she was, she so goaded those
who were yet alive that she made them arise and finding them unknowing
whither the men were gone and seeing the ship stranded and full of water,
she fell to weeping piteously, together with them. It was noon ere they saw
any about the shore or elsewhere, whom they might move to pity and
succour them; but about that hour there passed by a gentleman, by name
Pericone da Visalgo, returning by chance from a place of his, with sundry of
his servants on horseback. He saw the ship and forthright conceiving what it
was, bade one of the servants board it without delay and tell him what he
found there. The man, though with difficulty, made his way on board and
found the young lady, with what little company she had, crouched, all
adread, under the heel of the bowsprit. When they saw him, they besought
him, weeping, of mercy again and again; but, perceiving that he understood

them not nor they him, they made shift to make known to him their
misadventure by signs.
The servant having examined everything as best he might, reported to
Pericone that which was on board; whereupon the latter promptly caused to
bring the ladies ashore, together with the most precious things that were in
the ship and might be gotten, and carried them off to a castle of his, where,
the women being refreshed with food and rest, he perceived, from the
richness of her apparel, that the lady whom he had found must needs be
some great gentlewoman, and of this he was speedily certified by the
honour that he saw the others do her and her alone; and although she was
pale and sore disordered of her person, for the fatigues of the voyage, her
features seemed to him exceeding fair; wherefore he forthright took counsel
with himself, an she had no husband, to seek to have her to wife, and if he
might not have her in marriage, to make shift to have her favours.
He was a man of commanding presence and exceeding robust and having
for some days let tend the lady excellently well and she being thereby
altogether restored, he saw her lovely past all conception and was grieved
beyond measure that he could not understand her nor she him and so he
might not learn who she was. Nevertheless, being inordinately inflamed by
her charms, he studied, with pleasing and amorous gestures, to engage her
to do his pleasure without contention; but to no avail; she altogether
rejected his advances and so much the more waxed Pericone's ardour. The
lady, seeing this and having now abidden there some days, perceived, by the
usances of the folk, that she was among Christians and in a country where,
even if she could, it had little profited her to make herself known and
foresaw that, in the end, either perforce or for love, needs must she resign
herself to do Pericone's pleasure, but resolved nevertheless by dint of
magnanimity to override the wretchedness of her fortune; wherefore she
commanded her women, of whom but three were left her, that they should
never discover to any who she was, except they found themselves whereas
they might look for manifest furtherance in the regaining of their liberty,
and urgently exhorted them, moreover, to preserve their chastity, avouching
herself determined that none, save her husband, should ever enjoy her. They
commended her for this and promised to observe her commandment to the
best of their power.

Meanwhile Pericone, waxing daily more inflamed, insomuch as he saw the
thing desired so near and yet so straitly denied, and seeing that his
blandishments availed him nothing, resolved to employ craft and artifice,
reserving force unto the last. Wherefore, having observed bytimes that wine
was pleasing to the lady, as being unused to drink thereof, for that her law
forbade it, he bethought himself that he might avail to take her with this, as
with a minister of enus. Accordingly, feigning to reck no more of that
whereof she showed herself so chary, he made one night by way of special
festival a goodly supper, whereto he bade the lady, and therein, the repast
being gladdened with many things, he took order with him who served her
that he should give her to drink of various wines mingled. The cupbearer
did his bidding punctually and she, being nowise on her guard against this
and allured by the pleasantness of the drink, took more thereof than
consisted with her modesty; whereupon, forgetting all her past troubles, she
waxed merry and seeing some women dance after the fashion of Majorca,
herself danced in the Alexandrian manner.
Pericone, seeing this, deemed himself on the high road to that which he
desired and continuing the supper with great plenty of meats and wines,
protracted it far into the night. Ultimately, the guests having departed, he
entered with the lady alone into her chamber, where she, more heated with
wine than restrained by modesty, without any reserve of shamefastness,
undid herself in his presence, as he had been one of her women, and betook
herself to bed. Pericone was not slow to follow her, but, putting out all the
lights, promptly hid himself beside her and catching her in his arms,
proceeded, without any gainsayal on her part, amorously to solace himself
with her; which when once she had felt,—having never theretofore known
with what manner horn men butt,—as if repenting her of not having yielded
to Pericone's solicitations, thenceforth, without waiting to be bidden to such
agreeable nights, she oftentimes invited herself thereto, not by words, which
she knew not how to make understood, but by deeds.
But, in the midst of this great pleasance of Pericone and herself, fortune, not
content with having reduced her from a king's bride to be the mistress of a
country gentleman, had foreordained unto her a more barbarous alliance.
Pericone had a brother by name Marato, five-and-twenty years of age and
fair and fresh as a rose, who saw her and she pleased him mightily.
Himseemed, moreover, according to that which he could apprehend from

her gestures, that he was very well seen of her and conceiving that nought
hindered him of that which he craved of her save the strait watch kept on
her by Pericone, he fell into a barbarous thought, whereon the nefarious
effect followed without delay.
There was then, by chance, in the harbour of the city a vessel laden with
merchandise and bound for Chiarenza[116] in Roumelia; whereof two young
Genoese were masters, who had already hoisted sail to depart as soon as the
wind should be fair. Marato, having agreed with them, took order how he
should on the ensuing night be received aboard their ship with the lady; and
this done, as soon as it was dark, having inwardly determined what he
should do, he secretly betook himself, with certain of his trustiest friends,
whom he had enlisted for the purpose, to the house of Pericone, who nowise
mistrusted him. There he hid himself, according to the ordinance appointed
between them, and after a part of the night had passed, he admitted his
companions and repaired with them to the chamber where Pericone lay with
the lady. Having opened the door, they slew Pericone, as he slept, and took
the lady, who was now awake and in tears, threatening her with death, if she
made any outcry; after which they made off, unobserved, with great part of
Pericone's most precious things and betook themselves in haste to the sea-
shore, where Marato and the lady embarked without delay on board the
ship, whilst his companions returned whence they came.
The sailors, having a fair wind and a fresh, made sail and set out on their
voyage, whilst the princess sore and bitterly bewailed both her former and
that her second misadventure; but Marato, with that Saint Waxeth-in-hand,
which God hath given us [men,] proceeded to comfort her after such a
fashion that she soon grew familiar with him and forgetting Pericone, began
to feel at her ease, when fortune, as if not content with the past tribulations
wherewith it had visited her, prepared her a new affliction; for that, she
being, as we have already more than once said, exceeding fair of favour and
of very engaging manners, the two young men, the masters of the ship,
became so passionately enamoured of her that, forgetting all else, they
studied only to serve and pleasure her, being still on their guard lest Marato
should get wind of the cause. Each becoming aware of the other's passion,
they privily took counsel together thereof, and agreed to join in getting the
lady for themselves and enjoy her in common, as if love should suffer this,
as do merchandise and gain.

Seeing her straitly guarded by Marato and being thereby hindered of their
purpose, one day, as the ship fared on at full speed under sail and Marato
stood at the poop, looking out on the sea and nowise on his guard against
them, they went of one accord and laying hold of him suddenly from
behind, cast him into the sea, nor was it till they had sailed more than a mile
farther that any perceived Marato to be fallen overboard. Alatiel, hearing
this and seeing no possible way of recovering him, began anew to make
moan for herself; whereupon the two lovers came incontinent to her succour
and with soft words and very good promises, whereof she understood but
little, studied to soothe and console the lady, who lamented not so much her
lost husband as her own ill fortune. After holding much discourse with her
at one time and another, themseeming after awhile they had well nigh
comforted her, they came to words with one another which should first take
her to lie with him. Each would fain be the first and being unable to come to
any accord upon this, they first with words began a sore and hot dispute and
thereby kindled into rage, they clapped hands to their knives and falling
furiously on one another, before those on board could part them, dealt each
other several blows, whereof one incontinent fell dead, whilst the other
abode on life, though grievously wounded in many places.
This new mishap was sore unpleasing to the lady, who saw herself alone,
without aid or counsel of any, and feared lest the anger of the two masters'
kinsfolk and friends should revert upon herself; but the prayers of the
wounded man and their speedy arrival at Chiarenza delivered her from
danger of death. There she went ashore with the wounded man and took up
her abode with him in an inn, where the report of her great beauty soon
spread through the city and came to the ears of the Prince of the Morea,
who was then at Chiarenza and was fain to see her. Having gotten sight of
her and himseeming she was fairer than report gave out, he straightway
became so sore enamoured of her that he could think of nothing else and
hearing how she came thither, doubted not to be able to get her for himself.
As he cast about for a means of effecting his purpose, the wounded man's
kinsfolk got wind of his desire and without awaiting more, sent her to him
forthright, which was mighty agreeable to the prince and to the lady also,
for that herseemed she was quit of a great peril. The prince, seeing her
graced, over and above her beauty, with royal manners and unable
otherwise to learn who she was, concluded her to be some noble lady,

wherefore he redoubled in his love for her and holding her in exceeding
honour, entreated her not as a mistress, but as his very wife.
The lady, accordingly, having regard to her past troubles and herseeming
she was well enough bestowed, was altogether comforted and waxing blithe
again, her beauties flourished on such wise that it seemed all Roumelia
could talk of nothing else. The report of her loveliness reaching the Duke of
Athens, who was young and handsome and doughty of his person and a
friend and kinsman of the prince, he was taken with a desire to see her and
making a show of paying him a visit, as he was wont bytimes to do,
repaired, with a fair and worshipful company, to Chiarenza, where he was
honourably received and sumptuously entertained. Some days after, the two
kinsmen coming to discourse together of the lady's charms, the duke asked
if she were indeed so admirable a creature as was reported; to which the
prince answered, 'Much more so; but thereof I will have not my words, but
thine own eyes certify thee.' Accordingly, at the duke's solicitation, they
betook themselves together to the princess's lodging, who, having had
notice of their coming, received them very courteously and with a cheerful
favour, and they seated her between them, but might not have the pleasure
of conversing with her, for that she understood little or nothing of their
language; wherefore each contented himself with gazing upon her, as upon
a marvel, and especially the duke, who could scarce bring himself to
believe that she was a mortal creature and thinking to satisfy his desire with
her sight, heedless of the amorous poison he drank in at his eyes, beholding
her, he miserably ensnared himself, becoming most ardently enamoured of
her.
After he had departed her presence with the prince and had leisure to
bethink himself, he esteemed his kinsman happy beyond all others in
having so fair a creature at his pleasure, and after many and various
thoughts, his unruly passion weighing more with him than his honour, he
resolved, come thereof what might, to do his utmost endeavour to despoil
the prince of that felicity and bless himself therewith. Accordingly, being
minded to make a quick despatch of the matter and setting aside all reason
and all equity, he turned his every thought to the devising of means for the
attainment of his wishes, and one day, in accordance with the nefarious
ordinance taken by him with a privy chamberlain of the prince's, by name

Ciuriaci, he let make ready in secret his horses and baggage for a sudden
departure.
The night come, he was, with a companion, both armed, stealthily
introduced by the aforesaid Ciuriaci into the prince's chamber and saw the
latter (the lady being asleep) standing, all naked for the great heat, at a
window overlooking the sea-shore, to take a little breeze that came from
that quarter; whereupon, having beforehand informed his companion of that
which he had to do, he went softly up to the window and striking the prince
with a knife, stabbed him, through and through the small of his back; then,
taking him up in haste, he cast him forth of the window. The palace stood
over against the sea and was very lofty and the window in question looked
upon certain houses that had been undermined by the beating of the waves
and where seldom or never any came; wherefore it happened, as the duke
had foreseen, that the fall of the prince's body was not nor might be heard of
any. The duke's companion, seeing this done, pulled out a halter he had
brought with him to that end and making a show of caressing Ciuriaci, cast
it adroitly about his neck and drew it so that he could make no outcry; then,
the duke coming up, they strangled him and cast him whereas they had cast
the prince.
This done and they being manifestly certified that they had been unheard of
the lady or of any other, the duke took a light in his hand and carrying it to
the bedside, softly uncovered the princess, who slept fast. He considered
her from head to foot and mightily commended her; for, if she was to his
liking, being clothed, she pleased him, naked, beyond all compare.
Wherefore, fired with hotter desire and unawed by his new-committed
crime, he couched himself by her side, with hands yet bloody, and lay with
her, all sleepy-eyed as she was and thinking him to be the prince. After he
had abidden with her awhile in the utmost pleasure, he arose and
summoning certain of his companions, caused take up the lady on such wise
that she could make no outcry and carry her forth by a privy door, whereat
he had entered; then, setting her on horseback, he took to the road with all
his men, as softliest he might, and returned to his own dominions. However
(for that he had a wife) he carried the lady, who was the most distressful of
women, not to Athens, but to a very goodly place he had by the sea, a little
without the city, and there entertained her in secret, causing honourably
furnish her with all that was needful.

The prince's courtiers on the morrow awaited his rising till none, when,
hearing nothing, they opened the chamber-doors, which were but closed,
and finding no one, concluded that he was gone somewhither privily, to
pass some days there at his ease with his fair lady, and gave themselves no
farther concern. Things being thus, it chanced next day that an idiot,
entering the ruins where lay the bodies of the prince and Ciuriaci, dragged
the latter forth by the halter and went haling him after him. The body was,
with no little wonderment, recognized by many, who, coaxing the idiot to
bring them to the place whence he had dragged it, there, to the exceeding
grief of the whole city, found the prince's corpse and gave it honourable
burial. Then, enquiring for the authors of so heinous a crime and finding
that the Duke of Athens was no longer there, but had departed by stealth,
they concluded, even as was the case, that it must be he who had done this
and carried off the lady; whereupon they straightway substituted a brother
of the dead man to their prince and incited him with all their might to
vengeance. The new prince, being presently certified by various other
circumstances that it was as they had surmised, summoned his friends and
kinsmen and servants from divers parts and promptly levying a great and
goodly and powerful army, set out to make war upon the Duke of Athens.
The latter, hearing of this, on like wise mustered all his forces for his own
defence, and to his aid came many lords, amongst whom the Emperor of
Constantinople sent Constantine his son and Manual his nephew, with a
great and goodly following. The two princes were honourably received by
the duke and yet more so by the duchess, for that she was their sister,[117]
and matters drawing thus daily nearer unto war, taking her occasion, she
sent for them both one day to her chamber and there, with tears galore and
many words, related to them the whole story, acquainting them with the
causes of the war. Moreover, she discovered to them the affront done her by
the duke in the matter of the woman whom it was believed he privily
entertained, and complaining sore thereof, besought them to apply to the
matter such remedy as best they might, for the honour of the duke and her
own solacement.
The young men already knew all the facts as it had been; wherefore,
without enquiring farther, they comforted the duchess, as best they might,
and filled her with good hope. Then, having learned from her where the
lady abode, they took their leave and having a mind to see the latter, for that

they had oftentimes heard her commended for marvellous beauty, they
besought the duke to show her to them. He, unmindful of that which had
befallen the Prince of the Morea for having shown her to himself, promised
to do this and accordingly next morning, having let prepare a magnificent
collation in a very goodly garden that pertained to the lady's place of abode,
he carried them and a few others thither to eat with her. Constantine, sitting
with Alatiel, fell a-gazing upon her, full of wonderment, avouching in
himself that he had never seen aught so lovely and that certes the duke must
needs be held excused, ay, and whatsoever other, to have so fair a creature,
should do treason or other foul thing, and looking on her again and again
and each time admiring her more, it betided him no otherwise than it had
betided the duke; wherefore, taking his leave, enamoured of her, he
abandoned all thought of the war and occupied himself with considering
how he might take her from the duke, carefully concealing his passion the
while from every one.
Whilst he yet burnt in this fire, the time came to go out against the new
prince, who now drew near to the duke's territories; wherefore the latter and
Constantine and all the others, sallied forth of Athens according to the given
ordinance and betook themselves to the defence of certain frontiers, so the
prince might not avail to advance farther. When they had lain there some
days, Constantine having his mind and thought still intent upon the lady and
conceiving that, now the duke was no longer near her, he might very well
avail to accomplish his pleasure, feigned himself sore indisposed of his
person, to have an occasion of returning to Athens; wherefore, with the
duke's leave, committing his whole power to Manuel, he returned to Athens
to his sister, and there, after some days, putting her upon talk of the affront
which herseemed she suffered from the duke by reason of the lady whom he
entertained, he told her that, an it liked her, he would soon ease her thereof
by causing take the lady from whereas she was and carry her off. The
duchess, conceiving that he did this of regard for herself and not for love of
the lady, answered that it liked her exceeding well so but it might be done
on such wise that the duke should never know that she had been party
thereto, which Constantine fully promised her, and thereupon she consented
that he should do as seemed best to him.
Constantine, accordingly, let secretly equip a light vessel and sent it one
evening to the neighbourhood of the garden where the lady abode; then,

having taught certain of his men who were on board what they had to do, he
repaired with others to the lady's pavilion, where he was cheerfully received
by those in her service and indeed by the lady herself, who, at his instance,
betook herself with him to the garden, attended by her servitors and his
companions. There, making as he would speak with her on the duke's part,
he went with her alone towards a gate, which gave upon the sea and had
already been opened by one of his men, and calling the bark thither with the
given signal, he caused suddenly seize the lady and carry her aboard; then,
turning to her people, he said to them, 'Let none stir or utter a word, an he
would not die; for that I purpose not to rob the duke of his wench, but to do
away the affront which he putteth upon my sister.'
To this none dared make answer; whereupon Constantine, embarking with
his people and seating himself by the side of the weeping lady, bade thrust
the oars into the water and make off. Accordingly, they put out to sea and
not hieing, but flying,[118] came, after a little after daybreak on the morrow,
to Egina, where they landed and took rest, whilst Constantine solaced
himself awhile with the lady, who bemoaned her ill-fated beauty. Thence,
going aboard the bark again, they made their way, in a few days, to Chios,
where it pleased Constantine to take up his sojourn, as in a place of safety,
for fear of his father's resentment and lest the stolen lady should be taken
from him. There the fair lady bewailed her ill fate some days, but, being
presently comforted by Constantine, she began, as she had done
otherwhiles, to take her pleasure of that which fortune had foreordained to
her.
Things being at this pass, Osbech, King of the Turks, who abode in
continual war with the Emperor, came by chance to Smyrna, where hearing
how Constantine abode in Chios, without any precaution, leading a wanton
life with a mistress of his, whom he had stolen away, he repaired thither one
night with some light-armed ships and entering the city by stealth with
some of his people, took many in their beds, ere they knew of the enemy's
coming. Some, who, taking the alert, had run to arms, he slew and having
burnt the whole place, carried the booty and captives on board the ships and
returned to Smyrna. When they arrived there, Osbech, who was a young
man, passing his prisoners in review, found the fair lady among them and
knowing her for her who had been taken with Constantine asleep in bed,
was mightily rejoiced at sight of her. Accordingly, he made her his wife

without delay, and celebrating the nuptials forthright, lay with her some
months in all joyance.
Meanwhile, the Emperor, who had, before these things came to pass, been
in treaty with Bassano, King of Cappadocia, to the end that he should come
down upon Osbech from one side with his power, whilst himself assailed
him on the other, but had not yet been able to come to a full accord with
him, for that he was unwilling to grant certain things which Bassano
demanded and which he deemed unreasonable, hearing what had betided
his son and chagrined beyond measure thereat, without hesitating farther,
did that which the King of Cappadocia asked and pressed him as most he
might to fall upon Osbech, whilst himself made ready to come down upon
him from another quarter. Osbech, hearing this, assembled his army, ere he
should be straitened between two such puissant princes, and marched
against Bassano, leaving his fair lady at Smyrna, in charge of a trusty
servant and friend of his. After some time he encountered the King of
Cappadocia and giving him battle, was slain in the mellay and his army
discomfited and dispersed; whereupon Bassano advanced in triumph
towards Smyrna, unopposed, and all the folk submitted to him by the way,
as to a conqueror.
Meanwhile, Osbech's servant, Antiochus by name, in whose charge the lady
had been left, seeing her so fair, forgot his plighted faith to his friend and
master and became enamoured of her, for all he was a man in years. Urged
by love and knowing her tongue (the which was mighty agreeable to her, as
well as it might be to one whom it had behoved for some years live as she
were deaf and dumb, for that she understood none neither was understanded
of any) he began, in a few days, to be so familiar with her that, ere long,
having no regard to their lord and master who was absent in the field, they
passed from friendly commerce to amorous privacy, taking marvellous
pleasure one of the other between the sheets. When they heard that Osbech
was defeated and slain and that Bassano came carrying all before him, they
took counsel together not to await him there and laying hands on great part
of the things of most price that were there pertaining to Osbech, gat them
privily to Rhodes, where they had not long abidden ere Antiochus sickened
unto death.

As chance would have it, there was then in lodging with him a merchant of
Cyprus, who was much loved of him and his fast friend, and Antiochus,
feeling himself draw to his end, bethought himself to leave him both his
possessions and his beloved lady; wherefore, being now nigh upon death,
he called them both to him and bespoke them thus, 'I feel myself, without a
doubt, passing away, which grieveth me, for that never had I such delight in
life as I presently have. Of one thing, indeed, I die most content, in that,
since I must e'en die, I see myself die in the arms of those twain whom I
love over all others that be in the world, to wit, in thine, dearest friend, and
in those of this lady, whom I have loved more than mine own self, since
first I knew her. True, it grieveth me to feel that, when I am dead, she will
abide here a stranger, without aid or counsel; and it were yet more grievous
to me, did I not know thee here, who wilt, I trust, have that same care of
her, for the love of me, which thou wouldst have had of myself. Wherefore,
I entreat thee, as most I may, if it come to pass that I die, that thou take my
goods and her into thy charge and do with them and her that which thou
deemest may be for the solacement of my soul. And thou, dearest lady, I
prithee forget me not after my death, so I may vaunt me, in the other world,
of being beloved here below of the fairest lady ever nature formed; of
which two things an you will give me entire assurance, I shall depart
without misgiving and comforted.'
The merchant his friend and the lady, hearing these words, wept, and when
he had made an end of his speech, they comforted him and promised him
upon their troth to do that which he asked, if it came to pass that he died. He
tarried not long, but presently departed this life and was honourably interred
of them. A few days after, the merchant having despatched all his business
in Rhodes and purposing to return to Cyprus on board a Catalan carrack that
was there, asked the fair lady what she had a mind to do, for that it behoved
him return to Cyprus. She answered that, an it pleased him, she would
gladly go with him, hoping for Antiochus his love to be of him entreated
and regarded as a sister. The merchant replied that he was content to do her
every pleasure, and the better to defend her from any affront that might be
offered her, ere they came to Cyprus, he avouched that she was his wife.
Accordingly, they embarked on board the ship and were given a little cabin
on the poop, where, that the fact might not belie his words, he lay with her
in one very small bed. Whereby there came about that which was not

intended of the one or the other of them at departing Rhodes, to wit, that—
darkness and commodity and the heat of the bed, matters of no small
potency, inciting them,—drawn by equal appetite and forgetting both the
friendship and the love of Antiochus dead, they fell to dallying with each
other and before they reached Baffa, whence the Cypriot came, they had
clapped up an alliance together.
At Baffa she abode some time with the merchant till, as chance would have
it, there came thither, for his occasions, a gentleman by name Antigonus,
great of years and greater yet of wit, but little of wealth, for that,
intermeddling in the affairs of the King of Cyprus, fortune had in many
things been contrary to him. Chancing one day to pass by the house where
the fair lady dwelt with the merchant, who was then gone with his
merchandise into Armenia, he espied her at a window and seeing her very
beautiful, fell to gazing fixedly upon her and presently began to recollect
that he must have seen her otherwhere, but where he could on no wise call
to mind. As for the lady, who had long been the sport of fortune, but the
term of whose ills was now drawing near, she no sooner set eyes on
Antigonus than she remembered to have seen him at Alexandria in no mean
station in her father's service; wherefore, conceiving a sudden hope of yet
by his aid regaining her royal estate, and knowing her merchant to be
abroad, she let call him to her as quickliest she might and asked him,
blushing, an he were not, as she supposed, Antigonus of Famagosta. He
answered that he was and added, 'Madam, meseemeth I know you, but on
no wise can I remember me where I have seen you; wherefore I pray you,
an it mislike you not, put me in mind who you are.'
The lady hearing that it was indeed he, to his great amazement, cast her
arms about his neck, weeping sore, and presently asked him if he had never
seen her in Alexandria. Antigonus, hearing this, incontinent knew her for
the Soldan's daughter Alatiel, who was thought to have perished at sea, and
would fain have paid her the homage due to her quality; but she would on
no wise suffer it and besought him to sit with her awhile. Accordingly,
seating himself beside her, he asked her respectfully how and when and
whence she came thither, seeing that it was had for certain, through all the
land of Egypt, that she had been drowned at sea years agone. 'Would God,'
replied she, 'it had been so, rather than that I should have had the life I have

had; and I doubt not but my father would wish the like, if ever he came to
know it.'
So saying, she fell anew to weeping wonder-sore; whereupon quoth
Antigonus to her, 'Madam, despair not ere it behove you; but, an it please
you, relate to me your adventures and what manner of life yours hath been;
it may be the matter hath gone on such wise that, with God's aid, we may
avail to find an effectual remedy.' 'Antigonus,' answered the fair lady, 'when
I beheld thee, meseemed I saw my father, and moved by that love and
tenderness, which I am bounden to bear him, I discovered myself to thee,
having it in my power to conceal myself from thee, and few persons could it
have befallen me to look upon in whom I could have been so well-pleased
as I am to have seen and known thee before any other; wherefore that which
in my ill fortune I have still kept hidden, to thee, as to a father, I will
discover. If, after thou hast heard it, thou see any means of restoring me to
my pristine estate, prithee use it; but, if thou see none, I beseech thee never
tell any that thou hast seen me or heard aught of me.'
This said, she recounted to him, still weeping, that which had befallen her
from the time of her shipwreck on Majorca up to that moment; whereupon
he fell a-weeping for pity and after considering awhile, 'Madam,' said he,
'since in your misfortunes it hath been hidden who you are, I will, without
fail, restore you, dearer than ever, to your father and after to the King of
Algarve to wife.' Being questioned of her of the means, he showed her
orderly that which was to do, and lest any hindrance should betide through
delay, he presently returned to Famagosta and going in to the king, said to
him, 'My lord, an it like you, you have it in your power at once to do
yourself exceeding honour and me, who am poor through you, a great
service, at no great cost of yours.' The king asked how and Antigonus
replied, 'There is come to Baffa the Soldan's fair young daughter, who hath
so long been reputed drowned and who, to save her honour, hath long
suffered very great unease and is presently in poor case and would fain
return to her father. An it pleased you send her to him under my guard, it
would be much to your honour and to my weal, nor do I believe that such a
service would ever be forgotten of the Soldan.'
The king, moved by a royal generosity of mind, answered forthright that he
would well and sending for Alatiel, brought her with all honour and worship

to Famagosta, where she was received by himself and the queen with
inexpressible rejoicing and entertained with magnificent hospitality. Being
presently questioned of the king and queen of her adventures, she answered
according to the instructions given her by Antigonus and related everything;
[119] and a few days after, at her request, the king sent her, under the
governance of Antigonus, with a goodly and worshipful company of men
and women, back to the Soldan, of whom let none ask if she was received
with rejoicing, as also was Antigonus and all her company.
As soon as she was somewhat rested, the Soldan desired to know how it
chanced that she was yet alive and where she had so long abidden, without
having ever let him know aught of her condition; whereupon the lady, who
had kept Antigonus his instructions perfectly in mind, bespoke him thus,
'Father mine, belike the twentieth day after my departure from you, our
ship, having sprung a leak in a terrible storm, struck in the night upon
certain coasts yonder in the West,[120] near a place called Aguamorta, and
what became of the men who were aboard I know not nor could ever learn;
this much only do I remember that, the day come and I arisen as it were
from death to life, the shattered vessel was espied of the country people,
who ran from all the parts around to plunder it. I and two of my women
were first set ashore and the latter were incontinent seized by certain of the
young men, who fled with them, one this way and the other that, and what
came of them I never knew.
As for myself, I was taken, despite my resistance, by two young men, and
haled along by the hair, weeping sore the while; but, as they crossed over a
road, to enter a great wood, there passed by four men on horseback, whom
when my ravishers saw, they loosed me forthwith and took to flight. The
new comers, who seemed to me persons of great authority, seeing this, ran
where I was and asked me many questions; whereto I answered much, but
neither understood nor was understanded of them. However, after long
consultation they set me on one of their horses and carried me to a convent
of women vowed to religion, according to their law, where, whatever they
said, I was of all the ladies kindly received and still entreated with honour,
and there with great devotion I joined them in serving Saint Waxeth-in-
Deepdene, a saint for whom the women of that country have a vast regard.

After I had abidden with them awhile and learned somewhat of their
language, they questioned me of who I was and fearing, an I told the truth,
to be expelled from amongst them, as an enemy of their faith, I answered
that I was the daughter of a great gentleman of Cyprus, who was sending
me to be married in Crete, when, as ill-luck would have it, we had run
thither and suffered shipwreck. Moreover, many a time and in many things I
observed their customs, for fear of worse, and being asked by the chief of
the ladies, her whom they call abbess, if I wished to return thence to
Cyprus, I answered that I desired nothing so much; but she, tender of my
honour, would never consent to trust me to any person who was bound for
Cyprus, till some two months agone, when there came thither certain
gentlemen of France with their ladies. One of the latter being a kinswoman
of the abbess and she hearing that they were bound for Jerusalem, to visit
the Sepulchre where He whom they hold God was buried, after He had been
slain by the Jews, she commended me to their care and besought them to
deliver me to my father in Cyprus.
With what honour these gentlemen entreated me and how cheerfully they
received me together with their ladies, it were a long story to tell; suffice it
to say that we took ship and came, after some days, to Baffa, where finding
myself arrived and knowing none in the place, I knew not what to say to the
gentlemen, who would fain have delivered me to my father, according to
that which had been enjoined them of the reverend lady; but God, taking
pity belike on my affliction, brought me Antigonus upon the beach what
time we disembarked at Baffa, whom I straightway hailed and in our
tongue, so as not to be understood of the gentlemen and their ladies, bade
him receive me as a daughter. He promptly apprehended me and receiving
me with a great show of joy, entertained the gentlemen and their ladies with
such honour as his poverty permitted and carried me to the King of Cyprus,
who received me with such hospitality and hath sent me back to you [with
such courtesy] as might never be told of me. If aught remain to be said, let
Antigonus, who hath ofttimes heard from me these adventures, recount it.'
Accordingly Antigonus, turning to the Soldan, said, 'My lord, even as she
hath many a time told me and as the gentlemen and ladies, with whom she
came, said to me, so hath she recounted unto you. Only one part hath she
forborne to tell you, the which methinketh she left unsaid for that it
beseemeth her not to tell it, to wit, how much the gentlemen and ladies,

with whom she came, said of the chaste and modest life which she led with
the religious ladies and of her virtue and commendable manners and the
tears and lamentations of her companions, both men and women, when,
having restored her to me, they took leave of her. Of which things were I
fain to tell in full that which they said to me, not only this present day, but
the ensuing night would not suffice unto us; be it enough to say only that
(according to that which their words attested and that also which I have
been able to see thereof,) you may vaunt yourself of having the fairest
daughter and the chastest and most virtuous of any prince that nowadays
weareth a crown.'
The Soldan was beyond measure rejoiced at these things and besought God
again and again to vouchsafe him of His grace the power of worthily
requiting all who had succoured his daughter and especially the King of
Cyprus, by whom she had been sent back to him with honour. After some
days, having caused prepare great gifts for Antigonus, he gave him leave to
return to Cyprus and rendered, both by letters and by special ambassadors,
the utmost thanks to the king for that which he had done with his daughter.
Then desiring that that which was begun should have effect, to wit, that she
should be the wife of the King of Algarve, he acquainted the latter with the
whole matter and wrote to him to boot, that, an it pleased him have her, he
should send for her. The King of Algarve was mightily rejoiced at this news
and sending for her in state, received her joyfully; and she, who had lain
with eight men belike ten thousand times, was put to bed to him for a maid
and making him believe that she was so, lived happily with him as his
queen awhile after; wherefore it was said, 'Lips for kissing forfeit no favour;
nay, they renew as the moon doth ever.'"

THE EIGHTH STORY
Day the Second

THE COUNT OF ANTWERP, BEING FALSELY
ACCUSED, GOETH INTO EXILE AND
LEAVETH HIS TWO CHILDREN IN
DIFFERENT PLACES IN ENGLAND, WHITHER,
AFTER AWHILE, RETURNING IN DISGUISE
AND FINDING THEM IN GOOD CASE, HE
TAKETH SERVICE AS A HORSEBOY IN THE
SERVICE OF THE KING OF FRANCE AND
BEING APPROVED INNOCENT, IS RESTORED
TO HIS FORMER ESTATE

The ladies sighed amain over the fortunes of the fair Saracen; but who
knoweth what gave rise to those sighs? Maybe there were some of them
who sighed no less for envy of such frequent nuptials than for pity of
Alatiel. But, leaving that be for the present, after they had laughed at
Pamfilo's last words, the queen, seeing his story ended, turned to Elisa and
bade her follow on with one of hers. Elisa cheerfully obeyed and began as
follows: "A most ample field is that wherein we go to-day a-ranging, nor is
there any of us but could lightly enough run, not one, but half a score
courses there, so abounding hath Fortune made it in her strange and
grievous chances; wherefore, to come to tell of one of these latter, which are
innumerable, I say that:
When the Roman Empire was transferred from the French to the Germans,
[121] there arose between the one and the other nation an exceeding great
enmity and a grievous and continual war, by reason whereof, as well for the
defence of their own country as for the offence of that of others, the King of
France and a son of his, with all the power of their realm and of such
friends and kinsfolk as they could command, levied a mighty army to go
forth upon the foe; and ere they proceeded thereunto,—not to leave the

realm without governance,—knowing Gautier, Count of Antwerp,[122] for a
noble and discreet gentleman and their very faithful friend and servant, and
for that (albeit he was well versed in the art of war) he seemed to them
more apt unto things delicate than unto martial toils, they left him vicar
general in their stead over all the governance of the realm of France and
went on their way. Gautier accordingly addressed himself with both order
and discretion to the office committed unto him, still conferring of
everything with the queen and her daughter-in-law, whom, for all they were
left under his custody and jurisdiction, he honoured none the less as his
liege ladies and mistresses.
Now this Gautier was exceedingly goodly of his body, being maybe forty
years old and as agreeable and well-mannered a gentleman as might be; and
withal, he was the sprightliest and daintiest cavalier known in those days
and he who went most adorned of his person. His countess was dead,
leaving him two little children, a boy and a girl, without more, and it befell
that, the King of France and his son being at the war aforesaid and Gautier
using much at the court of the aforesaid ladies and speaking often with them
of the affairs of the kingdom, the wife of the king's son cast her eyes on him
and considering his person and his manners with very great affection, was
secretly fired with a fervent love for him. Feeling herself young and lusty
and knowing him wifeless, she doubted not but her desire might lightly be
accomplished unto her and thinking nought hindered her thereof but
shamefastness, she bethought herself altogether to put that away and
discover to him her passion. Accordingly, being one day alone and it
seeming to her time, she sent for him into her chamber, as though she would
discourse with him of other matters.
The count, whose thought was far from that of the lady, betook himself to
her without any delay and at her bidding, seated himself by her side on a
couch; then, they being alone together, he twice asked her the occasion for
which she had caused him come thither; but she made him no reply. At last,
urged by love and grown all vermeil for shame, well nigh in tears and all
trembling, with broken speech she thus began to say: 'Dearest and sweet
friend and my lord, you may easily as a man of understanding apprehend
how great is the frailty both of men and of women, and that more, for divers
reasons, in one than in another; wherefore, at the hands of a just judge, the
same sin in diverse kinds of qualities of persons should not in equity receive

one same punishment. And who is there will deny that a poor man or a poor
woman, whom it behoveth gain with their toil that which is needful for their
livelihood, would, an they were stricken with Love's smart and followed
after him, be far more blameworthy than a lady who is rich and idle and to
whom nothing is lacking that can flatter her desires? Certes, I believe, no
one. For which reason methinketh the things aforesaid [to wit, wealth and
leisure and luxurious living] should furnish forth a very great measure of
excuse on behalf of her who possesseth them, if, peradventure, she suffer
herself lapse into loving, and the having made choice of a lover of worth
and discretion should stand for the rest,[123] if she who loveth hath done
that. These circumstances being both, to my seeming, in myself (beside
several others which should move me to love, such as my youth and the
absence of my husband), it behoveth now that they rise up in my behalf for
the defence of my ardent love in your sight, wherein if they avail that which
they should avail in the eyes of men of understanding, I pray you afford me
counsel and succour in that which I shall ask of you. True is it, that availing
not, for the absence of my husband, to withstand the pricks of the flesh nor
the might of love-liking, the which are of such potency that they have erst
many a time overcome and yet all days long overcome the strongest men, to
say nothing of weak women,—and enjoying the commodities and the
leisures wherein you see me, I have suffered myself lapse into ensuing Love
his pleasures and becoming enamoured; the which,—albeit, were it known,
I acknowledge it would not be seemly, yet,—being and abiding hidden, I
hold[124] well nigh nothing unseemly; more by token that Love hath been
insomuch gracious to me that not only hath he not bereft me of due
discernment in the choice of a lover, but hath lent me great plenty
thereof[125] to that end, showing me yourself worthy to be loved of a lady
such as I,—you whom, if my fancy beguile me not, I hold the goodliest, the
most agreeable, the sprightliest and the most accomplished cavalier that
may be found in all the realm of France; and even as I may say that I find
myself without a husband, so likewise are you without a wife. Wherefore, I
pray you, by the great love which I bear you, that you deny me not your
love in return, but have compassion on my youth, the which, in very deed,
consumeth for you, as ice before the fire.'
With these words her tears welled up in such abundance that, albeit she
would fain have proffered him yet other prayers, she had no power to speak

farther, but, bowing her face, as if overcome, she let herself fall, weeping,
her head on the count's bosom. The latter, who was a very loyal gentleman,
began with the gravest reproofs to rebuke so fond a passion and to repel the
princess, who would fain have cast herself on his neck, avouching to her
with oaths that he had liefer be torn limb from limb than consent unto such
an offence against his lord's honour, whether in himself or in another. The
lady, hearing this, forthright forgot her love and kindling into a furious rage,
said, 'Felon knight that you are, shall I be this wise flouted by you of my
desire? Now God forbid, since you would have me die, but I have you put
to death or driven from the world!' So saying, she set her hands to her
tresses and altogether disordered and tore them; then, rending her raiment at
the breast, she fell to crying aloud and saying, 'Help! Help! The Count of
Antwerp would do me violence.' The count, seeing this, misdoubting far
more the courtiers' envy than his own conscience and fearful lest, by reason
of this same envy, more credence should be given to the lady's malice than
to his own innocence, started up and departing the chamber and the palace
as quickliest he might, fled to his own house, where, without taking other
counsel, he set his children on horseback and mounting himself to horse,
made off with them, as most he might, towards Calais.
Meanwhile, many ran to the princess's clamour and seeing her in that plight
and hearing [her account of] the cause of her outcry, not only gave credence
to her words, but added[126] that the count's gallant bearing and debonair
address had long been used by him to win to that end. Accordingly, they ran
in a fury to his houses to arrest him, but finding him not, first plundered
them all and after razed them to the foundations. The news, in its perverted
shape, came presently to the army to the king and his son, who, sore
incensed, doomed Gautier and his descendants to perpetual banishment,
promising very great guerdons to whoso should deliver him to them alive or
dead.
The count, woeful for that by his flight he had, innocent as he was,
approved himself guilty, having, without making himself known or being
recognized, reached Calais with his children, passed hastily over into
England and betook himself in mean apparel to London, wherein ere he
entered, with many words he lessoned his two little children, and especially
in two things; first, that they should brook with patience the poor estate,
whereunto, without their fault, fortune had brought them, together with

himself,—and after, that with all wariness they should keep themselves
from ever discovering unto any whence or whose children they were, as
they held life dear. The boy, Louis by name, who was some nine and the
girl, who was called Violante and was some seven years old, both, as far as
their tender age comported, very well apprehended their father's lessons and
showed it thereafter by deed. That this might be the better done,[127] he
deemed it well to change their names; wherefore he named the boy Perrot
and the girl Jeannette and all three, entering London, meanly clad,
addressed themselves to go about asking alms, like as we see yonder French
vagabonds do.
They being on this account one morning at a church door, it chanced that a
certain great lady, the wife of one of the king's marshals of England, coming
forth of the church, saw the count and his two little ones asking alms and
questioned him whence he was and if the children were his, to which he
replied that he was from Picardy and that, by reason of the misfeasance of a
rakehelly elder son of his, it had behoved him depart the country with these
two, who were his. The lady, who was pitiful, cast her eyes on the girl and
being much taken with her, for that she was handsome, well-mannered and
engaging, said, 'Honest man, an thou be content to leave thy daughter with
me, I will willingly take her, for that she hath a good favour, and if she
prove an honest woman, I will in due time marry her on such wise that she
shall fare well.' This offer was very pleasing to the count, who promptly
answered, 'Yes,' and with tears gave up the girl to the lady, urgently
commending her to her care.
Having thus disposed of his daughter, well knowing to whom, he resolved
to abide there no longer and accordingly, begging his way across the island,
came, not without sore fatigue, as one who was unused to go afoot, into
Wales. Here dwelt another of the king's marshals, who held great state and
entertained a numerous household, and to his court both the count and his
son whiles much resorted to get food. Certain sons of the said marshal and
other gentlemen's children being there engaged in such boyish exercises as
running and leaping, Perrot began to mingle with them and to do as
dextrously as any of the rest, or more so, each feat that was practised among
them. The marshal, chancing whiles to see this and being much taken with
the manners and fashion of the boy, asked who he was and was told that he
was the son of a poor man who came there bytimes for alms; whereupon he

caused require him of the count, and the latter, who indeed besought God of
nought else, freely resigned the boy to him, grievous as it was to him to be
parted from him. Having thus provided his son and daughter, he determined
to abide no longer in England and passing over into Ireland, made his way,
as best he might, to Stamford, where he took service with a knight
belonging to an earl of the country, doing all such things as pertain unto a
lackey or a horseboy, and there, without being known of any, he abode a
great while in unease and travail galore.
Meanwhile Violante, called Jeannette, went waxing with the gentlewoman
in London in years and person and beauty and was in such favour both with
the lady and her husband and with every other of the house and whoso else
knew her, that it was a marvellous thing to see; nor was there any who
noted her manners and fashions but avouched her worthy of every greatest
good and honour. Wherefore the noble lady who had received her from her
father, without having ever availed to learn who he was, otherwise than as
she had heard from himself, was purposed to marry her honourably
according to that condition whereof she deemed her. But God, who is a just
observer of folk's deserts, knowing her to be of noble birth and to bear,
without fault, the penalty of another's sin, ordained otherwise, and fain must
we believe that He of His benignity permitted that which came to pass to
the end that the gentle damsel might not fall into the hands of a man of low
estate.
The noble lady with whom Jeannette dwelt had of her husband one only
son, whom both she and his father loved with an exceeding love, both for
that he was their child and that he deserved it by reason of his worth and
virtues. He, being some six years older than Jeannette and seeing her
exceeding fair and graceful, became so sore enamoured of her that he saw
nought beyond her; yet, for that he deemed her to be of mean extraction, not
only dared he not demand her of his father and mother to wife, but, fearing
to be blamed for having set himself to love unworthily, he held his love, as
most he might, hidden; wherefore it tormented him far more than if he had
discovered it; and thus it came to pass that, for excess of chagrin, he fell
sick and that grievously. Divers physicians were called in to medicine him,
who, having noted one and another symptom of his case and being
nevertheless unable to discover what ailed him, all with one accord
despaired of his recovery; whereat the young man's father and mother

suffered dolour and melancholy so great that greater might not be brooked,
and many a time, with piteous prayers, they questioned him of the cause of
his malady, whereto or sighs he gave for answer or replied that he felt
himself all wasting away.
It chanced one day that, what while a doctor, young enough, but
exceedingly deeply versed in science, sat by him and held him by the arm in
that part where leaches use to seek the pulse, Jeannette, who, of regard for
his mother, tended him solicitously, entered, on some occasion or another,
the chamber where the young man lay. When the latter saw her, without
word said or gesture made, he felt the amorous ardour redouble in his heart,
wherefore his pulse began to beat stronglier than of wont; the which the
leach incontinent noted and marvelling, abode still to see how long this
should last. As soon as Jeannette left the chamber, the beating abated,
wherefore it seemed to the physician he had gotten impartment of the cause
of the young man's ailment, and after waiting awhile, he let call Jeannette to
him, as he would question her of somewhat, still holding the sick man by
the arm. She came to him incontinent and no sooner did she enter than the
beating of the youth's pulse returned and she being gone again, ceased.
Thereupon, it seeming to the physician that he had full enough assurance,
he rose and taking the young man's father and mother apart, said to them,
'The healing of your son is not in the succour of physicians, but abideth in
the hands of Jeannette, whom, as I have by sure signs manifestly
recognized, the young man ardently loveth, albeit, for all I can see, she is
unaware thereof. You know now what you have to do, if his life be dear to
you.'
The gentleman and his lady, hearing this, were well pleased, inasmuch as
some means was found for his recoverance, albeit it irked them sore that the
means in question should be that whereof they misdoubted them, to wit,
that they should give Jeannette to their son to wife. Accordingly, the
physician being gone, they went into the sick man and the lady bespoke him
thus: 'Son mine, I could never have believed that thou wouldst keep from
me any desire of thine, especially seeing thyself pine away for lack thereof;
for that thou shouldst have been and shouldst be assured that there is nought
I can for thy contentment, were it even less than seemly, which I would not
do as for myself. But, since thou hast e'en done this, God the Lord hath
been more pitiful over thee than thou thyself and that thou mayst not die of

this sickness, hath shown me the cause of thine ill, which is no otherwhat
than excess of love for some damsel or other, whoever she may be; and this,
indeed, thou needest not have thought shame to discover, for that thine age
requireth it, and wert thou not enamoured, I should hold thee of very little
account. Wherefore, my son, dissemble not with me, but in all security
discover to me thine every desire and put away from thee the melancholy
and the thought-taking which be upon thee and from which proceedeth this
thy sickness and take comfort and be assured that there is nothing of that
which thou mayst impose on me for thy satisfaction but I will do it to the
best of my power, as she who loveth thee more than her life. Banish
shamefastness and fearfulness and tell me if I can do aught to further thy
passion; and if thou find me not diligent therein or if I bring it not to effect
for thee, account me the cruellest mother that ever bore son.'
The young man, hearing his mother's words, was at first abashed, but
presently, bethinking himself that none was better able than she to satisfy
his wishes, he put away shamefastness and said thus to her: 'Madam,
nothing hath wrought so effectually with me to keep my love hidden as my
having noted of most folk that, once they are grown in years, they choose
not to remember them of having themselves been young. But, since in this I
find you reasonable, not only will I not deny that to be true which you say
you have observed, but I will, to boot, discover to you of whom [I am
enamoured], on condition that you will, to the best of your power, give
effect to your promise; and thus may you have me whole again.' Whereto
the lady (trusting overmuch in that which was not to come to pass for her on
such wise as she deemed in herself) answered freely that he might in all
assurance discover to her his every desire, for that she would without any
delay address herself to contrive that he should have his pleasure. 'Madam,'
then said the youth, 'the exceeding beauty and commendable fashions of our
Jeannette and my unableness to make her even sensible, still less to move
her to pity, of my love and the having never dared to discover it unto any
have brought me whereas you see me; and if that which you have promised
me come not, one way or another, to pass, you may be assured that my life
will be brief.'
The lady, to whom it appeared more a time for comfort than for reproof,
said, smilingly, 'Alack, my son, hast thou then for this suffered thyself to
languish thus? Take comfort and leave me do, once thou shalt be recovered.'

The youth, full of good hope, in a very short time showed signs of great
amendment, whereas the lady, being much rejoiced, began to cast about
how she might perform that which she had promised him. Accordingly,
calling Jeannette to her one day, she asked her very civilly, as by way of a
jest, if she had a lover; whereupon she waxed all red and answered,
'Madam, it concerneth not neither were it seemly in a poor damsel like
myself, banished from house and home and abiding in others' service, to
think of love.' Quoth the lady, 'An you have no lover, we mean to give you
one, in whom you may rejoice and live merry and have more delight of
your beauty, for it behoveth not that so handsome a girl as you are abide
without a lover.' To this Jeannette made answer, 'Madam, you took me from
my father's poverty and have reared me as a daughter, wherefore it
behoveth me to do your every pleasure; but in this I will nowise comply
with you, and therein methinketh I do well. If it please you give me a
husband, him do I purpose to love, but none other; for that, since of the
inheritance of my ancestors nought is left me save only honour, this latter I
mean to keep and preserve as long as life shall endure to me.'
This speech seemed to the lady very contrary to that whereto she thought to
come for the keeping of her promise to her son,—albeit, like a discreet
woman as she was, she inwardly much commended the damsel therefor,—
and she said, 'How now, Jeannette? If our lord the king, who is a young
cavalier, as thou art a very fair damsel, would fain have some easance of thy
love, wouldst thou deny it to him?' Whereto she answered forthright, 'The
king might do me violence, but of my consent he should never avail to have
aught of me save what was honourable.' The lady, seeing how she was
minded, left parleying with her and bethought herself to put her to the
proof; wherefore she told her son that, whenas he should be recovered, she
would contrive to get her alone with him in a chamber, so he might make
shift to have his pleasure of her, saying that it appeared to her unseemly that
she should, procuress-wise, plead for her son and solicit her own maid.
With this the young man was nowise content and presently waxed
grievously worse, which when his mother saw, she opened her mind to
Jeannette, but, finding her more constant than ever, recounted what she had
done to her husband, and he and she resolved of one accord, grievous
though it seemed to them, to give her to him to wife, choosing rather to
have their son alive with a wife unsorted to his quality than dead without

any; and so, after much parley, they did; whereat Jeannette was exceeding
content and with a devout heart rendered thanks to God, who had not
forgotten her; but for all that she never avouched herself other than the
daughter of a Picard. As for the young man, he presently recovered and
celebrating his nuptials, the gladdest man alive, proceeded to lead a merry
life with his bride.
Meanwhile, Perrot, who had been left in Wales with the King of England's
marshal, waxed likewise in favour with his lord and grew up very goodly of
his person and doughty as any man in the island, insomuch that neither in
tourneying nor jousting nor in any other act of arms was there any in the
land who could cope with him; wherefore he was everywhere known and
famous under the name of Perrot the Picard. And even as God had not
forgotten his sister, so on like wise He showed that He had him also in
mind; for that a pestilential sickness, being come into those parts, carried
off well nigh half the people thereof, besides that most part of those who
survived fled for fear into other lands; wherefore the whole country
appeared desert. In this mortality, the marshal his lord and his lady and only
son, together with many others, brothers and nephews and kinsmen, all
died, nor was any left of all his house save a daughter, just husband-ripe,
and Perrot, with sundry other serving folk. The pestilence being somewhat
abated, the young lady, with the approof and by the counsel of some few
gentlemen of the country[128] left alive, took Perrot, for that he was a man
of worth and prowess, to husband and made him lord of all that had fallen
to her by inheritance; nor was it long ere the King of England, hearing the
marshal to be dead and knowing the worth of Perrot the Picard, substituted
him in the dead man's room and made him his marshal. This, in brief, is
what came of the two innocent children of the Count of Antwerp, left by
him for lost.
Eighteen years were now passed since the count's flight from Paris, when,
as he abode in Ireland, having suffered many things in a very sorry way of
life, there took him a desire to learn, as he might, what was come of his
children. Wherefore, seeing himself altogether changed of favour from that
which he was wont to be and feeling himself, for long exercise, grown more
robust of his person than he had been when young and abiding in ease and
idlesse, he took leave of him with whom he had so long abidden and came,
poor and ill enough in case, to England. Thence he betook himself whereas

he had left Perrot and found him a marshal and a great lord and saw him
robust and goodly of person; the which was mighty pleasing unto him, but
he would not make himself known to him till he should have learned how it
was with Jeannette. Accordingly, he set out and stayed not till he came to
London, where, cautiously enquiring of the lady with whom he had left his
daughter and of her condition, he found Jeannette married to her son, which
greatly rejoiced him and he counted all his past adversity a little thing, since
he had found his children again alive and in good case.
Then, desirous of seeing Jeannette, he began beggarwise, to haunt the
neighbourhood of her house, where one day Jamy Lamiens, (for so was
Jeannette's husband called,) espying him and having compassion on him,
for that he saw him old and poor, bade one of his servants bring him in and
give him to eat for the love of God, which the man readily did. Now
Jeannette had had several children by Jamy, whereof the eldest was no more
than eight years old, and they were the handsomest and sprightliest children
in the world. When they saw the count eat, they came one and all about him
and began to caress him, as if, moved by some occult virtue, they divined
him to be their grandfather. He, knowing them for his grandchildren, fell to
fondling and making much of them, wherefore the children would not leave
him, albeit he who had charge of their governance called them. Jeannette,
hearing this, issued forth of a chamber therenigh and coming whereas the
count was, chid them amain and threatened to beat them, an they did not
what their governor willed. The children began to weep and say that they
would fain abide with that honest man, who loved them better than their
governor, whereat both the lady and the count laughed. Now the latter had
risen, nowise as a father, but as a poor man, to do honour to his daughter, as
to a mistress, and seeing her, felt a marvellous pleasure at his heart. But she
nor then nor after knew him any whit, for that he was beyond measure
changed from what he was used to be, being grown old and hoar and
bearded and lean and swart, and appeared altogether another man than the
count.
The lady then, seeing that the children were unwilling to leave him and
wept, when she would have them go away, bade their governor let them be
awhile and the children thus being with the good man, it chanced that
Jamy's father returned and heard from their governor what had passed,
whereupon quoth the marshal, who held Jeannette in despite, 'Let them be,

God give them ill-luck! They do but hark back to that whence they sprang.
They come by their mother of a vagabond and therefore it is no wonder if
they are fain to herd with vagabonds.' The count heard these words and was
mightily chagrined thereat; nevertheless, he shrugged his shoulders and put
up with the affront, even as he had put up with many others. Jamy, hearing
how the children had welcomed the honest man, to wit, the count, albeit it
misliked him, nevertheless so loved them that, rather than see them weep,
he commanded that, if the good man chose to abide there in any capacity, he
should be received into his service. The count answered that he would
gladly abide there, but he knew not to do aught other than tend horses,
whereto he had been used all his lifetime. A horse was accordingly assigned
to him and when he had cared for it, he busied himself with making sport
for the children.
Whilst fortune handled the Count of Antwerp and his children on such wise
as hath been set out, it befell that the King of France, after many truces
made with the Germans, died and his son, whose wife was she through
whom the count had been banished, was crowned in his place; and no
sooner was the current truce expired than he again began a very fierce war.
To his aid the King of England, as a new-made kinsman, despatched much
people, under the commandment of Perrot his marshal and Jamy Lamiens,
son of the other marshal, and with them went the good man, to wit, the
count, who, without being recognized of any, abode a pretty while with the
army in the guise of a horseboy, and there, like a man of mettle as he was,
wrought good galore, more than was required of him, both with counsels
and with deeds.
During the war, it came to pass that the Queen of France fell grievously sick
and feeling herself nigh unto death, contrite for all her sins, confessed
herself unto the Archbishop of Rouen, who was held of all a very holy and
good man. Amongst her other sins, she related to him that which the Count
of Antwerp had most wrongfully suffered through her; nor was she content
to tell it to him alone, nay, but before many other men of worth she
recounted all as it had passed, beseeching them so to do with the king that
the count, an he were on life, or, if not, one of his children, should be
restored to his estate; after which she lingered not long, but, departing this
life, was honourably buried. Her confession, being reported to the king,
moved him, after he had heaved divers sighs of regret for the wrong done to

the nobleman, to let cry throughout all the army and in many other parts,
that whoso should give him news of the Count of Antwerp or of either of
his children should for each be wonder-well guerdoned of him, for that he
held him, upon the queen's confession, innocent of that for which he had
gone into exile and was minded to restore him to his first estate and more.
The count, in his guise of a horseboy, hearing this and being assured that it
was the truth,[129] betook himself forthright to Jamy Lamiens and prayed
him go with him to Perrot, for that he had a mind to discover to them that
which the king went seeking. All three being then met together, quoth the
count to Perrot, who had it already in mind to discover himself, 'Perrot,
Jamy here hath thy sister to wife nor ever had any dowry with her;
wherefore, that thy sister may not go undowered, I purpose that he and none
other shall, by making thee known as the son of the Count of Antwerp, have
this great reward that the king promiseth for thee and for Violante, thy sister
and his wife, and myself, who am the Count of Antwerp and your father.'
Perrot, hearing this and looking steadfastly upon him, presently knew him
and cast himself, weeping, at his feet and embraced him, saying, 'Father
mine, you are dearly welcome.' Jamy, hearing first what the count said and
after seeing what Perrot did, was overcome at once with such wonderment
and such gladness that he scarce knew what he should do. However, after
awhile, giving credence to the former's speech and sore ashamed for the
injurious words he had whiles used to the hostler-count, he let himself fall,
weeping, at his feet and humbly besought him pardon of every past affront,
the which the count, having raised him to his feet, graciously accorded him.
Then, after they had all three discoursed awhile of each one's various
adventures and wept and rejoiced together amain, Perrot and Jamy would
have reclad the count, who would on nowise suffer it, but willed that Jamy,
having first assured himself of the promised guerdon, should, the more to
shame the king, present him to the latter in that his then plight and in his
groom's habit. Accordingly, Jamy, followed by the count and Perrot,
presented himself before the king, and offered, provided he would guerdon
him according to the proclamation made, to produce to him the count and
his children. The king promptly let bring for all three a guerdon marvellous
in Jamy's eyes and commanded that he should be free to carry it off, whenas
he should in very deed produce the count and his children, as he promised.
Jamy, then, turning himself about and putting forward the count his

horseboy and Perrot, said, 'My lord, here be the father and the son; the
daughter, who is my wife and who is not here, with God's aid you shall
soon see.'
The king, hearing this, looked at the count and albeit he was sore changed
from that which he was used to be, yet, after he had awhile considered him,
he knew him and well nigh with tears in his eyes raised him—for that he
was on his knees before him—to his feet and kissed and embraced him.
Perrot, also, he graciously received and commanded that the count should
incontinent be furnished anew with clothes and servants and horses and
harness, according as his quality required, which was straightway done.
Moreover, he entreated Jamy with exceeding honour and would fain know
every particular of his[130] past adventures. Then, Jamy being about to
receive the magnificent guerdons appointed him for having discovered the
count and his children, the former said to him, 'Take these of the
munificence of our lord the king and remember to tell thy father that thy
children, his grandchildren and mine, are not by their mother born of a
vagabond.' Jamy, accordingly, took the gifts and sent for his wife and
mother to Paris, whither came also Perrot's wife; and there they all
foregathered in the utmost joyance with the count, whom the king had
reinstated in all his good and made greater than he ever was. Then all, with
Gautier's leave, returned to their several homes and he until his death abode
in Paris more worshipfully than ever."

THE NINTH STORY
Day the Second

BERNABO OF GENOA, DUPED BY AMBROGIUOLO,
LOSETH HIS GOOD AND COMMANDETH
THAT HIS INNOCENT WIFE BE PUT TO
DEATH. SHE ESCAPETH AND SERVETH THE
SOLDAN IN A MAN'S HABIT. HERE SHE
LIGHTETH UPON THE DECEIVER OF HER
HUSBAND AND BRINGETH THE LATTER TO
ALEXANDRIA, WHERE, HER TRADUCER
BEING PUNISHED, SHE RESUMETH WOMAN'S
APPAREL AND RETURNETH TO GENOA WITH
HER HUSBAND, RICH

Elisa having furnished her due with her pitiful story, Filomena the queen,
who was tall and goodly of person and smiling and agreeable of aspect
beyond any other of her sex, collecting herself, said, "Needs must the
covenant with Dioneo be observed, wherefore, there remaining none other
to tell than he and I, I will tell my story first, and he, for that he asked it as a
favour, shall be the last to speak." So saying, she began thus, "There is a
proverb oftentimes cited among the common folk to the effect that the
deceiver abideth[131] at the feet of the deceived; the which meseemeth may
by no reasoning be shown to be true, an it approve not itself by actual
occurrences. Wherefore, whilst ensuing the appointed theme, it hath
occurred to me, dearest ladies, to show you, at the same time, that this is
true, even as it is said; nor should it mislike you to hear it, so you may know
how to keep yourselves from deceivers.
There were once at Paris in an inn certain very considerable Italian
merchants, who were come thither, according to their usance, some on one
occasion and some on another, and having one evening among others
supped all together merrily, they fell to devising of divers matters, and

passing from one discourse to another, they came at last to speak of their
wives, whom they had left at home, and one said jestingly, 'I know not how
mine doth; but this I know well, that, whenas there cometh to my hand here
any lass that pleaseth me, I leave on one side the love I bear my wife and
take of the other such pleasure as I may.' 'And I,' quoth another, 'do
likewise, for that if I believe that my wife pusheth her fortunes [in my
absence,] she doth it, and if I believe it not, still she doth it; wherefore tit for
tat be it; an ass still getteth as good as he giveth.'[132] A third, following on,
came well nigh to the same conclusion, and in brief all seemed agreed upon
this point, that the wives they left behind had no mind to lose time in their
husbands' absence. One only, who hight Bernabo Lomellini of Genoa,
maintained the contrary, avouching that he, by special grace of God, had a
lady to wife who was belike the most accomplished woman of all Italy in
all those qualities which a lady, nay, even (in great part) in those which a
knight or an esquire, should have; for that she was fair of favour and yet in
her first youth and adroit and robust of her person; nor was there aught that
pertaineth unto a woman, such as works of broidery in silk and the like, but
she did it better than any other of her sex. Moreover, said he, there was no
sewer, or in other words, no serving-man, alive who served better or more
deftly at a nobleman's table than did she, for that she was very well bred
and exceeding wise and discreet. He after went on to extol her as knowing
better how to ride a horse and fly a hawk, to read and write and cast a
reckoning than if she were a merchant; and thence, after many other
commendations, coming to that whereof it had been discoursed among
them, he avouched with an oath that there could be found no honester nor
chaster woman than she; wherefore he firmly believed that, should he abide
half a score years, or even always, from home, she would never incline to
the least levity with another man. Among the merchants who discoursed
thus was a young man called Ambrogiuolo of Piacenza, who fell to making
the greatest mock in the world of this last commendation bestowed by
Bernabo upon his wife and asked him scoffingly if the emperor had granted
him that privilege over and above all other men. Bernabo, some little
nettled, replied that not the emperor, but God, who could somewhat more
than the emperor, had vouchsafed him the favour in question. Whereupon
quoth Ambrogiuolo, 'Bernabo, I doubt not a whit but that thou thinkest to
say sooth; but meseemeth thou hast paid little regard to the nature of things;
for that, hadst thou taken heed thereunto, I deem thee not so dull of wit but

thou wouldst have noted therein certain matters which had made thee speak
more circumspectly on this subject. And that thou mayst not think that we,
who have spoken much at large of our wives, believe that we have wives
other or otherwise made than thine, but mayst see that we spoke thus,
moved by natural perception, I will e'en reason with thee a little on this
matter. I have always understood man to be the noblest animal created of
God among mortals, and after him, woman; but man, as is commonly
believed and as is seen by works, is the more perfect and having more
perfection, must without fail have more of firmness and constancy, for that
women universally are more changeable; the reason whereof might be
shown by many natural arguments, which for the present I purpose to leave
be. If then man be of more stability and yet cannot keep himself, let alone
from complying with a woman who soliciteth him, but even from desiring
one who pleaseth him, nay more, from doing what he can, so he may avail
to be with her,—and if this betide him not once a month, but a thousand
times a day,—what canst thou expect a woman, naturally unstable, to avail
against the prayers, the blandishments, the gifts and a thousand other means
which an adroit man, who loveth her, will use? Thinkest thou she can hold
out? Certes, how much soever thou mayst affirm it, I believe not that thou
believest it; and thou thyself sayst that thy wife is a woman and that she is
of flesh and blood, as are other women. If this be so, those same desires
must be hers and the same powers that are in other women to resist these
natural appetites; wherefore, however honest she be, it is possible she may
do that which other women do; and nothing that is possible she be so
peremptorily denied nor the contrary thereof affirmed with such rigour as
thou dost.' To which Bernabo made answer, saying, 'I am a merchant, and
not a philosopher, and as a merchant I will answer; and I say that I
acknowledge that what thou sayst may happen to foolish women in whom
there is no shame; but those who are discreet are so careful of their honour
that for the guarding thereof they become stronger than men, who reck not
of this; and of those thus fashioned is my wife.' 'Indeed,' rejoined
Ambrogiuolo, 'if, for every time they occupy themselves with toys of this
kind, there sprouted from their foreheads a horn to bear witness of that
which they have done, there be few, I believe, who would incline thereto;
but, far from the horn sprouting, there appeareth neither trace nor token
thereof in those who are discreet, and shame and soil of honour consist not
but in things discovered; wherefore, whenas they may secretly, they do it,

or, if they forebear, it is for stupidity. And have thou this for certain that she
alone is chaste, who hath either never been solicited of any or who, having
herself solicited, hath not been hearkened. And although I know by natural
and true reasons that it is e'en as I say, yet should I not speak thereof with so
full an assurance, had I not many a time and with many women made essay
thereof. And this I tell thee, that, were I near this most sanctified wife of
thine, I warrant me I would in brief space of time bring her to that which I
have already gotten of other women.' Whereupon quoth Bernabo, 'Disputing
with words might be prolonged without end; thou wouldst say and I should
say, and in the end it would all amount to nothing. But, since thou wilt have
it that all women are so compliant and that thine address is such, I am
content, so I may certify thee of my wife's honesty, to have my head cut off,
and thou canst anywise avail to bring her to do thy pleasure in aught of the
kind; and if thou fail thereof, I will have thee lose no otherwhat than a
thousand gold florins.' 'Bernabo,' replied Ambrogiuolo, who was now
grown heated over the dispute, 'I know not what I should do with thy blood,
if I won the wager; but, an thou have a mind to see proof of that which I
have advanced, do thou stake five thousand gold florins of thy monies,
which should be less dear to thee than thy head, against a thousand of mine,
and whereas thou settest no limit [of time,] I will e'en bind myself to go to
Genoa and within three months from the day of my departure hence to have
done my will of thy wife and to bring back with me, in proof thereof,
sundry of her most precious things and such and so many tokens that thou
shalt thyself confess it to be truth, so verily thou wilt pledge me thy faith
not to come to Genoa within that term nor write her aught of the matter.'
Bernabo said that it liked him well and albeit the other merchants
endeavoured to hinder the affair, foreseeing that sore mischief might come
thereof, the two merchants' minds were so inflamed that, in despite of the
rest, they bound themselves one to other by express writings under their
hands. This done, Bernabo abode behind, whilst Ambrogiuolo, as quickliest
he might, betook himself to Genoa. There he abode some days and
informing himself with the utmost precaution of the name of the street
where the lady dwelt and of her manner of life, understood of her that and
more than that which he had heard of her from Bernabo, wherefore
himseemed he was come on a fool's errand. However, he presently clapped
up an acquaintance with a poor woman, who was much about the house and
whose great well-wisher the lady was, and availing not to induce her to

aught else, he debauched her with money and prevailed with her to bring
him, in a chest wroughten after a fashion of his own, not only into the
house, but into the gentlewoman's very bedchamber, where, according to
the ordinance given her of him, the good woman commended it to her care
for some days, as if she had a mind to go somewhither. The chest, then
being left in the chamber and the night come, Ambrogiuolo, what time he
judged the lady to be asleep, opened the chest with certain engines of his
and came softly out into the chamber, where there was a light burning, with
whose aid he proceeded to observe the ordinance of the place, the paintings
and every other notable thing that was therein and fixed them in his
memory. Then, drawing near the bed and perceiving that the lady and a
little girl, who was with her, were fast asleep, he softly altogether uncovered
the former and found that she was as fair, naked, as clad, but saw no sign
about her that he might carry away, save one, to wit, a mole which she had
under the left pap and about which were sundry little hairs as red as gold.
This noted he covered her softly up again, albeit, seeing her so fair, he was
tempted to adventure his life and lay himself by her side; however, for that
he had heard her to be so obdurate and uncomplying in matters of this kind,
he hazarded not himself, but, abiding at his leisure in the chamber the most
part of the night, took from one of her coffers a purse and a night-rail,
together with sundry rings and girdles, and laying them all in his chest,
returned thither himself and shut himself up therein as before; and on this
wise he did two nights, without the lady being ware of aught. On the third
day the good woman came back for the chest, according to the given
ordinance, and carried it off whence she had taken it, whereupon
Ambrogiuolo came out and having rewarded her according to promise,
returned, as quickliest he might, with the things aforesaid, to Paris, where
he arrived before the term appointed. There he summoned the merchants
who had been present at the dispute and the laying of the wager and
declared, in Bernabo's presence, that he had won the wager laid between
them, for that he had accomplished that whereof he had vaunted himself;
and to prove this to be true, he first described the fashion of the chamber
and the paintings thereof and after showed the things he had brought with
him thence, avouching that he had them of herself. Bernabo confessed the
chamber to be as he had said and owned, moreover, that he recognized the
things in question as being in truth his wife's; but said that he might have
learned from one of the servants of the house the fashion of the chamber

and have gotten the things in like manner; wherefore, an he had nought else
to say, himseemed not that this should suffice to prove him to have won.
Whereupon quoth Ambrogiuolo, 'In sooth this should suffice, but, since
thou wilt have me say more, I will say it. I tell thee that Madam Ginevra thy
wife hath under her left pap a pretty big mole, about which are maybe half a
dozen little hairs as red as gold.' When Bernabo heard this, it was as if he
had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, such anguish did he feel, and though
he had said not a word, his countenance, being all changed, gave very
manifest token that what Ambrogiuolo said was true. Then, after awhile,
'Gentlemen,' quoth he, 'that which Ambrogiuolo saith is true; wherefore, he
having won, let him come whenassoever it pleaseth him and he shall be
paid.' Accordingly, on the ensuing day Ambrogiuolo was paid in full and
Bernabo, departing Paris, betook himself to Genoa with fell intent against
the lady. When he drew near the city, he would not enter therein, but lighted
down a good score miles away at a country house of his and despatched one
of his servants, in whom he much trusted, to Genoa with two horses and
letters under his hand, advising his wife that he had returned and bidding
her come to him; and he privily charged the man, whenas he should be with
the lady in such place as should seem best to him, to put her to death
without pity and return to him. The servant accordingly repaired to Genoa
and delivering the letters and doing his errand, was received with great
rejoicing by the lady, who on the morrow took horse with him and set out
for their country house. As they fared on together, discoursing of one thing
and another, they came to a very deep and lonely valley, beset with high
rocks and trees, which seeming to the servant a place wherein he might,
with assurance for himself, do his lord's commandment, he pulled out his
knife and taking the lady by the arm, said, 'Madam, commend your soul to
God, for needs must you die, without faring farther.' The lady, seeing the
knife and hearing these words, was all dismayed and said, 'Mercy, for God's
sake! Ere thou slay me, tell me wherein I have offended thee, that thou
wouldst put me to death.' 'Madam,' answered the man, 'me you have nowise
offended; but wherein you have offended your husband I know not, save
that he hath commanded me slay you by the way, without having any pity
upon you, threatening me, an I did it not, to have me hanged by the neck.
You know well how much I am beholden to him and how I may not gainsay
him in aught that he may impose upon me; God knoweth it irketh me for
you, but I can no otherwise.' Whereupon quoth the lady, weeping, 'Alack,

for God's sake, consent not to become the murderer of one who hath never
wronged thee, to serve another! God who knoweth all knoweth that I never
did aught for which I should receive such a recompense from my husband.
But let that be; thou mayst, an thou wilt, at once content God and thy master
and me, on this wise; to wit, that thou take these my clothes and give me
but thy doublet and a hood and with the former return to my lord and thine
and tell him that thou hast slain me; and I swear to thee, by that life which
thou wilt have bestowed on me, that I will remove hence and get me gone
into a country whence never shall any news of me win either to him or to
thee or into these parts.' The servant, who was loath to slay her, was lightly
moved to compassion; wherefore he took her clothes and give her a sorry
doublet of his and a hood, leaving her sundry monies she had with her. Then
praying her depart the country, he left her in the valley and afoot and betook
himself to his master, to whom he avouched that not only was his
commandment accomplished, but that he had left the lady's dead body
among a pack of wolves, and Bernabo presently returned to Genoa, where
the thing becoming known, he was much blamed. As for the lady, she abode
alone and disconsolate till nightfall, when she disguised herself as most she
might and repaired to a village hard by, where, having gotten from an old
woman that which she needed, she fitted the doublet to her shape and
shortening it, made a pair of linen breeches of her shift; then, having cut her
hair and altogether transformed herself in the guise of a sailor, she betook
herself to the sea-shore, where, as chance would have it, she found a
Catalan gentleman, by name Senor Encararch, who had landed at Alba from
a ship he had in the offing, to refresh himself at a spring there. With him she
entered into parley and engaging with him as a servant, embarked on board
the ship, under the name of Sicurano da Finale. There, being furnished by
the gentleman with better clothes, she proceeded to serve him so well and
so aptly that she became in the utmost favour with him. No great while after
it befell that the Catalan made a voyage to Alexandria with a lading of his
and carrying thither certain peregrine falcons for the Soldan, presented them
to him. The Soldan, having once and again entertained him at meat and
noting with approof the fashions of Sicurano, who still went serving him,
begged him[133] of his master, who yielded him to him, although it irked
him to do it, and Sicurano, in a little while, by his good behaviour, gained
the love and favour of the Soldan, even as he had gained that of the Catalan.
Wherefore, in process of time, it befell that,—the time coming for a great

assemblage, in the guise of a fair, of merchants, both Christian and Saracen,
which was wont at a certain season of the year to be held in Acre, a town
under the seignory of the Soldan, and to which, in order that the merchants
and their merchandise might rest secure, the latter was still used to
despatch, besides other his officers, some one of his chief men, with troops,
to look to the guard,—he bethought himself to send Sicurano, who was by
this well versed in the language of the country, on this service; and so he
did. Sicurano accordingly came to Acre as governor and captain of the
guard of the merchants and their merchandise and there well and diligently
doing that which pertained to his office and going round looking about him,
saw many merchants there, Sicilians and Pisans and Genoese and Venetians
and other Italians, with whom he was fain to make acquaintance, in
remembrance of his country. It befell, one time amongst others, that, having
lighted down at the shop of certain Venetian merchants, he espied among
other trinkets, a purse and a girdle, which he straightway knew for having
been his and marvelled thereat; but, without making any sign, he carelessly
asked to whom they pertained and if they were for sale. Now Ambrogiuolo
of Piacenza was come thither with much merchandise on board a Venetian
ship and hearing the captain of the guard ask whose the trinkets were, came
forward and said, laughing, 'Sir, the things are mine and I do not sell them;
but, if they please you, I will gladly give them to you.' Sicurano, seeing him
laugh, misdoubted he had recognized him by some gesture of his; but yet,
keeping a steady countenance, he said, 'Belike thou laughest to see me, a
soldier, go questioning of these women's toys?' 'Sir,' answered
Ambrogiuolo, 'I laugh not at that; nay, but at the way I came by them.'
'Marry, then,' said Sicurano, 'an it be not unspeakable, tell me how thou
gottest them, so God give thee good luck.' Quoth Ambrogiuolo, 'Sir, a
gentlewoman of Genoa, hight Madam Ginevra, wife of Bernabo Lomellini,
gave me these things, with certain others, one night that I lay with her, and
prayed me keep them for the love of her. Now I laugh for that I mind me of
the simplicity of Bernabo, who was fool enough to lay five thousand florins
to one that I would not bring his wife to do my pleasure; the which I did and
won the wager; whereupon he, who should rather have punished himself for
his stupidity than her for doing that which all women do, returned from
Paris to Genoa and there, by what I have since heard, caused her put to
death.' Sicurano, hearing this, understood forthwith what was the cause of
Bernabo's anger against his wife[134] and manifestly perceiving this fellow

to have been the occasion of all her ills, determined not to let him go
unpunished therefor. Accordingly he feigned to be greatly diverted with the
story and artfully clapped up a strait acquaintance with him, insomuch that,
the fair being ended, Ambrogiuolo, at his instance, accompanied him, with
all his good, to Alexandria. Here Sicurano let build him a warehouse and
lodged in his hands store of his own monies; and Ambrogiuolo, foreseeing
great advantage to himself, willingly took up his abode there. Meanwhile,
Sicurano, careful to make Bernabo clear of his[135] innocence, rested not
till, by means of certain great Genoese merchants who were then in
Alexandria, he had, on some plausible occasion of his[136] own devising,
caused him come thither, where finding him in poor enough case, he had
him privily entertained by a friend of his[137] against it should seem to
him[138] time to do that which he purposed. Now he had already made
Ambrogiuolo recount his story before the Soldan for the latter's diversion;
but seeing Bernabo there and thinking there was no need to use farther
delay in the matter, he took occasion to procure the Soldan to have
Ambrogiuolo and Bernabo brought before him and in the latter's presence,
to extort from the former, by dint of severity, an it might not easily be done
[by other means,] the truth of that whereof he vaunted himself concerning
Bernabo's wife. Accordingly, they both being come, the Soldan, in the
presence of many, with a stern countenance commanded Ambrogiuolo to
tell the truth how he had won of Bernabo the five thousand gold florins; and
Sicurano himself, in whom he most trusted, with a yet angrier aspect,
threatened him with the most grievous torments, an he told it not;
whereupon Ambrogiuolo, affrighted on one side and another and in a
measure constrained, in the presence of Bernabo and many others, plainly
related everything, even as it passed, expecting no worse punishment
therefor than the restitution of the five thousand gold florins and of the
stolen trinkets. He having spoken, Sicurano, as he were the Soldan's
minister in the matter, turned to Bernabo and said to him, 'And thou, what
didst thou to thy lady for this lie?' Whereto Bernabo replied, 'Overcome
with wrath for the loss of my money and with resentment for the shame
which meseemed I had gotten from my wife, I caused a servant of mine put
her to death, and according to that which he reported to me, she was
straightway devoured by a multitude of wolves,' These things said in the
presence of the Soldan and all heard and apprehended of him, albeit he
knew not yet to what end Sicurano, who had sought and ordered this, would

fain come, the latter said to him, 'My lord, you may very clearly see how
much reason yonder poor lady had to vaunt herself of her gallant and her
husband, for that the former at once bereaved her of honour, marring her
fair fame with lies, and despoiled her husband, whilst the latter more
credulous of others' falsehoods than of the truth which he might by long
experience have known, caused her to be slain and eaten of wolves; and
moreover, such is the goodwill and the love borne her by the one and the
other that, having long abidden with her, neither of them knoweth her. But
that you may the better apprehend that which each of these hath deserved, I
will,—so but you vouchsafe me, of special favour to punish the deceiver
and pardon the dupe,—e'en cause her come hither into your and their
presence.' The Soldan, disposed in the matter altogether to comply with
Sicurano's wishes, answered that he would well and bade him produce the
lady; whereat Bernabo marvelled exceedingly, for that he firmly believed
her to be dead, whilst Ambrogiuolo, now divining his danger, began to be in
fear of worse than paying of monies and knew not whether more to hope or
to fear from the coming of the lady, but awaited her appearance with the
utmost amazement. The Soldan, then, having accorded Sicurano his wish,
the latter threw himself, weeping, on his knees before him and putting off,
as it were at one and the same time, his manly voice and masculine
demeanour, said, 'My lord, I am the wretched misfortunate Ginevra, who
have these six years gone wandering in man's disguise about the world,
having been foully and wickedly aspersed by this traitor Ambrogiuolo and
given by yonder cruel and unjust man to one of his servants to be slain and
eaten of wolves.' Then, tearing open the fore part of her clothes and
showing her breast, she discovered herself to the Soldan and all else who
were present and after, turning to Ambrogiuolo, indignantly demanded of
him when he had ever lain with her, according as he had aforetime boasted;
but he, now knowing her and fallen well nigh dumb for shame, said
nothing. The Soldan, who had always held her a man, seeing and hearing
this, fell into such a wonderment that he more than once misdoubted that
which he saw and heard to be rather a dream than true. However, after his
amazement had abated, apprehending the truth of the matter, he lauded to
the utmost the life and fashions of Ginevra, till then called Sicurano, and
extolled her constancy and virtue; and letting bring her very sumptuous
woman's apparel and women to attend her, he pardoned Bernabo, in
accordance with her request, the death he had merited, whilst the latter,

recognizing her, cast himself at her feet, weeping and craving forgiveness,
which she, ill worthy as he was thereof, graciously accorded him and
raising him to his feet, embraced him tenderly, as her husband. Then the
Soldan commanded that Ambrogiuolo should incontinent be bound to a
stake and smeared with honey and exposed to the sun in some high place of
the city, nor should ever be loosed thence till such time as he should fall of
himself; and so was it done. After this he commanded that all that had
belonged to him should be given to the lady, the which was not so little but
that it outvalued ten thousand doubloons. Moreover, he let make a very
goodly banquet, wherein he entertained Bernabo with honour, as Madam
Ginevra's husband, and herself as a very valiant lady and gave her, in jewels
and vessels of gold and silver and monies, that which amounted to
better[139] than other ten thousand doubloons. Then, the banquet over, he
caused equip them a ship and gave them leave to return at their pleasure to
Genoa, whither accordingly they returned with great joyance and exceeding
rich; and there they were received with the utmost honour, especially
Madam Ginevra, who was of all believed to be dead and who, while she
lived, was still reputed of great worth and virtue. As for Ambrogiuolo, being
that same day bounded to the stake and anointed with honey, he was, to his
exceeding torment, not only slain, but devoured, of the flies and wasps and
gadflies, wherewith that country aboundeth, even to the bones, which latter,
waxed white and hanging by the sinews, being left unremoved, long bore
witness of his villainy to all who saw them. And on this wise did the
deceiver abide at the feet of the deceived."

THE TENTH STORY
Day the Second

PAGANINO OF MONACO STEALETH AWAY THE
WIFE OF MESSER RICCIARDO DI CHINZICA,
WHO, LEARNING WHERE SHE IS, GOETH
THITHER AND MAKING FRIENDS WITH
PAGANINO, DEMANDETH HER AGAIN OF
HIM. THE LATTER CONCEDETH HER TO HIM,
AN SHE WILL; BUT SHE REFUSETH TO
RETURN WITH HIM AND MESSER
RICCIARDO DYING, SHE BECOMETH THE
WIFE OF PAGANINO

Each of the honourable company highly commended for goodly the story
told by their queen, especially Dioneo, with whom alone for that present
day it now rested to tell, and who, after many praises bestowed upon the
preceding tale, said, "Fair ladies, one part of the queen's story hath caused
me change counsel of telling you one that was in my mind, and determine
to tell you another,—and that is the stupidity of Bernabo (albeit good
betided him thereof) and of all others who give themselves to believe that
which he made a show of believing and who, to wit, whilst going about the
world, diverting themselves now with this woman and now with that,
imagine that the ladies left at home abide with their hands in their girdles,
as if we knew not, we who are born and reared among the latter, unto what
they are fain. In telling you this story, I shall at once show you how great is
the folly of these folk and how greater yet is that of those who, deeming
themselves more potent than nature herself, think by dint of sophistical
inventions[140] to avail unto that which is beyond their power and study to
bring others to that which they themselves are, whenas the complexion of
those on whom they practise brooketh it not.

There was, then, in Pisa a judge, by name Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica,
more gifted with wit than with bodily strength, who, thinking belike to
satisfy a wife by the same means which served him to despatch his studies
and being very rich, sought with no little diligence to have a fair and young
lady to wife; whereas, had he but known to counsel himself as he
counselled others, he should have shunned both the one and the other. The
thing came to pass according to his wish, for Messer Lotto Gualandi gave
him to wife a daughter of his, Bartolomea by name, one of the fairest and
handsomest young ladies of Pisa, albeit there be few there that are not very
lizards to look upon. The judge accordingly brought her home with the
utmost pomp and having held a magnificent wedding, made shift the first
night to hand her one venue for the consummation of the marriage, but
came within an ace of making a stalemate of it, whereafter, lean and dry and
scant of wind as he was, it behoved him on the morrow bring himself back
to life with malmsey and restorative confections and other remedies.
Thenceforward, being now a better judge of his own powers than he was, he
fell to teaching his wife a calendar fit for children learning to read and
belike made aforetime at Ravenna,[141] for that, according to what he
feigned to her, there was no day in the year but was sacred not to one saint
only, but to many, in reverence of whom he showed by divers reasons that
man and wife should abstain from carnal conversation; and to these be
added, to boot, fast days and Emberdays and the vigils of the Apostles and
of a thousand other saints and Fridays and Saturdays and Lord's Day and all
Lent and certain seasons of the moon and store of other exceptions,
conceiving belike that it behoved to keep holiday with women in bed like as
he did bytimes whilst pleading in the courts of civil law. This fashion (to the
no small chagrin of the lady, whom he handled maybe once a month, and
hardly that) he followed a great while, still keeping strait watch over her,
lest peradventure some other should teach her to know working-days, even
as he had taught her holidays. Things standing thus, it chanced that, the heat
being great and Messer Ricciardo having a mind to go a-pleasuring to a
very fair country-seat he had, near Monte Nero, and there abide some days
to take the air, he betook himself thither, carrying with him his fair lady.
There sojourning, to give her some diversion, he caused one day fish and
they went out to sea in two boats, he in one with the fishermen, and she in
another with other ladies. The sport luring them on, they drifted some miles
out to sea, well nigh without perceiving it, and whilst they were intent upon

their diversion, there came up of a sudden a galliot belonging to Paganino
da Mare, a famous corsair of those days. The latter, espying the boats, made
for them, nor could they flee so fast but he overtook that in which were the
women and seeing therein the judge's fair lady, he carried her aboard the
galliot, in full sight of Messer Ricciardo, who was now come to land, and
made off without recking of aught else. When my lord judge, who was so
jealous that he misdoubted of the very air, saw this, it booteth not to ask if
he was chagrined; and in vain, both at Pisa and otherwhere, did he complain
of the villainy of the corsairs, for that he knew not who had taken his wife
from him nor whither he had carried her. As for Paganino, finding her so
fair, he deemed himself in luck and having no wife, resolved to keep her for
himself. Accordingly, seeing her weeping sore, he studied to comfort her
with soft words till nightfall, when, his calendar having dropped from his
girdle and saints' days and holidays gone clean out of his head, he fell to
comforting her with deeds, himseeming that words had availed little by day;
and after such a fashion did he console her that, ere they came to Monaco,
the judge and his ordinances had altogether escaped her mind and she began
to lead the merriest of lives with Paganino. The latter carried her to Monaco
and there, over and above the consolations with which he plied her night
and day, he entreated her honourably as his wife. After awhile it came to
Messer Ricciardo's ears where his wife was and he, being possessed with
the most ardent desire to have her again and bethinking himself that none
other might thoroughly suffice to do what was needful to that end, resolved
to go thither himself, determined to spend any quantity of money for her
ransom. Accordingly he set out by sea and coming to Monaco, there both
saw and was seen of the lady, who told it to Paganino that same evening
and acquainted him with her intent. Next morning Messer Ricciardo, seeing
Paganino, accosted him and quickly clapped up a great familiarity and
friendship with him, whilst the other feigned not to know him and waited to
see at what he aimed. Accordingly, whenas it seemed to him time, Messer
Ricciardo discovered to him, as best and most civilly he knew, the occasion
of his coming and prayed him take what he pleased and restore him the
lady. To which Paganino made answer with a cheerful countenance, 'Sir,
you are welcome, and to answer you briefly, I say thus; it is true I have a
young lady in my house, if she be your wife or another's I know not, for that
I know you not nor indeed her, save in so much as she hath abidden awhile
with me. If you be, as you say, her husband, I will, since you seem to me a

civil gentleman, carry you to her and I am assured that she will know you
right well. If she say it is as you avouch and be willing to go with you, you
shall, for the sake of your civility, give me what you yourself will to her
ransom; but, an it be not so, you would do ill to seek to take her from me,
for that I am a young man and can entertain a woman as well as another,
and especially such an one as she, who is the most pleasing I ever saw.'
Quoth Messer Ricciardo, 'For certain she is my wife, an thou bring me
where she is, thou shalt soon see it; for she will incontinent throw herself on
my neck; wherefore I ask no better than that it be as thou proposest.' 'Then,'
said Paganino, 'let us be going.' Accordingly they betook themselves to the
corsair's house, where he brought the judge into a saloon of his and let call
the lady, who issued forth of a chamber, all dressed and tired, and came
whereas they were, but accosted Messer Ricciardo no otherwise than as she
would any other stranger who might have come home with Paganino. The
judge, who looked to have been received by her with the utmost joy,
marvelled sore at this and fell a-saying in himself, 'Belike the chagrin and
long grief I have suffered, since I lost her, have so changed me that she
knoweth me not.' Wherefore he said to her, 'Wife, it hath cost me dear to
carry thee a-fishing, for that never was grief felt like that which I have
suffered since I lost thee, and now meseemeth thou knowest me not, so
distantly dost thou greet me. Seest thou not that I am thine own Messer
Ricciardo, come hither to pay that which this gentleman, in whose house we
are, shall require to thy ransom and to carry thee away? And he, of his
favour, restoreth thee to me for what I will.' The lady turned to him and
said, smiling somewhat, 'Speak you to me, sir? Look you mistake me not,
for, for my part, I mind me not ever to have seen you.' Quoth Ricciardo,
'Look what thou sayest; consider me well; an thou wilt but recollect thyself,
thou wilt see that I am thine own Ricciardo di Chinzica.' 'Sir,' answered the
lady, 'you will pardon me; belike it is not so seemly a thing as you imagine
for me to look much on you. Nevertheless I have seen enough of you to
know that I never before set eyes on you.' Ricciardo, concluding that she
did this for fear of Paganino and chose not to confess to knowing him in the
latter's presence, besought him of his favour that he might speak with her in
a room alone. Paganino replied that he would well, so but he would not kiss
her against her will, and bade the lady go with him into a chamber and there
hear what he had to say and answer him as it should please her. Accordingly
the lady and Messer Ricciardo went into a room apart and as soon as they

were seated, the latter began to say, 'Alack, heart of my body, sweet my soul
and my hope, knowest thou not thy Ricciardo, who loveth thee more than
himself? How can this be? Am I so changed? Prithee, fair mine eye, do but
look on me a little.' The lady began to laugh and without letting him say
more, replied, 'You may be assured that I am not so scatterbrained but that I
know well enough you are Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, my husband; but,
what time I was with you, you showed that you knew me very ill, for that
you should have had the sense to see that I was young and lusty and
gamesome and should consequently have known that which behoveth unto
young ladies, over and above clothes and meat, albeit for shamefastness
they name it not; the which how you performed, you know. If the study of
the laws was more agreeable to you than your wife, you should not have
taken her, albeit it never appeared to me that you were a judge; nay, you
seemed to me rather a common crier of saints' days and sacraments and
fasts and vigils, so well you knew them. And I tell you this, that, had you
suffered the husbandmen who till your lands keep as many holidays as you
allowed him who had the tilling of my poor little field, you would never
have reaped the least grain of corn. However, as God, having compassion
on my youth, hath willed it, I have happened on yonder man, with whom I
abide in this chamber, wherein it is unknown what manner of thing is a
holiday (I speak of those holidays which you, more assiduous in the service
of God than in that of the ladies, did so diligently celebrate) nor ever yet
entered in at this door Saturday nor Friday nor vigil nor Emberday nor Lent,
that is so long; nay, here swink we day and night and thump our wool; and
this very night after matinsong, I know right well how the thing went, once
he was up. Wherefore I mean to abide with him and work; whilst I am
young, and leave saints' days and jubilees and fasts for my keeping when I
am old; so get you gone about your business as quickliest you may, good
luck go with you, and keep as many holidays as you please, without me.'
Messer Ricciardo, hearing these words, was distressed beyond endurance
and said, whenas he saw she had made an end of speaking. 'Alack, sweet
my soul, what is this thou sayest? Hast thou no regard for thy kinsfolk's
honour and thine own? Wilt thou rather abide here for this man's whore and
in mortal sin than at Pisa as my wife? He, when he is weary of thee, will
turn thee away to thine own exceeding reproach, whilst I will still hold thee
dear and still (e'en though I willed it not) thou shalt be mistress of my
house. Wilt thou for the sake of a lewd and disorderly appetite, forsake

thine honour and me, who love thee more than my life? For God's sake,
dear my hope, speak no more thus, but consent to come with me;
henceforth, since I know thy desire, I will enforce myself [to content it;]
wherefore, sweet my treasure, change counsel and come away with me,
who have never known weal since thou wast taken from me.' Whereto
answered the lady, 'I have no mind that any, now that it availeth not, should
be more tender of my honour than I myself; would my kinsfolk had had
regard thereto, whenas they gave me to you! But, as they had then no care
for my honour, I am under no present concern to be careful of theirs; and if
I am herein mortar[142] sin, I shall abide though it be in pestle[142] sin. And
let me tell you that here meseemeth I am Paganino's wife, whereas at Pisa
meseemed I was your whore, seeing that there, by season of the moon and
quadratures of geometry, needs must be planets concur to couple betwixt
you and me, whereas here Paganino holdeth me all night in his arms and
straineth me and biteth me, and how he serveth me, let God tell you for me.
You say forsooth you will enforce yourself; to what? To do it in three casts
and cause it stand by dint of cudgelling? I warrant me you are grown a
doughty cavalier since I saw you last! Begone and enforce yourself to live,
for methinketh indeed you do but sojourn here below upon sufferance, so
peaked and scant o' wind you show to me. And yet more I tell you, that,
should he leave me (albeit meseemeth he is nowise inclined thereto, so I
choose to stay,) I purpose not therefor ever to return to you, of whom
squeeze you as I might, there were no making a porringer of sauce; for that
I abode with you once to my grievous hurt and loss, wherefore in such a
case I should seek my vantage elsewhere. Nay, once again I tell you, here
be neither saints' days nor vigils; wherefore here I mean to abide; so get you
gone in God's name as quickliest you may, or I will cry out that you would
fain force me.' Messer Ricciardo, seeing himself in ill case and now
recognizing his folly in taking a young wife, whenas he was himself
forspent, went forth the chamber tristful and woebegone, and bespoke
Paganino with many words, that skilled not a jot. Ultimately, leaving the
lady, he returned to Pisa, without having accomplished aught, and there for
chagrin fell into such dotage that, as he went about Pisa, to whoso greeted
him or asked him of anywhat, he answered nought but 'The ill hole[143] will
have no holidays;'[144] and there, no great while after, he died. Paganino,
hearing this and knowing the love the lady bore himself, espoused her to his
lawful wife and thereafter, without ever observing saints' day or vigil or

keeping Lent, they wrought what while their legs would carry them and led
a jolly life of it. Wherefore, dear my ladies, meseemeth Bernabo, in his
dispute with Ambrogiuolo, rode the she-goat down the steep."[145]

This story gave such occasion for laughter to all the company that there was
none whose jaws ached not therefor, and all the ladies avouched with one
accord that Dioneo spoke sooth and that Bernabo had been an ass. But, after
the story was ended and the laughter abated, the queen, observing that the
hour was now late and that all had told and seeing that the end of her
seignory was come, according to the ordinance commenced, took the
wreath from her own head and set it on that of Neifile, saying, with a blithe
aspect, "Henceforth, companion dear, be thine the governance of this little
people"; and reseated herself. Neifile blushed a little at the honour received
and became in countenance like as showeth a new-blown rose of April or of
May in the breaking of the day, with lovesome eyes some little downcast,
sparkling no otherwise than the morning-star. But, after the courteous
murmur of the bystanders, whereby they gladsomely approved their
goodwill towards the new-made queen, had abated and she had taken heart
again, she seated herself somewhat higher than of wont and said, "Since I
am to be your queen, I will, departing not from the manner holden of those
who have foregone me and whose governance you have by your obedience
commended, make manifest to you in few words my opinion, which, an it
be approved by your counsel, we will ensue. To-morrow, as you know, is
Friday and the next day is Saturday, days which, by reason of the viands
that are used therein,[146] are somewhat irksome to most folk, more by
token that Friday, considering that He who died for our life on that day
suffered passion, is worthy of reverence; wherefore I hold it a just thing and
a seemly that, in honour of the Divinity, we apply ourselves rather to
orisons than to story-telling. As for Saturday, it is the usance of ladies on
that day to wash their heads and do away all dust and all uncleanliness
befallen them for the labours of the past week; and many, likewise, use, in
reverence of the Virgin Mother of the Son of God, to fast and rest from all
manner of work in honour of the ensuing Sunday. Wherefore, we being
unable fully to ensue the order of living taken by us, on like wise

methinketh we were well to rest from story-telling on that day also; after
which, for that we shall then have sojourned here four days, I hold it
opportune, an we would give no occasion for newcomers to intrude upon
us, that we remove hence and get us gone elsewhither; where I have already
considered and provided. There when we shall be assembled together on
Sunday, after sleeping,—we having to-day had leisure enough for
discoursing at large,[147]—I have bethought myself,—at once that you may
have more time to consider and because it will be yet goodlier that the
license of our story-telling be somewhat straitened and that we devise of
one of the many fashions of fortune,—that our discourse shall be OF SUCH
AS HAVE, BY DINT OF DILIGENCE,[148] ACQUIRED SOME MUCH
DESIRED THING OR RECOVERED SOME LOST GOOD. Whereupon
let each think to tell somewhat that may be useful or at least entertaining to
the company, saving always Dioneo his privilege." All commended the
speech and disposition of the queen and ordained that it should be as she
had said. Then, calling for her seneschal, she particularly instructed him
where he should set the tables that evening and after of what he should do
during all the time of her seignory; and this done, rising to her feet, she
gave the company leave to do that which was most pleasing unto each.
Accordingly, ladies and men betook themselves to a little garden and there,
after they had disported themselves awhile, the hour of supper being come,
they supped with mirth and pleasance; then, all arising thence and Emilia,
by the queen's commandment, leading the round, the ditty following was
sung by Pampinea, whilst the other ladies responded:
What lady aye should sing, and if not
I,
Who'm blest with all for which a
maid can sigh?
Come then, O Love, thou source of
all my weal,
All hope and every issue glad and
bright
Sing ye awhile yfere
Of sighs nor bitter pains I erst did
feel,
That now but sweeten to me thy

delight,
Nay, but of that fire clear,
Wherein I, burning, live in joy and
cheer,
And as my God, thy name do
magnify.

Thou settest, Love, before these eyes
of mine
Whenas thy fire I entered the first
day,
A youngling so beseen
With valour, worth and loveliness
divine,
That never might one find a
goodlier, nay,
Nor yet his match, I ween.
So sore I burnt for him I still
must e'en
Sing, blithe, of him with thee, my
lord most high.

And that in him which crowneth my
liesse
Is that I please him, as he pleaseth
me,
Thanks to Love debonair;
Thus in this world my wish I do
possess
And in the next I trust at peace to
be,
Through that fast faith I bear
To him; sure God, who seeth
this, will ne'er
The kingdom of His bliss to us deny.

After this they sang sundry other songs and danced sundry dances and
played upon divers instruments of music. Then, the queen deeming it time
to go to rest, each betook himself, with torches before him, to his chamber,
and all on the two following days, whilst applying themselves to those
things whereof the queen had spoken, looked longingly for Sunday.

HERE ENDETH THE SECOND DAY
OF THE DECAMERON

Day the Third
Here Beginneth the Third Day of the
Decameron wherein Under the
Governance of Neifile Is
Discoursed of Such as Have by Dint
of Diligence Acquired Some Much
Desired Thing or Recovered Some
Lost Good

The dawn from vermeil began to grow orange-tawny, at the approach of the
sun, when on the Sunday the queen arose and caused all her company rise
also. The seneschal had a great while before despatched to the place whither
they were to go store of things needful and folk who should there make
ready that which behoved, and seeing the queen now on the way,
straightway let load everything else, as if the camp were raised thence, and
with the household stuff and such of the servants as remained set out in rear
of the ladies and gentlemen. The queen, then, with slow step, accompanied
and followed by her ladies and the three young men and guided by the song
of some score nightingales and other birds, took her way westward, by a
little-used footpath, full of green herbs and flowers, which latter now all
began to open for the coming sun, and chatting, jesting and laughing with
her company, brought them a while before half tierce,[149] without having
gone over two thousand paces, to a very fair and rich palace, somewhat
upraised above the plain upon a little knoll. Here they entered and having
gone all about and viewed the great saloons and the quaint and elegant
chambers all throughly furnished with that which pertaineth thereunto, they
mightily commended the place and accounted its lord magnificent. Then,
going below and seeing the very spacious and cheerful court thereof, the
cellars full of choicest wines and the very cool water that welled there in
great abundance, they praised it yet more. Thence, as if desirous of repose,

they betook themselves to sit in a gallery which commanded all the
courtyard and was all full of flowers, such as the season afforded, and
leafage, whereupon there came the careful seneschal and entertained and
refreshed them with costliest confections and wines of choice. Thereafter,
letting open to them a garden, all walled about, which coasted the palace,
they entered therein and it seeming to them, at their entering, altogether[150]
wonder-goodly, they addressed themselves more intently to view the
particulars thereof. It had about it and athwart the middle very spacious
alleys, all straight as arrows and embowered with trellises of vines, which
made great show of bearing abundance of grapes that year and being then
all in blossom, yielded so rare a savour about the garden, that, as it blent
with the fragrance of many another sweet-smelling plant that there gave
scent, themseemed they were among all the spiceries that ever grew in the
Orient. The sides of these alleys were all in a manner walled about with
roses, red and white, and jessamine, wherefore not only of a morning, but
what while the sun was highest, one might go all about, untouched thereby,
neath odoriferous and delightsome shade. What and how many and how
orderly disposed were the plants that grew in that place, it were tedious to
recount; suffice it that there is none goodly of those which may brook our
air but was there in abundance. Amiddleward the garden (what was not less,
but yet more commendable than aught else there) was a plat of very fine
grass, so green that it seemed well nigh black, enamelled all with belike a
thousand kinds of flowers and closed about with the greenest and lustiest of
orange and citron trees, the which, bearing at once old fruits and new and
flowers, not only afforded the eyes a pleasant shade, but were no less
grateful to the smell. Midmost the grass-plat was a fountain of the whitest
marble, enchased with wonder-goodly sculptures, and thence,—whether I
know not from a natural or an artificial source,—there sprang, by a figure
that stood on a column in its midst, so great a jet of water and so high
towards the sky, whence not without a delectable sound it fell back into the
wonder-limpid fount, that a mill might have wrought with less; the which
after (I mean the water which overflowed the full basin) issued forth of the
lawn by a hidden way, and coming to light therewithout, encompassed it all
about by very goodly and curiously wroughten channels. Thence by like
channels it ran through well nigh every part of the pleasance and was
gathered again at the last in a place whereby it had issue from the fair
garden and whence it descended, in the clearest of streams, towards the

plain; but, ere it won thither, it turned two mills with exceeding power and
to the no small vantage of the lord. The sight of this garden and its fair
ordinance and the plants and the fountain, with the rivulets proceeding
therefrom, so pleased the ladies and the three young men that they all of one
accord avouched that, an Paradise might be created upon earth, they could
not avail to conceive what form, other than that of this garden, might be
given it nor what farther beauty might possibly be added thereunto.
However, as they went most gladsomely thereabout, weaving them the
goodliest garlands of the various leafage of the trees and hearkening the
while to the carols of belike a score of different kinds of birds, that sang as
if in rivalry one of other, they became aware of a delectable beauty, which,
wonderstricken as they were with the other charms of the place, they had
not yet noted; to wit, they found the garden full of maybe an hundred kinds
of goodly creatures, and one showing them to other, they saw on one side
rabbits issue, on another hares run; here lay kids and there fawns went
grazing, and there was many another kind of harmless animal, each going
about his pastime at his pleasure, as if tame; the which added unto them a
yet greater pleasure than the others. After they had gone about their fill,
viewing now this thing and now that, the queen let set the tables around the
fair fountain and at her commandment, having first sung half a dozen
canzonets and danced sundry dances, they sat down to meat. There, being
right well and orderly served, after a very fair and sumptuous and tranquil
fashion, with goodly and delicate viands, they waxed yet blither and arising
thence, gave themselves anew to music-making and singing and dancing till
it seemed good to the queen that those whom it pleased should betake
themselves to sleep. Accordingly some went thither, whilst others,
overcome with the beauty of the place, willed not to leave it, but, abiding
there, addressed themselves, some to reading romances and some to playing
chess or tables, whilst the others slept. But presently, the hour of none being
past and the sleepers having arisen and refreshed their faces with cold
water, they came all, at the queen's commandment, to the lawn hard by the
fountain and there seating themselves, after the wonted fashion, waited to
fall to story-telling upon the subject proposed by her. The first upon whom
she laid this charge was Filostrato, who began on this wise:

THE FIRST STORY
Day the Third

MASETTO OF LAMPORECCHIO FEIGNETH
HIMSELF DUMB AND BECOMETH GARDENER
TO A CONVENT OF WOMEN, WHO ALL
FLOCK TO LIE WITH HIM

"Fairest ladies, there be many men and women foolish enough to believe
that, whenas the white fillet is bound about a girl's head and the black cowl
clapped upon her back, she is no longer a woman and is no longer sensible
of feminine appetites, as if the making her a nun had changed her to stone;
and if perchance they hear aught contrary to this their belief, they are as
much incensed as if a very great and heinous misdeed had been committed
against nature, considering not neither having regard to themselves, whom
full license to do that which they will availeth not to sate, nor yet to the
much potency of idlesse and thought-taking.[151] On like wise there are but
too many who believe that spade and mattock and coarse victuals and hard
living do altogether purge away carnal appetites from the tillers of the earth
and render them exceeding dull of wit and judgment. But how much all
who believe thus are deluded, I purpose, since the queen hath commanded it
to me, to make plain to you in a little story, without departing from the
theme by her appointed.
There was (and is yet) in these our parts a convent of women, very famous
for sanctity (the which, that I may not anywise abate its repute, I will not
name), wherein no great while agone, there being then no more than eight
nuns and an abbess, all young, in the nunnery, a poor silly dolt of a fellow
was gardener of a very goodly garden of theirs, who, being miscontent with
his wage, settled his accounts with the ladies' bailiff and returned to
Lamporecchio, whence he came. There, amongst others who welcomed him

home, was a young labouring man, stout and robust and (for a countryman)
a well-favoured fellow, by name of Masetto, who asked him where he had
been so long. The good man, whose name was Nuto, told him, whereupon
Masetto asked him in what he had served the convent, and he, 'I tended a
great and goodly garden of theirs, and moreover I went while to the coppice
for faggots and drew water and did other such small matters of service; but
the nuns gave me so little wage that I could scare find me in shoon withal.
Besides, they are all young and methinketh they are possessed of the devil,
for there was no doing anything to their liking; nay, when I was at work
whiles in the hortyard,[152] quoth one, "Set this here," and another, "Set that
here," and a third snatched the spade from my hand, saying, "That is
naught"; brief, they gave me so much vexation that I would leave work be
and begone out of the hortyard; insomuch that, what with one thing and
what with another, I would abide there no longer and took myself off. When
I came away, their bailiff besought me, an I could lay my hand on any one
apt unto that service, to send the man to him, and I promised it him; but
may God make him sound of the loins as he whom I shall get him, else will
I send him none at all!' Masetto, hearing this, was taken with so great a
desire to be with these nuns that he was all consumed therewith, judging
from Nuto's words that he might avail to compass somewhat of that which
he desired. However, foreseeing that he would fail of his purpose, if he
discovered aught thereof to Nuto, he said to the latter, 'Egad, thou didst well
to come away. How is a man to live with women? He were better abide
with devils. Six times out of seven they know not what they would have
themselves.' But, after they had made an end of their talk, Masetto began to
cast about what means he should take to be with them and feeling himself
well able to do the offices of which Nuto had spoken, he had no fear of
being refused on that head, but misdoubted him he might not be received,
for that he was young and well-looked. Wherefore, after pondering many
things in himself, he bethought himself thus: 'The place is far hence and
none knoweth me there, an I can but make a show of being dumb, I shall for
certain be received there.' Having fixed upon this device, he set out with an
axe he had about his neck, without telling any whither he was bound, and
betook himself, in the guise of a beggarman, to the convent, where being
come, he entered in and as luck would have it, found the bailiff in the
courtyard. Him he accosted with signs such as dumb folk use and made a
show of asking food of him for the love of God and that in return he would,

an it were needed, cleave wood for him. The bailiff willingly gave him to
eat and after set before him divers logs that Nuto had not availed to cleave,
but of all which Masetto, who was very strong, made a speedy despatch. By
and by, the bailiff, having occasion to go to the coppice, carried him thither
and put him to cutting faggots; after which, setting the ass before him, he
gave him to understand by signs that he was to bring them home. This he
did very well; wherefore the bailiff kept him there some days, so he might
have him do certain things for which he had occasion. One day it chanced
that the abbess saw him and asked the bailiff who he was. 'Madam,'
answered he, 'this is a poor deaf and dumb man, who came hither the other
day to ask an alms; so I took him in out of charity and have made him do
sundry things of which we had need. If he knew how to till the hortyard and
chose to abide with us, I believe we should get good service of him; for that
we lack such an one and he is strong and we could make what we would of
him; more by token that you would have no occasion to fear his playing the
fool with yonder lasses of yours.' 'I' faith,' rejoined the abbess, 'thou sayst
sooth. Learn if he knoweth how to till and study to keep him here; give him
a pair of shoes and some old hood or other and make much of him, caress
him, give him plenty to eat.' Which the bailiff promised to do. Masetto was
not so far distant but he heard all this, making a show the while of sweeping
the courtyard, and said merrily in himself, 'An you put me therein, I will till
you your hortyard as it was never tilled yet.' Accordingly, the bailiff, seeing
that he knew right well how to work, asked him by signs if he had a mind to
abide there and he replied on like wise that he would do whatsoever he
wished; whereupon the bailiff engaged him and charged him till the
hortyard, showing him what he was to do; after which he went about other
business of the convent and left him. Presently, as Masetto went working
one day after another, the nuns fell to plaguing him and making mock of
him, as ofttimes it betideth that folk do with mutes, and bespoke him the
naughtiest words in the world, thinking he understood them not; whereof
the abbess, mayhap supposing him to be tailless as well as tongueless,
recked little or nothing. It chanced one day, however, that, as he rested
himself after a hard morning's work, two young nuns, who went about the
garden,[153] drew near the place where he lay and fell to looking upon him,
whilst he made a show of sleeping. Presently quoth one who was somewhat
the bolder of the twain to the other, 'If I thought thou wouldst keep my
counsel, I would tell thee a thought which I have once and again had and

which might perchance profit thee also.' 'Speak in all assurance,' answered
the other, 'for certes I will never tell it to any.' Then said the forward wench,
'I know not if thou have ever considered how straitly we are kept and how
no man dare ever enter here, save the bailiff, who is old, and yonder dumb
fellow; and I have again and again heard ladies, who come to visit us, say
that all other delights in the world are but toys in comparison with that
which a woman enjoyeth, whenas she hath to do with a man. Wherefore I
have often had it in mind to make trial with this mute, since with others I
may not, if it be so. And indeed he is the best in the world to that end, for
that, e'en if he would, he could not nor might tell it again. Thou seest he is a
poor silly lout of a lad, who hath overgrown his wit, and I would fain hear
how thou deemest of the thing.' 'Alack!' rejoined the other, 'what is this thou
sayest? Knowest thou not that we have promised our virginity to God?' 'Oh,
as for that,' answered the first, 'how many things are promised Him all day
long, whereof not one is fulfilled unto Him! An we have promised it Him,
let Him find Himself another or others to perform it to Him.' 'Or if,' went on
her fellow, 'we should prove with child, how would it go then?' Quoth the
other, 'Thou beginnest to take thought unto ill ere it cometh; when that
betideth, then will we look to it; there will be a thousand ways for us of
doing so that it shall never be known, provided we ourselves tell it not.' The
other, hearing this and having now a greater itch than her companion to
prove what manner beast a man was, said, 'Well, then, how shall we do?'
Quoth the first, 'Thou seest it is nigh upon none and methinketh the sisters
are all asleep, save only ourselves; let us look about the hortyard if there be
any there, and if there be none, what have we to do but to take him by the
hand and carry him into yonder hut, whereas he harboureth against the rain,
and there let one of us abide with him, whilst the other keepeth watch? He
is so simple that he will do whatever we will.' Masetto heard all this talk
and disposed to compliance, waited but to be taken by one of the nuns. The
latter having looked well all about and satisfied themselves that they could
be seen from nowhere, she who had broached the matter came up to
Masetto and aroused him, whereupon he rose incontinent to his feet. The
nun took him coaxingly by the hand and led him, grinning like an idiot, to
the hut, where, without overmuch pressing, he did what she would. Then,
like a loyal comrade, having had her will, she gave place to her fellow, and
Masetto, still feigning himself a simpleton, did their pleasure. Before they
departed thence, each of the girls must needs once more prove how the

mute could horse it, and after devising with each other, they agreed that the
thing was as delectable as they had heard, nay, more so. Accordingly,
watching their opportunity, they went oftentimes at fitting seasons to divert
themselves with the mute, till one day it chanced that one of their sisters,
espying them in the act from the lattice of her cell, showed it to other twain.
At first they talked of denouncing the culprits to the abbess, but, after,
changing counsel and coming to an accord with the first two, they became
sharers with them in Masetto's services, and to them the other three nuns
were at divers times and by divers chances added as associates. Ultimately,
the abbess, who had not yet gotten wind of these doings, walking one day
alone in the garden, the heat being great, found Masetto (who had enough
of a little fatigue by day, because of overmuch posting it by night) stretched
out asleep under the shade of an almond-tree, and the wind lifting the
forepart of his clothes, all abode discovered. The lady, beholding this and
seeing herself alone, fell into that same appetite which had gotten hold of
her nuns, and arousing Masetto, carried him to her chamber, where, to the
no small miscontent of the others, who complained loudly that the gardener
came not to till the hortyard, she kept him several days, proving and
reproving that delight which she had erst been wont to blame in others. At
last she sent him back to his own lodging, but was fain to have him often
again and as, moreover, she required of him more than her share, Masetto,
unable to satisfy so many, bethought himself that his playing the mute
might, an it endured longer, result in his exceeding great hurt. Wherefore,
being one night with the abbess, he gave loose to[154] his tongue and
bespoke her thus: 'Madam, I have heard say that one cock sufficeth unto
half a score hens, but that half a score men can ill or hardly satisfy one
woman; whereas needs must I serve nine, and to this I can no wise endure;
nay, for that which I have done up to now, I am come to such a pass that I
can do neither little nor much; wherefore do ye either let me go in God's
name or find a remedy for the matter.' The abbess, hearing him speak whom
she held dumb, was all amazed and said, 'What is this? Methought thou
wast dumb.' 'Madam,' answered Masetto, 'I was indeed dumb, not by nature,
but by reason of a malady which bereft me of speech, and only this very
night for the first time do I feel it restored to me, wherefore I praise God as
most I may.' The lady believed this and asked him what he meant by saying
that he had to serve nine. Masetto told her how the case stood, whereby she
perceived that she had no nun but was far wiser than herself; but, like a

discreet woman as she was, she resolved to take counsel with her nuns to
find some means of arranging the matter, without letting Masetto go, so the
convent might not be defamed by him. Accordingly, having openly
confessed to one another that which had been secretly done of each, they all
of one accord, with Masetto's consent, so ordered it that the people round
about believed speech to have been restored to him, after he had long been
mute, through their prayers and by the merits of the saint in whose name the
convent was intituled, and their bailiff being lately dead, they made Masetto
bailiff in his stead and apportioned his toils on such wise that he could
endure them. Thereafter, albeit he began upon them monikins galore, the
thing was so discreetly ordered that nothing took vent thereof till after the
death of the abbess, when Masetto began to grow old and had a mind to
return home rich. The thing becoming known, enabled him lightly to
accomplish his desire, and thus Masetto, having by his foresight contrived
to employ his youth to good purpose, returned in his old age, rich and a
father, without being at the pains or expense of rearing children, to the place
whence he had set out with an axe about his neck, avouching that thus did
Christ entreat whoso set horns to his cap."

THE SECOND STORY
Day the Third

A HORSEKEEPER LIETH WITH THE WIFE OF
KING AGILULF, WHO, BECOMING AWARE
THEREOF, WITHOUT WORD SAID, FINDETH
HIM OUT AND POLLETH HIM; BUT THE
POLLED MAN POLLETH ALL HIS FELLOWS
ON LIKE WISE AND SO ESCAPETH ILL HAP

The end of Filostrato's story, whereat whiles the ladies had some little
blushed and other whiles laughed, being come, it pleased the queen that
Pampinea should follow on with a story, and she accordingly, beginning
with a smiling countenance, said, "Some are so little discreet in seeking at
all hazards to show that they know and apprehend that which it concerneth
them not to know, that whiles, rebuking to this end unperceived defects in
others, they think to lessen their own shame, whereas they do infinitely
augment it; and that this is so I purpose, lovesome ladies, to prove to you by
the contrary thereof, showing you the astuteness of one who, in the
judgment of a king of worth and valour, was held belike of less account
than Masetto himself.
Agilulf, King of the Lombards, as his predecessors had done, fixed the seat
of his kingship at Pavia, a city of Lombardy, and took to wife
Theodolinda[155] the widow of Autari, likewise King of the Lombards, a
very fair lady and exceeding discreet and virtuous, but ill fortuned in a
lover.[156] The affairs of the Lombards having, thanks to the valour and
judgment of King Agilulf, been for some time prosperous and in quiet, it
befell that one of the said queen's horse-keepers, a man of very low
condition, in respect of birth, but otherwise of worth far above so mean a
station, and comely of person and tall as he were the king, became beyond
measure enamoured of his mistress. His mean estate hindered him not from
being sensible that this love of his was out of all reason, wherefore, like a

discreet man as he was, he discovered it unto none, nor dared he make it
known to her even with his eyes. But, albeit he lived without any hope of
ever winning her favour, yet inwardly he gloried in that he had bestowed his
thoughts in such high place, and being all aflame with amorous fire, he
studied, beyond every other of his fellows, to do whatsoever he deemed
might pleasure the queen; whereby it befell that, whenas she had occasion
to ride abroad, she liefer mounted the palfrey of which he had charge than
any other; and when this happened, he reckoned it a passing great favour to
himself nor ever stirred from her stirrup, accounting himself happy what
time he might but touch her clothes. But, as often enough we see it happen
that, even as hope groweth less, so love waxeth greater, so did it betide this
poor groom, insomuch that sore uneath it was to him to avail to brook his
great desire, keeping it, as he did, hidden and being upheld by no hope; and
many a time, unable to rid himself of that his love, he determined in himself
to die. And considering inwardly of the manner, he resolved to seek his
death on such wise that it should be manifest he died for the love he bore
the queen, to which end he bethought himself to try his fortune in an
enterprise of such a sort as should afford him a chance of having or all or
part of his desire. He set not himself to seek to say aught to the queen nor to
make her sensible of his love by letters, knowing he should speak and write
in vain, but chose rather to essay an he might by practice avail to lie with
her; nor was there any other shift for it but to find a means how he might, in
the person of the king, who, he knew, lay not with her continually, contrive
to make his way to her and enter her bedchamber. Accordingly, that he
might see on what wise and in what habit the king went, whenas he visited
her, he hid himself several times by night in a great saloon of the palace,
which lay between the king's bedchamber and that of the queen, and one
night, amongst others, he saw the king come forth of his chamber, wrapped
in a great mantle, with a lighted taper in one hand and a little wand in the
other, and making for the queen's chamber, strike once or twice upon the
door with the wand, without saying aught, whereupon it was incontinent
opened to him and the taper taken from his hand. Noting this and having
seen the king return after the same fashion, he bethought himself to do
likewise. Accordingly, finding means to have a cloak like that which he had
seen the king wear, together with a taper and a wand, and having first well
washed himself in a bagnio, lest haply the smell of the muck should offend
the queen or cause her smoke the cheat, he hid himself in the great saloon,

as of wont. Whenas he knew that all were asleep and it seemed to him time
either to give effect to his desire or to make his way by high emprise[157] to
the wished-for death, he struck a light with a flint and steel he had brought
with him and kindling the taper, wrapped himself fast in the mantle, then,
going up to the chamber-door, smote twice upon it with the wand. The door
was opened by a bedchamber-woman, all sleepy-eyed, who took the light
and covered it; whereupon, without saying aught, he passed within the
curtain, put off his mantle and entered the bed where the queen slept. Then,
taking her desirefully in his arms and feigning himself troubled (for that he
knew the king's wont to be that, whenas he was troubled, he cared not to
hear aught), without speaking or being spoken to, he several times carnally
knew the queen; after which, grievous as it seemed to him to depart, yet,
fearing lest his too long stay should be the occasion of turning the gotten
delight into dolour, he arose and taking up the mantle and the light,
withdrew, without word said, and returned, as quickliest he might, to his
own bed. He could scarce yet have been therein when the king arose and
repaired to the queen's chamber, whereat she marvelled exceedingly; and as
he entered the bed and greeted her blithely, she took courage by his
cheerfulness and said, 'O my lord, what new fashion is this of to-night? You
left me but now, after having taken pleasure of me beyond your wont, and
do you return so soon? Have a care what you do.' The king, hearing these
words, at once concluded that the queen had been deceived by likeness of
manners and person, but, like a wise man, bethought himself forthright,
seeing that neither she nor any else had perceived the cheat, not to make her
aware thereof; which many simpletons would not have done, but would
have said, 'I have not been here, I. Who is it hath been here? How did it
happen? Who came hither?' Whence many things might have arisen,
whereby he would needlessly have afflicted the lady and given her ground
for desiring another time that which she had already tasted; more by token
that, an he kept silence of the matter, no shame might revert to him,
whereas, by speaking, he would have brought dishonour upon himself. The
king, then, more troubled at heart than in looks or speech, answered, saying,
'Wife, seem I not to you man enough to have been here a first time and to
come yet again after that?' 'Ay, my lord,' answered she. 'Nevertheless, I
beseech you have regard to your health.' Quoth Agilulf, 'And it pleaseth me
to follow your counsel, wherefore for the nonce I will get me gone again,
without giving you more annoy.' This said, taking up his mantle, he

departed the chamber, with a heart full of wrath and despite for the affront
that he saw had been done him, and bethought himself quietly to seek to
discover the culprit, concluding that he must be of the household and could
not, whoever he might be, have issued forth of the palace. Accordingly,
taking a very small light in a little lantern, he betook himself to a very long
gallery that was over the stables of his palace and where all his household
slept in different beds, and judging that, whoever he might be that had done
what the queen said, his pulse and the beating of his heart for the swink
endured could not yet have had time to abate, he silently, beginning at one
end of the gallery, fell to feeling each one's breast, to know if his heart beat
high. Although every other slept fast, he who had been with the queen was
not yet asleep, but, seeing the king come and guessing what he went
seeking, fell into such a fright that to the beating of the heart caused by the
late-had fatigue, fear added yet a greater and he doubted not but the king, if
he became aware of this, would put him to death without delay, and many
things passed through his thought that he should do. However, seeing him
all unarmed, he resolved to feign sleep and await what he should do.
Agilulf, then, having examined many and found none whom he judged to
be he of whom he was in quest, came presently to the horsekeeper and
feeling his heart beat high, said in himself, 'This is the man.' Nevertheless,
an he would have nought be known of that which he purposed to do, he did
nought to him but poll, with a pair of scissors he had brought with him,
somewhat on one side of his hair, which they then wore very long, so by
that token he might know him again on the morrow; and this done, he
withdrew and returned to his own chamber. The culprit, who had felt all
this, like a shrewd fellow as he was, understood plainly enough why he had
been thus marked; wherefore he arose without delay and finding a pair of
shears, whereof it chanced there were several about the stables for the
service of the horses, went softly up to all who lay in the gallery and
clipped each one's hair on like wise over the ear; which having done
without being observed, he returned to sleep. When the king arose in the
morning, he commanded that all his household should present themselves
before him, or ever the palace-doors were opened; and it was done as he
said. Then, as they all stood before him with uncovered heads, he began to
look that he might know him whom he had polled; but, seeing the most part
of them with their hair clipped after one and the same fashion, he marvelled
and said in himself, 'He whom I seek, for all he may be of mean estate,

showeth right well he is of no mean wit.' Then, seeing that he could not,
without making a stir, avail to have him whom he sought, and having no
mind to incur a great shame for the sake of a paltry revenge, it pleased him
with one sole word to admonish the culprit and show him that he was ware
of the matter; wherefore, turning to all who were present, he said, 'Let him
who did it do it no more and get you gone in peace.' Another would have
been for giving them the strappado, for torturing, examining and
questioning, and doing this, would have published that which every one
should go about to conceal; and having thus discovered himself, though he
should have taken entire revenge for the affront suffered, his shame had not
been minished, nay, were rather much enhanced therefor and his lady's
honour sullied. Those who heard the king's words marvelled and long
debated amongst themselves what he meant by this speech; but none
understood it, save he whom it concerned, and he, like a wise man, never,
during Agilulf's lifetime, discovered the matter nor ever again committed
his life to the hazard of such a venture."

THE THIRD STORY
Day the Third

UNDER COLOUR OF CONFESSION AND OF
EXCEEDING NICENESS OF CONSCIENCE, A
LADY, BEING ENAMOURED OF A YOUNG
MAN, BRINGETH A GRAVE FRIAR, WITHOUT
HIS MISDOUBTING HIM THEREOF, TO
AFFORD A MEANS OF GIVING ENTIRE
EFFECT TO HER PLEASURE

Pampinea being now silent and the daring and subtlety of the horsekeeper
having been extolled by several of the company, as also the king's good
sense, the queen, turning to Filomena, charged her follow on; whereupon
she blithely began to speak thus, "I purpose to recount to you a cheat which
was in very deed put by a fair lady upon a grave friar and which should be
so much the more pleasing to every layman as these [—friars, to wit—],
albeit for the most part very dull fools and men of strange manners and
usances, hold themselves to be in everything both better worth and wiser
than others, whereas they are of far less account than the rest of mankind,
being men who, lacking, of the meanness of their spirit, the ability to
provide themselves, take refuge, like swine, whereas they may have what to
eat. And this story, charming ladies, I shall tell you, not only for the ensuing
of the order imposed, but to give you to know withal that even the clergy, to
whom we women, beyond measure credulous as we are, yield overmuch
faith, can be and are whiles adroitly befooled, and that not by men only, but
even by certain of our own sex.
In our city, the which is fuller of cozenage than of love or faith, there was,
not many years agone, a gentlewoman adorned with beauty and charms and
as richly endowed by nature as any of her sex with engaging manners and
loftiness of spirit and subtle wit, whose name albeit I know, I purpose not to
discover it, no, nor any other that pertaineth unto the present story, for that

there be folk yet alive who would take it in despite, whereas it should be
passed over with a laugh. This lady, then, seeing herself, though of high
lineage, married to a wool-monger and unable, for that he was a craftsman,
to put off the haughtiness of her spirit, whereby she deemed no man of
mean condition, how rich soever he might be, worthy of a gentlewoman and
seeing him moreover, for all his wealth, to be apt unto nothing of more
moment than to lay a warp for a piece of motley or let weave a cloth or
chaffer with a spinster anent her yarn, resolved on no wise to admit of his
embraces, save in so far as she might not deny him, but to seek, for her own
satisfaction, to find some one who should be worthier of her favours than
the wool-monger appeared to her to be, and accordingly fell so fervently in
love with a man of very good quality and middle age, that, whenas she saw
him not by day, she could not pass the ensuing night without unease. The
gentleman, perceiving not how the case stood, took no heed of her, and she,
being very circumspect, dared not make the matter known to him by
sending of women nor by letter, fearing the possible perils that might
betide. However, observing that he companied much with a churchman,
who, albeit a dull lump of a fellow, was nevertheless, for that he was a man
of very devout life, reputed of well nigh all a most worthy friar, she
bethought herself that this latter would make an excellent go-between
herself and her lover and having considered what means she should use, she
repaired, at a fitting season, to the church where he abode, and letting call
him to her, told him that, an he pleased, she would fain confess herself to
him. The friar seeing her and judging her to be a woman of condition,
willingly gave ear to her, and she, after confession, said to him, 'Father
mine, it behoveth me have recourse to you for aid and counsel anent that
which you shall hear. I know, as having myself told you, that you know my
kinsfolk and my husband, who loveth me more than his life, nor is there
aught I desire but I have it of him incontinent, he being a very rich man and
one who can well afford it; wherefore I love him more than mine own self
and should I but think, let alone do, aught that might be contrary to his
honour and pleasure, there were no woman more wicked or more deserving
of the fire than I. Now one, whose name in truth I know not, but who is,
meseemeth, a man of condition, and is, if I mistake not, much in your
company,—a well-favoured man and tall of his person and clad in very
decent sad-coloured raiment,—unaware belike of the constancy of my
purpose, appeareth to have laid siege to me, nor can I show myself at door

or window nor go without the house, but he incontinent presenteth himself
before me, and I marvel that he is not here now; whereat I am sore
concerned, for that such fashions as these often bring virtuous women into
reproach, without their fault. I have whiles had it in mind to have him told
of this by my brothers; but then I have bethought me that men oftentimes do
messages on such wise that ill answers ensue, which give rise to words and
from words they come to deeds; wherefore, lest mischief spring therefrom
and scandal, I have kept silence of the matter and have determined to
discover it to yourself rather than to another, at once because meseemeth
you are his friend and for that it beseemeth you to rebuke not only friends,
but strangers, of such things. I beseech you, therefore, for the one God's
sake, that you rebuke him of this and pray him leave these his fashions.
There be women enough, who incline belike to these toys and would take
pleasure in being dogged and courted by him, whereas to me, who have no
manner of mind to such matters, it is a very grievous annoy.' So saying, she
bowed her head as she would weep. The holy friar understood incontinent
of whom she spoke and firmly believing what she said to be true, greatly
commended her righteous intent and promised her to do on such wise that
she should have no farther annoy from the person in question; and knowing
her to be very rich, he commended to her works of charity and almsdeeds,
recounting to her his own need. Quoth the lady, 'I beseech you thereof for
God's sake, and should he deny, prithee scruple not to tell him that it was I
who told you this and complained to you thereof.' Then, having made her
confession and gotten her penance, recalling the friar's exhortations to
works of almsgiving, she stealthily filled his hand with money, praying him
to say masses for the souls of her dead kinsfolk; after which she rose from
his feet and taking leave of him, returned home. Not long after up came the
gentleman, according to his wont, and after they had talked awhile of one
thing and another, the friar, drawing his friend aside, very civilly rebuked
him of the manner in which, as he believed, he pursued and spied upon the
lady aforesaid, according to that which she had given him to understand.
The other marvelled, as well he might, having never set eyes upon her and
being used very rarely to pass before her house, and would have excused
himself; but the friar suffered him not to speak, saying, 'Now make no show
of wonderment nor waste words in denying it, for it will avail thee nothing;
I learnt not these matters from the neighbours; nay, she herself told them to
me, complaining sore of thee. And besides that such toys beseem not a man

of thine age, I may tell thee this much of her, that if ever I saw a woman
averse to these follies, it is she; wherefore, for thine own credit and her
comfort, I prithee desist therefrom and let her be in peace.' The gentleman,
quicker of wit than the friar, was not slow to apprehend the lady's device
and feigning to be somewhat abashed, promised to meddle no more with
her thenceforward; then, taking leave of the friar, he betook himself to the
house of the lady, who still abode await at a little window, so she might see
him, should he pass that way. When she saw him come, she showed herself
so rejoiced and so gracious to him, that he might very well understand that
he had gathered the truth from the friar's words, and thenceforward, under
colour of other business, he began with the utmost precaution to pass
continually through the street, to his own pleasure and to the exceeding
delight and solace of the lady. After awhile, perceiving that she pleased him
even as he pleased her and wishful to inflame him yet more and to certify
him of the love she bore him, she betook herself again, choosing her time
and place, to the holy friar and seating herself at his feet in the church, fell
a-weeping. The friar, seeing this, asked her affectionately what was to do
with her anew. 'Alack, father mine,' answered she, 'that which aileth me is
none other than yonder God-accursed friend of yours, of whom I
complained to you the other day, for that methinketh he was born for my
especial torment and to make me do a thing, such that I should never be
glad again nor ever after dare to seat myself at your feet.' 'How?' cried the
friar. 'Hath he not given over annoying thee?' 'No, indeed,' answered she;
'nay, since I complained to you of him, as if of despite, maybe taking it ill
that I should have done so, for every once he used to pass before my house,
I verily believe he hath passed seven times. And would to God he were
content with passing and spying upon me! Nay, he is grown so bold and so
malapert that but yesterday he despatched a woman to me at home with his
idle tales and toys and sent me a purse and a girdle, as if I had not purses
and girdles galore; the which I took and take so ill that I believe, but for my
having regard to the sin of it and after for the love of you, I had played the
devil. However, I contained myself and would not do or say aught whereof I
should not first have let you know. Nay, I had already returned the purse
and the girdle to the baggage who brought them, that she might carry them
back to him, and had given her a rough dismissal, but after, fearing she
might keep them for herself and tell him that I had accepted them, as I hear
women of her fashion do whiles, I called her back and took them, full of

despite, from her hands and have brought them to you, so you may return
them to him and tell him I want none of his trash, for that, thanks to God
and my husband, I have purses and girdles enough to smother him withal.
Moreover, if hereafter he desist not from this, I tell you, as a father, you
must excuse me, but I will tell it, come what may, to my husband and my
brothers; for I had far liefer he should brook an affront, if needs he must,
than that I should suffer blame for him; wherefore let him look to himself.'
So saying, still weeping sore, she pulled out from under her surcoat a very
handsome and rich purse and a quaint and costly girdle and threw them into
the lap of the friar, who, fully crediting that which she told him and
incensed beyond measure, took them and said to her, 'Daughter, I marvel
not that thou art provoked at these doings, nor can I blame thee therefor; but
I much commend thee for following my counsel in the matter. I rebuked
him the other day and he hath ill performed that which he promised me;
wherefore, as well for that as for this that he hath newly done, I mean to
warm his ears[158] for him after such a fashion that methinketh he will give
thee no farther concern; but do thou, God's benison on thee, suffer not
thyself to be so overcome with anger that thou tell it to any of thy folk, for
that overmuch harm might ensue thereof unto him. Neither fear thou lest
this blame anywise ensue to thee, for I shall still, before both God and men,
be a most constant witness to thy virtue.' The lady made believe to be
somewhat comforted and leaving that talk, said, as one who knew his greed
and that of his fellow-churchmen, 'Sir, these some nights past there have
appeared to me sundry of my kinsfolk, who ask nought but almsdeeds, and
meseemeth they are indeed in exceeding great torment, especially my
mother, who appeareth to me in such ill case and affliction that it is pity to
behold. Methinketh she suffereth exceeding distress to see me in this
tribulation with yonder enemy of God; wherefore I would have you say me
forty masses of Saint Gregory for her and their souls, together with certain
of your own prayers, so God may deliver them from that penitential fire.' So
saying, she put a florin into his hand, which the holy father blithely received
and confirming her devoutness with fair words and store of pious instances,
gave her his benison and let her go. The lady being gone, the friar, never
thinking how he was gulled, sent for his friend, who, coming and finding
him troubled, at once divined that he was to have news of the lady and
awaited what the friar should say. The latter repeated that which he had
before said to him and bespeaking him anew angrily and reproachfully,

rebuked him severely of that which, according to the lady's report, he had
done. The gentleman, not yet perceiving the friar's drift, faintly enough
denied having sent her the purse and the girdle, so as not to undeceive the
friar, in case the lady should have given him to believe that he had done
this; whereat the good man was sore incensed and said, 'How canst thou
deny it, wicked man that thou art? See, here they are, for she herself
brought them to me, weeping; look if thou knowest them.' The gentleman
feigned to be sore abashed and answered, 'Yes, I do indeed know them and I
confess to you that I did ill; but I swear to you, since I see her thus
disposed, that you shall never more hear a word of this.' Brief, after many
words, the numskull of a friar gave his friend the purse and the girdle and
dismissed him, after rating him amain and beseeching him occupy himself
no more with these follies, the which he promised him. The gentleman,
overjoyed both at the assurance that himseemed he had of the lady's love
and at the goodly gift, was no sooner quit of the friar than he betook himself
to a place where he made shift to let his mistress see that he had the one and
the other thing; whereat she was mightily rejoiced, more by token that
herseemed her device went from good to better. She now awaited nought
but her husband's going abroad to give completion to the work, and it befell
not long after that it behoved him repair to Genoa on some occasion or
other. No sooner had he mounted to horse in the morning and gone his way,
than the lady betook herself to the holy man and after many lamentations,
said to him, weeping, 'Father mine, I tell you now plainly that I can brook
no more; but, for that I promised you the other day to do nought, without
first telling you, I am come to excuse myself to you; and that you may
believe I have good reason both to weep and to complain, I will tell you
what your friend, or rather devil incarnate, did to me this very morning, a
little before matins. I know not what ill chance gave him to know that my
husband was to go to Genoa yestermorn; algates, this morning, at the time I
tell you, he came into a garden of mine and climbing up by a tree to the
window of my bedchamber, which giveth upon the garden, had already
opened the lattice and was for entering, when I of a sudden awoke and
starting up, offered to cry out, nay, would assuredly have cried out, but that
he, who was not yet within, besought me of mercy in God's name and
yours, telling me who he was; which when I heard, I held my peace for the
love of you and naked as I was born, ran and shut the window in his face;
whereupon I suppose he took himself off (ill-luck go with him!), for I heard

no more of him. Look you now if this be a goodly thing and to be endured.
For my part I mean to bear with him no more; nay, I have already forborne
him overmuch for the love of you.' The friar, hearing this, was the
wrathfullest man alive and knew not what to say, except to ask again and
again if she had well certified herself that it was indeed he and not another;
to which she answered, 'Praised be God! As if I did not yet know him from
another! I tell you it was himself, and although he should deny it, credit him
not.' Then said the friar, 'Daughter, there is nothing to be said for it but that
this was exceeding effrontery and a thing exceeding ill done, and in sending
him off, as thou didst, thou didst that which it behoved thee to do. But I
beseech thee, since God hath preserved thee from shame, that, like as thou
hast twice followed my counsel, even so do thou yet this once; to wit,
without complaining to any kinsman of thine, leave it to me to see an I can
bridle yonder devil broke loose, whom I believed a saint. If I can make shift
to turn him from this lewdness, well and good; if not, I give thee leave
henceforth to do with him that which thy soul shall judge best, and my
benison go with thee.' 'Well, then,' answered the lady, 'for this once I will
well not to vex or disobey you; but look you do on such wise that he be
ware of annoying me again, for I promise you I will never again return to
you for this cause.' Thereupon, without saying more, she took leave of the
friar and went away, as if in anger. Hardly was she out of the church when
up came the gentleman and was called by the friar, who, taking him apart,
gave him the soundest rating ever man had, calling him disloyal and
forsworn and traitor. The other, who had already twice had occasion to
know to what the monk's reprimands amounted, abode expectant and
studied with embarrassed answers to make him speak out, saying, at the
first, 'Why all this passion, Sir? Have I crucified Christ?' Whereupon, 'Mark
this shameless fellow!' cried the friar. 'Hear what he saith! He speaketh as if
a year or two were passed and he had for lapse of time forgotten his
misdeeds and his lewdness! Hath it then escaped thy mind between this and
matinsong that thou hast outraged some one this very morning? Where wast
thou this morning a little before day?' 'I know not,' answered the gentleman;
'but wherever it was, the news thereof hath reached you mighty early.'
Quoth the friar, 'Certes, the news hath reached me. Doubtless thou
supposedst because her husband was abroad, that needs must the
gentlewoman receive thee incontinent in her arms. A fine thing, indeed!
Here's a pretty fellow! Here's an honourable man! He's grown a nighthawk,

a garden-breaker, a tree-climber! Thinkest thou by importunity to overcome
this lady's chastity, that thou climbest up to her windows anights by the
trees? There is nought in the world so displeasing to her as thou; yet must
thou e'en go essaying it again and again. Truly, thou hast profited finely by
my admonitions, let alone that she hath shown thee her aversion in many
ways. But this I have to say to thee; she hath up to now, not for any love she
beareth thee, but at my instant entreaty, kept silence of that which thou hast
done; but she will do so no more; I have given her leave to do what seemeth
good to her, an thou annoy her again in aught. What wilt thou do, an she tell
her brothers?' The gentleman having now gathered enough of that which it
concerned him to know, appeased the friar, as best he knew and might, with
many and ample promises, and taking leave of him, waited till
matinsong[159] of the ensuing night, when he made his way into the garden
and climbed up by the tree to the window. He found the lattice open and
entering the chamber as quickliest he might, threw himself into the arms of
his fair mistress, who, having awaited him with the utmost impatience,
received him joyfully, saying, 'Gramercy to my lord the friar for that he so
well taught thee the way hither!' Then, taking their pleasure one of the
other, they solaced themselves together with great delight, devising and
laughing amain anent the simplicity of the dolt of a friar and gibing at wool-
hanks and teasels and carding-combs. Moreover, having taken order for
their future converse, they did on such wise that, without having to resort
anew to my lord the friar, they foregathered in equal joyance many another
night, to the like whereof I pray God, of His holy mercy, speedily to
conduct me and all Christian souls who have a mind thereto."

THE FOURTH STORY
Day the Third

DOM FELICE TEACHETH FRA PUCCIO HOW HE
MAY BECOME BEATIFIED BY PERFORMING A
CERTAIN PENANCE OF HIS FASHION, WHICH
THE OTHER DOTH, AND DOM FELICE
MEANWHILE LEADETH A MERRY LIFE OF IT
WITH THE GOOD MAN'S WIFE

Filomena, having made an end of her story, was silent and Dioneo having
with dulcet speech mightily commended the lady's shrewdness and eke the
prayer with which Filomena had concluded, the queen turned with a smile
to Pamfilo and said, "Come, Pamfilo, continue our diversion with some
pleasant trifle." Pamfilo promptly answered that he would well and began
thus: "Madam, there are many persons who, what while they study to enter
Paradise, unwittingly send others thither; the which happened, no great
while since, to a neighbour of ours, as you shall hear.
According to that which I have heard tell, there abode near San Pancrazio
an honest man and a rich, called Puccio di Rinieri, who, devoting himself in
his latter days altogether to religious practices, became a tertiary[160] of the
order of St. Francis, whence he was styled Fra Puccio, and ensuing this his
devout life, much frequented the church, for that he had no family other
than a wife and one maid and consequently, it behoved him not apply
himself to any craft. Being an ignorant, clod-pated fellow, he said his
paternosters, went to preachments and attended mass, nor ever failed to be
at the Lauds chanted by the seculars,[161] and fasted and mortified himself;
nay, it was buzzed about that he was of the Flagellants.[162] His wife, whose
name was Mistress Isabetta,[163] a woman, yet young, of eight-and-twenty
to thirty years of age, fresh and fair and plump as a lady-apple, kept, by
reason of the piety and belike of the age of her husband, much longer and
more frequent fasts than she could have wished, and when she would have

slept or maybe frolicked with him, he recounted to her the life of Christ and
the preachments of Fra Nastagio or the Complaint of Mary Magdalene or
the like. Meantime there returned home from Paris a monk hight Dom[164]
Felice, Conventual[165] of San Pancrazio, who was young and comely
enough of person, keen of wit and a profound scholar, and with him Fra
Puccio contracted a strait friendship. And for that this Dom Felice right well
resolved him his every doubt and knowing his pious turn of mind, made
him a show of exceeding devoutness, Fra Puccio fell to carrying him home
bytimes and giving him to dine and sup, as the occasion offered; and the
lady also, for her husband's sake, became familiar with him and willingly
did him honour. The monk, then, continuing to frequent Fra Puccio's house
and seeing the latter's wife so fresh and plump, guessed what should be the
thing whereof she suffered the most default and bethought himself, an he
might, to go about to furnish her withal himself, and so spare Fra Puccio
fatigue. Accordingly, craftily casting his eyes on her, at one time and
another, he made shift to kindle in her breast that same desire which he had
himself, which when he saw, he bespoke her of his wishes as first occasion
betided him. But, albeit he found her well disposed to give effect to the
work, he could find no means thereunto, for that she would on nowise trust
herself to be with him in any place in the world save her own house, and
there it might not be, seeing that Fra Puccio never went without the town.
At this the monk was sore chagrined; but, after much consideration, he hit
upon a device whereby he might avail to foregather with the lady in her
own house, without suspect, for all Fra Puccio should be at home.
Accordingly, the latter coming one day to visit him, he bespoke him thus, 'I
have many a time understood, Fra Puccio, that all thy desire is to become a
saint and to this end meseemeth thou goest about by a long road, whereas
there is another and a very short one, which the Pope and the other great
prelates, who know and practise it, will not have made known, for that the
clergy, who for the most part live by alms, would incontinent be undone,
inasmuch as the laity would no longer trouble themselves to propitiate them
with alms or otherwhat. But, for that thou art my friend and hast very
honourably entertained me, I would teach it thee, so I were assured thou
wouldst practise it and wouldst not discover it to any living soul.' Fra
Puccio, eager to know the thing, began straightway to entreat him with the
utmost instancy that he would teach it him and then to swear that never,
save in so far as it should please him, would he tell it to any, engaging, an if

it were such as he might avail to follow, to address himself thereunto.
Whereupon quoth the monk, 'Since thou promisest me this, I will e'en
discover it to thee. Thou must know that the doctors of the church hold that
it behoveth whoso would become blessed to perform the penance which
thou shalt hear; but understand me aright; I do not say that, after the
penance, thou wilt not be a sinner like as thou presently art; but this will
betide, that the sins which thou hast committed up to the time of the
penance will all by virtue thereof be purged and pardoned unto thee, and
those which thou shalt commit thereafterward will not be written to thy
prejudice, but will pass away with the holy water, as venial sins do now. It
behoveth a man, then, in the first place, whenas he cometh to begin the
penance, to confess himself with the utmost diligence of his sins, and after
this he must keep a fast and a very strict abstinence for the space of forty
days, during which time thou[166] must abstain from touching, not to say
other women, but even thine own wife. Moreover, thou must have in thine
own house some place whence thou mayst see the sky by night, whither
thou must betake thyself towards the hour of complines,[167] and there thou
must have a wide plank set up, on such wise that, standing upright, thou
mayst lean thy loins against it and keeping thy feet on the ground, stretch
out thine arms, crucifix fashion. An thou wouldst rest them upon some peg
or other, thou mayst do it, and on this wise thou must abide gazing upon the
sky, without budging a jot, till matins. Wert thou a scholar, thou wouldst do
well to repeat certain orisons I would give thee; but, as thou art it not, thou
must say three hundred Paternosters and as many Ave Marys, in honour of
the Trinity, and looking upon heaven, still have in remembrance that God is
the Creator of heaven and earth and the passion of Christ, abiding on such
wise as He abode on the cross. When the bell ringeth to matins, thou mayst,
an thou wilt, go and cast thyself, clad as thou art, on thy bed and sleep, and
after, in the forenoon, betake thyself to church and there hear at least three
masses and repeat fifty Paternosters and as many Aves; after which thou
shalt with a single heart do all and sundry thine occasions, if thou have any
to do, and dine and at evensong be in church again and there say certain
orisons which I will give thee by writ and without which it cannot be done.
Then, towards complines, do thou return to the fashion aforesaid, and thus
doing, even as I have myself done aforetime, I doubt not but, ere thou come
to the end of the penance, thou wilt, (provided thou shalt have performed it
with devoutness and compunction,) feel somewhat marvellous of eternal

beatitude.' Quoth Fra Puccio, 'This is no very burdensome matter, nor yet
overlong, and may very well be done; wherefore I purpose in God's name to
begin on Sunday.' Then, taking leave of him and returning home, he related
everything in due order to his wife, having the other's permission therefor.
The lady understood very well what the monk meant by bidding him stand
fast without stirring till matins; wherefore, the device seeming to her
excellent, she replied that she was well pleased therewith and with every
other good work that he did for the health of his soul and that, so God might
make the penance profitable to him, she would e'en fast with him, but do no
more. They being thus of accord and Sunday come, Fra Puccio began his
penance and my lord monk, having agreed with the lady, came most
evenings to sup with her, bringing with him store of good things to eat and
drink, and after lay with her till matinsong, when he arose and took himself
off, whilst Fra Puccio returned to bed. Now the place which Fra Puccio had
chosen for his penance adjoined the chamber where the lady lay and was
parted therefrom but by a very slight wall, wherefore, Master Monk
wantoning it one night overfreely with the lady and she with him, it seemed
to Fra Puccio that he felt a shaking of the floor of the house. Accordingly,
having by this said an hundred of his Paternosters, he made a stop there and
without moving, called to his wife to know what she did. The lady, who was
of a waggish turn and was then belike astride of San Benedetto his beast or
that of San Giovanni Gualberto, answered, 'I' faith, husband mine, I toss as
most I may.' 'How?' quoth Fra Puccio. 'Thou tossest? What meaneth this
tossing?' The lady, laughing, for that she was a frolicsome dame and
doubtless had cause to laugh, answered merrily; 'How? You know not what
it meaneth? Why, I have heard you say a thousand times, "Who suppeth not
by night must toss till morning light."' Fra Puccio doubted not but that the
fasting was the cause of her unableness to sleep and it was for this she
tossed thus about the bed; wherefore, in the simplicity of his heart, 'Wife,'
said he, 'I told thee not to fast; but, since thou wouldst e'en do it, think not
of that, but address thyself to rest; thou givest such vaults about the bed that
thou makest all in the place shake.' 'Have no care for that,' answered the
lady; 'I know what I am about; do you but well, you, and I will do as well as
I may.' Fra Puccio, accordingly, held his peace and betook himself anew to
his Paternosters; and after that night my lord monk and the lady let make a
bed in another part of the house, wherein they abode in the utmost joyance
what while Fra Puccio's penance lasted. At one and the same hour the monk

took himself off and the lady returned to her own bed, whereto a little after
came Fra Puccio from his penance; and on this wise the latter continued to
do penance, whilst his wife did her delight with the monk, to whom quoth
she merrily, now and again, 'Thou hast put Fra Puccio upon performing a
penance, whereby we have gotten Paradise.' Indeed, the lady, finding
herself in good case, took such a liking to the monk's fare, having been long
kept on low diet by her husband, that, whenas Fra Puccio's penance was
accomplished, she still found means to feed her fill with him elsewhere and
using discretion, long took her pleasure thereof. Thus, then, that my last
words may not be out of accord with my first, it came to pass that, whereas
Fra Puccio, by doing penance, thought to win Paradise for himself, he put
therein the monk, who had shown him the speedy way thither, and his wife,
who lived with him in great lack of that whereof Dom Felice, like a
charitable man as he was, vouchsafed her great plenty."

THE FIFTH STORY
Day the Third

RICCIARDO, SURNAMED IL ZIMA, GIVETH
MESSER FRANCESCO VERGELLESI A
PALFREY OF HIS AND HATH THEREFOR HIS
LEAVE TO SPEAK WITH HIS WIFE. SHE
KEEPING SILENCE, HE IN HER PERSON
REPLIETH UNTO HIMSELF, AND THE EFFECT
AFTER ENSUETH IN ACCORDANCE WITH HIS
ANSWER

Pamfilo having made an end, not without laughter on the part of the ladies,
of the story of Fra Puccio, the queen with a commanding air bade Elisa
follow on. She, rather tartly than otherwise, not out of malice, but of old
habit, began to speak thus, "Many folk, knowing much, imagine that others
know nothing, and so ofttimes, what while they think to overreach others,
find, after the event, that they themselves have been outwitted of them;
wherefore I hold his folly great who setteth himself without occasion to test
the strength of another's wit. But, for that maybe all are not of my opinion,
it pleaseth me, whilst following on the given order of the discourse, to relate
to you that which befell a Pistolese gentleman[168] by reason thereof.
There was in Pistoia a gentleman of the Vergellesi family, by name Messer
Francesco, a man of great wealth and understanding and well advised in all
else, but covetous beyond measure. Being made provost of Milan, he had
furnished himself with everything necessary for his honourable going
thither, except only with a palfrey handsome enough for him, and finding
none to his liking, he abode in concern thereof. Now there was then in the
same town a young man called Ricciardo, of little family, but very rich,
who still went so quaintly clad and so brave of his person that he was
commonly known as Il Zima,[169] and he had long in vain loved and courted
Messer Francesco's wife, who was exceeding fair and very virtuous. Now

he had one of the handsomest palfreys in all Tuscany and set great store by
it for its beauty and it being public to every one that he was enamoured of
Messer Francesco's wife, there were those who told the latter that, should he
ask it, he might have the horse for the love Il Zima bore his lady.
Accordingly, moved by covetise, Messer Francesco let call Il Zima to him
and sought of him his palfrey by way of sale, so he should proffer it to him
as a gift. The other, hearing this, was well pleased and made answer to him,
saying, "Sir, though you gave me all you have in the world, you might not
avail to have my palfrey by way of sale, but by way of gift you may have it,
whenas it pleaseth you, on condition that, ere you take it, I may have leave
to speak some words with your lady in your presence, but so far removed
from every one that I may be heard of none other than herself.' The
gentleman, urged by avarice and looking to outwit the other, answered that
it liked him well and [that he might speak with her] as much as he would;
then, leaving him in the saloon of his palace, he betook himself to the lady's
chamber and telling her how easily he might acquire the palfrey, bade her
come hearken to Il Zima, but charged her take good care to answer neither
little or much to aught that he should say. To this the lady much demurred,
but, it behoving her ensue her husband's pleasure, she promised to do his
bidding and followed him to the saloon, to hear what Il Zima should say.
The latter, having renewed his covenant with the gentleman, seated himself
with the lady in a part of the saloon at a great distance from every one and
began to say thus, 'Noble lady, meseemeth certain that you have too much
wit not to have long since perceived how great a love I have been brought
to bear you by your beauty, which far transcendeth that of any woman
whom methinketh I ever beheld, to say nothing of the engaging manners
and the peerless virtues which be in you and which might well avail to take
the loftiest spirits of mankind; wherefore it were needless to declare to you
in words that this [my love] is the greatest and most fervent that ever man
bore woman; and thus, without fail, will I do[170] so long as my wretched
life shall sustain these limbs, nay, longer; for that, if in the other world folk
love as they do here below, I shall love you to all eternity. Wherefore you
may rest assured that you have nothing, be it much or little worth, that you
may hold so wholly yours and whereon you may in every wise so surely
reckon as myself, such as I am, and that likewise which is mine. And that of
this you may take assurance by very certain argument, I tell you that I
should count myself more graced, did you command me somewhat that I

might do and that would pleasure you, than if, I commanding, all the world
should promptliest obey me. Since, then, I am yours, even as you have
heard, it is not without reason that I dare to offer up my prayers to your
nobility, wherefrom alone can all peace, all health and all well-being derive
for me, and no otherwhence; yea, as the humblest of your servants, I
beseech you, dear my good and only hope of my soul, which, midmost the
fire of love, feedeth upon its hope in you,—that your benignity may be so
great and your past rigour shown unto me, who am yours, on such wise be
mollified that I, recomforted by your kindness, may say that, like as by your
beauty I was stricken with love, even so by your pity have I life, which
latter, an your haughty soul incline not to my prayers, will without fail
come to nought and I shall perish and you may be said to be my murderer.
Letting be that my death will do you no honour, I doubt not eke but that,
conscience bytimes pricking you therefor, you will regret having wrought
it[171] and whiles, better disposed, will say in yourself, "Alack, how ill I did
not to have compassion upon my poor Zima!" and this repentance, being of
no avail, will cause you the great annoy. Wherefore, so this may not betide,
now that you have it in your power to succour me, bethink yourself and ere
I die, be moved to pity on me, for that with you alone it resteth to make me
the happiest or the most miserable man alive. I trust your courtesy will be
such that you will not suffer me to receive death in guerdon of such and so
great a love, but will with a glad response and full of favour quicken my
fainting spirits, which flutter, all dismayed, in your presence.' Therewith he
held his peace and heaving the deepest of sighs, followed up with sundry
tears, proceeded to await the lady's answer. The latter,—whom the long
court he had paid her, the joustings held and the serenades given in her
honour and other like things done of him for the love of her had not availed
to move,—was moved by the passionate speech of this most ardent lover
and began to be sensible of that which she had never yet felt, to wit, what
manner of thing love was; and albeit, in ensuance of the commandment laid
upon her by her husband, she kept silence, she could not withal hinder
sundry gentle sighs from discovering that which, in answer to Il Zima, she
would gladly have made manifest. Il Zima, having waited awhile and seeing
that no response ensued, was wondered and presently began to divine the
husband's device; but yet, looking her in the face and observing certain
flashes of her eyes towards him now and again and noting, moreover, the
sighs which she suffered not to escape her bosom with all her strength,

conceived fresh hope and heartened thereby, took new counsel[172] and
proceeded to answer himself after the following fashion, she hearkening the
while: 'Zima mine, this long time, in good sooth, have I perceived thy love
for me to be most great and perfect, and now by thy words I know it yet
better and am well pleased therewith, as indeed I should be. Algates, an I
have seemed to thee harsh and cruel, I will not have thee believe that I have
at heart been that which I have shown myself in countenance; nay, I have
ever loved thee and held thee dear above all other men; but thus hath it
behoved me do, both for fear of others and for the preserving of my fair
fame. But now is the time at hand when I may show thee clearly that I love
thee and guerdon thee of the love that thou hast borne and bearest me. Take
comfort, therefore, and be of good hope, for that a few days hence Messer
Francesco is to go to Milan for provost, as indeed thou knowest, who hast
for the love of me given him thy goodly palfrey; and whenas he shall be
gone, I promise thee by my troth and of the true love I bear thee, that,
before many days, thou shalt without fail foregather with me and we will
give gladsome and entire accomplishment to our love. And that I may not
have to bespeak thee otherwhiles of the matter, I tell thee presently that,
whenas thou shalt see two napkins displayed at the window of my chamber,
which giveth upon our garden, do thou that same evening at nightfall make
shift to come to me by the garden door, taking good care that thou be not
seen. Thou wilt find me awaiting thee and we will all night long have
delight and pleasance one of another, to our hearts' content.' Having thus
spoken for the lady, he began again to speak in his own person and rejoined
on this wise, 'Dearest lady, my every sense is so transported with excessive
joy for your gracious reply that I can scarce avail to make response, much
less to render you due thanks; nay, could I e'en speak as I desire, there is no
term so long that it might suffice me fully to thank you as I would fain do
and as it behoveth me; wherefore I leave it to your discreet consideration to
imagine that which, for all my will, I am unable to express in words. This
much only I tell you that I will without fail bethink myself to do as you
have charged me, and being then, peradventure, better certified of so great a
grace as that which you have vouchsafed me, I will, as best I may, study to
render you the utmost thanks in my power. For the nonce there abideth no
more to say; wherefore, dearest lady mine, God give you that gladness and
that weal which you most desire, and so to Him I commend you.' For all
this the lady said not a word; whereupon Il Zima arose and turned towards

the husband, who, seeing him risen, came up to him and said, laughing
'How deemest thou? Have I well performed my promise to thee?' 'Nay, sir'
answered Il Zima; 'for you promised to let me speak with your lady and you
have caused me speak with a marble statue.' These words were mighty
pleasing to the husband, who, for all he had a good opinion of the lady,
conceived of her a yet better and said, 'Now is thy palfrey fairly mine.' 'Ay
is it, sir,' replied Il Zima, 'but, had I thought to reap of this favour received
of you such fruit as I have gotten, I had given you the palfrey, without
asking it[173] of you; and would God I had done it, for that now you have
bought the palfrey and I have not sold it.' The other laughed at this and
being now provided with a palfrey, set out upon his way a few days after
and betook himself to Milan, to enter upon the Provostship. The lady, left
free in her house, called to mind Il Zima's words and the love he bore her
and the palfrey given for her sake and seeing him pass often by the house,
said in herself, 'What do I? Why waste I my youth? Yonder man is gone to
Milan and will not return these six months. When will he ever render me
them[174] again? When I am old? Moreover, when shall I ever find such a
lover as Il Zima? I am alone and have no one to fear. I know not why I
should not take this good opportunity what while I may; I shall not always
have such leisure as I presently have. None will know the thing, and even
were it to be known, it is better to do and repent, than to abstain and repent.'
Having thus taken counsel with herself, she one day set two napkins in the
garden window, even as Il Zima had said, which when he saw, he was
greatly rejoiced and no sooner was the night come than he betook himself,
secretly and alone, to the gate of the lady's garden and finding it open,
passed on to another door that opened into the house, where he found his
mistress awaiting him. She, seeing him come, started up to meet him and
received him with the utmost joy, whilst he clipped and kissed her an
hundred thousand times and followed her up the stair to her chamber,
where, getting them to bed without a moment's delay, they knew the utmost
term of amorous delight. Nor was this first time the last, for that, what while
the gentleman abode at Milan and even after his coming back, Il Zima
returned thither many another time, to the exceeding satisfaction of both
parties."

THE SIXTH STORY
Day the Third

RICCIARDO MINUTOLO, BEING ENAMOURED OF
THE WIFE OF FILIPPELLO FIGHINOLFI AND
KNOWING HER JEALOUSY OF HER
HUSBAND, CONTRIVETH, BY REPRESENTING
THAT FILIPPELLO WAS ON THE ENSUING
DAY TO BE WITH HIS OWN WIFE IN A
BAGNIO, TO BRING HER TO THE LATTER
PLACE, WHERE, THINKING TO BE WITH HER
HUSBAND, SHE FINDETH THAT SHE HATH
ABIDDEN WITH RICCIARDO

Elisa having no more to say, the queen, after commending the sagacity of Il
Zima, bade Fiammetta proceed with a story, who answered, all smilingly,
"Willingly, Madam," and began thus: "It behoveth somedele to depart our
city (which, like as it aboundeth in all things else, is fruitful in instances of
every subject) and as Elisa hath done, to recount somewhat of the things
that have befallen in other parts of the world; wherefore, passing over to
Naples, I shall tell how one of those she-saints, who feign themselves so
shy of love, was by the ingenuity of a lover of hers brought to taste the
fruits of love, ere she had known its flowers; the which will at once teach
you circumspection in the things that may hap and afford you diversion of
those already befallen.
In Naples, a very ancient city and as delightful as any in Italy or maybe
more so, there was once a young man, illustrious for nobility of blood and
noted for his much wealth, whose name was Ricciardo Minutolo. Albeit he
had to wife a very fair and lovesome young lady, he fell in love with one
who, according to general opinion, far overpassed in beauty all the other
ladies of Naples. Her name was Catella and she was the wife of another
young gentleman of like condition, hight Filippello Fighinolfi, whom, like a

very virtuous woman as she was, she loved and cherished over all.
Ricciardo, then, loving this Catella and doing all those things whereby the
love and favour of a lady are commonly to be won, yet for all that availing
not to compass aught of his desire, was like to despair; and unknowing or
unable to rid him of his passion, he neither knew how to die nor did it profit
him to live.
Abiding in this mind, it befell that he was one day urgently exhorted by
certain ladies of his kinsfolk to renounce this passion of his, seeing he did
but weary himself in vain, for that Catella had none other good than
Filippello, of whom she lived in such jealousy that she fancied every bird
that flew through the air would take him from her. Ricciardo, hearing of
Catella's jealousy, forthright bethought himself how he might compass his
wishes and accordingly proceeded to feign himself in despair of her love
and to have therefore set his mind upon another lady, for whose love he
began to make a show of jousting and tourneying and doing all those things
which he had been used to do for Catella; nor did he do this long before
well nigh all the Neapolitans, and among the rest the lady herself, were
persuaded that he no longer loved Catella, but was ardently enamoured of
this second lady; and on this wise he persisted until it was so firmly
believed not only of others, but of Catella herself, that the latter laid aside a
certain reserve with which she was wont to entreat him, by reason of the
love he bore her, and coming and going, saluted him familiarly,
neighbourwise, as she did others.
It presently befell that, the weather being warm, many companies of ladies
and gentlemen went, according to the usance of the Neapolitans, to divert
themselves on the banks of the sea and there to dine and sup, and Ricciardo,
knowing Catella to be gone thither with her company, betook himself to the
same place with his friends and was received into Catella's party of ladies,
after allowing himself to be much pressed, as if he had no great mind to
abide there. The ladies and Catella fell to rallying him upon his new love,
and he, feigning himself sore inflamed therewith, gave them the more
occasion for discourse. Presently, one lady going hither and thither, as
commonly happeneth in such places, and Catella being left with a few
whereas Ricciardo was, the latter cast at her a hint of a certain amour of
Filippello her husband, whereupon she fell into a sudden passion of
jealousy and began to be inwardly all afire with impatience to know what

he meant. At last, having contained herself awhile and being unable to hold
out longer, she besought Ricciardo, for that lady's sake whom he most
loved, to be pleased to make her clear[175] of that which he had said of
Filippello; whereupon quoth he, 'You conjure me by such a person that I
dare not deny aught you ask me; wherefore I am ready to tell it you, so but
you promise me that you will never say a word thereof either to him or to
any other, save whenas you shall by experience have seen that which I shall
tell you to be true; for that, when you please, I will teach you how you may
see it.'
The lady consented to that which he asked and swore to him never to repeat
that which he should tell her, believing it the more to be true. Then,
withdrawing apart with her, so they might not be overheard of any, he
proceeded to say thus: 'Madam, an I loved you as once I loved, I should not
dare tell you aught which I thought might vex you; but, since that love is
passed away, I shall be less chary of discovering to you the whole truth. I
know not if Filippello have ever taken umbrage at the love I bore you or
have believed that I was ever loved of you. Be this as it may, he hath never
personally shown me aught thereof; but now, having peradventure awaited a
time whenas he deemed I should be less suspicious, it seemeth he would
fain do unto me that which I misdoubt me he feareth I have done unto him,
to wit, [he seeketh] to have my wife at his pleasure. As I find, he hath for
some little time past secretly solicited her with sundry messages, all of
which I have known from herself, and she hath made answer thereunto
according as I have enjoined her. This very day, however, ere I came hither,
I found in the house, in close conference with my wife, a woman whom I
set down incontinent for that which she was, wherefore I called my wife
and asked her what the woman wanted. Quoth she, "She is the agent of
Filippello, with whom thou hast saddled me, by dint of making me answer
him and give him hopes, and she saith that he will e'en know once for all
what I mean to do and that, an I will, he would contrive for me to be privily
at a bagnio in this city; nay, of this he prayeth and importuneth me; and
hadst thou not, I know not why, caused me keep this traffic with him, I
would have rid myself of him after such a fashion that he should never
more have looked whereas I might be." Thereupon meseemed this was
going too far and that it was no longer to be borne; and I bethought myself
to tell it to you, so you might know how he requiteth that entire fidelity of

yours, whereby aforetime I was nigh upon death. And so you shall not
believe this that I tell you to be words and fables, but may, whenas you have
a mind thereto, openly both see and touch it, I caused my wife make this
answer to her who awaited it, that she was ready to be at the bagnio in
question to-morrow at none, whenas the folk sleep; with which the woman
took leave of her, very well pleased. Now methinketh not you believe that I
will send my wife thither; but, were I in your place, I would contrive that he
should find me there in the room of her he thinketh to meet, and whenas I
had abidden with him awhile, I would give him to know with whom he had
been and render him such honour thereof as should beseem him; by which
means methinketh you would do him such a shame that the affront he
would fain put upon yourself and upon me would at one blow be avenged.'
Catella, hearing this, without anywise considering who it was that said it to
her or suspecting his design, forthright, after the wont of jealous folk, gave
credence to his words and fell a-fitting to his story certain things that had
already befallen; then, fired with sudden anger, she answered that she would
certainly do as he counselled,—it was no such great matter,—and that
assuredly, if Filippello came thither, she would do him such a shame that it
should still recur to his mind, as often as he saw a woman. Ricciardo, well
pleased at this and himseeming his device was a good one and in a fair way
of success, confirmed her in her purpose with many other words and
strengthened her belief in his story, praying her, natheless, never to say that
she had heard it from him, the which she promised him on her troth.
Next morning, Ricciardo betook himself to a good woman, who kept the
bagnio he had named to Catella, and telling her what he purposed to do,
prayed her to further him therein as most she might. The good woman, who
was much beholden to him, answered that she would well and agreed with
him what she should do and say. Now in the house where the bagnio was
she had a very dark chamber, for that no window gave thereon by which the
light might enter. This chamber she made ready and spread a bed there, as
best she might, wherein Ricciardo, as soon as he had dined, laid himself and
proceeded to await Catella. The latter, having heard Ricciardo's words and
giving more credence thereto than behoved her, returned in the evening, full
of despite, to her house, whither Filippello also returned and being by
chance full of other thought, maybe did not show her his usual fondness.
When she saw this, her suspicions rose yet higher and she said in herself,

'Forsooth, his mind is occupied with yonder lady with whom he thinketh to
take his pleasure to-morrow; but of a surety this shall not come to pass.' An
in this thought she abode well nigh all that night, considering how she
should bespeak him, whenas she should be with him [in the bagnio].
What more [need I say?] The hour of none come, she took her waiting-
woman and without anywise changing counsel, repaired to the bagnio that
Ricciardo had named to her, and there finding the good woman, asked her if
Filippello had been there that day, whereupon quoth the other, who had
been duly lessoned by Ricciardo, 'Are you the lady that should come to
speak with him?' 'Ay am I,' answered Catella. 'Then,' said the woman, 'get
you in to him.' Catella, who went seeking that which she would fain not
have found, caused herself to be brought to the chamber where Ricciardo
was and entering with covered head, locked herself in. Ricciardo, seeing her
enter, rose joyfully to his feet and catching her in his arms, said softly,
'Welcome, my soul!' Whilst she, the better to feign herself other than she
was, clipped him and kissed him and made much of him, without saying a
word, fearing to be known of him if she should speak. The chamber was
very dark, wherewith each of them was well pleased, nor for long abiding
there did the eyes recover more power. Ricciardo carried her to the bed and
there, without speaking, lest their voices should betray them, they abode a
long while, to the greater delight and pleasance of the one party than the
other.
But presently, it seeming to Catella time to vent the resentment she felt, she
began, all afire with rage and despite, to speak thus, 'Alas, how wretched is
women's lot and how ill bestowed the love that many of them bear their
husbands! I, unhappy that I am, these eight years have I loved thee more
than my life, and thou, as I have felt, art all afire and all consumed with
love of a strange woman, wicked and perverse man that thou art! Now with
whom thinkest thou to have been? Thou hast been with her whom thou hast
too long beguiled with thy false blandishments, making a show of love to
her and being enamoured elsewhere. I am Catella, not Ricciardo's wife,
disloyal traitor that thou art! Hearken if thou know my voice; it is indeed I;
and it seemeth to me a thousand years till we be in the light, so I may shame
thee as thou deservest, scurvy discredited cur that thou art! Alack, woe is
me! To whom have I borne so much love these many years? To this disloyal
dog, who, thinking to have a strange woman in his arms, hath lavished on

me more caresses and more fondnesses in this little while I have been here
with him than in all the rest of the time I have been his. Thou hast been
brisk enough to-day, renegade cur that thou art, that usest at home to show
thyself so feeble and forspent and impotent; but, praised be God, thou hast
tilled thine own field and not, as thou thoughtest, that of another. No
wonder thou camest not anigh me yesternight; thou lookedst to discharge
thee of thy lading elsewhere and wouldst fain come fresh to the battle; but,
thanks to God and my own foresight, the stream hath e'en run in its due
channel. Why answerest thou not, wicked man? Why sayst thou not
somewhat? Art thou grown dumb, hearing me? Cock's faith, I know not
what hindereth me from thrusting my hands into thine eyes and tearing
them out for thee. Thou thoughtest to do this treason very secretly; but,
perdie, one knoweth as much as another; thou hast not availed to compass
thine end; I have had better beagles at thy heels than thou thoughtest.'
Ricciardo inwardly rejoiced at these words and without making any reply,
clipped her and kissed her and fondled her more than ever; whereupon
quoth she, following on her speech, 'Ay, thou thinkest to cajole me with thy
feigned caresses, fashious dog that thou art, and to appease and console me;
but thou art mistaken; I shall never be comforted for this till I have put thee
to shame therefor in the presence of all our friends and kinsmen and
neighbours. Am I not as fair as Ricciardo's wife, thou villain? Am I not as
good a gentlewoman? Why dost thou not answer, thou sorry dog? What
hath she more than I? Keep thy distance; touch me not; thou hast done
enough feats of arms for to-day. Now thou knowest who I am, I am well
assured that all thou couldst do would be perforce; but, so God grant me
grace, I will yet cause thee suffer want thereof, and I know not what
hindereth me from sending for Ricciardo, who hath loved me more than
himself and could never boast that I once even looked at him; nor know I
what harm it were to do it. Thou thoughtest to have his wife here and it is as
if thou hadst had her, inasmuch as it is none of thy fault that the thing hath
miscarried; wherefore, were I to have himself, thou couldst not with reason
blame me.'
Brief, many were the lady's words and sore her complaining. However, at
last, Ricciardo, bethinking himself that, an he let her go in that belief, much
ill might ensue thereof, determined to discover himself and undeceive her;
wherefore, catching her in his arms and holding her fast, so she might not

get away, he said, 'Sweet my soul, be not angered; that which I could not
have of you by simply loving you, Love hath taught me to obtain by
practice; and I am your Ricciardo.' Catella, hearing this and knowing him
by the voice, would have thrown herself incontinent out of bed, but could
not; whereupon she offered to cry out; but Ricciardo stopped her mouth
with one hand and said, 'Madam, this that hath been may henceforth on
nowise be undone, though you should cry all the days of your life; and if
you cry out or cause this ever anywise to be known of any one, two things
will come thereof; the one (which should no little concern you) will be that
your honour and fair fame will be marred, for that, albeit you may avouch
that I brought you hither by practice, I shall say that it is not true, nay, that I
caused you come hither for monies and gifts that I promised you, whereof
for that I gave you not so largely as you hoped, you waxed angry and made
all this talk and this outcry; and you know that folk are more apt to credit ill
than good, wherefore I shall more readily be believed than you. Secondly,
there will ensue thereof a mortal enmity between your husband and myself,
and it may as well happen that I shall kill him as he me, in which case you
are never after like to be happy or content. Wherefore, heart of my body, go
not about at once to dishonour yourself and to cast your husband and myself
into strife and peril. You are not the first woman, nor will you be the last,
who hath been deceived, nor have I in this practised upon you to bereave
you of your own, but for the exceeding love that I bear you and am minded
ever to bear you and to be your most humble servant. And although it is
long since I and all that I possess or can or am worth have been yours and at
your service, henceforward I purpose that they shall be more than ever so.
Now, you are well advised in other things and so I am certain you will be in
this.'
Catella, what while Ricciardo spoke thus, wept sore, but, albeit she was
sore provoked and complained grievously, nevertheless, her reason allowed
so much force to his true words that she knew it to be possible that it should
happen as he said; wherefore quoth she, 'Ricciardo, I know not how God
will vouchsafe me strength to suffer the affront and the cheat thou hast put
upon me; I will well to make no outcry here whither my simplicity and
overmuch jealousy have brought me; but of this be assured that I shall never
be content till one way or another I see myself avenged of this thou hast
done to me. Wherefore, leave me, hold me no longer; thou hast had that

which thou desiredst and hast tumbled me to thy heart's content; it is time to
leave me; let me go, I prithee.'
Ricciardo, seeing her mind yet overmuch disordered, had laid it to heart
never to leave her till he had gotten his pardon of her; wherefore, studying
with the softest words to appease her, he so bespoke and so entreated and so
conjured her that she was prevailed upon to make peace with him, and of
like accord they abode together a great while thereafter in the utmost
delight. Moreover, Catella, having thus learned how much more savoury
were the lover's kisses than those of the husband and her former rigour
being changed into kind love-liking for Ricciardo, from that day forth she
loved him very tenderly and thereafter, ordering themselves with the utmost
discretion, they many a time had joyance of their loves. God grant us to
enjoy ours!"

THE SEVENTH STORY
Day the Third

TEDALDO ELISEI, HAVING FALLEN OUT WITH
HIS MISTRESS, DEPARTETH FLORENCE AND
RETURNING THITHER, AFTER AWHILE, IN A
PILGRIM'S FAVOUR, SPEAKETH WITH THE
LADY AND MAKETH HER COGNISANT OF
HER ERROR; AFTER WHICH HE
DELIVERETH HER HUSBAND, WHO HAD
BEEN CONVICTED OF MURDERING HIM,
FROM DEATH AND RECONCILING HIM WITH
HIS BRETHREN, THENCEFORWARD
DISCREETLY ENJOYETH HIMSELF WITH HIS
MISTRESS

Fiammetta being now silent, commended of all, the queen, to lose no time,
forthright committed the burden of discourse to Emilia, who began thus: "It
pleaseth me to return to our city, whence it pleased the last two speakers to
depart, and to show you how a townsman of ours regained his lost mistress.
There was, then, in Florence a noble youth, whose name was Tedaldo Elisei
and who, being beyond measure enamoured of a lady called Madam
Ermellina, the wife of one Aldobrandino Palermini, deserved for his
praiseworthy fashions, to enjoy his desire. However, Fortune, the enemy of
the happy, denied him this solace, for that, whatever might have been the
cause, the lady, after complying awhile with Tedaldo's wishes, suddenly
altogether withdrew her good graces from him and not only refused to
hearken to any message of his, but would on no wise see him; wherefore he
fell into a dire and cruel melancholy; but his love for her had been so
hidden that none guessed it to be the cause of his chagrin. After he had in
divers ways studied amain to recover the love himseemed he had lost
without his fault and finding all his labour vain, he resolved to withdraw

from the world, that he might not afford her who was the cause of his ill the
pleasure of seeing him pine away; wherefore, without saying aught to friend
or kinsman, save to a comrade of his, who knew all, he took such monies as
he might avail to have and departing secretly, came to Ancona, where,
under the name of Filippo di Sanlodeccio, he made acquaintance with a rich
merchant and taking service with him, accompanied him to Cyprus on
board a ship of his.
His manners and behaviour so pleased the merchant that he not only
assigned him a good wage, but made him in part his associate and put into
his hands a great part of his affairs, which he ordered so well and so
diligently that in a few years he himself became a rich and famous and
considerable merchant; and albeit, in the midst of these his dealings, he oft
remembered him of his cruel mistress and was grievously tormented of love
and yearned sore to look on her again, such was his constancy that seven
years long he got the better of the battle. But, chancing one day to hear sing
in Cyprus a song that himself had made aforetime and wherein was
recounted the love he bore his mistress and she him and the pleasure he had
of her, and thinking it could not be she had forgotten him, he flamed up into
such a passion of desire to see her again that, unable to endure longer, he
resolved to return to Florence.
Accordingly, having set all his affairs in order, he betook himself with one
only servant to Ancona and transporting all his good thither, despatched it
to Florence to a friend of the Anconese his partner, whilst he himself, in the
disguise of a pilgrim returning from the Holy Sepulchre, followed secretly
after with his servant and coming to Florence, put up at a little hostelry kept
by two brothers, in the neighbourhood of his mistress's house, whereto he
repaired first of all, to see her, an he might. However, he found the windows
and doors and all else closed, wherefore his heart misgave him she was
dead or had removed thence and he betook himself, in great concern, to the
house of his brethren, before which he saw four of the latter clad all in
black. At this he marvelled exceedingly and knowing himself so changed
both in habit and person from that which he was used to be, whenas he
departed thence, that he might not lightly be recognized, he boldly accosted
a cordwainer hard by and asked him why they were clad in black; whereto
he answered, 'Yonder men are clad in black for that it is not yet a fortnight
since a brother of theirs, who had not been here this great while, was

murdered, and I understand they have proved to the court that one
Aldobrandino Palermini, who is in prison, slew him, for that he was a well-
wisher of his wife and had returned hither unknown to be with her.'
Tedaldo marvelled exceedingly that any one should so resemble him as to
be taken for him and was grieved for Aldobrandino's ill fortune. Then,
having learned that the lady was alive and well and it being now night, he
returned, full of various thoughts, to the inn and having supped with his
servant, was put to sleep well nigh at the top of the house. There, what with
the many thoughts that stirred him and the badness of the bed and
peradventure also by reason of the supper, which had been meagre, half the
night passed whilst he had not yet been able to fall asleep; wherefore, being
awake, himseemed about midnight he heard folk come down into the house
from the roof, and after through the chinks of the chamber-door he saw a
light come up thither. Thereupon he stole softly to the door and putting his
eye to the chink, fell a-spying what this might mean and saw a comely
enough lass who held the light, whilst three men, who had come down from
the roof, made towards her; and after some greetings had passed between
them, one of them said to the girl, 'Henceforth, praised be God, we may
abide secure, since we know now for certain that the death of Tedaldo Elisei
hath been proved by his brethren against Aldobrandino Palermini, who hath
confessed thereto, and judgment is now recorded; nevertheless, it behoveth
to keep strict silence, for that, should it ever become known that it was we
[who slew him], we shall be in the same danger as is Aldobrandino.' Having
thus bespoken the woman, who showed herself much rejoiced thereat, they
left her and going below, betook themselves to bed.
Tedaldo, hearing this, fell a-considering how many and how great are the
errors which may befall the minds of men, bethinking him first of his
brothers who had bewept and buried a stranger in his stead and after of the
innocent man accused on false suspicion and brought by untrue witness to
the point of death, no less than of the blind severity of laws and rulers, who
ofttimes, under cover of diligent investigation of the truth, cause, by their
cruelties, prove that which is false and style themselves ministers of justice
and of God, whereas indeed they are executors of iniquity and of the devil;
after which he turned his thought to the deliverance of Aldobrandino and
determined in himself what he should do. Accordingly, arising in the
morning, he left his servant at the inn and betook himself alone, whenas it