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Title: One Hundred Merrie And Delightsome Stories

Translator: Robert B. Douglas

Editor: Antoine de La Sale

Illustrator: Léon Lebèque

Release date: June 13, 2006 [eBook #18575]
Most recently updated: March 2, 2021

Language: English

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Table of Contents

List of Illustrations

ONE HUNDRED MERRIE AND
DELIGHTSOME STORIES
Right Pleasaunte To Relate In All Goodly Companie By Way Of
Joyance And Jollity

LES CENT NOUVELLES
NOUVELLES
Now First Done Into The English Tongue By Robert B. Douglas

Various Authors

Edited by Antoine de la Salle

Illustrated by Léon Lebèque

Paris

Charles Carrington

13 Faubourg Montmartre

1899

Contents
ONE HUNDRED MERRIE AND DELIGHTSOME STORIES

DETAILED CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

STORY THE FIRST —THE REVERSE OF THE MEDAL. [1]

STORY THE SECOND — THE MONK-DOCTOR.

STORY THE THIRD — THE SEARCH FOR THE RING. [3]

STORY THE FOURTH — THE ARMED CUCKOLD. [4]

STORY THE FIFTH — THE DUEL WITH THE BUCKLE-STRAP. [5]

STORY THE SIXTH — THE DRUNKARD IN PARADISE. [6]

STORY THE SEVENTH — THE WAGGONER IN THE BEAR.

STORY THE EIGHTH — TIT FOR TAT. [8]

STORY THE NINTH — THE HUSBAND PANDAR TO HIS OWN WIFE.
[9]

STORY THE TENTH — THE EEL PASTIES. [10]

STORY THE ELEVENTH — A SACRIFICE TO THE DEVIL. [11]

STORY THE TWELFTH — THE CALF. [12]

STORY THE THIRTEENTH — THE CASTRATED CLERK. [13]

STORY THE FOURTEENTH — THE POPE-MAKER, OR THE HOLY
MAN. [14]

STORY THE FIFTEENTH — THE CLEVER NUN.

STORY THE SIXTEENTH — ON THE BLIND SIDE. [16]

STORY THE SEVENTEENTH — THE LAWYER AND THE BOLTING-
MILL.

STORY THE EIGHTEENTH — FROM BELLY TO BACK. [18]

STORY THE NINETEENTH — THE CHILD OF THE SNOW

STORY THE TWENTIETH — THE HUSBAND AS DOCTOR.

STORY THE TWENTY-FIRST — THE ABBESS CURED [21]

STORY THE TWENTY-SECOND — THE CHILD WITH TWO
FATHERS. [22]

STORY THE TWENTY-THIRD — THE LAWYER’S WIFE WHO
PASSED THE LINE. [23]

STORY THE TWENTY-FOURTH — HALF-BOOTED. [24]

STORY THE TWENTY-FIFTH — FORCED WILLINGLY. [25]

STORY THE TWENTY-SIXTH — THE DAMSEL KNIGHT. [26]

STORY THE TWENTY-SEVENTH — THE HUSBAND IN THE
CLOTHES-CHEST. [27]

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

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

STORY THE THIRTIETH — THE THREE CORDELIERS

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

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

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

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

STORY THE THIRTY-FIFTH — THE EXCHANGE.

STORY THE THIRTY-SIXTH — AT WORK.

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

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

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

STORY THE FORTIETH — THE BUTCHER’S WIFE WHO PLAYED
THE GHOST IN THE

STORY THE FORTY-FIRST — LOVE IN ARMS.

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

STORY THE FORTY-THIRD — A BARGAIN IN HORNS.

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

STORY THE FORTY-FIFTH — THE SCOTSMAN TURNED
WASHERWOMAN

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

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

STORY THE FORTY-EIGHTH — THE CHASTE MOUTH.

STORY THE FORTY-NINTH — THE SCARLET BACKSIDE.

STORY THE FIFTIETH — TIT FOR TAT. [50]

STORY THE FIFTY-FIRST — THE REAL FATHERS.

STORY THE FIFTY-SECOND — THE THREE REMINDERS. [52]

STORY THE FIFTY-THIRD — THE MUDDLED MARRIAGES.

STORY THE FIFTY FOURTH — THE RIGHT MOMENT.

STORY THE FIFTY-FIFTH — A CURE FOR THE PLAGUE.

STORY THE FIFTY-SIXTH — THE WOMAN, THE PRIEST, THE
SERVANT, AND THE

STORY THE FIFTY-SEVENTH — THE OBLIGING BROTHER.

STORY THE FIFTY-EIGHTH — SCORN FOR SCORN.

STORY THE FIFTY-NINTH — THE SICK LOVER. [59]

STORY THE SIXTIETH — THREE VERY MINOR BROTHERS. [60]

STORY THE SIXTY-FIRST — CUCKOLDED—AND DUPED. [61]

STORY THE SIXTY-SECOND — THE LOST RING.

STORY THE SIXTY-THIRD — MONTBLERU; OR THE THIEF. [63]

STORY THE SIXTY-FOURTH — THE OVER-CUNNING CURÉ. [64]

STORY THE SIXTY-FIFTH — INDISCRETION REPROVED, BUT NOT
PUNISHED.

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

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

STORY THE SIXTY-EIGHTH — THE JADE DESPOILED.

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

STORY THE SEVENTIETH — THE DEVIL’S HORN.

STORY THE SEVENTY-FIRST — THE CONSIDERATE CUCKOLD

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

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

STORY THE SEVENTY-FOURTH — THE OBSEQUIOUS PRIEST.

STORY THE SEVENTY-FIFTH — THE BAGPIPE. [75]

STORY THE SEVENTY-SIXTH — CAUGHT IN THE ACT. [76]

STORY THE SEVENTY-SEVENTH — THE SLEEVELESS ROBE.

STORY THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH — THE HUSBAND TURNED
CONFESSOR. [78]

STORY THE SEVENTY-NINTH — THE LOST ASS FOUND. [79]

STORY THE EIGHTIETH — GOOD MEASURE! [80]

STORY THE EIGHTY-FIRST — BETWEEN TWO STOOLS. [81]

STORY THE EIGHTY-SECOND — BEYOND THE MARK. [82]

STORY THE EIGHTY-THIRD — THE GLUTTONOUS MONK.

STORY THE EIGHTY-FOURTH — THE DEVIL’S SHARE. [84]

STORY THE EIGHTY-FIFTH — NAILED! [85]

STORY THE EIGHTY-SIXTH — FOOLISH FEAR.

STORY THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH — WHAT THE EYE DOES NOT SEE.

STORY THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH — A HUSBAND IN HIDING. [88]

STORY THE EIGHTY-NINTH — THE FAULT OF THE ALMANAC.

STORY THE NINETIETH — A GOOD REMEDY. [90]

STORY THE NINETY-FIRST — THE OBEDIENT WIFE. [91]

STORY THE NINETY-SECOND — WOMEN’S QUARRELS.

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

STORY THE NINETY-FOURTH — DIFFICULT TO PLEASE.

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

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

STORY THE NINETY-SEVENTH — BIDS AND BIDDINGS.

STORY THE NINETY-EIGHTH — THE UNFORTUNATE LOVERS.

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

STORY THE HUNDREDTH AND LAST — THE CHASTE LOVER.

NOTES.

List of Illustrations
Cover.jpg Cover

Spines.jpg Spines

Titlepage.jpg Titlepage

Contents.jpg Contents

Intro.jpg Introduction

01.jpg Story the First — The Reverse of The Medal.

03.jpg Story the Third — The Search for The Ring.

04.jpg Story the Fourth — The Armed Cuckold.

07.jpg The Waggoner in The Bear.

09.jpg The Husband Pandar to his Own Wife

12.jpg Story The Twelfth — The Calf.

13.jpg the Castrated Clerk.

14.jpg The Pope-maker, Or The Holy Man.

16.jpg On the Blind Side.

17.jpg The Lawyer and The Bolting-mill.

18.jpg From Belly to Back.

20.jpg The Husband As Doctor.

23.jpg The Lawyer’s Wife Who Passed The Line.

24.jpg Half-booted

27.jpg The Husband in The Clothes-chest.

28.jpg The Incapable Lover.

32.jpg The Women Who Paid Tithe.

34.jpg The Man Above and The Man Below.

37.jpg The Use of Dirty Water.

38.jpg A Rod for Another’s Back.

39.jpg Both Well Served.

41.jpg Love in Arms.

43.jpg A Bargain in Horns.

44.jpg The Match-making Priest.

46.jpg How the Nun Paid for The Pears.

49.jpg The Scarlet Backside.

52.jpg The Three Reminders.

54.jpg The Right Moment.

55.jpg A Cure for The Plague.

57.jpg The Obliging BroTher.

60.jpg Three Very Minor BroThers.

61.jpg Cuckolded—and Duped.

62.jpg The Lost Ring.

65.jpg Indiscretion Reproved, But Not Punished.

68.jpg The Jade Despoiled.

71.jpg The Considerate Cuckold

72.jpg Necessity is The MoTher of Invention.

73.jpg The Bird in The Cage.

76.jpg Caught in The Act.

78.jpg The Husband Turned Confessor.

80.jpg Good Measure!

83.jpg The Gluttonous Monk.

84.jpg The Devil’s Share.

86.jpg Foolish Fear.

88.jpg A Husband in Hiding.

90.jpg A Good Remedy.

92.jpg Women’s Quarrels.

95.jpg The Sore Finger Cured.

97.jpg Bids and Biddings.

100.jpg The Chaste Lover.

Footnotes.jpg Footnotes

Endplate.jpg Endplate

Gilded-top.jpg

DETAILED CONTENTS CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION

STORY THE FIRST — THE REVERSE OF THE MEDAL.
The first story tells of how one found means to enjoy the wife
of his
neighbour, whose husband he had sent away in order that he
might have
her the more easily, and how the husband returning from his
journey,
found his friend bathing with his wife. And not knowing who
she was, he
wished to see her, but was permitted only to see her back—,
and then
thought that she resembled his wife, but dared not believe it.
And
thereupon left and found his wife at home, she having
escaped by a
postern door, and related to her his suspicions.
STORY THE SECOND — THE MONK-DOCTOR.
The second story, related by Duke Philip, is of a young girl
who had
piles, who put out the only eye he had of a Cordelier monk
who was
healing her, and of the lawsuit that followed thereon.
STORY THE THIRD — THE SEARCH FOR THE RING.
Of the deceit practised by a knight on a miller’s wife whom
he made
believe that her front was loose, and fastened it many times.
And the
miller informed of this, searched for a diamond that the
knight’s lady
had lost, and found it in her body, as the knight knew

afterwards: so he
called the miller “fisherman”, and the miller called him
“fastener”.
STORY THE FOURTH — THE ARMED CUCKOLD.
The fourth tale is of a Scotch archer who was in love with a
fair
and gentle dame, the wife of a mercer, who, by her husband’s
orders
appointed a day for the said Scot to visit her, who came and
treated her
as he wished, the said mercer being hid by the side of the
bed, where he
could see and hear all.
STORY THE FIFTH — The Duel with the Buckle-Strap.
The fifth story relates two judgments of Lord Talbot. How a
Frenchman
was taken prisoner (though provided with a safe-conduct) by
an
Englishman, who said that buckle-straps were implements of
war, and who
was made to arm himself with buckle-straps and nothing
else, and meet
the Frenchman, who struck him with a sword in the presence
of Talbot.
The other, story is about a man who robbed a church, and
who was made to
swear that he would never enter a church again.
STORY THE SIXTH —THE DRUNKARD IN PARADISE.
The sixth story is of a drunkard, who would confess to the
Prior of the
Augustines at the Hague, and after his confession said that
he was then
in a holy state and would die; and believed that his head
was cut off
and that he was dead, and was carried away by his
companions who said
they were going to bury him.

STORY THE SEVENTH — THE WAGGONER IN THE
BEAR.
Of a goldsmith of Paris who made a waggoner sleep with
him and his
wife, and how the waggoner dallied with her from behind,
which the
goldsmith perceived and discovered, and of the words which
he spake to
the waggoner.
STORY THE EIGHTH — TIT FOR TAT.
Of a youth of Picardy who lived at Brussels, and made his
master’s
daughter pregnant, and for that cause left and came back to
Picardy to
be married. And soon after his departure the girl’s mother
perceived the
condition of her daughter, and the girl confessed in what
state she was;
so her mother sent her to the Picardian to tell him that he
must undo
that which he had done. And how his new bride refused then
to sleep with
him, and of the story she told him, whereupon he
immediately left her
and returned to his first love, and married her.
STORY THE NINTH — THE HUSBAND PANDAR TO HIS
OWN WIFE.
Of a knight of Burgundy, who was marvellously amorous of
one of his
wife’s waiting women, and thinking to sleep with her, slept
with his
wife who was in the bed of the said tire-woman. And how he
caused, by
his order, another knight, his neighbour to sleep with the
said woman,
believing that it was really the tirewoman—and afterwards
he was not

well pleased, albeit that the lady knew nothing, and was not
aware, I
believe, that she had had to do with aught other than her
own husband.
STORY THE TENTH — THE EEL PASTIES.
Of a knight of England, who, after he was married, wished
his mignon to
procuré him some pretty girls, as he did before; which the
mignon would
not do, saying that one wife sufficed; but the said knight
brought him
back to obedience by causing eel pasties to be always served
to him,
both at dinner and at supper.
STORY THE ELEVENTH — A SACRIFICE TO THE DEVIL.
Of a jealous rogue, who after many offerings made to divers
saints to
curé him of his jealousy, offered a candle to the devil who is
usually
painted under the feet of St. Michael; and of the dream that
he had and
what happened to him when he awoke.
STORY THE TWELFTH — THE CALF.
Of a Dutchman, who at all hours of the day and night ceased
not to
dally with his wife in love sports; and how it chanced that he
laid her
down, as they went through a wood, under a great tree in
which was a
labourer who had lost his calf. And as he was enumerating
the charms of
his wife, and naming all the pretty things he could see, the
labourer
asked him if he could not see the calf he sought, to which the
Dutchman
replied that he thought he could see a tail.
STORY THE THIRTEENTH — THE CASTRATED CLERK.

How a lawyer’s clerk in England deceived his master
making him believe
that he had no testicles, by which reason he had charge over
his
mistress both in the country and in the town, and enjoyed his
pleasure.
STORY THE FOURTEENTH — THE POPE-MAKER, OR
THE HOLY MAN.
Of a hermit who deceived the daughter of a poor woman,
making her
believe that her daughter should have a son by him who
should become
Pope; and how, when she brought forth it was a girl, and
thus was the
trickery of the hermit discovered, and for that cause he had
to flee
from that countery.
STORY THE FIFTEENTH — THE CLEVER NUN.
Of a nun whom a monk wished to deceive, and how he
offered to shoo her
his weapon that she might feel it, but brought with him a
companion whom
he put forward in his place, and of the answer she gave him.
STORY THE SIXTEENTH — ON THE BLIND SIDE.
Of a knight of Picardy who went to Prussia, and, meanwhile
his lady
took a lover, and was in bed with him when her husband
returned; and how
by a cunning trick she got her lover out of the room without
the knight
being aware of it.
STORY THE SEVENTEENTH — THE LAWYER AND THE
BOLTING-MILL.
Of a President of Parliament, who fell in love with his
chamber-maid,
and would have forced her whilst she was sifting flour, but
by fair

speaking she dissuaded him, and made him shake the sieve
whilst she
went unto her mistress, who came and found her husband
thus, as you will
afterwards hear.
STORY THE EIGHTEENTH — FROM BELLY TO BACK.
Of a gentleman of Burgundy who paid a chambermaid ten
crowns to sleep
with her, but before he left her room, had his ten crowns
back, and
made her carry him on her shoulders through the host’s
chamber. And in
passing by the said chamber he let wind so loudly that all
was known, as
you will hear in the story which follows.
STORY THE NINETEENTH — THE CHILD OF THE
SNOW.
Of an English merchant whose wife had a child in his
absence, and told
him that it was his; and how he cleverly got rid of the child
—for his
wife having asserted that it was born of the snow, he
declared it had
been melted by the sun.
STORY THE TWENTIETH — THE HUSBAND AS
DOCTOR.
Of a young squire of Champagne who, when he married,
had never mounted
a Christian creature,—much to his wife’s regret. And of the
method her
mother found to instruct him, and how the said squire
suddenly wept at
a great feast that was made shortly after he had learned how
to perform
the carnal act—as you will hear more plainly hereafter.
STORY THE TWENTY-FIRST — THE ABBESS CURED
Of an abbess who was ill for want of—you know what—but

would not have
it done, fearing to be reproached by her nuns, but they all
agreed to do
the same and most willingly did so.
STORY THE TWENTY-SECOND — THE CHILD WITH
TWO FATHERS.
Of a gentleman who seduced a young girl, and then went
away and joined
the army. And before his return she made the acquaintance
of another,
and pretended her child was by him. When the gentleman
returned from the
war he claimed the child, but she begged him to leave it with
her second
lover, promising that the next she had she would give to him,
as is
hereafter recorded.
STORY THE TWENTY-THIRD — THE LAWYER’S WIFE
WHO PASSED THE LINE.
Of a clerk of whom his mistress was enamoured, and what
he promised to
do and did to her if she crossed a line which the said clerk
had made.
Seeing which, her little son told his father when he returned
that he
must not cross the line; or said he, “the clerk will serve you
as he did
mother.”
STORY THE TWENTY-FOURTH — HALF-BOOTED.
Of a Count who would ravish by force a fair, young girl who
was one of
his subjects, and how she escaped from him by means of his
leggings,
and how he overlooked her conduct and helped her to a
husband, as is
hereafter related.
STORY THE TWENTY-FIFTH — FORCED WILLINGLY.

Of a girl who complained of being forced by a young man,
whereas
she herself had helped him to find that which he sought;—
and of the
judgment which was given thereon.
STORY THE TWENTY-SIXTH —THE DAMSEL KNIGHT.
Of the loves of a young gentleman and a damsel, who tested
the loyalty
of the gentleman in a marvellous and courteous manner, and
slept three
nights with him without his knowing that it was not a man,—
as you will
more fully hear hereafter.
STORY THE TWENTY-SEVENTH — THE HUSBAND IN
THE CLOTHES-CHEST.
Of a great lord of this kingdom and a married lady, who in
order
that she might be with her lover caused her husband to be
shut in a
clothes-chest by her waiting women, and kept him there all
the night,
whilst she passed the time with her lover; and of the wagers
made
between her and the said husband, as you will find
afterwards recorded.
STORY THE TWENTY-EIGHTH —THE INCAPABLE
LOVER.
Of the meeting assigned to a great Prince of this kingdom by
a damsel
who was chamber-woman to the Queen; of the little feats of
arms of the
said Prince and of the neat replies made by the said damsel
to the Queen
concerning her greyhound which had been purposely shut
out of the room
of the said Queen, as you shall shortly hear.
STORY THE TWENTY-NINTH — THE COW AND THE

CALF.
Of a gentleman to whom—the first night that he was
married, and after
he had but tried one stroke—his wife brought forth a child,
and of
the manner in which he took it,—and of the speech that he
made to his
companions when they brought him the caudle, as you shall
shortly hear.
STORY THE THIRTIETH — THE THREE CORDELIERS.
Of three merchants of Savoy who went on a pilgrimage to St.
Anthony
in Vienne, and who were deceived and cuckolded by three
Cordeliers who
slept with their wives. And how the women thought they had
been with
their husbands, and how their husbands came to know of it,
and of the
steps they took, as you shall shortly hear.
STORY THE THIRTY-FIRST — TWO LOVERS FOR ONE
LADY.
Of a squire who found the mule of his companion, and
mounted thereon
and it took him to the house of his master’s mistress; and the
squire
slept there, where his friend found him; also of the words
which passed
between them—as is more clearly set out below.
STORY THE THIRTY-SECOND — THE WOMEN WHO
PAID TITHE.
Of the Cordeliers of Ostelleria in Catalonia, who took tithe
from the
women of the town, and how it was known, and the
punishment the lord of
that place and his subjects inflicted on the monks, as you
shall learn
hereafter.

STORY THE THIRTY-THIRD — THE LADY WHO LOST
HER HAIR.
Of a noble lord who was in love with a damsel who cared for
another
great lord, but tried to keep it secret; and of the agreement
made
between the two lovers concerning her, as you shall
hereafter hear.
STORY THE THIRTY-FOURTH — THE MAN ABOVE AND
THE MAN BELOW.
Of a married woman who gave rendezvous to two lovers,
who came and
visited her, and her husband came soon after, and of the
words which
passed between them, as you shall presently hear.
STORY THE THIRTY-FIFTH — THE EXCHANGE.
Of a knight whose mistress married whilst he was on his
travels, and on
his return, by chance he came to her house, and she, in
order that she
might sleep with him, caused a young damsel, her chamber-
maid, to go to
bed with her husband; and of the words that passed between
the husband
and the knight his guest, as are more fully recorded
hereafter.
STORY THE THIRTY-SIXTH — AT WORK.
Of a squire who saw his mistress, whom he greatly loved,
between
two other gentlemern, and did not notice that she had hold
of both of
them till another knight informed him of the matter as you
will hear.
STORY THE THIRTY-SEVENTH — THE USE OF DIRTY
WATER.
Of a jealous man who recorded all the tricks which he could
hear or

learn by which wives had deceived their husbands in old
times; but at
last he was deceived by means of dirty water which the lover
of the said
lady threw out of window upon her as she was going to
Mass, as you shall
hear hereafter.
STORY THE THIRTY-EIGHTH — A ROD FOR
ANOTHER’S BACK.
Of a citizen of Tours who bought a lamprey which he sent to
his wife
to cook in order that he might give a feast to the priest, and
the said
wife sent it to a Cordelier, who was her lover, and how she
made a woman
who was her neighbour sleep with her husband, and how the
woman was
beaten, and what the wife made her husband believe, as you
will hear
hereafter.
STORY THE THIRTY-NINTH — BOTH WELL SERVED.
Of a knight who, whilst he was waiting for his mistress
amused himself
three times with her maid, who had been sent to keep him
company that
he might not be dull; and afterwards amused himself three
times with
the lady, and how the husband learned it all from the maid,
as you will
hear.
STORY THE FORTIETH — THE BUTCHER’S WIFE THE
GHOST IN THE CHIMNEY.
Of a Jacobin who left his mistress, a butcher’s wife, for
another woman
who was younger and prettier, and how the said butcher’s
wife tried to
enter his house by the chimney.

STORY THE FORTY-FIRST — LOVE IN ARMS.
Of a knight who made his wife wear a hauberk whenever he
would do you
know what; and of a clerk who taught her another method
which she almost
told her husband, but turned it off suddenly.
STORY THE FORTY-SECOND — THE MARRIED PRIEST.
Of a village clerk who being at Rome and believing that his
wife was
dead became a priest, and was appointed curé of his own
town, and when
he returned, the first person he met was his wife.
STORY THE FORTY-THIRD — A BARGAIN IN HORNS.
Of a labourer who found a man with his wife, and forwent
his revenge
for a certain quantity of wheat, but his wife insisted that he
should
complete the work he had begun.
STORY THE FORTY-FOURTH —THE MATCH-MAKING
PRIEST.
Of a village priest who found a husband for a girl with
whom he was in
love, and who had promised him that when she was married
she would do
whatever he wished, of which he reminded her on the
wedding-day, and the
husband heard it, and took steps accordingly, as you will
hear.
STORY THE FORTY-FIFTH — THE SCOTSMAN TURNED
WASHERWOMAN
Of a young Scotsman who was disguised as a woman for the
space of
fourteen years, and by that means slept with many girls and
married
women, but was punished in the end, as you will hear.
STORY THE FORTY-SIXTH — HOW THE NUN PAID FOR
THE PEARS.

Of a Jacobin and a nun, who went secretly to an orchard to
enjoy
pleasant pastime under a pear-tree; in which tree was
hidden one who
knew of the assignation, and who spoiled their sport for that
time, as
you will hear.
STORY THE FORTY-SEVENTH —TWO MULES
DROWNED TOGETHER.
Of a President who knowing of the immoral conduct of his
wife, caused
her to be drowned by her mule, which had been kept without
drink for a
week, and given salt to eat—as is more clearly related
hereafter.
STORY THE FORTY-EIGHTH — THE CHASTE MOUTH.
Of a woman who would not suffer herself to be kissed,
though she
willingly gave up all the rest of her body except the mouth,
to her
lover—and the reason that she gave for this.
STORY THE FORTY-NINTH —THE SCARLET BACKSIDE.
Of one who saw his wife with a man to whom she gave the
whole of her
body, except her backside, which she left for her husband
and he made
her dress one day when his friends were present in a woollen
gown on the
backside of which was a piece of fine scarlet, and so left her
before
all their friends.
STORY THE FIFTIETH — TIT FOR TAT.
Of a father who tried to kill his son because the young man
wanted to
lie with his grandmother, and the reply made by the said son.
STORY THE FIFTY-FIRST — THE REAL FATHERS.
Of a woman who on her death-bed, in the absence of her

husband, made
over her children to those to whom they belonged, and how
one of the
youngest of the children informed his father.
STORY THE FIFTY-SECOND — THE THREE
REMINDERS.
Of three counsels that a father when on his deathbed gave
his son, but
to which the son paid no heed. And how he renounced a
young girl he had
married, because he saw her lying with the family chaplain
the first
night after their wedding.
STORY THE FIFTY-THIRD — THE MUDDLED
MARRIAGES.
Of two men and two women who were waiting to be married
at the first
Mass in the early morning; and because the priest could not
see well, he
took the one for the other, and gave to each man the wrong
wife, as you
will hear.
STORY THE FIFTY FOURTH — THE RIGHT MOMENT.
Of a damsel of Maubeuge who gave herself up to a
waggoner, and refused
many noble lovers; and of the reply that she made to a noble
knight
because he reproached her for this—as you will hear.
STORY THE FIFTY-FIFTH — A CURÉ FOR THE
PLAGUE.
Of a girl who was ill of the plague and caused the death of
three men
who lay with her, and how the fourth was saved, and she
also.
STORY THE FIFTY-SIXTH — THE WOMAN, PRIEST,
SERVANT, AND WOLF.
Of a gentleman who caught, in a trap that he laid, his wife,

the
priest, her maid, and a wolf; and burned them all alive,
because his
wife committed adultery with the priest.
STORY THE FIFTY-SEVENTH — THE OBLIGING
BROTHER.
Of a damsel who married a shepherd, and how the marriage
was arranged,
and what a gentleman, the brother of the damsel, said.
STORY THE FIFTY-EIGHTH — SCORN FOR SCORN.
Of two comrades who wished to make their mistresses better
inclined
towards them, and so indulged in debauchery, and said, that
as after
that their mistresses still scorned them, that they too must
have played
at the same game—as you will hear.
STORY THE FIFTY-NINTH — THE SICK LOVER.
Of a lord who pretended to be sick in order that he might lie
with the
servant maid, with whom his wife found him.
STORY THE SIXTIETH — THREE VERY MINOR
BROTHERS.
Of three women of Malines, who were acquainted with three
cordeliers,
and had their heads shaved, and donned the gown that they
might not be
recognised, and how it was made known.
STORY THE SIXTY-FIRST — CUCKOLDED—AND
DUPED.
Of a merchant who locked up in a bin his wife’s lover, and
she secretly
put an ass there which caused her husband to be covered
with confusion.
STORY THE SIXTY-SECOND — THE LOST RING.
Of two friends, one of whom left a diamond in the bed of his
hostess,

where the other found it, from which there arose a great
discussion
between them, which the husband of the said hostess settled
in an
effectual manner.
STORY THE SIXTY-THIRD — MONTBLERU; OR THE
THIEF.
Of one named Montbleru, who at a fair at Antwerp stole
from his
companions their shirts and handkerchiefs, which they had
given to the
servant-maid of their hostess to be washed; and how
afterwards they
pardoned the thief, and then the said Montbleru told them
the whole of
the story.
STORY THE SIXTY-FOURTH — THE OVER-CUNNING
CURÉ.
Of a priest who would have played a joke upon a gelder
named
Trenche-couille, but, by the connivance of his host, was
himself
castrated.
STORY THE SIXTY-FIFTH — INDISCRETION
REPROVED, BUT NOT PUNISHED.
Of a woman who heard her husband say that an innkeeper
at Mont St.
Michel was excellent at copulating, so went there, hoping to
try for
herself, but her husband took means to prevent it, at which
she was much
displeased, as you will hear shortly.
STORY THE SIXTY-SIXTH — THE WOMAN AT THE
BATH.
Of an inn-keeper at Saint Omer who put to his son a
question for which
he was afterwards sorry when he heard the reply, at which

his wife was
much ashamed, as you will hear, later.
STORY THE SIXTY-SEVENTH — THE WOMAN WITH
THREE HUSBANDS
Of a “fur hat” of Paris, who wished to deceive a cobbler’s
wife, but
over-reached, himself, for he married her to a barber, and
thinking that
he was rid of her, would have wedded another, but she
prevented him, as
you will hear more plainly hereafter.
STORY THE SIXTY-EIGHTH — THE JADE DESPOILED.
Of a married man who found his wife with another man, and
devised
means to get from her her money, clothes, jewels, and all,
down to
her chemise, and then sent her away in that condition, as
shall be
afterwards recorded.
STORY THE SIXTY-NINTH — THE VIRTUOUS LADY
WITH TWO HUSBANDS.
Of a noble knight of Flanders, who was married to a
beautiful and noble
lady. He was for many years a prisoner in Turkey, during
which time his
good and loving wife was, by the importunities of her
friends, induced
to marry another knight. Soon after she had remarried, she
heard that
her husband had returned from Turkey, whereupon she
allowed herself to
die of grief, because she had contracted a fresh marriage.
STORY THE SEVENTIETH — THE DEVIL’S HORN.
Of a noble knight of Germany, a great traveller in his time;
who after
he had made a certain voyage, took a vow to never make the
sign of

the Cross, owing to the firm faith and belief that he had in
the holy
sacrament of baptism—in which faith he fought the devil, as
you will
hear.
STORY THE SEVENTY-FIRST — THE CONSIDERATE
CUCKOLD
Of a knight of Picardy, who lodged at an inn in the town of
St. Omer,
and fell in lave with the hostess, with whom he was amusing
himself—you
know how—when her husband discovered them; and how he
behaved—as you
will shortly hear.
STORY THE SEVENTY-SECOND — NECESSITY IS THE
MOTHER OF INVENTION.
Of a gentleman of Picardy who was enamoured of the wife
of a knight his
neighbour; and how he obtained the lady’s favours and was
nearly caught
with her, and with great difficulty made his escape, as you
will hear
later.
STORY THE SEVENTY-THIRD — THE BIRD IN THE
CAGE.
Of a curé who was in love with the wife of one of his
parishioners,
with whom the said curé was found by the husband of the
woman, the
neighbours having given him warning—and how the curé
escaped, as you
will hear.
STORY THE SEVENTY-FOURTH — THE OBSEQUIOUS
PRIEST.
Of a priest of Boulogne who twice raised the body of Our
Lord whilst
chanting a Mass, because he believed that the Seneschal of

Boulogne
had come late to the Mass, and how he refused to take the
Pax until the
Seneschal had done so, as you will hear hereafter.
STORY THE SEVENTY-FIFTH — THE BAGPIPE.
Of a hare-brained half-mad fellow who ran a great risk of
being put
to death by being hanged on a gibbet in order to injure and
annoy the
Bailly, justices, and other notables of the city of Troyes in
Champagne
by whom he was mortally hated, as will appear more plainly
hereafter.
STORY THE SEVENTY-SIXTH — CAUGHT IN THE ACT.
Of the chaplain to a knight of Burgundy who was enamoured
of the wench
of the said knight, and of the adventure which happened on
account of
his amour, as you will hear below.
STORY THE SEVENTY-SEVENTH — THE SLEEVELESS
ROBE.
Of a gentleman of Flanders, who went to reside in France,
but whilst he
was there his mother was very ill in Flanders; and how he
often went
to visit her believing that she would die, and what he said
and how he
behaved, as you will hear later.
STORY THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH — THE HUSBAND
TURNED CONFESSOR.
Of a married gentleman who made many long voyages,
during which time his
good and virtuous wife made the acquaintance of three good
fellows, as
you will hear; and how she confessed her amours to her
husband when he
returned from his travels, thinking she was confessing to the

curé, and
how she excused herself, as will appear.
STORY THE SEVENTY-NINTH — THE LOST ASS FOUND.
Of a good man of Bourbonnais who went to seek the advice
of a wise man
of that place about an ass that he had lost, and how he
believed that he
miraculously recovered the said ass, as you will hear
hereafter.
STORY THE EIGHTIETH — GOOD MEASURE!
Of a young German girl, aged fifteen or sixteen or
thereabouts who was
married to a gentle gallant, and who complained that her
husband had too
small an organ for her liking, because she had seen a young
ass of only
six months old which had a bigger instrument than her
husband, who was
24 or 26 years old.
STORY THE EIGHTY-FIRST — BETWEEN TWO STOOLS.
Of a noble knight who was in love with a beautiful young
married lady,
and thought himself in her good graces, and also in those of
another
lady, her neighbour; but lost both as is afterwards recorded.
STORY THE EIGHTY-SECOND — BEYOND THE MARK.
Of a shepherd who made an agreement with a shepherdess
that he should
mount upon her “in order that he might see farther,” but
was not to
penetrate beyond a mark which she herself made with her
hand upon the
instrument of the said shepherd—as will more plainly
appear hereafter.
STORY THE EIGHTY-THIRD — THE GLUTTONOUS
MONK.
Of a Carmelite monk who came to preach at a village and

after his
sermon, he went to dine with a lady, and how he stuffed out
his gown, as
you will hear.
STORY THE EIGHTY-FOURTH — THE DEVIL’S SHARE.
Of one of his marshals who married the sweetest and most
lovable woman
there was in all Germany. Whether what I tell you is true—
for I do
not swear to it that I may not be considered a liar—you will
see more
plainly below.
STORY THE EIGHTY-FIFTH — NAILED!
Of a goldsmith, married to a fair, kind, and gracious lady,
and very
amorous withal of a curé, her neighbour, with whom her
husband found her
in bed, they being betrayed by one of the goldsmith’s
servants, who was
jealous, as you will hear.
STORY THE EIGHTY-SIXTH — FOOLISH PEAR.
Of a young man of Rouen, married to a fair, young girl of
the age of
fifteen or thereabouts; and how the mother of the girl wished
to have
the marriage annulled by the Judge of Rouen, and of the
sentence which
the said Judge pronounced when he had heard the parties—
as you will
hear more plainly in the course of the said story.
STORY THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH — WHAT THE EYE DOES
NOT SEE.
Of a gentle knight who was enamoured of a young and
beautiful girl,
and how he caught a malady in one of his eyes, and
therefore sent for a
doctor, who likewise fell in love with the same girl, as you

will
hear; and of the words which passed between the knight and
the doctor
concerning the plaster which the doctor had put on the
knight’s good
eye.
STORY THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH — A HUSBAND IN
HIDING.
Of a poor, simple peasant married to a nice, pleasant
woman, who did
much as she liked, and who in order that she might be alone
with her
lover, shut up her husband in the pigeon-house in the
manner you will
hear.
STORY THE EIGHTY-NINTH — THE FAULT OF THE
ALMANAC.
Of a curé who forgot, either by negligence or ignorance, to
inform his
parishioners that Lent had come until Palm Sunday arrived,
as you
will hear—and of the manner in which he excused himself to
his
parishioners.
STORY THE NINETIETH — A GOOD REMEDY.
Of a good merchant of Brabant whose wife was very ill, and
he supposing
that she was about to die, after many remonstrances and
exhortations for
the salvation of her soul, asked her pardon, and she
pardoned him all
his misdeeds, excepting that he had not worked her as much
as he ought
to have done—as will appear more plainly in the said story.
STORY THE NINETY-FIRST — THE OBEDIENT WIFE.
Of a man who was married to a woman so lascivious and
lickerish, that

I believe she must have been born in a stove or half a league
from the
summer sun, for no man, however well he might work, could
satisfy her;
and how her husband thought to punish her, and the answer
she gave him.
STORY THE NINETY-SECOND — WOMEN’S QUARRELS.
Of a married woman who was in love with a Canon, and, to
avoid
suspicion, took with her one of her neighbours when she
went to visit
the Canon; and of the quarrel that arose between the two
women, as you
will hear.
STORY THE NINETY-THIRD — HOW A GOOD WIFE
WENT ON A PILGRIMAGE.
Of a good wife who pretended to her husband that she was
going on
a pilgrimage, in order to find opportunity to be with her
lover the
parish-clerk—with whom her husband found her; and of
what he said and
did when he saw them doing you know what.
STORY THE NINETY-FOURTH — DIFFICULT TO
PLEASE.
Of a curé who wore a short gown, like a gallant about to be
married,
for which cause he was summoned before the Ordinary, and
of the sentence
which was passed, and the defence he made, and the other
tricks he
played afterwards—as you will plainly hear.
STORY THE NINETY-FIFTH — THE SORE FINGER
CURED.
Of a monk who feigned to be very ill and in danger of death,
that he
might obtain the favours of a certain young woman in the

manner which is
described hereafter.
STORY THE NINETY-SIXTH — A GOOD DOG.
Of a foolish and rich village curé who buried his dog in the
church-yard; for which cause he was summoned before his
Bishop, ana
how he gave 60 gold crowns to the Bishop, and what the
Bishop said to
him—which you will find related here.
STORY THE NINETY-SEVENTH — BIDS AND BIDDINGS.
Of a number of boon companions making good cheer and
drinking at
a tavern, and how one of them had a quarrel with his wife
when he
returned home, as you will hear.
STORY THE NINETY-EIGHTH — THE UNFORTUNATE
LOVERS.
Of a knight of this kingdom and his wife, who had a fair
daughter aged
fifteen or sixteen. Her father would have married her to a
rich old
knight, his neighbour, but she ran away with another knight,
a young
man who loved her honourably; and, by strange mishap,
they both died sad
deaths without having ever co-habited,—as you will hear
shortly.
STORY THE NINETY-NINTH — THE METAMORPHOSIS.
Relates how a Spanish Bishop, not being able to procure
fish, ate
two partridges on a Friday, and how he told his servants
that he had
converted them by his prayers into fish—as will more plainly
be related
below.
STORY THE HUNDREDTH AND LAST — THE CHASTE
LOVER.

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

INTRODUCTION
The highest living authority on French Literature—Professor George
Saintsbury—has said:
“The Cent Nouvelles is undoubtedly the first work of literary prose in
French, and the first, moreover, of a long and most remarkable series of
literary works in which French writers may challenge all comers with the
certainty of victory. The short prose tale of a comic character is the one
French literary product the pre-eminence and perfection of which it is
impossible to dispute, and the prose tale first appears to advantage in the
Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles. The subjects are by no means new. They are
simply the old themes of the fabliaux treated in the old way. The novelty is
in the application of prose to such a purpose, and in the crispness, the
fluency, and the elegance, of the prose used.”
Besides the literary merits which the eminent critic has pointed out, the
stories give us curious glimpses of life in the 15th Century. We get a
genuine view of the social condition of the nobility and the middle classes,
and are pleasantly surprised to learn from the mouths of the nobles
themselves that the peasant was not the down-trodden serf that we should
have expected to find him a century after the Jacquerie, and 350 years
before the Revolution.
In fact there is an atmosphere of tolerance, not to say bonhommie
about these stories which is very remarkable when we consider under what
circumstances they were told, and by whom, and to whom.
This seems to have struck M. Lenient, a French critic, who says:
“Generally the incidents and personages belong to the bourgeoisée;
there is nothing chivalric, nothing wonderful; no dreamy lovers, romantic
dames, fairies, or enchanters. Noble dames, bourgeois, nuns, knights,
merchants, monks, and peasants mutually dupe each other. The lord
deceives the miller’s wife by imposing on her simplicity, and the miller
retaliates in much the same manner. The shepherd marries the knight’s
sister, and the nobleman is not over scandalized.

“The vices of the monks are depicted in half a score tales, and the
seducers are punished with a severity not always in proportion to the
offence.”
It seems curious that this valuable and interesting work has never
before been translated into English during the four and a half centuries the
book has been in existence. This is the more remarkable as the work was
edited in French by an English scholar—the late Thomas Wright. It can
hardly be the coarseness of some of the stories which has prevented the
Nouvelles from being presented to English readers when there are half a
dozen versions of the Heptameron, which is quite as coarse as the Cent
Nouvelles Nouvelles, does not possess the same historical interest, and is
not to be compared to the present work as regards either the stories or the
style.
In addition to this, there is the history of the book itself, and its
connection with one of the most important personages in French history—
Louis XI. Indeed, in many French and English works of reference, the
authorship of the Nouvelles has been attributed to him, and though in recent
years, the writer is now believed—and no doubt correctly—to have been
Antoine de la Salle, it is tolerably certain that Prince Louis heard all the
stories related, and very possibly contributed several of them. The
circumstances under which these stories came to be narrated requires a few
words of explanation.
At a very early age, Louis showed those qualities by which he was
later distinguished. When he was only fourteen, he caused his father,
Charles VII, much grief, both by his unfilial conduct and his behaviour to
the beautiful Agnes Sorel, the King’s mistress, towards whom he felt an
implacable hatred. He is said to have slapped her face, because he thought
she did not treat him with proper respect. This blow was, it is asserted, the
primary cause of his revolt against his father’s authority (1440). The
rebellion was put down, and the Prince was pardoned, but relations between
father and son were still strained, and in 1446, Louis had to betake himself
to his appanage of Dauphiné, where he remained for ten years, always
plotting and scheming, and braving his father’s authority.
At length the Prince’s Court at Grenoble became the seat of so many
conspiracies that Charles VII was obliged to take forcible measures. It was
small wonder that the King’s patience was exhausted. Louis, not content

with the rule of his province, had made attempts to win over many of the
nobility, and to bribe the archers of the Scotch Guard. Though not liberal as
a rule, he had also expended large sums to different secret agents for some
specific purpose, which was in all probability to secure his father’s death,
for he was not the sort of man to stick at parricide even, if it would secure
his ends.
The plot was revealed to Charles by Antoine de Chabannes, Comte de
Dampmartin. Louis, when taxed with his misconduct, impudently denied
that he had been mixed up with the conspiracy, but denounced all his
accomplices, and allowed them to suffer for his misdeeds. He did not,
however, forget to revenge them, so far as lay in his power. The fair Agnès
Sorel, whom he had always regarded as his bitterest enemy, died shortly
afterwards at Jumièges, and it has always been believed, and with great
show of reason, that she was poisoned by his orders. He was not able to
take vengeance on Antoine de Chabannes until after he became King.
Finding that his plots were of no avail, he essayed to get together an
army large enough to combat his father, but before he completed his plans,
Charles VII, tired of his endless treason and trickery, sent an army, under
the faithful de Chabannes, into the Dauphiné, with orders to arrest the
Dauphin.
The forces which Louis had at his disposal were numerically so much
weaker, that he did not dare to risk a battle.
“If God or fortune,” he cried, “had been kind enough to give me but
half the men-at-arms which now belong to the King, my father, and will be
mine some day, by Our Lady, my mistress, I would have spared him the
trouble of coming so far to seek me, but would have met him and fought
him at Lyon.”
Not having sufficient forces, and feeling that he could not hope for
fresh pardon, he resolved to fly from France, and take refuge at the Court of
the Duke of Burgundy.
One day in June, 1456, he pretended to go hunting, and then, attended
by only half a dozen friends, rode as fast as he could into Burgundian
territory, and arrived at Saint Claude.
From there he wrote to his father, excusing his flight, and announcing
his intention of joining an expedition which Philippe le Bon, the reigning
Duke of Burgundy was about to undertake against the Turks. The Duke was

at that moment besieging Utrecht, but as soon as he heard the Dauphin had
arrived in his dominions, he sent orders that he was to be conducted to
Brussels with all the honours befitting his rank and station.
Shortly afterwards the Duke returned, and listened with real or
pretended sympathy to all the complaints that Louis made against his father,
but put a damper on any hopes that the Prince may have entertained of
getting the Burgundian forces to support his cause, by saying;
“Monseigneur, you are welcome to my domains. I am happy to see you
here. I will provide you with men and money for any purpose you may
require, except to be employed against the King, your father, whom I would
on no account displease.”
Duke Philippe even tried to bring about a reconciliation between
Charles and his son; but as Louis was not very anxious to return to France,
nor Charles to have him there, and a good many of the nobles were far from
desiring that the Prince should come back, the negotiations came to nothing.
Louis could make himself agreeable when he pleased, and during his
stay in the Duke’s domains, he was on good terms with Philippe le Bon,
who granted him 3000 gold florins a month, and the castle of Genappe as a
residence. This castle was situated on the Dyle, midway between Brussels
and Louvain, and about eight miles from either city. The river, or a deep
moat, surrounded the castle on every side. There was a drawbridge which
was drawn up at night, so Louis felt himself quite safe from any attack.
Here he remained five years (1456-1461) until the death of his father
placed him on the throne of France.
It was during these five years that these stories were told to amuse his
leisure. Probably there were many more than a hundred narrated—perhaps
several hundreds—but the literary man who afterwards “edited” the stories
only selected those which he deemed best, or, perhaps, those he heard
recounted. The narrators were the nobles who formed the Dauphin’s Court.
Much ink has been spilled over the question whether Louis himself had any
share in the production. In nearly every case the author’s name is given, and
ten of them (Nos. 2, 4, 7, 9, 11, 29, 33, 69, 70 and 71) are described in the
original edition as being by “Monseigneur.” Publishers of subsequent
editions brought out at the close of the 15th, or the beginning of the 16th,
Century, jumped to the conclusion that “Monseigneur” was really the

Dauphin, who not only contributed largely to the book, but after he became
King personally supervised the publication of the collected stories.
For four centuries Louis XI was credited with the authorship of the
tales mentioned. The first person—so far as I am aware—to throw any
doubt on his claim was the late Mr. Thomas Wright, who edited an edition
of the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, published by Jannet, Paris, 1858. He
maintained, with some show of reason, that as the stories were told in
Burgundy, by Burgundians, and the collected tales were “edited” by a
subject of the Duke (Antoine de la Salle, of whom I shall have occasion to
speak shortly) it was more probable that “Monseigneur” would mean the
Duke than the Dauphin, and he therefore ascribed the stories to Philippe le
Bel. Modern French scholars, however, appear to be of opinion that
“Monseigneur” was the Comte de Charolais, who afterwards became
famous as Charles le Téméraire, the last Duke of Burgundy.
The two great enemies were at that time close friends, and Charles was
a very frequent visitor to Genappe. It was not very likely, they say, that
Duke Philippe who was an old man would have bothered himself to tell his
guest indecent stories. On the other hand, Charles, being then only Comte
de Charolais, had no right to the title of “Monseigneur,” but they parry that
difficulty by supposing that as he became Duke before the tales were
printed, the title was given him in the first printed edition.
The matter is one which will, perhaps, never be satisfactorily settled.
My own opinion—though I claim for it no weight or value—is that Louis
appears to have the greatest right to the stories, though in support of that
theory I can only adduce some arguments, which if separately weak may
have some weight when taken collectively. Vérard, who published the first
edition, says in the Dedication; “Et notez que par toutes les Nouvelles où il
est dit par Monseigneur il est entendu par Monseigneur le Dauphin, lequel
depuis a succédé à la couronne et est le roy Loys unsieme; car il estoit lors
es pays du duc de Bourgoingne.”
The critics may have good reason for throwing doubt on Vérard’s
statement, but unless he printed his edition from a M.S. made after 1467,
and the copyist had altered the name of the Comte de Charolais to
“Monseigneur” it is not easy to see how the error arose, whilst on the other
hand, as Vérard had every facility for knowing the truth, and some of the
copies must have been purchased by persons who were present when the

stories were told, the mistake would have been rectified in the subsequent
editions that Vérard brought out in the course of the next few years, when
Louis had been long dead and there was no necessity to flatter his vanity.
On examining the stories related by “Monseigneur,” it seems to me
that there is some slight internal evidence that they were told by Louis.
Brantôme says of him that, “he loved to hear tales of loose women,
and had but a poor opinion of woman and did not believe they were all
chaste. (This sounds well coming from Brantôme) Anyone who could relate
such tales was gladly welcomed by the Prince, who would have given all
Homer and Virgil too for a funny story.” The Prince must have heard many
such stories, and would be likely to repeat them, and we find the first half
dozen stories are decidedly “broad,” (No XI was afterwards appropriated by
Rabelais, as “Hans Carvel’s Ring”) and we may suspect that Louis tried to
show the different narrators by personal example what he considered a
really “good tale.”
We know also Louis was subject to fits of religious melancholy, and
evinced a superstitious veneration for holy things, and even wore little,
leaden images of the saints round his hat. In many of the stories we find
monks punished for their immorality, or laughed at for their ignorance, and
nowhere do we see any particular veneration displayed for the Church. The
only exception is No LXX, “The Devil’s Horn,” in which a knight by sheer
faith in the mystery of baptism vanquishes the Devil, whereas one of the
knight’s retainers, armed with a battle-axe but not possessing his master’s
robust faith in the efficacy of holy water, is carried off bodily, and never
heard of again. It seems to me that this story bears the stamp of the
character of Louis, who though suspicious towards men, was childishly
credulous in religious matters, but I leave the question for critics more
capable than I to decide.
Of the thirty-two noblemen or squires who contributed the other
stories, mention will be made in the notes. Of the stories, I may here
mention that 14 or 15 were taken from Boccaccio, and as many more from
Poggio or other Italian writers, or French fabliaux, but about 70 of them
appear to be original.
The knights and squires who told the stories had probably no great
skill as raconteurs, and perhaps did not read or write very fluently. The
tales were written down afterwards by a literary man, and they owe “the

crispness, fluency, and elegance,” which, as Prof. Saintsbury remarks, they
possess in such a striking degree, to the genius of Antoine de la Sale. He
was born in 1398 in Burgundy or Touraine. He had travelled much in Italy,
and lived for some years at the Court of the Comte d’ Anjou. He returned to
Burgundy later, and was, apparently, given some sort of literary
employment by Duke Philippe le Bel. At any rate he was appointed by
Philippe or Louis to record the stories that enlivened the evenings at the
Castle of Genappe, and the choice could not have fallen on a better man. He
was already known as the author of two or three books, one of which—Les
Quinze Joyes de Mariage—relates the woes of married life, and displays a
knowledge of character, and a quaint, satirical humour that are truly
remarkable, and remind the reader alternately of Thackeray and Douglas
Jerrold,—indeed some of the Fifteen Joys are “Curtain Lectures” with a
mediaeval environment, and the word pictures of Woman’s foibles, follies,
and failings are as bright to-day as when they were penned exactly 450
years ago. They show that the “Eternal Feminine” has not altered in five
centuries—perhaps not in five thousand!
The practised and facile pen of Antoine de la Sale clothed the dry
bones of these stories with flesh and blood, and made them live, and move.
Considering his undoubted gifts as a humourist, and a delineator of
character it is strange that the name of Antoine de la Sale is not held in
higher veneration by his countrymen, for he was the earliest exponent of a
form of literary art in which the French have always excelled.
In making a translation of these stories I at first determined to adhere
as closely as possible to the text, but found that the versions differed
greatly. I have followed the two best modern editions, and have made as
few changes and omissions as possible.
Three or four of the stories are extremely coarse, and I hesitated
whether to omit them, insert them in the original French, or translate them,
but decided that as the book would only be read by persons of education,
respectability, and mature age, it was better to translate them fully,—as has
been done in the case of the far coarser passages of Rabelais and other
writers. This course appeared to me less hypocritical than that adopted in a
recent expensive edition of Boccaccio in which the story of Rusticus and
Alibech was given in French—with a highly suggestive full-page

illustration facing the text for the benefit of those who could not read the
French language.
ROBERT B. DOUGLAS.
Paris, 21st October 1899.

Good friends, my readers, who peruse this book,
Be not offended, whilst on it you look:
Denude yourselves of all deprav’d affection,
For it contains no badness nor infection:
‘T is true that it brings forth to you no birth
Of any value, but in point of mirth;
Thinking therefore how sorrow might your mind
Consume, I could no apter subject find;
One inch of joy surmounts of grief a span;
Because to laugh is proper to the man.

(RABELAIS: To the Readers).

STORY THE FIRST —THE REVERSE OF THE
MEDAL. 1
By Monseigneur Le Duc

The first story tells of how one found means to enjoy the
wife of his neighbour, whose husband he had sent away in
order that he might have her the more easily, and how the
husband returning from his journey, found his friend bathing
with his wife. And not knowing who she was, he wished to
see her, but was permitted only to see her back—, and then
thought that she resembled his wife, but dared not believe it.
And thereupon left and found his wife at home, she having
escaped by a postern door, and related to her his suspicions.

In the town of Valenciennes there lived formerly a notable citizen, who
had been receiver of Hainault, who was renowned amongst all others for his
prudence and discretion, and amongst his praiseworthy virtues, liberality
was not the least, and thus it came to pass that he enjoyed the grace of
princes, lords, and other persons of good estate. And this happy condition,
Fortune granted and preserved to him to the end of his days.
Both before and after death unloosed him from the chains of
matrimony, the good citizen mentioned in this Story, was not so badly
lodged in the said town but that many a great lord would have been content
and honoured to have such a lodging. His house faced several streets, in one
of which was a little postern door, opposite to which lived a good comrade
of his, who had a pretty wife, still young and charming.
And, as is customary, her eyes, the archers of the heart, shot so many
arrows into the said citizen, that unless he found some present remedy, he
felt his case was no less than mortal.
To more surely prevent such a fate, he found many and subtle manners
of making the good comrade, the husband of the said quean, his private and
familiar friend, so, that few of the dinners, suppers, banquets, baths, and

other such amusements took place, either in the hotel or elsewhere, without
his company. And of such favours his comrade was very proud, and also
happy.
When our citizen, who was more cunning than a fox, had gained the
good-will of his friend, little was needed to win the love of his wife, and in
a few days he had worked so much and so well that the gallant lady was
fain to hear his case, and to provide a suitable remedy thereto. It remained
but to provide time and place; and for this she promised him that, whenever
her husband lay abroad for a night, she would advise him thereof.
The wished-for day arrived when the husband told his wife that he was
going to a chateau some three leagues distant from Valenciennes, and
charged her to look after the house and keep within doors, because his
business would not permit him to return that night.
It need not be asked if she was joyful, though she showed it not either
in word, or deed, or otherwise. Her husband had not journeyed a league
before the citizen knew that the opportunity had come.
He caused the baths to be brought forth, and the stoves to be heated,
and pasties, tarts, and hippocras, and all the rest of God’s good gifts, to be
prepared largely and magnificently.
When evening came, the postern door was unlocked, and she who was
expected entered thereby, and God knows if she was not kindly received. I
pass over all this.
Then they ascended into a chamber, and washed in a bath, by the side
of which a good supper was quickly laid and served. And God knows if
they drank often and deeply. To speak of the wines and viands would be a
waste of time, and, to cut the story short, there was plenty of everything. In
this most happy condition passed the great part of this sweet but short night;
kisses often given and often returned, until they desired nothing but to go to
bed.
Whilst they were thus making good cheer, the husband returned from
his journey, and knowing nothing of this adventure, knocked loudly at the
door of the house. And the company that was in the ante-chamber refused
him entrance until he should name his surety.
Then he gave his name loud and clear, and so his good wife and the
citizen heard him and knew him. She was so amazed to hear the voice of

her husband that her loyal heart almost failed her; and she would have
fainted, had not the good citizen and his servants comforted her.
The good citizen being calm and well advised how to act, made haste
to put her to bed, and lay close by her; and charged her well that she should
lie close to him and hide her face, so that no one could see it. And that being
done as quickly as may be, yet without too much haste, he ordered that the
door should be opened. Then his good comrade sprang into the room,
thinking to himself that there must be some mystery, else they had not kept
him out of the room. And when he saw the table laid with wines and goodly
viands, also the bath finely prepared, and the citizen in a handsome bed,
well curtained, with a second person by his side, God knows he spoke
loudly, and praised the good cheer of his neighbour. He called him rascal,
and whore-monger, and drunkard, and many other names, which made
those who were in the chamber laugh long and loud; but his wife could not
join in the mirth, her face being pressed to the side of her new friend.
“Ha!” said the husband, “Master whore-monger, you have well hidden
from me this good cheer; but, by my faith, though I was not at the feast, you
must show me the bride.”
And with that, holding a candle in his hand, he drew near the bed, and
would have withdrawn the coverlet, under which, in fear and silence, lay his
most good and perfect wife, when the citizen and his servants prevented
him; but he was not content, and would by force, in spite of them all, have
laid his hand upon the bed.
But he was not master there, and could not have his will, and for good
cause, and was fain to be content with a most gracious proposal which was
made to him, and which was this, that he should be shown the backside of
his wife, and her haunches, and thighs—which were big and white, and
moreover fair and comely—without uncovering and beholding her face.
The good comrade, still holding a candle in his hand, gazed for long
without saying a word; and when he did speak, it was to praise highly the
great beauty of that dame, and he swore by a great oath that he had never
seen anything that so much resembled the back parts of his own wife, and
that were he not well sure that she was at home at that time, he would have
said it was she.
She had by this somewhat recovered, and he drew back much
disconcerted, but God knows that they all told him, first one and then the

other, that he had judged wrongly, and spoken against the honour of his
wife, and that this was some other woman, as he would afterwards see for
himself.
To restore him to good humour, after they had thus abused his eyes, the
citizen ordered that they should make him sit at the table, where he
drowned his suspicions by eating and drinking of what was left of the
supper, whilst they in the bed were robbing him of his honour.
The time came to leave, and he said good night to the citizen and his
companions, and begged they would let him leave by the postern door, that
he might the sooner return home. But the citizen replied that he knew not
then where to find the key; he thought also that the lock was so rusted that
they could not open the door, which they rarely if ever used. He was content
therefore to leave by the front gate, and make a long detour to reach his
house, and whilst the servants of the citizen led him to the door, the good
wife was quickly on her feet, and in a short time, clad in a simple sark, with
her corset on her arm, and come to the postern. She made but one bound to
her house, where she awaited her husband (who came by a longer way)
well-prepared as to the manner in which she should receive him.
Soon came our man, and seeing still a light in the house, knocked at
the door loudly; and this good wife, who was pretending to clean the house,
and had a besom in her hands, asked — what she knew well; “Who is
there?”
And he replied; “It is your husband.”
“My husband!” said she. “My husband is not here! He is not in the
town!”
With that he knocked again, and cried, “Open the door! I am your
husband.”
“I know my husband well,” quoth she, “and it is not his custom to
return home so late at night, when he is in the town. Go away, and do not
knock here at this hour.”
But he knocked all the more, and called her by name once or twice. Yet
she pretended not to know him, and asked why he came at that hour, but for
all reply he said nothing but, “Open! Open!”
“Open!” said she. “What! are you still there you rascally whore-
monger? By St. Mary, I would rather see you drown than come in here! Go!

and sleep as badly as you please in the place where you came from.”
Then her good husband grew angry, and thundered against the door as
though he would knock the house down, and threatened to beat his wife,
such was his rage,—of which she had not great fear; but at length, because
of the noise he made, and that she might the better speak her mind to him,
she opened the door, and when he entered, God knows whether he did not
see an angry face, and have a warm greeting. For when her tongue found
words from a heart overcharged with anger and indignation, her language
was as sharp as well-ground Guingant razors.
And, amongst other things, she reproached him that he had wickedly
pretended a journey in order that he might try her, and that he was a coward
and a recreant, unworthy to have such a wife as she was.
Our good comrade, though he had been angry, saw how wrong he had
been, and restrained his wrath, and the indignation that in his heart he had
conceived when he was standing outside the door was turned aside. So he
said, to excuse himself, and to satisfy his wife, that he had returned from his
journey because he had forgotten a letter concerning the object of his going.
Pretending not to believe him, she invented more stories, and charged
him with having frequented taverns and bagnios, and other improper and
dissolute resorts, and that he behaved as no respectable man should, and she
cursed the hour in which she had made his acquaintance, and doubly cursed
the day she became his wife.
The poor man, much grieved, seeing his wife more troubled than he
liked, knew not what to say. And his suspicions being removed, he drew
near her, weeping and falling upon his knees and made the following fine
speech.
“My most dear companion, and most loyal wife, I beg and pray of you
to remove from your heart the wrath you have conceived against me, and
pardon me for all that I have done against you. I own my fault, I see my
error. I have come now from a place where they made good cheer, and
where, I am ashamed to say, I fancied I recognised you, at which I was
much displeased. And so I wrongfully and causelessly suspected you to be
other than a good woman, of which I now repent bitterly, and pray of you to
forgive me, and pardon my folly.”
The good woman, seeing her husband so contrite, showed no great
anger.

“What?” said she, “You have come from filthy houses of ill-fame, and
you dare to think that your honest wife would be seen in such places?”
“No, no, my dear, I know you would not. For God’s sake, say no more
about it.” said the good man, and repeated his aforesaid request.
She, seeing his contrition, ceased her reproaches, and little by little
regained her composure, and with much ado pardoned him, after he had
made a hundred thousand oaths and promises to her who had so wronged
him. And from that time forth she often, without fear or regret, passed the
said postern, nor were her escapades discovered by him who was most
concerned. And that suffices for the first story.

STORY THE SECOND — THE MONK-
DOCTOR.
By Monseigneur

The second story, related by Duke Philip, is of a young
girl who had piles, who put out the only eye he had of a
Cordelier monk who was healing her, and of the lawsuit that
followed thereon.

In the chief town of England, called London, which is much resorted
to by many folks, there lived, not long ago, a rich and powerful man who
was a merchant and citizen, who beside his great wealth and treasures, was
enriched by the possession of a fair daughter, whom God had given him
over and above his substance, and who for goodness, prettiness, and
gentleness, surpassed all others of her time, and who when she was fifteen
was renowned for her virtue and beauty.
God knows that many folk of good position desired and sought for her
good grace by all the divers manners used by lovers,—which was no small
pleasure to her father and mother, and increased their ardent and paternal
affection for their beloved daughter.
But it happened that, either by the permission of God, or that Fortune
willed and ordered it so, being envious and discontented at the prosperity of
this beautiful girl, or of her parents, or all of them,—or may be from some
secret and natural cause that I leave to doctors and philosophers to
determine, that she was afflicted with an unpleasant and dangerous disease
which is commonly called piles.
The worthy family was greatly troubled when they found the fawn
they so dearly loved, set on by the sleuth-hounds and beagles of this
unpleasant disease, which had, moreover, attacked its prey in a dangerous
place. The poor girl—utterly cast down by this great misfortune,—could do
naught else than weep and sigh. Her grief-stricken mother was much

troubled; and her father, greatly vexed, wrung his hands, and tore his hair in
his rage at this fresh misfortune.
Need I say that all the pride of that household was suddenly cast down
to the ground, and in one moment converted into bitter and great grief.
The relations, friends, and neighbours of the much-enduring family
came to visit and comfort the damsel; but little or nothing might they profit
her, for the poor girl was more and more attacked and oppressed by that
disease.
Then came a matron who had much studied that disease, and she
turned and re-turned the suffering patient, this way, and that way, to her
great pain and grief, God knows, and made a medicine of a hundred
thousand sorts of herbs, but it was no good; the disease continued to get
worse, so there was no help but to send for all the doctors of the city and
round about, and for the poor girl to discover unto them her most piteous
case.
There came Master Peter, Master John, Master This, Master That—as
many doctors as you would, who all wished to see the patient together, and
uncover that portion of her body where this cursed disease, the piles had,
alas, long time concealed itself.
The poor girl, as much cast down and grieved as though she were
condemned to die, would in no wise agree or permit that her affliction
should be known; and would rather have died than shown such a secret
place to the eyes of any man.
This obstinacy though endured not long, for her father and her mother
came unto her, and remonstrated with her many times,—saying that she
might be the cause of her own death, which was no small sin; and many
other matters too long to relate here.
Finally, rather to obey her father and mother than from fear of death,
the poor girl allowed herself to be bound and laid on a couch, head
downwards, and her body so uncovered that the physicians might see
clearly the seat of the disease which troubled her.
They gave orders what was to be done, and sent apothecaries with
clysters, powders, ointments, and whatsoever else seemed good unto them;
and she took all that they sent, in order that she might recover her health.

But all was of no avail, for no remedy that the said physicians could
apply helped to heal the distressing malady from which she suffered, nor
could they find aught in their books, until at last the poor girl, what with
grief and pain was more dead than alive, and this grief and great weakness
lasted many days.
And whilst the father and mother, relations, and neighbours sought for
aught that might alleviate their daughter’s sufferings, they met with an old
Cordelier monk, who was blind of one eye, and who in his time had seen
many things, and had dabbled much in medicine, therefore his presence was
agreeable to the relations of the patient, and he having gazed at the diseased
part at his leisure, boasted much that he could cure her.
You may fancy that he was most willingly heard, and that all the grief-
stricken assembly, from whose hearts all joy had been banished, hoped that
the result would prove as he had promised.
Then he left, and promised that he would return the next day, provided
and furnished with a drug of such virtue, that it would at once remove the
great pain and martyrdom which tortured and annoyed the poor patient.
The night seemed over-long, whilst waiting for the wished-for
morrow; nevertheless, the long hours passed, and our worthy Cordelier kept
his promise, and came to the patient at the hour appointed. You may guess
that he was well and joyously received; and when the time came when he
was to heal the patient, they placed her as before on a couch, with her
backside covered with a fair white cloth of embroidered damask, having,
where her malady was, a hole pierced in it through which the Cordelier
might arrive at the said place.
He gazed at the seat of the disease, first from one side, then from the
other: and anon he would touch it gently with his finger, or inspect the tube
by which he meant to blow in the powder which was to heal her, or anon
would step back and inspect the diseased parts, and it seemed as though he
could never gaze enough.
At last he took the powder in his left hand, poured upon a small flat
dish, and in the other hand the tube, which he filled with the said powder,
and as he gazed most attentively and closely through the opening at the seat
of the painful malady of the poor girl, she could not contain herself, seeing
the strange manner in which the Cordelier gazed at her with his one eye, but

a desire to burst out laughing came upon her, though she restrained herself
as long as she could.
But it came to pass, alas! that the laugh thus held back was converted
into a f—t, the wind of which caught the powder, so that the greater part of
it was blown into the face and into the eye of the good Cordelier, who,
feeling the pain, dropped quickly both plate and tube, and almost fell
backwards, so much was he frightened. And when he came to himself, he
quickly put his hand to his eye, complaining loudly, and saying that he was
undone, and in danger to lose the only good eye he had.
Nor did he lie, for in a few days, the powder which was of a corrosive
nature, destroyed and ate away his eye, so that he became, and remained,
blind.
Then he caused himself to be led one day to the house where he had
met with this sad mischance, and spoke to the master of the house, to whom
he related his pitiful case, demanding, as was his right, that there should be
granted to him such amends as his condition deserved, in order that he
might live honourably.
The merchant replied that though the misadventure greatly vexed him,
he was in nowise the cause of it, nor could he in any way be charged with it,
but that he would, out of pity and charity, give him some money, and
though the Cordelier had undertaken to cure his daughter and had not so
done, would give him as much as he would if she had been restored to
health, though not forced to do so.
The Cordelier was not content with this offer, but required that he
should be kept for the rest of his life, seeing that the merchant’s daughter
had blinded him, and that in the presence of many people, and thereby he
was deprived from ever again performing Mass or any of the services of the
Holy Church, or studying what learned men had written concerning the
Holy Scriptures, and thus could no longer serve as a preacher; which would
be his destruction, for he would be a beggar and without means, save alms,
and these he could no longer obtain.
But all that he could say was of no avail, and he could get no other
answer than that given. So he cited the merchant before the Parliament of
the said city of London, which called upon the aforesaid merchant to
appear. When the day came, the Cordelier’s case was stated by a lawyer
well-advised as to what he should say, and God knows that many came to

the Court to hear this strange trial, which much pleased the lords of the said
Parliament, as much for the strangeness of the case as for the allegations
and arguments of the parties debating therein, which were not only curious
but amusing.
To many folk was this strange and amusing case known, and was often
adjourned and left undecided by the judges, as is their custom. And so she,
who before this was renowned for her beauty, goodness, and gentleness,
became notorious through this cursed disease of piles, but was in the end
cured, as I have been since told.

STORY THE THIRD — THE SEARCH FOR
THE RING. 3
By Monseigneur de la Roche

Of the deceit practised by a knight on a miller’s wife
whom he made believe that her front was loose, and fastened
it many times. And the miller informed of this, searched for a
diamond that the knight’s lady had lost, and found it in her
body, as the knight knew afterwards: so he called the miller
“fisherman”, and the miller called him “fastener”.

In the Duchy of Burgundy lived formerly a noble knight, whose name
is not mentioned in the present story, who was married to a fair and gentle
lady. And near the castle of the said knight lived a miller, also married to a
fair young wife.
It chanced once, that the knight, to pass the time and enjoy himself,
was strolling around his castle, and by the banks of the river on which stood
the house and mill of the said miller, who at that time was not at home, but
at Dijon or Beaune,—he saw and remarked the wife of the said miller
carrying two jars and returning from the river, whither she had been to draw
water.
He advanced towards her and saluted her politely, and she, being well-
mannered, made him the salutation which belonged to his rank. The knight,
finding that the miller’s wife was very fair but had not much sense, drew
near to her and said.
“Of a truth, my friend, I see well that you are in ill case, and therefore
in great peril.”
At these words the miller’s wife replied.
“Alas, monseigneur, and what shall I do?”
“Truly, my dear, if you walk thus, your ‘front piece’ is in danger of
falling off, and if I am not mistaken, you will not keep it much longer.”

The foolish woman, on hearing these words was astonished and vexed;
—astonished to think how the knight could know, without seeing, of this
unlucky accident, and vexed to think of the loss of the best part of her body,
and one that she used well, and her husband also.
She replied; “Alas! sir, what is this you tell me, and how do you know
that my ‘front piece’ is in danger of falling off? It seems to keep its place
well.”
“There, there! my dear,” replied the knight. “Let it suffice that I have
told you the truth. You would not be the first to whom such a thing had
happened.”
“Alas, sir,” said she. “I shall be an undone, dishonoured and lost
woman; and what will my husband say when he hears of the mischance? He
will have no more to do with me.”
“Be not discomforted to that degree, my friend; it has not happened
yet; besides there is a sure remedy.”
When the young woman heard that there was a remedy for her
complaint, her blood began to flow again, and she begged the knight for
God’s sake that he would teach her what she must do to keep this poor
front-piece from falling off. The knight, who was always most courteous
and gracious, especially towards the ladies, replied;
“My friend, as you are a good and pretty girl, and I like your husband,
I will teach you how to keep your front-piece.”
“Alas, sir, I thank you; and certainly you will do a most meritorious
work: for it would be better to die than to live without my front-piece. And
what ought I to do sir?
“My dear,” he said, “to prevent your front-piece from falling off, you
must have it fastened quickly and often.”
“Fastened, sir? And who will do that? Whom shall I ask to do this for
me?”
“I will tell you, my dear,” replied the knight. “And because I warned
you of this mischance being so near, and told you of the remedy necessary
to obviate the inconveniences which would arise, and which I am sure
would not please you,—I am content, in order to further increase the love
between us, to fasten your front-piece, and put it in such a good condition

that you may safely carry it anywhere, without any fear or doubt that it will
ever fall off; for in this matter I am very skilful.”
It need not be asked whether the miller’s wife was joyful. She
employed all the little sense she had to thank the knight. So they walked
together, she and the knight, back to the mill, where they were no sooner
arrived than the knight kindly began his task, and with a tool that he had,
shortly fastened, three or four times, the front-piece of the miller’s wife,
who was most pleased and joyous; and after having appointed a day when
he might again work at this front-piece, the knight left, and returned quickly
to his castle.
On the day named, he went again to the mill, and did his best, in the
way above mentioned, to fasten this front-piece; and so well did he work as
time went on, that this front-piece was most safely fastened, and held firmly
and well in its place.
Whilst our knight thus fastened the front-piece of the miller’s wife, the
miller one day returned from his business, and made good cheer, as also did
his wife. And as they were talking over their affairs, this most wise wife
said to her husband.
“On my word, we are much indebted to the lord of this town.”
“Tell me how, and in what manner,” replied the miller.
“It is quite right that I should tell you, that you may thank him, as
indeed you must. The truth is that, whilst you were away, my lord passed by
our house one day that I was carrying two pitchers from the river. He
saluted me and I did the same to him; and as I walked away, he saw, I know
not how, that my front-piece was not held properly, and was in danger of
falling off. He kindly told me so, at which I was as astonished and vexed as
though the end of the world had come. The good lord who saw me thus
lament, took pity on me, and showed me a good remedy for this cursed
disaster. And he did still more, which he would not have done for every one,
for the remedy of which he told me,—which was to fasten and hold back
my front-piece in order to prevent it from dropping off,—he himself
applied, which was great trouble to him, and he did it many times because
that my case required frequent attention.
“What more shall I say? He, has so well performed his work that we
can never repay him. By my faith, he has in one day of this week fastened it
three times; another day, four times; another day, twice; another day, three

times; and he never left me till I was quite cured, and brought to such a
condition that my front-piece now holds as well and firmly as that of any
woman in our town.”
The miller, on hearing this adventure, gave no outward sign of what
was passing in his mind, but, as though he had been joyful, said to his wife:
“I am very glad, my dear, that my lord hath done us this service, and,
God willing, when it shall be possible, I will do as much for him. But at any
rate, as it is not proper it should be known, take care that you say no word
of this to anyone; and also, now that you are cured, you need not trouble my
lord any further in this matter.”
“You have warned me,” replied his wife, “not to say a word about it
and that is also what my lord bade me.”
Our miller, who was a good fellow, often thought over the kindness
that my lord had done him, and conducted himself so wisely and carefully
that the said lord never suspected that he knew how he had been deceived,
and imagined that he knew nothing. But alas, his heart and all his thoughts
were bent on revenge and how he could repay in like manner the deceit
practised on his wife. And at length he bethought himself of a way by which
he could, he imagined, repay my lord in butter for his eggs.
At last, owing to other circumstances, the knight was obliged to mount
his horse and say farewell to his wife for a month; at which our miller was
in no small degree pleased.
One day, the lady had a desire to bathe, and caused the bath to be
brought forth and the stoves to be heated in her private apartments; of
which our miller knew soon, because he learned all that went on in the
house; so he took a fine pike, that he kept in the ditch near his house, and
went to the castle to present it to the lady.
None of the waiting-women would he let take the fish, but said that he
must present it himself to the lady, or else he would take it back home. At
last, because he was well-known to the household, and a good fellow, the
lady allowed him to enter whilst she was in her bath.
The miller gave his present, for which the lady thanked him, and
caused it to be taken to the kitchen and cooked for supper.
Whilst he was talking, the miller perceived on the edge of the bath, a
fine large diamond which she had taken from her finger, fearing lest the

water should spoil it. He took it so quietly that no one saw him, and having
gained his point, said good night to the lady and her women, and returned to
the mill to think over his business.
The lady, who was making good cheer with her attendants, seeing that
it was now very late, and supper-time, left the bath and retired to her bed.
And as she was looking at her arms and hands, she saw not the diamond,
and she called her women, and asked them where was the diamond, and to
whom she had given it. Each said, “It was not to me;”—“Nor to
me,”—“Nor to me either.”
They searched inside and outside the bath, and everywhere, but it was
no good, they could not find it. The search for this diamond lasted a long
time, without their finding any trace of it, which caused the lady much
vexation, because it had been unfortunately lost in her chamber, and also
because my lord had given it to her the day of their betrothal, and she held it
very precious. They did not know whom to suspect nor whom to ask, and
much sorrow prevailed in the household.
Then one of the women bethought herself, and said.
“No one entered the room but ourselves and the miller; it seems right
that he should be sent for.”
He was sent for, and came. The lady who was much vexed, asked the
miller if he had not seen her diamond. He, being as ready to lie as another is
to tell the truth, answered boldly, and asked if the lady took him for a thief?
To which she replied gently;
“Certainly not, miller; it would be no theft if you had for a joke taken
away my diamond.”
“Madame,” said the miller, “I give you my word that I know nothing
about your diamond.”
Then were they all much vexed, and my lady especially, so that she
could not refrain from weeping tears in great abundance at the loss of this
trinket. They all sorrowfully considered what was to be done. One said that
it must be in the chamber, and another said that they had searched
everywhere, and that it was impossible it should be there or they would
have found it, as it was easily seen.
The miller asked the lady if she had it when she entered the bath; and
she replied, yes.

“If it be so, certainly, madam, considering the diligence you have made
in searching for it, and without finding it, the affair is very strange.
Nevertheless, it seems to me that if there is any man who could give advice
how it should be found, I am he, and because I would not that my secret
should be discovered and known to many people, it would be expedient that
I should speak to you alone.”
“That is easily managed,” said the lady. So her attendants left, but, as
they were leaving, Dames Jehanne, Isabeau, and Katherine said,
“Ah, miller, you will be a clever man if you bring back this diamond.”
“I don’t say that I am over-clever,” replied the miller, “but I venture to
declare that if it is possible to find it I am the man to do so.”
When he saw that he was alone with the lady, he told her that he
believed seriously, that as she had the diamond when she entered the bath,
that it must have fallen from her finger and entered her body, seeing that
there was no one who could have stolen it.
And that he might hasten to find it, he made the lady-get upon her bed,
which she would have willingly refused if she could have done otherwise.
After he had uncovered her, he pretended to look here and there, and
said,
“Certainly, madam, the diamond has entered your body.”
“Do you say, miller, that you have seen it?”
“Truly, yes.”
“Alas!” said she, “and how can it be got out?”
“Very easily, madam. I doubt not to succeed if it please you.”
“May God help you! There is nothing that I would not do to get it
again,” said the lady, “or to advance you, good miller.”
The miller placed the lady on the bed, much in the same position as the
lord had placed his wife when he fastened her front-piece, and with a like
tool was the search for the diamond made.
Whilst resting after the first and second search that the miller made for
the diamond, the lady asked him if he had not felt it, and he said, yes, at
which she was very joyful, and begged that he would seek until he had
found it.

To cut matters short, the good miller did so well that he restored to the
lady her beautiful diamond, which caused great joy throughout the house,
and never did miller receive so much honour and advancement as the lady
and her maids bestowed upon him.
The good miller, who was high in the good graces of the lady after the
much-desired conclusion of his great enterprise, left the house and went
home, without boasting to his wife of his recent adventure, though he was
more joyful over it than though he had gained the whole world.
A short time after, thank God, the knight returned to his castle, and was
kindly received and humbly welcomed by the lady, who whilst they were
enjoying themselves in bed, told him of the most wonderful adventure of
the diamond, and how it was fished out of her body by the miller; and, to
cut matters short, related the process, fashion, and manner employed by the
said miller in his search for the diamond, which hardly gave her husband
much joy, but he reflected that the miller had paid him back in his own coin.
The first time he met the good miller, he saluted him coldly, and said,
“God save you! God save you, good diamond-searcher!”
To which the good miller replied,
“God save you! God save you, fastener of front-pieces!”
“By our Lady, you speak truly,” said the knight. “Say nothing about
me, and I will say nothing about you.”
The miller was satisfied, and never spoke of it again; nor did the
knight either, so far as I know.

STORY THE FOURTH — THE ARMED
CUCKOLD. 4
By Monseigneur

The fourth tale is of a Scotch archer who was in love
with a fair and gentle dame, the wife of a mercer, who, by
her husband’s orders appointed a day for the said Scot to
visit her, who came and treated her as he wished, the said
mercer being hid by the side of the bed, where he could see
and hear all.

When the king was lately in the city of Tours, a Scottish gentleman, an
archer of his bodyguard, was greatly enamoured of a beautiful and gentle
damsel married to a mercer; and when he could find time and place, related
to her his sad case, but received no favourable reply,—at which he was
neither content nor joyous. Nevertheless, as he was much in love, he
relaxed not the pursuit, but besought her so eagerly, that the damsel,
wishing to drive him away for good and all, told him that she would inform
her husband of the dishonourable and damnable proposals made to her,—
which at length she did.
The husband,—a good and wise man, honourable and valiant, as you
will see presently,—was very angry to think that the Scot would dishonour
him and his fair wife. And that he might avenge himself without trouble, he
commanded his wife that if the Scot should accost her again, she should
appoint a meeting on a certain day, and, if he were so foolish as to come, he
would buy his pleasure dearly.
The good wife, to obey her husband’s will, did as she was told. The
poor amorous Scot, who spent his time in passing the house, soon saw the
fair mercer, and when he had humbly saluted her, he besought her love so
earnestly, and desired that she would listen to his final piteous prayer, and if
she would, never should woman be more loyally served and obeyed if she
would but grant his most humble and reasonable request.

The fair mercer, remembering the lesson that her husband had given
her, finding the opportunity propitious, after many subterfuges and excuses,
told the Scot that he could come to her chamber on the following evening,
where he could talk to her more secretly, and she would give him what he
desired.
You may guess that she was greatly thanked, and her words listened to
with pleasure and obeyed by her lover, who left his lady feeling more
joyous than ever he had in his life.
When the husband returned home, he was told of all the words and
deeds of the Scot, and how he was to come on the morrow to the lady’s
chamber.
“Let him come,” said the husband. “Should he undertake such a mad
business I will make him, before he leaves, see and confess the evil he has
done, as an example to other daring and mad fools like him.”
The evening of the next day drew near,—much to the joy of the
amorous Scot, who wished to see and enjoy the person of his lady;—and
much also to the joy of the good mercer who was desiring a great
vengeance to be taken on the person of the Scot who wished to replace him
in the marriage bed; but not much to the taste of his fair wife, who expected
that her obedience to her husband would lead to a serious fight.
All prepared themselves; the mercer put on a big, old, heavy suit of
armour, donned his helmet and gauntlets, and armed himself with a battle-
axe. Like a true champion, he took up his post early, and as he had no tent
in which to await his enemy, placed himself behind a curtain by the side of
the bed, where he was so well-hidden that he could not be perceived.
The lover, sick with desire, knowing the longed-for hour was now at
hand, set out for the house of the mercer, but he did not forget to take his
big, good, strong two-handed sword; and when he was within the house, the
lady went up to her chamber without showing any fear, and he followed her
quietly. And when he came within the room, he asked the lady if she were
alone? To which she replied casually, and with some confusion, that she
was.
“Tell me the truth,” said the Scot. “Is not your husband here?”
“No,” said she.

“Well! let him come! By Saint Aignan, if he should come, I would split
his skull to the teeth. By God! if there were three of them I should not fear
them. I should soon master them!”
After these wicked words, he drew his big, good sword, and
brandished it three or four times; then laid it on the bed by his side.
With that he kissed and cuddled her, and did much more at his leisure
and convenience, without the poor coward by the side of the bed, who was
greatly afraid he should be killed, daring to show himself.
Our Scot, after this adventure, took leave of the lady for a while, and
thanked her as he ought for her great courtesy and kindness, and went his
way.
As soon as the valiant man of arms knew that the Scot was out of the
house, he came out of his hiding place, so frightened that he could scarcely
speak, and commenced to upbraid his wife for having let the archer do his
pleasure on her. To which she replied that it was his fault, as he had made
her appoint a meeting.
“I did not command you,” he said, “to let him do his will and
pleasure.”
“How could I refuse him,” she replied, “seeing that he had his big
sword, with which he could have killed me?”
At that moment the Scot returned, and came up the stairs to the
chamber, and ran in and called out, “What is it?” Whereupon the good man,
to save himself, hid under the bed for greater safety, being more frightened
than ever.
The Scot served the lady as he had done before, but kept his sword
always near him. After many long love-games between the Scot and the
lady, the hour came when he must leave, so he said good-night and went
away.
The poor martyr who was under the bed would scarcely come out, so
much did he fear the return of his adversary,—or rather, I should say, his
companion. At last he took courage, and by the help of his wife was, thank
God, set on his feet, and if he had scolded his wife before he was this time
harder upon her than ever, for she had consented, in spite of his forbidding
her, to dishonour him and herself.

“Alas,” said she, “and where is the woman bold enough to oppose a
man so hasty and violent as he was, when you yourself, armed and
accoutred and so valiant,—and to whom he did more wrong than he did to
me—did not dare to attack him, and defend me?”
“That is no answer,” he replied. “Unless you had liked, he would never
have attained his purpose. You are a bad and disloyal woman.”
“And you,” said she, “are a cowardly, wicked, and most blamable man;
for I am dishonoured since, through obeying you, I gave a rendezvous to the
Scot. Yet you have not the courage to undertake the defence of the wife who
is the guardian of your honour. For know that I would rather have died than
consent to this dishonour, and God knows what grief I feel, and shall
always feel as long as I live, whilst he to whom I looked for help suffered
me to be dishonoured in his presence.”
He believed that she would not have allowed the Scot to tumble her if
she had not taken pleasure in it, but she maintained that she was forced and
could not resist, but left the resistance to him and he did not fulfil his
charge. Thus they both wrangled and quarrelled, with many arguments on
both sides. But at any rate, the husband was cuckolded and deceived by the
Scot in the manner you have heard.

STORY THE FIFTH — THE DUEL WITH THE
BUCKLE-STRAP. 5
By Philippe De Laon.

The fifth story relates two judgments of Lord Talbot.
How a Frenchman was taken prisoner (though provided with
a safe-conduct) by an Englishman, who said that buckle-
straps were implements of war, and who was made to arm
himself with buckle-straps and nothing else, and meet the
Frenchman, who struck him with a sword in the presence of
Talbot. The other, story is about a man who robbed a church,
and who was made to swear that he would never enter a
church again.

Lord Talbot (whom may God pardon) who was, as every one knows,
so victorious as leader of the English, gave in his life two judgments which
were worthy of being related and held in perpetual remembrance, and in
order that the said judgments should be known, I will relate them briefly in
this my first story, though it is the fifth amongst the others. I will tell it thus.
During the time that the cursed and pestilent war prevailed between
France and England, and which has not yet finished, (*) it happened, as was
often the case, that a French soldier was taken prisoner by an Englishman,
and, a ransom having been fixed, he was sent under a safe-conduct, signed
by Lord Talbot, to his captain, that he might procure his ransom and bring it
back to his captor.
As he was on his road, he was met by another Englishman, who,
seeing he was a Frenchman, asked him whence he came and whither he was
going? The other told him the truth.
“Where is your safe-conduct?” asked the Englishman.
“It is not far off,” replied the Frenchman. With that he took the safe-
conduct, which was in a little box hung at his belt, and handed it to the
Englishman, who read it from one end to the other. And, as is customary,

there was written on the safe-conduct, “Forbidden to carry any implements
of warfare.”
The Englishman noted this, and saw that there were esguillettes on the
Frenchman’s doublet. (**) He imagined that these straps were real
implements of war, so he said,
“I make you my prisoner, because you have broken your safe-
conduct.”
“By my faith, I have not,” replied the Frenchman, “saving your grace.
You see in what condition I am.”
“No! no!” said the Englishman. “By Saint John you have broken your
safe-conduct. Surrender, or I will kill you.”
The poor Frenchman, who had only his page with him, and was quite
unprovided with weapons, whilst the other was accompanied by three or
four archers, did the best thing he could, and surrendered. The Englishman
led him to a place near there, and put him in prison.

(*) It had virtually finished, and the English only retained
the town of Calais when this tale was written (about 1465)
but they had not relinquished their claim to the French
Crown, and hostilities were expected to recommence.

(**) Esguillettes were small straps or laces, used to
fasten the cuirass to the doublet.

The Frenchman, finding himself thus ill-treated, sent in great haste to
his captain, who when he heard his man’s case, was greatly and
marvellously astonished. Thereupon he wrote a letter to Lord Talbot, and
sent it by a herald, to ask how it was that one of his men had been arrested
by one of Lord Talbot’s men whilst under that general’s safe-conduct.
The said herald, being well instructed as to what he was to say and do,
left his master, and presented the letters to Lord Talbot. He read them, and
caused them to be read also by one of his secretaries before many knights
and squires and others of his followers.
Thereupon he flew into a great rage, for he was hot-tempered and
irritable, and brooked not to be disobeyed, and especially in matters of war;
and to question his safe-conduct made him very angry.

To shorten the story, he caused to be brought before him both the
Frenchman and the Englishman, and told the Frenchman to tell his tale.
He told how he had been taken prisoner by one of Lord Talbot’s
people, and put to ransom;
“And under your safe-conduct, my lord, I was on my way to my
friends to procure my ransom. I met this gentleman here, who is also one of
your followers, who asked me whither I was going, and if I had a safe-
conduct? I told him, yes, and showed it to him. And when he had read it he
told me that I had broken it, and I replied that I had not, and that he could
not prove it. But he would not listen to me, and I was forced, if I would not
be killed on the spot, to surrender. I know of no cause why he should have
detained me, and I ask justice of you.”
Lord Talbot, when he had heard the Frenchman, was not well content,
nevertheless when the latter had finished, my Lord turned to the
Englishman and asked,
“What have you to reply to this?”
“My lord,” said he, “it is quite true, as he has said, that I met him and
would see his safe-conduct, which when I had read from end to end, I soon
perceived that he had broken and violated; otherwise I should never have
arrested him.”
“How had he broken it?” asked Lord Talbot. “Tell me quickly!”
“My Lord, because in his safe-conduct he is forbidden all implements
of war, and he had, and has still, real implements of war; that is to say he
has on his doublet, buckle-straps, which are real implements of war, for
without them a man cannot be armed.”
“Ah!” said Lord Talbot, “and so buckle-straps are implements of war
are they? Do you know of any other way in which he had broken his safe-
conduct?”
“Truly, my lord, I do not,” replied the Englishman.
“What, you villain!” said Lord Talbot. “Have you stopped a gentleman
under my safe-conduct for his buckle-straps? By St. George, I will show
you whether they are implements of war.”
Then, hot with anger and indignation, he went up to the Frenchman,
and tore from his doublet the two straps, and gave them to the Englishman;

then he put a sword in the Frenchman’s hand, and drawing his own good
sword out of the sheath, said to the Englishman,
“Defend yourself with that implement of war, as you call it, if you
know how!”
Then he said to the Frenchman,
“Strike that villain who arrested you without cause or reason, and we
shall see how he can defend himself with this implement of war. If you
spare him, by St. George I will strike you.”
Thus the Frenchman, whether he would or not, was obliged to strike at
the Englishman with the sword, and the poor Englishman protected himself
as best he could, and ran about the room, with Talbot after him, who made
the Frenchman keep striking the other, and cried out;
“Defend yourself, villain, with your implement of war!” In truth, the
Englishman was so well beaten that he was nearly dead, and cried for
mercy to Talbot and the Frenchman. The latter was released from his
ransom by Lord Talbot, and his horse, harness, and all his baggage, were
given back to him.
Such was the first judgment of Lord Talbot; there remains to be given
an account of the other, which was thus.
He learned that one of his soldiers had robbed a church of the pyx in
which is placed the Corpus Domini, and sold it for ready money—I know
not for how much, but the pyx was big and fine, and beautifully enamelled.
Lord Talbot, who though he was very brutal and wicked in war, had
always great reverence for the Church, and would never allow a monastery
or church to be set on fire or robbed, heard of this, and he was very severe
on those who broke his regulations.
So he caused to be brought before him the man who had stolen the pyx
from the church; and when he came, God knows what a greeting he had.
Talbot would have killed him, if those around had not begged that his life
might be saved. Nevertheless, as he would punish him, he said.
“Rascal traitor! why have you dared to rob a church in spite of my
orders?”
“Ah, my lord,” said the poor thief, “for God’s sake have mercy upon
me; I will never do it again.”

“Come here, villain,” said Talbot; and the other came up about as
willingly as though he were going to the gallows. And the said Lord Talbot
rushed at him, and with his fist, which was both large and heavy, struck him
on the head, and cried.
“Ha! you thief! have you robbed a church?”
And the other cried,
“Mercy my lord! I will never do it again.”
“Will you do it again?”
“No, my lord!”
“Swear then that you will never again enter a church of any kind.
Swear, villain!”
“Very good, my lord,” said the other.
Then Talbot made the thief swear that he would never set foot in a
church again, which made all who were present and who heard it, laugh,
though they pitied the thief because Lord Talbot had forbidden him the
church for ever, and made him swear never to enter it. Yet we may believe
that he did it with a good motive and intention. Thus you have heard the
two judgments of Lord Talbot, which were such as I have related to you.

STORY THE SIXTH — THE DRUNKARD IN
PARADISE. 6
By Monseigneur de Lannoy

The sixth story is of a drunkard, who would confess to
the Prior of the Augustines at the Hague, and after his
confession said that he was then in a holy state and would
die; and believed that his head was cut off and that he was
dead, and was carried away by his companions who said
they were going to bury him.

In the city of The Hague in Holland, as the prior of the Augustine
Monastery was one day saying his prayers on the lawn near the chapel of
St. Antony, he was accosted by a great, big Dutchman who was exceedingly
drunk, and who lived in a village called Schevingen, about two leagues
from there.
The prior, who saw him coming from afar, guessed his condition by his
heavy and uncertain step, and when they met, the drunkard saluted the prior,
who returned the salute, and passed on reading his prayers, proposing
neither to stop nor question him.
The drunkard, being half beside himself, turned and pursued the prior,
and demanded to be confessed.
“Confession!” said the prior. “Go away! Go away! You have confessed
already.”
“Alas, sir,” replied the drunkard, “for God’s sake confess me. At
present, I remember all my sins, and am most contrite.”
The prior, displeased to be interrupted by a drunkard, replied.
“Go your ways; you have no need of confession, for you are in a very
comfortable case as it is.”
“Oh, no,” said the drunkard, “as sure as death you shall confess me,
master Curé, for I am most devout,” and he seized him by the sleeve, and

would have stopped him.
The priest would not listen to him, and made wonderful efforts to
escape, but it was no good, for the other was obstinate in his desire to
confess, which the priest would not hear.
The devotion of the drunkard increased more and more, and when he
saw that the priest still refused to hear his sins, he put his hand on his big
knife and drew it from its sheath, and told the priest he would kill him, if he
did not listen to his confession.
The priest, being afraid of a knife in such dangerous hands, did not
know what to do, so he asked the other,
“What is is you want?”
“I wish to confess,” said he.
“Very well; I will hear you,” said the priest. “Come here.”
Our drunkard,—being more tipsy than a thrush in a vineyard,—began,
so please you, his devout confession,—over which I pass, for the priest
never revealed it, but you may guess it was both novel and curious.
The priest cut short the wearisome utterances of the drunkard, and
gave him absolution, and, to get rid of him, said;
“Go away now; you have made a good confession.”
“Say you so, sir?” he replied.
“Yes, truly,” said the priest, “it was a very good confession. Go, and
sin no more!”
“Then, since I have well confessed and received absolution, if I were
to die now, should I go to paradise?” asked the drunkard.
“Straight! Straight!” replied the priest. “There can be no doubt about
it.”
“Since that is so,” said the drunkard, “and I am now in a holy state, I
would like to die at once, in order that I may go to heaven.”
With that he took and gave his knife to the priest, begging of him to
cut off his head, in order that he might go to paradise.
“Oh, no!” said the priest, much astonished. “It is not my business to do
that—you must go to heaven by some other means.”

“No,” replied the drunkard, “I wish to go there now, and to die here by
your hands. Come, and kill me.”
“I will not do that,” said the prior. “A priest must not kill any one.”
“You shall I swear; and if you do not at once despatch me and send me
to heaven I will kill you with my own hands,” and at these words he
brandished his big knife before the eyes of the priest, who was terrified and
alarmed.
At last, having thought the matter over,—that he might get rid of this
drunkard, who was becoming more and more aggressive, and perchance
might have taken his life, he seized the knife, and said;
“Well! since you wish to die by my hands in order that you may go to
paradise,—kneel down before me.”
The words were hardly uttered before the drunkard fell flat, and with
some trouble raised himself to his knees, and with his hands joined together,
awaited the blow of the sword which was to kill him.
The priest gave the drunkard a heavy blew with the back of the knife,
which felled him to the ground, where he lay, and would not get up,
believing himself to be in paradise.
Then the priest left, not forgetting for his own safety to take the knife
with him, and ere he had gone far he met a waggon full of people some of
whom had been along with the drunkard that day, to whom he recounted all
the story—begging that they would raise him and convey him home; he
also gave them the knife.
They promised to take charge of him, and the priest went away. They
had hardly started on their way, when they perceived the good toper, lying
as though dead, with his face to the ground; and when they were nigh to
him, they all with one voice shouted his name,—but, shout as they would,
he made no reply. Then they cried out again, but it was no use.
Then some of them descended from the waggon, and they took him by
the head, and the feet, and the legs, and raised him from the ground, and so
shook him that he opened his eyes and said,
“Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am dead!”
“No, you are not,” said his companions. “You must come along with
us.”

“I will not,” said the drunkard. “Where should I go? I am dead, and
already in heaven.”
“You must come,” said the others. “We will get some drink.”
“Drink?” said the other. “I shall never drink again; I am dead;” and for
all that his comrades could say or do, they could not get it out of his head
but that he was dead.
The dispute lasted long, and they could not persuade the drunkard to
accompany them; for to all that they said he always replied, “I am dead”.
At last one of them bethought himself, and said,
“Then since you are dead, you must not lie here and be buried like a
beast of the field. Come! come along with us, and we will carry you in our
waggon to the grave-yard of our town as befits a Christian. Otherwise you
will not go to heaven.”
When the drunkard heard that he must be buried in order that he might
go to heaven, he was satisfied to obey, so he was soon tucked up in the
waggon, where he was quickly asleep. The waggon was drawn by good
cattle, and they were speedily at Schevingen, where the good drunkard was
put down in front of his house. His wife and servants were called, and the
body given to them, for he slept so soundly that he was carried from the
waggon to the house and put in his bed without ever waking, and being laid
between the sheets, at last woke up two days later.

STORY THE SEVENTH — THE WAGGONER
IN THE BEAR.
By Monseigneur

Of a goldsmith of Paris who made a waggoner sleep
with him and his wife, and how the waggoner dallied with
her from behind, which the goldsmith perceived and
discovered, and of the words which he spake to the
waggoner.

A goldsmith of Paris, once, in order to complete some of his wares in
time for the fair of Lendit, laid in a large stock of willow charcoal. It
happened one day amongst others, that the waggoner who delivered this
charcoal, knowing that the goldsmith was in great haste, brought two
waggons more than he had on any previous day, but hardly had he entered
Paris with the last load than the city gates were shut on his heels.
Nevertheless, he was well received by the goldsmith, and after the charcoal
was unloaded, and the horses stabled, they all supped at their leisure, and
made great cheer, and drank heavily. Just as the meal finished the clock
struck midnight, which astonished them greatly, so quickly had the time
passed at supper.
Each one thanked God, and being heavy-eyed, only asked to go to bed,
but as it was so late, the goldsmith detained the waggoner, fearing that he
might meet the watch, who would have put him into the Châtelet had they
found him at that hour of the night.
At that time the goldsmith had many persons working for him, and he
was obliged to make the waggoner lie with him and his wife, and, not being
of a suspicions nature, he made his wife lie between him and the waggoner.
He had great trouble to arrange this, for the good waggoner refused his
hospitality, and would rather have slept in the barn or stable, but he was
obliged to obey the goldsmith. And after he had undressed, he got into bed,
in which already were the goldsmith and his wife, as I have already said.

The wife feeling the waggoner approach her, moved nearer her
husband, both on account of the cold and the smallness of the bed, and,
instead of a pillow, placed her head upon her husband’s breast, whilst her
backside rested on the waggoner’s knees.
Our goldsmith soon went to sleep, and his wife pretended to also, and
the waggoner, being tired from his work, did the same. But as the stallion
grows hot as soon as he approaches the mare, so did this stallion lift up his
head on feeling so near to him the aforesaid woman.
It was not within the power of the waggoner to refrain from attacking
her closely; and this lasted for some time without the woman waking, or at
least pretending to wake. Nor would the husband have awaked, had it not
been that the head of his wife reclined on his breast, and owing to the
assault of this stallion, gave him such a bump that he quickly woke.
He thought at first that his wife was dreaming, but as her dream
continued, and he heard the waggoner moving about and breathing hard, he
gently put down his hand, and found what ravage the stallion of the
waggoner was making in his warren;—at which, as he loved his wife, he
was not well content. He soon made the waggoner with draw, and said to
him,
“What are you doing, you wicked rascal? You must be mad to attack
my wife in that way. Don’t do it again! Morbleu! I declare to you that if she
had woke just now when your machine was pushing her, I don’t know what
she would have done; but I feel certain, as I know her well, that she would
have scratched your face, and torn out your eyes with her nails. You don’t
know what she will do when she loses her temper, and there is nothing in
the world which puts her out more. Take it away, I beg, for your own sake.”
The waggoner, in a few words, declared that it was unintentional, and,
as day was breaking, he rose and took his leave and went away with his
cart.
You may fancy that the good woman on whom the waggoner made this
attempt was displeased in another way than her husband fancied; and
afterwards it was said that the waggoner met her in the proper way: but I
would not believe it or credit the report.

STORY THE EIGHTH — TIT FOR TAT. 8
By Monseigneur de la Roche

Of a youth of Picardy who lived at Brussels, and made
his master’s daughter pregnant, and for that cause left and
came back to Picardy to be married. And soon after his
departure the girl’s mother perceived the condition of her
daughter, and the girl confessed in what state she was; so
her mother sent her to the Picardian to tell him that he must
undo that which he had done. And how his new bride refused
then to sleep with him, and of the story she told him,
whereupon he immediately left her and returned to his first
love, and married her.

In the city of Brussels, where a good many adventures have happened
in our time, there lived not long ago a young man of Picardy, who served
his master well and faithfully for a long period. And amongst other services
which he did the said master was this; that by his civil speech, bearing, and
courtesy he so gained the graces of his master’s daughter, that he lay with
her, and owing to his meritorious actions she became pregnant.
The youth, knowing the lady was in that condition, was not such a fool
as to wait until his master should perceive and know it. So he quickly asked
leave to absent himself for a few days,—albeit he had no intention to return
—pretending that he must go to Picardy to see his father and mother, and
some others of his relations.
Then he took farewell of his master and mistress, and had a most
piteous leave-taking with the daughter; to whom he promised quickly to
return,—which he did not, and for good cause.
When he was in Picardy, at the house of his father, his master’s
daughter grew so big with child that her sad condition could no longer be
concealed; amongst others, her worthy mother, who was experienced in
such matters, was the first to notice it. She took her daughter on one side,
and asked her how she came to be in that condition, and who was the cause

of it. The girl had to be much pressed and scolded before she would say
anything, but at last was forced to confess her sad condition, and own that it
was the Picardian, who, a short while before, had been servant to her father,
who had seduced her, and left her in that pitiful case.
Her mother was furious, and abused her till she could say no more,
which the poor girl bore so patiently and without saying a word, that it was
enough to excuse her for letting herself be put in the family-way by the
Picardian.
But alas! her patient endurance had no effect upon her mother, who
said;
“Go away! go away! disgraceful hussy! and do your best to find the
man who made you pregnant, and tell him to undo that which he has done!
Never come back to me till he has undone the wrong he has done you.”
The poor girl, who was in the condition you have heard, was crushed
and overcome by the wrath of her cruel mother, and set out in search of the
young man who had ruined her; and you may well imagine, had to endure
much trouble and pain before she could hear any news of him.
But at last, as God so willed it, after much wandering about through
Picardy, she came, one Sunday, to a large village in the county of Artois,
and she came most opportunely, for on that day her friend, the Picardian
who had deceived her, was to be married, at which she was very joyful. And
she cared so little about obeying her mother, that, big as she was, she
pressed amongst the crowd, and when she saw her lover, she saluted him.
He, when he saw her, blushed, and returned her salutation, and said to her;
“You are very welcome! What brings you here at this time, my dear?”
“My mother,” she replied, “sent me to you, and God knows that you
have caused me much upbraiding. She charged and commanded me that I
should tell you that you must undo that which you have done, or, if you do
not, I am never to go back to her.”
The other, when he heard this, to get rid of her as soon as he could,
spoke as follows.
“My dear, I will willingly do that which you ask and your mother
requires me to do, for it is very reasonable, but at this moment I cannot be
seen talking to you. I beg of you to have patience for to-day, and to-morrow
I will attend to your request.”

With that she was content, and then he caused her to be taken and put
in a fair chamber, and commanded that she should be well-treated, as she
deserved to be, after the great trouble and difficulty she had had in seeking
him out.
Now you must know that the bride had kept her eyes open, and when
she saw her husband talking to a woman big with child, she had misgivings,
and was by no means satisfied, but much troubled and vexed in mind.
She nursed her wrath, and said nothing until her husband came to bed.
And when he would have cuddled and kissed her, and done his proper duty
as a husband, and so earned his “caudle”, (*) she turned herself first on one
side and then on the other, so that he could not attain his purpose, at which
he was greatly astonished and angry, and said to her,

(*) It was the custom in the Middle Ages to bring in the
middle of the wedding night, a caudle of hot milk, soup, or
spiced wine to the married couple.

“Why do you do that, my dear?”
“I have good cause,” she replied, “for I see from your acts that you do
not care for me. There are many others you like better than me.”
“By my faith,” said he, “there is no woman in the world I love better
than you.”
“Ah!” she said, “did I not see you after dinner holding discourse for a
long time with a woman who was in the room! I saw you only too plainly,
and you cannot excuse yourself.”
“By our Lady,” he replied, “you have no cause to be jealous about
her,” and with that he told her that it was the daughter of his master at
Brussels, and how he had lain with her and made her pregnant, and on that
account he had left the place; and how also after his departure, she became
so big with child that it was perceived, and then she had confessed to her
mother who had seduced her, and her mother had sent her to him that he
might undo that which he had done, or else she must never return home.
When the young man had finished his story, his wife who had been
struck by one portion of it, said;
“What? Do you say that she told her mother you had slept with her?”
“Yes,” he said; “she made it all known to her.”

“On my word!” she replied, “then she proved herself very stupid. The
waggoner at our house slept with me more than forty nights, but you don’t
suppose that I breathed a word of that to my mother. I took good care to say
nothing.”
“Truly,” quoth he, “the devil takes care that the gibbet is not cheated.
(**) Go back to your waggoner if you like; for I care nothing for you.”

(**) In other words, we are punished for our ill-deeds.

Thereupon he arose and went to the woman he had seduced, and left
the other one; and when the morning came and this news was noised
abroad, God knows that it amused many and displeased many others,
especially the father and mother of the bride.

STORY THE NINTH — THE HUSBAND
PANDAR TO HIS OWN WIFE. 9
By Monseigneur

Of a knight of Burgundy, who was marvellously
amorous of one of his wife’s waiting women, and thinking to
sleep with her, slept with his wife who was in the bed of the
said tire-woman. And how he caused, by his order, another
knight, his neighbour to sleep with the said woman,
believing that it was really the tirewoman—and afterwards
he was not well pleased, albeit that the lady knew nothing,
and was not aware, I believe, that she had had to do with
aught other than her own husband.

In order to properly continue these stories, the incidents of which
happen in divers places and under various circumstances, there should not
be omitted the tale of a gentle knight of Burgundy, who lived in a castle of
his own that was fair and strong, and well provided with retainers and
artillery, as his condition required.
He fell in love with a fair damsel of his household, who was chief tire-
woman to his wife, and his great affection for her took such hold upon him
that he could not be happy without her, and was always conversing with her
and beseeching her, and, in short, life seemed no good without her, so filled
with love of her was he.
The girl, being chaste and prudent, wished to keep her honour, which
she valued as she did her own soul, and would not betray the duty she owed
to her mistress, and therefore she lent no ear to her master when he
importuned her. And whenever he spoke to her, God knows what a rebuff he
met, and how she remonstrated with him as to his boldness and ill-conduct.
Moreover, she told him that if he continued she would inform her mistress.
But, in spite of her threats, he would not abandon the enterprise, but
pursued her more and more, so that at last the girl was forced to tell her

mistress.
The lady being informed of her lord’s love affair, though she did not
show it, was not well pleased; but she devised a plan, which was this.
She charged the girl that the next time the knight solicited her, that she
should lay aside all reserve, and inform him that on the following night she
would expect him in her chamber and in her bed; “And if he should accept
the rendezvous,” added the lady; “I will take your place; and leave the rest
to me.”
The girl was pleased to obey her mistress, as was her duty, and
promised she would do as she was bid.
It was not long before my lord again returned to the charge, and prayed
her more warmly than before, saying that if she did not grant his prayer, he
would rather die than live longer in this hopeless passion.
What need is there of a long story? The girl, being thoroughly well-
instructed by her mistress, appointed an hour at which he should come to
her the next night, at which he was so well-pleased that his heart leapt for
joy, and he promised himself that he would not fail to be there.
The desired day arrived, but in the evening, a gentle knight, a
neighbour of my lord and his great friend, came to see him, for whom my
lord made, as he well knew how, great cheer; as did my lady also, and the
rest of the household were not behind-hand, knowing that to be the good
pleasure of my lord and my lady.
After much feasting and a supper and a banquet, it was time to retire to
rest, and having said good-night to the lady and her women, the two knights
began to talk over various matters, and, amongst other things, the visitor
asked my lord if there were any pretty women with shoulder-knots in the
village, (*) for the weather being fine, and having made good cheer, he had
a desire for a woman.

(*) In some towns of the south of France, in the Middle
Ages, the courtesans used to wear a knot of coloured ribbon
on the shoulder.

My lord, on account of the great love he bore his friend, would hide
nothing from him, and told him how he had that night agreed to sleep with
the tire-woman; and that he might do his friend pleasure, when he had been

with her a certain time, he would, he said, rise gently, and go away, and let
the visitor do the rest.
The visitor thanked his host, and God knows that the hour seemed long
in coming. At last the host took leave of his guest, and went to his room, as
was his custom, to undress.
Now you must know that whilst the knights were talking, my lady
went to the bed in which my lord expected to find the tiring-maid, and there
she awaited whatever God might be pleased to send her.
My lord was a long time undressing, to give time to his wife to go to
sleep. He then dismissed his valet, and in his long dressing-gown went to
where his lady awaited him,—he thinking to find some-one else,—and
silently undressed and got into bed.
And as the candle was put out, and the lady uttered no word, he
believed he was with the woman. Hardly had he got into bed before he
began to perform his duty, and so well did he acquit himself, that three,
even four, times did not content him; whereat his wife felt great pleasure,
and thinking that that was all, fell asleep.
My lord, now much lighter than when he came, seeing that the lady
slept, and remembering his promise, rose quietly and went to his friend,
who was awaiting orders to go into action, and told him to take his place,
but that he must not speak a word, and must come away when he had done
all that he wished.
The other, as wide-awake as a rat, and straining at the leash like a
greyhound,—went, and lay down by the lady without her knowing of it.
And though he felt assured that my lord had already worked well, and he
was in haste, he did better, at which my lady was in no small degree
astonished, and after this amusement—which was not distasteful to her—
she again fell asleep.
Then the good knight left her, and returned to my lord, who again
resumed his place by my lady’s side as before, and made a fresh attack upon
her—so well did the exercise please him.
Thus the hours passed,—either in sleeping or doing something else,—
until day broke; and as he turned round in bed, expecting to behold the tire-
woman, he saw and knew that it was his wife, who thereupon said to him.

“Are you not a recreant, cowardly, and wicked whoremonger? You
thought to have had my tire-woman, and it is upon me that you have so
many times essayed your unbridled and measureless lust. Thank God you
have been deceived, for no one else shall ever have that which belongs to
me.”
The good knight was both astonished and angry, and no wonder. And
when he spoke at last, he said.
“My dear, I cannot hide from you my folly, and I greatly grieve ever to
have undertaken such an enterprise. I beg of you to be satisfied with what
you have done, and never mention it for never in all my life shall it occur
again. That I promise you on my honour; and that you may never have
occasion to be reminded of it, I will send away the woman who has played
this trick upon me.”
The lady, who was more satisfied with this adventure than her woman,
and seeing how contrite her husband was, allowed herself to be gained-over,
but not without making some remonstrances and scoldings.
In the end, all was arranged satisfactorily, but the knight, who had a
flea in his ear, as soon as he rose, went to his companion, to whom he
related the adventure at full length, and demanded from him two promises;
the first was that he should strictly promise to say nothing of the matter, and
the second that he should never meet his wife again.
The other, who was much vexed at this unfortunate affair, comforted
the knight as best he could, and promised to perform his very reasonable
requests; then mounted his horse and rode off. The tire-woman, who was
not to blame for the contretemps, bore the punishment however, and was
sent away. The knight and the lady lived long together without her ever
being aware that she had had to do with a strange knight.

STORY THE TENTH — THE EEL PASTIES. 10
By Monseigneur de la Roche

Of a knight of England, who, after he was married,
wished his mignon to procure him some pretty girls, as he
did before; which the mignon would not do, saying that one
wife sufficed; but the said knight brought him back to
obedience by causing eel pasties to be always served to him,
both at dinner and at supper.

Many wonderful and curious adventures have occurred in England,
though their recital would be out of place amongst these tales. Nevertheless,
the present story is appropriate to be told here to increase the number of
these tales, and is of a great lord of the kingdom of England, who was very
rich and powerful, and who, amongst all his servitors, had especial trust,
confidence, and affection in a young gentleman of his household, and that
for various reasons. And because of his loyalty, diligence, cunning, and
prudence, and other good qualities he found in him, he hid from him
nothing concerning his love-affairs.
As time went on, the said young gentleman, by his cleverness, grew so
much in his master’s favour, that he not only knew his master’s love-affairs,
but acted as emissary and go-between on every occasion, as long as his
master was unmarried.
But a certain time after that, it happened that by the advice of his
relatives, friends, and well-wishers, my lord was married to a beautiful,
noble, good, and rich lady, much to the joy of many persons; and amongst
other our mignon was not the least joyful, as he said to himself that the
marriage would be to his master’s welfare and honour, and would cause him
he hoped to cease from those pleasures of love which he had hitherto
practised.
One day he told the lord how glad he was that he had married a fair
and good lady, for now he would not need to have women sought for him as
before. To which my lord replied that nevertheless he did not intend to

abandon all his love-affairs, and although he was married would sometimes
employ the young man’s services.
The youth was not pleased to hear this, and replied that such amours
should cease now that his love was shared by a lady who excelled all others
in beauty, prudence, and goodness.
“Do as you please, my lord,” said he, “but, for my part, I will never
carry a message to any woman if it is to prejudice my mistress.”
“I know not what you mean by prejudice,” said his master, “but you
must prepare to go to such and such ladies. For I would have you know that
your duties will be as they were before.”
“Oh, my lord,” said the youth, “it seems that you take a pleasure in
abusing women, which is not right; for you know well that all those you
have named are not to be compared in beauty or other respects to my lady,
to whom you are offering a deadly insult if she should ever hear of your
misconduct. And what is more, you cannot be ignorant that in so doing you
damn your own soul.”
“Cease your preaching,” said my lord, “and do as I command.”
“Pardon me, my lord,” said the youth. “I would rather die than,
through my means, trouble should arise between you and my lady; and I
beg of you to be satisfied with me as I am, for certainly I will no more act
as I once used.”
My lord, who saw how obstinate the young man was, pressed him no
more at that time. But three or four days after that, without alluding to the
conversation they had had, he demanded of the young man, amongst other
things, what dish he preferred, and he replied that no dish pleased him so
much as eel pasties.
“By St. John, it is a good dish,” said his master; “you have not chosen
badly.”
That being said, my lord retired, and caused to be sent to him his
major-domo, whom he charged by his obedience that he should serve to the
young man nothing but eel pasties, whatsoever he might say or do; and the
major-domo promised to perform his commands, which he did, for on the
same day, as the said youth was seated at table in his chamber, his servant
brought unto him many fair and large eel pasties which had been delivered
to him from the kitchen,—at which he was pleased, and ate his fill.

On the morrow it was the same, and the five or six following days he
was brought like pasties, of which he was already weary. So the youth
asked of his servants why they brought him nothing but these pasties?
“By my faith, sir,” they replied, “they will give us nothing else. We see
very well that they send to the hall and elsewhere, other meats; but for you
there is nothing but pasties.”
The young man, being wise and prudent, and caring little for his
stomach, made no complaint, and several days passed; during which he was
still served with these everlasting pies, at which he was not best pleased.
One day he determined to go and dine with the stewards, where he was
served as before with eel pasties. And when he saw that, he could not help
asking why they served him differently to the others.
“God’s death!” quoth he, “I am so stuffed that I can eat no more. It
seems to me that I see nothing but eel pies. Let me tell you there is no sense
in it,—you carry the joke too far. For more than a month you have played
this trick upon me. I am so worn-out that I have neither health nor strength.
I do not like to be treated in this manner.”
The stewards told him that they only did as their master had bidden
them, and that it was not their own doing. The young man, wearied of these
pies, determined to complain to my lord, and ask him why he had caused
the eel pies to be always served, and forbidden the cooks to supply any
other dish.
In reply, my lord said unto him, “Did you not tell me that eel pie was
the dish that you most liked in all the world?”
“By St. John, yes, my lord,” said the youth.
“Then why do you complain now,” said my lord, “since I cause you to
be served with that which you like?”
“I like them,” replied the young man, “in moderation. I like
exceedingly to have eel pies once, or twice, or three times, or now and then,
and there is no dish I love better. But to eat it always, and nothing else
beside,—by Our Lady I will not. Any man would be sick and weary. My
stomach is so sick of eel pasties, that the moment I smell them I have
already dined. For God’s sake, my lord, command that I be given some
other food that I may recover my appetite; otherwise I am a dead man.”
“Ah!” said my lord, “Yet it seems that you do not think I shall be a dead

man if I content myself with the charms of my wife. By my soul, you may
believe that I am as weary of them as you are of the pasties, and would as
willingly have a change,—though there is none I love so much—as you
desire another dish, though you like pasties best. In short, you shall eat no
other food until you consent to serve me as you did before, and bring me a
variety of women,—even as you would have a variety of dishes.”
The young man, when he heard this subtle comparison, was confused,
and promised his master that he would do all that was desired, if he could
but be quit of his pasties, and would carry messages and conduct intrigues
as before. And from that time forth my lord, to spare my lady, and by the
good help of his mignon, passed his time with fair and honest damsels, and
the young man was relieved of his eel pasties, and restored to his old office.

STORY THE ELEVENTH — A SACRIFICE TO
THE DEVIL. 11
By Monseigneur

Of a jealous rogue, who after many offerings made to
divers saints to curé him of his jealousy, offered a candle to
the devil who is usually painted under the feet of St.
Michael; and of the dream that he had and what happened
to him when he awoke.

A cowardly, jealous old hunks (I will not say that he was a cuckold)
knew not to whom to have recourse to be cured of his jealous grief and
misery. To-day he would make one pilgrimage, and to-morrow another, and
often would send his servants to perform his devotions and make offerings
whilst he was seated in his house to look after his wife, who passed her time
miserably with the most cursed husband and suspicious grumbler that ever
woman married.
One day, as he thought of the many offerings that he had made or was
to make to the various saints in heaven and amongst others to St. Michael,
he bethought him that he would make one to the figure that is under the feet
of the said St. Michael.
With that he commanded one of his servants to light and bring a large
wax candle, and offer it on his behalf. Soon it was reported to him that his
orders had been obeyed.
“Thus,” said he to himself, “I shall see if God or the devil can cure
me,” and in his usual ill-temper he went to bed with his good and honest
wife, and perhaps because he had so many fancies and whims in his head
that nature was restrained, she lay in peace.
In fact he slept soundly, and when he was in the depth of his sleep, he
to whom the candle had that day been offered, appeared unto him in a
vision, and thanked him for his offering, declaring that such a sacrifice had
never before been made to him. Moreover, he told the man that he had not

lost his labour, and should obtain his request, and whilst the other lay still in
deep sleep, it seemed to him that a ring was placed on his finger, and he was
told that whilst that ring was on his finger he should never be jealous or
have any cause for jealousy.
After the vision had vanished, our jealous hunks awoke, and expected
to find on his finger the said ring, and found that one of his fingers was in
the backside of his wife, at which both he and she were much astonished.
But of the rest of the life of this jealous fool, and of his business and
condition, this story is silent.

STORY THE TWELFTH — THE CALF. 12
By Monseigneur de la Roche

Of a Dutchman, who at all hours of the day and night
ceased not to dally with his wife in love sports; and how it
chanced that he laid her down, as they went through a wood,
under a great tree in which was a labourer who had lost his
calf. And as he was enumerating the charms of his wife, and
naming all the pretty things he could see, the labourer asked
him if he could not see the calf he sought, to which the
Dutchman replied that he thought he could see a tail.

In the borders of Holland there formerly lived a foolish fellow, who
determined to do the worst thing he could—that is, get married. And so
entranced was he with the joys of wedlock, that although it was winter, he
was so heated that the night—which at that season was nine or ten hours—
was not sufficiently long to enable him to appease the ardent desires which
he felt.
Wherever he met his wife he put her on her back; whether it was in the
chamber, or in the stable, or any other place, he always attacked her. And
this did not last only one or two months, but longer than I care to tell, for it
would not be convenient that many women should hear of the zeal of this
insatiable worker. What more shall I say? He performed so often that his
memory has never been forgotten, or will be, in that country. And in truth
the woman who formerly complained to the Bailli of Amiens had not such
good cause as this man’s wife, but, notwithstanding that she could often
have dispensed with this pleasant task she was always obedient to her
husband, and never restive under the spur.
It chanced one day, after dinner, when the weather was very fine, and
the sun shot its rays over the flower-embroidered earth, that the fancy came
to this man and his wife that they two would go alone to the woods, and
they started on their road.

Now, in order that you may learn my story, let me tell you that exactly
at the same time as these good folk went forth to play in the wood, it
chanced that a labourer had lost his calf, which he had put to graze in a field
at the edge of the wood; but when he came to search for his calf he could
not find it, at which he was sad at heart.
So he set out to search for the said calf both in the wood and in the
fields, and the places round about, to gather news of it.
He bethought him that perchance it might have wandered into some
thicket to graze, or to some grassy ditch which it would not leave till it had
filled its belly; and to the end that he might the better see, without running
hither and thither, whether his surmise was right, he chose the highest and
thickest tree that he could find, and climbed into it, and when he had
climbed to the top of his tree, from whence he could see all the adjacent
fields and wood, he was sure that he was half-way towards finding his calf.
Whilst the honest fellow was casting his eyes on all sides to find his
calf, there came through the wood our man and his wife, singing, playing,
and rejoicing, as light hearts will do in a pleasant place. Nor was it
wonderful that the desire came to him to tumble his wife in such a pleasant
and suitable place, and looking now to the right now to the left for a spot
where he might conveniently take his pleasure, he saw the big tree in which
was the labourer—though he knew it not—and under that tree he prepared
to accomplish his pleasant purposes.
And when he came to that place, his desires soon inflamed him, and he
waited not to begin his work, but attacked his wife and threw her on the
ground, for at that time he was very merry and his wife also.
He would fain see her both before and behind, and for that reason took
off her dress, so that she was only in her petticoat, and that he pulled up
very high in spite of her efforts, and that he might the better see at his ease
her beauties, he turned her this way and that, and three or four times did his
strong hand fall upon her big buttocks. Then he turned her on the other side,
and as he had regarded her backside, so did he her front, to which the good,
honest woman would in no wise consent, and besides the resistance that she
made, her tongue was not idle.
She called him “ungracious”, “a fool”, “a madman”, “disgusting”, and
many other things, but it was no good; he was stronger than she was, and
would make an inventory of all her charms, and she was forced to let him,

—preferring, like a wise woman, to please her husband, than to annoy him
by a refusal.
Having broken down all her defences, this valiant man feasted his eyes
on her front part, and, shame to say, was not content until his hands had
revealed to his eyes all the secrets for which he searched.
And as he was profoundly studying her body, he would say, “I see this!
I see that! Now again this! Now again that!” until whosoever heard him
would have thought he saw all the world and much beside. And, finally,
after a long and thorough examination, he cried, “Holy Mary! what a lot of
things I see!”
“Alas, good people,” then said the labourer in the tree; “you do not
happen to see my calf? It seems to me, sir, that I can see its tail.”
The other was much vexed and astonished, and replied quickly,
“That tail is not the tail of your calf,” and with that he walked away,
and his wife after him.
If it should be asked what moved the labourer to put that question, the
writer of this story would reply that the hair in front of this woman was very
long and thick, as is usual with the Dutch women, and he might well have
thought it was the tail of his calf, and as also her husband was saying that he
could see so many things—nearly everything there was in the world—the
labourer thought to himself that the calf could hardly be far off, but might
be hidden inside along with the other things.

STORY THE THIRTEENTH — THE
CASTRATED CLERK. 13
By Monseigneur L’amant De Brucelles.

How a lawyer’s clerk in England deceived his master
making him believe that he had no testicles, by which reason
he had charge over his mistress both in the country and in
the town, and enjoyed his pleasure.

At London, in England, there formerly lived a lawyer, who, amongst
his other servitors, had a clerk who was clever, and diligent, wrote well, and
was a handsome lad, and was, moreover, let it be stated, as cunning as any
man of his age.
This gentle and lusty clerk was much smitten with his mistress,—a
beautiful, kind, and gentle dame—who so much admired him that if ever he
had but dared to reveal his affection, the god of love would have led her to
confess that he was the only man on earth who pleased her.
It chanced that once, being in a suitable place, and all fear being laid
aside, he recounted unto the said lady his sad, but not unpleasant, case; and
she by the great courtesy which God had not forgotten to give her, being
already touched as has before been said, did not long delay; for after she
had addressed to him many excuses and remonstrances, she was glad to let
him know that he pleased her well.
The other,—who was no fool—was more joyed than he had ever been,
and determined to hammer the iron while it was hot, and so warmly pursued
her, that ere long he enjoyed her love.
The love of the mistress for the clerk, and of the clerk for the mistress,
was for a long time so ardent, that never were people more taken with each
other; for not seldom did they forget to eat and drink, and it would not have
been in the power of Malbouche or Dangier (*) nor other such cursed
sprites, to have disturbed their happiness.

(*) Allegorical personages, typifying slander and jealousy,
mentioned in the Romaunt de la Rose.

In this joyous state and pleasant pastime, they passed many days such
as are rarely given to lovers, and so fond were they of each other, that they
would almost have renounced their share of paradise, to live in the world in
that condition.
It chanced one day they were together, talking of the great affection
they bore each other, and devising how they could safely continue to take
their pleasure without some inkling of their dangerous pastime being known
to her husband, who was as jealous as a man could be.
You may fancy that more than one idea occurred to them, which I here
pass over, but the final conclusion and supreme resolution of the good clerk,
was to vow to act carefully and bring his undertaking to a lucky
termination,—in which he failed not, and this is how he accomplished his
end.
You must know that while the clerk was on intimate and friendly terms
with his mistress, and diligently served and pleased her, he was at the same
time not less diligent to serve and please his master, that he might the better
conceal his own faults and blind the eyes of the jealous husband, who little
suspected what was being prepared for him.
One day soon after, our clerk, seeing that his master was well satisfied
with him, spoke to him when he was alone, most humbly, softly, and with
great respect, and told him that he had a great secret which he would
willingly reveal if he dared.
And, it must be told, that like women, who have tears at their
command and can shed them whenever they like, our clerk, whilst he spoke,
let fall from his eyes tears in great abundance,—which any man would have
taken to be signs of sorrow, pity, and honest purpose.
When the poor abused master heard his clerk, he was much astonished,
and said,
“What is the matter, my son, and why do you weep?”
“Alas, sir, I have much more cause than anyone else to be sorrowful,
but my case is so strange, and not the less pitiful, that it should be hidden;

nevertheless I have determined to tell you, if I can lay aside the fear which
for long has haunted me.”
“Do not weep, my son,” replied his master, “and tell me what it is, and
I assure you that if it is possible for me to aid, you I will willingly give you
all the assistance I can.”
“Master,” said the cunning clerk, “I thank you; but I have thought the
matter over, and I do not think my tongue will be able to relate the great
misfortune that I have long time borne.”
“Leave all your grief and pratings,” replied the master. “Nothing ought
to be hidden from me, as your master, and I wish to know what is the
matter; therefore come here and tell me.”
The clerk, who knew the length of his master’s foot, had to be much
entreated, and pretended to be in great fear, and shed great abundance of
tears before he would accede and say what he had to say, and then made his
master promise that he would reveal the secret to no man, for he would
rather die than have his misfortune known.
The master having given this promise, the clerk—pale, and trembling
like a man who was going to be hanged—told his story.
“My most worthy master, I know that all people, and you amongst
them, imagine that I am a natural man like any other, capable of having
connexion with a woman, and creating children; but I affirm and can prove
that I am not such—to my great sorrow, alas.”
And with these words he pulled out his member and showed his bag.
He had with much time and trouble pushed up his testicles towards his
lower belly, and so well concealed them that it seemed as though he had
none. Then he said,
“Master, you now know my misfortune, which I again beg of you not
to let be known, and, moreover, I humbly beg of you by all the services I
have ever rendered,—which would have been greater if my power had
equalled my will—that you will allow me to pass the rest of my life in some
holy monastery, where I may spend my time in the service of God, for I am
of no use in the world.”
His worthy and much-abused master discoursed unto him of the
austerities of a religious life, and how little merit there was in becoming a
monk out of grief for a misfortune, and by many other means, too numerous

to recount here, prevailed on him to renounce his intention. And you must
know, moreover, that he would on no account lose his clerk, on account of
his skill in writing, and diligence, and the use he intended to make of him.
What need to say more? He so remonstrated that the clerk, in short,
promised to remain for a further time in his service. And as the clerk had
revealed his secret, so also did the master lay bare his own heart, and said;
“My son, I am not glad to hear of your misfortune; but in the end God
orders all things for the best, and knows what is most suitable for us. You
can in future serve me well, and merit all that is in my power to do for you.
I have a young wife, who is light-hearted and flighty, and I am old and
staid; which might give occasion to some to dishonour me and her also, if
she should prove other than chaste, and afford me matter for jealousy, and
many other things. I entrust her to you that you may watch over her, and I
beg of you to guard her so that I may have no reason to be jealous.”
After long deliberation, the clerk gave his reply, and when he spoke,
God knows how he praised his most fair and kind mistress, saying that she
excelled all others in beauty and goodness, of that he was sure.
Nevertheless, that service or any other he would perform with all his heart,
and never leave her whatever might happen, but inform his master of all
that occurred, as a good servant should.
The master, pleased and joyful at the new guardian he had found for
his wife, left the house, and went to the town to do his business. And the
good clerk at once entered upon his duties, and, as much as they dared,
employed the members with which they were provided, and made great
cheer over the subtle manner in which the husband had been deceived. For
a long period did they continue thus to enjoy themselves; and if at any time
the good husband was forced to go abroad, he took care to leave his clerk
behind; rather would he borrow a servant from one of his neighbours than
not leave the clerk to mind house. And if the lady had leave to go on any
pilgrimage, she would rather go without her tire-woman than without the
kind and obliging clerk.
In short, as you may suppose, never could clerk boast of a more lucky
adventure, and which—so far as I know—never came to the knowledge of
the husband, who would have been overcome with grief had he learned of
the trick.

STORY THE FOURTEENTH — THE POPE-
MAKER, OR THE HOLY MAN. 14
By Monseigneur de Crequy

Of a hermit who deceived the daughter of a poor
woman, making her believe that her daughter should have a
son by him who should become Pope; and how, when she
brought forth it was a girl, and thus was the trickery of the
hermit discovered, and for that cause he had to flee from
that countery.

The borders of Burgundy furnish many adventures worthy to be
written and remembered, and have provided the present story, not to speak
of many others which could be related. I will here only speak of an
adventure which happened formerly in a big village on the river Ousche.
There was, and is still, a mountain near, on which a hermit—of God
knows what sort—made his residence, and who under the cloak of
hypocrisy did many strange things, which did not come to the knowledge of
the common people until the time when God would no longer suffer his
most damnable abuses to continue.
This holy hermit was during all his life as lewd and mischievous as an
old ape, but surpassed all ordinary mortals in cunning. And this is what he
did.
He sought amongst all the women and pretty girls the one most worthy
to be loved and desired, and resolved that it was the daughter of a poor,
simple woman,—a widow who was very devout and charitable—and made
up his mind that, if he could have his way, she should become his prey.
One night, about midnight, when the weather was very rough and
stormy, he descended from the mountain and came to the village, and
passing by bye-roads and footpaths, came to where the mother and daughter
lived, without being seen or heard. He knew the house, which was not large,
and to which he had often been for devotional purposes.

He bored a hole in a part of the wall not exposed, and near the spot
where stood the bed of the simple widow woman, and passing a long,
hollow stick, with which he was provided, and without awaking the widow,
placed it near her ear, and said in a low voiced three times,
“Hear my voice, woman of God. I am an angel of the Creator, and
have been sent to you to announce that for your many good deeds which
you have performed there shall issue from your seed, that is your daughter,
one who shall unite, reform, and restore his bride the Church. And it shall
be in this manner. Thou shalt go to the mountain, to the holy hermit, and
take thy daughter, and relate to him at length that which God now
commands you by me. He shall know thy daughter, and from them shall
spring a son, the elect of God, and destined to fill the Holy Seat of Rome,
who shall do such good deeds that he may fitly be compared to St. Peter
and St. Paul. Hearken to my voice! Obey God!”
The foolish widow, much astonished and surprised, and half ravished
with delight, really believed that God had sent this messenger. She vowed
to herself that she would not disobey, and it was long ere she slept again,
and then not very soundly, so greatly did she desire and await the day.
Meanwhile the good hermit returned to his hermitage in the mountain.
The much-desired day at last dawned, and the sun pierced into the chamber
of the said widow, and both mother and daughter rose in great haste.
When they were up and dressed, and their little household set in order,
the mother asked her daughter if she had heard anything in the night.
The daughter replied, “No, mother; nothing.”
“It was not to you,” said the mother, “that the message was first
delivered, albeit it concerns you greatly.”
Then she related at length the angel’s message which God had sent her,
and asked her what she should reply thereto?
The girl, who was like her mother, simple and devout, replied; “Praise
be to God. Whatever pleases you, mother, shall be done.”
“That is well spoken,” replied the mother. “Let us go to the mountain
to the holy man, as the angel bade us.”
The hermit was on the watch to see whether the foolish woman would
bring her innocent daughter, and beheld them coming. He left his door half

open, and knelt down in prayer in his chamber, in order that he might be
found at his devotions.
It happened as he wished, for the good woman and her daughter, when
they saw the door open, entered at once; and when they beheld the hermit in
holy contemplation, as though he had been a god, they did homage to him.
The hermit, with his eyes bent down to the earth, said in a humble
voice; “God save you both.”
Then the poor, old woman, anxious that he should know the cause of
her coming, took him on one side, and told him from beginning to end the
story—which he knew better than she did. And as she related the tale with
great veneration and respect, the hermit folded his hands and turned up his
eyes to heaven, and the good old woman wept, more for joy than for grief;
and the poor girl also wept when she saw this good and holy hermit pray
with such deep devotion she did not know why.
When the story was finished, the old woman awaited the reply, which
he did not hasten to give. But after a certain time he spoke, and said,
“Praise be to God! But, my dear friend, are you really sure that the
message you say you heard, may not have been some fancy or illusion
created by your own heart? The matter is a serious one.”
“I certainly heard the voice, father, which brought me this joyful
message, as plainly as I now hear you, and I do not think I was asleep.”
“Well,” said he, “I should be unwilling to act against the wishes of my
Creator; but it seems best to me that you and I should again sleep upon this
matter, and if the angel should appear to you again, come back and tell me,
and God will give us good counsel. We should not believe too readily, good
mother. The devil, who is always envious of the good, has many tricks, and
can change himself into an angel of light. Believe me, mother, it is no light
thing you ask of me, and it is no marvel if I seem to hesitate. Have I not
sworn before God, a vow of chastity? And here you bring me word that I
am to break my oath! Return to your house and pray to God, and to-morrow
we shall see what will happen. God be with you.”
After much discussion, they left the hermit and returned home
thoughtfully.
To cut the story short, our hermit, at the accustomed time set forth,
carrying a hollow stick instead of a staff, and putting it near the pillow of

the foolish woman, delivered much the same message as on the previous
night; and that being done, returned at once to his hermitage.
The good woman, filled with joy, rose early and related all the story to
her daughter, showing how the vision of the previous night had been
confirmed. “There is no time to be lost! We must go to the holy man!”
They went, and he saw them coming, and took his breviary and acted
the hypocrite as before, but God knows he was not thinking of his
devotions. And just as he had finished, and was about to recommence, there
were the two women in front of his hut saluting him, and you may fancy
that the old lady hurried through her narration; whereupon the good man
made the sign of the cross, and feigning great surprise, said,
“Oh God! my Creator! What is this? Do with me as you will—though,
if it were not for thy great grace, I am not worthy to perform such a great
work!”
“But see, father!” said the much-abused and deceived woman: “the
message is true, since the angel has again appeared unto me.”
“In truth, my dear friend, this matter is of great importance and very
difficult and strange, so that I yet can give but a doubtful reply. Not that I
would tempt God by demanding another vision, but there is a saying ‘The
third time is sure’. Therefore I beg and desire of you to let pass this night
also, and await the pleasure of God, and if of His great mercy it please Him
to show us also this night as on the previous nights, we will do as He bids
us to His praise.”
It was not with a good grace that the foolish old woman was induced
to put off this act of obedience to God, but she knew the hermit was wiser
than she was.
When she was in bed, and thinking over all these marvellous visions,
this perverse hypocrite came down from his mountain, placed his hollow
stick to her ear, as before, and commanded her, once for all, to obey the
message and take her daughter to the hermit for the purpose mentioned.
She did not forget, as soon as it was day, to do her duty, and when she
and her daughter had given thanks to God, they set out for the hermitage,
where the hermit came forth to meet them, and saluted and blessed them in
the name of God.

The good woman, more joyous than ever, informed him of the last
vision. The hermit took her by the hand and led her into the chapel, and the
girl followed them. There they made most devout prayers to the all-
powerful God who had vouchsafed to show them this mystery.
Then the hermit delivered a short sermon, touching dreams, visions,
apparitions, and revelations, which often come to certain people, and
alluded to the cause for which they were there assembled, and God knows
that he preached well and righteously.
“Since God willed and commanded that he should create a successor to
the Pope, and had deigned to reveal His will not once or twice, but three
times, he must needs believe and conclude that great results must follow
from this deed. It is my opinion,” he concluded, “that we should no longer
defer the execution of His orders, seeing that we have already delayed so
long, through refusing to believe in this holy vision.”
“That is well said, father. What would it please you to do?” replied the
old woman.
“You will leave your fair daughter here,” said the hermit, “and she and
I will pray together, and moreover do whatever God shall teach us.”
The good widow was much pleased, and her daughter was content to
obey. When the hermit found himself alone with the damsel, he made her
strip entirely as though he would baptise her, and you may fancy that the
hermit did not long remain dressed. But why make a long story? He lay
with her so long, and so often repeated it both in his cell and at her home,
that at last she could not leave the house for shame, for her belly began to
swell,—at which you need not be told she was overjoyed.
But if the daughter rejoiced to find herself pregnant, the mother
rejoiced a hundred times more, and the hypocritical hermit also pretended
to rejoice at the news, though inwardly he was bitterly vexed.
The poor credulous mother, really believing that her daughter would
bring forth a son who should in due time be Pope of Rome, could not help
relating the story to one of her intimate friends, who was as much
astonished as though she had found horns growing on her head, but,
nevertheless, suspected no trickery.
Ere long the neighbour had told the other male and female neighbours,
how the daughter of such an one was pregnant by the holy hermit of a son

who was to be Pope of Rome.
“And what I tell you,” she said, “the mother of the girl told me, and
God revealed it to her.”
The news soon spread through all the neighbouring towns. Soon
afterwards the girl was brought to bed, and duly delivered of a female child,
at which she and her foolish mother were both astonished and angry, and
the neighbours also, who expected the holy hermit to have been there to
receive the child.
The report spread quite as quickly as the previous one, and the hermit
was one of the first to hear of it, and quickly fled into another country—I
know not where—to deceive another woman or girl, or perhaps into the
desert of Egypt to perform penance, with a contrite heart, for his sin.
However that may be, the poor girl was dishonoured; which was a great
pity, for she was fair, good, and amiable.

STORY THE FIFTEENTH — THE CLEVER
NUN.
By Monseigneur De La Roche

Of a nun whom a monk wished to deceive, and how he
offered to shoo her his weapon that she might feel it, but
brought with him a companion whom he put forward in his
place, and of the answer she gave him.

In the fair country of Brabant, near to a monastery of white monks (*),
is situated a nunnery of devout and charitable nuns, but their name and
order need not be mentioned.

(*) Either Carthusians, who wear white robes and hoods, or
Dominicans who wear white robes and black hoods.

The two convents being close together, there was always a barn for the
threshers, as the saying is, for, thank God, the nuns were so kind-hearted
that few who sought amorous intercourse with them were refused, provided
only they were worthy to receive their favours.
But, to come to the story, there was amongst these white monks, a
young and handsome monk who fell in love with one of the nuns, and after
some preliminaries, had the courage to ask her for the love of God to grant
him her favours.
The nun, who knew how he was furnished, though she was by nature
courteous, gave him a harsh and sharp reply. He was not to be rebuffed,
however, but continued to implore her love with most humble requests,
until the pretty nun was forced either to lose her reputation for courtesy, or
give the monk what she had granted to many others as soon as she was
asked.
She said to him; “Truly you weary me with requests for that which
honestly I ought not to give you. But I have heard what sort of weapon you
carry, and if it be so you have not much to thank Nature for.”

“I do not know who told you,” replied the monk, “but I am sure that
you will be satisfied with me, and I will prove to you that I am as good a
man as any other.”
“Oh, yes. I believe you are a man,” said she “but your machine is so
small that if you were to put it in a certain place, I should hardly know that
it was there.”
“It is quite the reverse,” said the monk, “and, if I were in that place, I
would do so well that you would confess that those who gave me that
reputation were liars.”
After these fair speeches, the kind nun, that she might know what he
could do, and perhaps not forgetting her own share in the pleasure, told him
to come to the window of her cell at midnight; for which favour he thanked
her gratefully.
“But at any rate,” said she, “you shall not enter until I really know
what sort of lance you carry, and whether you can be of use to me or not.”
“As you please,” replied the monk, and with that he quitted his
mistress, and went straight to Brother Conrad, one of his companions, who
was furnished, God knows how well, and for that reason was much
esteemed in the nunnery.
To him the young monk related how he had begged a favour of such an
one, and how she had refused, doubting whether his foot would fit her shoe,
but in the end had consented that he should come to her, but would first feel
and know with what sort of lance he would charge against her shield.
“I have not,” said he, “a fine thick lance, such as I know she would
desire to meet. Therefore I beg of you with all my heart, to come with me
this night at the hour when I am to meet her, and you will do me the greatest
service that ever one man did to another. I know very well that she will
want to touch and handle the lance, and this is what you must do. You will
be behind me; but do not speak. Then take my place, and put your great
machine in her hand. She will open the door then, I expect, and you will go
away and I will enter in,—and leave the rest to me.”
Brother Conrad greatly doubted whether it would happen as his friend
wished, but he agreed to do as he was asked. At the appointed hour they set
forth to visit the nun. When they came to the window, the young monk, who
was more eager than a stallion, knocked once with his stick, and the nun did

not wait for him to knock a second time, but opened the window, and said
in a low voice;
“Who is there?”
“It is I,” he replied; “Open your door, lest anyone should hear us.”
“By my faith,” quoth she, “you shall not be entered on the roll of my
lovers, until you have passed a review, and I know what equipments you
have. Come hither, and show me what it is like.”
“Willingly,” said he.
Then Brother Conrad took his place, and slipped into the nun’s hand
his fine, powerful weapon, which was thick, long, and round. But as soon as
she felt it she recognized it, and said;
“No! No! I know that well enough. That is the lance of Brother
Conrad. There is not a nun here who does not know it! You thought I should
be deceived, but I know too much for you! Go and try your luck
elsewhere!”
And with that she closed the window, being very angry and ill-pleased,
not with Brother Conrad, but with the other monk; and they after this
adventure, returned to their convent, pondering over all that had happened.

STORY THE SIXTEENTH — ON THE BLIND
SIDE. 16
By Monseigneur Le Duc.

Of a knight of Picardy who went to Prussia, and,
meanwhile his lady took a lover, and was in bed with him
when her husband returned; and how by a cunning trick she
got her lover out of the room without the knight being aware
of it.

In the County of Artois there lived formerly a noble knight, rich and
powerful, and married to a beautiful dame of high family. These two lived
together for long, and passed their days in peace and happiness. And
because the most powerful Duke of Burgundy, Count of Artois, and their
lord, was then at peace with all the great princes of Christendom, the
knight, who was most devout, reflected that he ought to offer to God the
body which had been given him, and which was fair and strong, and as
well-formed as that of any man in that country, save that he had lost an eye
in a battle. To perform the vow he had made,—after he had taken leave of
his wife and relatives, he betook himself to the noble knights of Prussia,—
the true defenders of the holy-Christian church (*); and in Prussia he fought
valiantly and had many adventures—which I pass over here—and at the end
was safe and sound, though he had shown great prowess, and the reports of
his valour had been widely spread about by those who had seen them and
returned to their own country, or by the letters they had written to many
who had heard of his deeds with much pleasure.

(*) Doubtless there was a confusion In the writer’s mind
between Prussia and Hungary, and he alludes to the Crusade
against the Turks which ended disastrously for the Crusaders
in 1396, and in which Jean sans Peur and many Burgundian
knights took part.

Now you must know that his lady, who stayed at home, had bestowed
her affection on a squire who sought her love, and was glad to have a
substitute for her liege lord, who was away fighting the Saracens.
Whilst my lord was fasting and doing penance, my lady made good
cheer with the squire; often did my lord dine and sup on bread and water,
whilst my lady was enjoying all the good things which God had given her
in plenty; my lord,—if he could do no better,—lay upon straw, and my lady
rested in a fine bed with the squire.
To cut matters short, whilst my lord was fighting the Saracens, my
lady was indulging in another sort of combat with the squire, and did so
well thereat, that if my lord had never returned he would not have been
much missed or regretted.
The knight finding that—thanks be to God—the Saracens were no
longer on the offensive; and that it was a long time since he had seen his
home, and his good wife, who much desired and regretted him, as she had
many times told him in her letters, prepared to return, and started with the
few retainers he had. And he fared so well, owing to the great desire he had
to return to his home, and the arms of his wife, that in a few days he was
near there.
Being more anxious than any of his followers, he was always the first
to rise, and the foremost on the journey. In fact, he made such speed that he
often rode alone, a quarter of a league or more ahead of his retainers.
One day, it chanced the knight had lodged about six leagues from his
home. He rose early in the morning and mounted his horse, intending to
arrive at his house before his wife, who knew nothing of his coming, was
awake.
He set out as he intended, and, when on the road, he said to his
followers, “Come at your leisure; there is no need for you to follow me. I
will ride on fast that I may surprise my wife in bed.”
His retainers being weary, and their horses also, did not oppose his
wishes, but travelled along at their ease, though they had some fears for the
knight, who rode thus fast in the dark and alone.
He made such speed that soon he was in the courtyard of his castle,
where he found a serving-man, to whom he gave his horse; then, in his
boots and spurs, he went straight, and without meeting any one, for it was

yet early in the morning, towards the chamber where my lady slept, and
where the squire was doing that which the knight longed to do.
You may guess that the squire and the lady were both astonished when
the knight thundered on the door—which was locked—with his staff.
“Who is there?” asked the lady.
“It is I,” replied the knight. “Open the door!”
The lady, who knew her husband’s voice, did not feel comfortable;
nevertheless she caused the squire to dress himself which he did as quickly
as he could, wondering how he should escape from his dangerous position.
She meanwhile pretended to be asleep, and not recognise her husband’s
voice, and when he knocked at the door a second time, she asked again,
“Who is there?” “It is your husband, wife! Open the door quickly!”
“My husband?” said she. “Alas, he is far from here! May God soon
bring him back in safety.”
“By my soul, wife, I am your husband! Did you not know my voice? I
knew yours as soon as I heard you speak.”
“When he does come, I shall know of it long beforehand, that I may
receive him as I ought, and that I may call together his relations and friends
to wish him a hearty welcome. Go away! Go away! and let me sleep!”
“By St. John I will take care you do not! Open the door! Do you not
know your own husband?” and with that he called her by her name.
She saw that her lover was by that time quite ready, and made him
stand behind the door. Then she said to the knight.
“Is it really you? For God’s sake pardon me! And are you in good
health?”
“Yes; thank God,” said the knight.
“God be praised!” said the lady. “I will come directly and let you in;
but I am not dressed, and must get a candle.”
“Take your time!” said the knight.
“Truly,” said the lady, “just as you knocked, my lord, I was much
disturbed by a dream I had about you.”
“And what was that, my dear?”
“Faith, my lord! I dreamed that you came back, and talked with me,
and that you saw as well with one eye as with the other.

“Would to God it were so,” said my lord.
“By our Lady,” said his wife, “I believe it is as I say.”
“By my word”, replied the knight, “you are very foolish. How could it
be so?”
“I maintain,” said she, “that it is so.”
“There is nothing of the kind,” said the knight. “You must be mad to
think so.”
“Ah, my lord,” she replied, “you will never make me believe it is not
as I say, and, to set my mind at rest, I ask of you to give me a proof.”
Thereupon she opened the door, holding a lighted candle in her hand,
and he, not displeased at her words, permitted her to make trial, and thus the
poor man allowed her to cover up his eye with her one hand, whilst with the
other she held the candle before his blind eye. Then she said;
“My lord! on your oath, can you not see well?”
“I swear I cannot,” said my lord.
Whilst this trick was being played, my lord’s substitute stole out of the
chamber without being perceived by him.
“Wait a moment, my lord,” said she. “Now cannot you see well? Tell
me the truth!”
“No, by God, my dear,” replied the knight. “How should I see? You
have stopped up my right eye, and the other I lost more than ten years ago.”
“Then,” said she, “I see it was but an idle, foolish dream; but, be that
as it may, God be praised and thanked that you are here.”
“Amen,” said the knight, and with that he kissed and embraced her
many times, and they rejoiced greatly.
And my lord did not forget to tell her how he had left his retainers
behind, and what speed he had made that he might find her in bed.
“Truly,” said my lady, “you are a good husband.”
And with that there came women and other servants, who took off the
knight’s armour, and undressed him. That being done, he got into bed with
the lady, and enjoyed what the squire had left—who, for his part,
meanwhile went his way, happy and joyful to have escaped.

Thus was the knight deceived, as you have heard; nor was he ever
informed of it that I am aware, though it was known to many people.

STORY THE SEVENTEENTH — THE
LAWYER AND THE BOLTING-MILL.
By Monseigneur Le Duc.

Of a President of Parliament, who fell in love with his
chamber-maid, and would have forced her whilst she was
sifting flour, but by fair speaking she dissuaded him, and
made him shake the sieve whilst she went unto her mistress,
who came and found her husband thus, as you will
afterwards hear.

There lived formerly at Paris a President of the Court of Accounts,
who was a learned clerk, a knight, and a man of ripe age, but right joyous
and pleasant to both men and women.
This worthy lord had married a woman who was both elderly and
sickly, and by her had divers children. And amongst the other damsels,
waiting women, and servant maids in his house, was a serving-wench
whom nature had made most fair, and who did the household work; made
the beds, baked the bread, and did other low offices. The gentleman, who
made love whenever he found a chance, did not conceal from the fair
wench his intentions towards her, and made attempts upon her virtue,
promising her many rich gifts, and explaining to her that it was her duty to
let him have his way, and trying first this way and then that to seduce her.
But he was grieved to find that he could not induce her to return his love.
The girl was wise and chaste, and not so foolish as to grant her master any
favour, but spoke him so fairly that he did not lose heart, though he would
have preferred a different kind of answer.
When he found that kindness was of no use, he tried harshness and
rough words, but the wench was not frightened, and told him that, “He
might do as he pleased, but whilst she had life she would never let him near
her.”

The gentleman, seeing that her mind was fully made-up, spake no
more to her for some days, but spared not loving looks and signs; which
much annoyed her, and if she had not feared to make discord between
husband and wife, she would have told the latter how unfaithful her spouse
was, but, in the end, she resolved to conceal this as long as she could.
The infatuation of the old man increased every day, and begging and
praying no longer sufficed. He went to her and renewed his entreaties and
vows, which he confirmed by a hundred thousand oaths. But—to cut
matters short—it was all no good; he could not obtain a single word, or the
least shadow of hope, that he would ever attain his purpose.
Thereupon he left her, but he did not forget to say that if ever he found
a favourable opportunity she would have to comply with his wishes, or it
would be the worse for her.
The wench was not much frightened, thought no more of it, and went
about her duties as usual.
Some time afterwards, one Monday morning, the pretty servant,
having some pies to make, was sifting meal. Now you must know that the
room where she was thus engaged, was not far from her master’s bedroom,
and he heard the noise of the sieve, and knew very well that it was made by
the servant-girl at her work.
He thought that perhaps she was not alone, but, if she should be, he
would never find a better chance.
He said to himself, “Though she has often refused me by word of
mouth, I shall succeed at last if I only keep to my purpose.”
It was early dawn, and his wife was not awake, at which he was glad.
He stole quietly out of bed; put on his dressing-gown and his slippers, and
crept to the damsel’s room so quietly that she never knew he was there until
she saw him.
The poor girl was much astonished, and trembled; suspecting that her
master had come to take that which she would never give him.
Seeing she was frightened, he said nothing but attacked her with such
violence that he would soon have taken the place by storm if she had not
sued for peace. She said to him;
“Alas, sir, I beg for mercy! My life and honour are in your hands;—
have pity on me!”

“I care nothing about honour,” said her master, who was very hot and
excited. “You are in my hands and cannot escape me,” and with that he
attacked her more violently than before.
The girl, finding resistance was useless, bethought herself of a
stratagem, and said,
“Sir, I prefer to surrender of free-will than by force. Leave me alone,
and I will do all that you may require.”
“Very well,” said her master, “but be sure that I will not let you go
free.”
“There is but one thing I would beg of you, sir” replied the girl. “I
greatly fear that my mistress may hear you; and if, by chance, she should
come and find you here, I should be lost and ruined, for she would either
beat me or kill me.”
“She is not likely to come,” said he, “she is sleeping soundly.”
“Alas, sir, I am in great fear of her and, as I would be assured, I beg
and request of you, for my peace of mind and our greater security in what
we are about to do, that you let me go and see whether she is sleeping, or
what she is doing.”
“By our Lady! you would never return,” said the gentleman.
“I swear that I will,” she replied, “and that speedily.”
“Very good then,” said he. “Make haste!”
“Ah, sir,” said she. “It would be well that you should take this sieve
and work as I was doing; so that if my lady should by chance awake, she
will hear the noise and know that I am at work.”
“Give it to me, and I will work well;—but do not stay long.”
“Oh, no, sir. Hold this sieve, and you will look like a woman.”
“As to that, God knows I care not,” said he, and with that laid hold of
the sieve and began to work it as best he could.
Meanwhile the virtuous wench mounted to her lady’s room and woke
her, and told her how her husband had attempted her virtue, and attacked
her whilst she was sifting meal, “And if it please you to come and see how I
escaped him,” she said, “come down with me and behold him.”
The lady rose at once, put on her dress, and was soon before the door
of the room where her lord was diligently sifting. And when she saw him

thus employed, and struggling with the sieve, she said to him;
“Ah, master, what is this? Where are now all your learning, your
honour, your knowledge and prudence?”
He saw that he had been deceived, and replied quickly.
“Wife, they are all collected at the end of my c—k.”, and with that,
being much annoyed and angry, he threw down the sieve and went back to
his room.
His wife followed him, and began to lecture him again, but he paid
little heed. When he was ready, he ordered his mule, and went to the palace,
where he related his adventure to divers gentlemen, who laughed loudly
thereat. And, although he was at first angry with the wench, he afterwards
helped her, by his influence and rich gifts, to find a husband.

STORY THE EIGHTEENTH — FROM BELLY
TO BACK. 18
By Monseigneur De La Roche.

Of a gentleman of Burgundy who paid a chambermaid
ten crowns to sleep with her, but before he left her room, had
his ten crowns back, and made her carry him on her
shoulders through the host’s chamber. And in passing by the
said chamber he let wind so loudly that all was known, as
you will hear in the story which follows.

A gentleman of Burgundy went on some business to Paris, and lodged
at a good inn, for it was his custom always to seek out the best lodgings. He
knew a thing or two, and he noticed that the chambermaid did not look a
sort of woman who was afraid of a man. So, without much ado, or making
two bites at a cherry, he asked if he could sleep with her?
But she set her back up at once. “How dare you make such a proposal
to me,” she said. “I would have you to know that I am not one of those girls
who bring scandal upon the houses in which they live.” And in short, for all
he could say she refused to have anything to do with him “for any money.”
The gentleman who knew well what all these protestations were worth,
said to her;
“My dear, if fitting time and place were given me, I would tell you
something you would be glad to learn; but as, perhaps, it might hurt your
reputation if you were seen conversing with me, talk to my valet, and he
will arrange matters on my behalf.”
“I have nothing to say either to him or to you,” she replied, and with
that she walked away, and the gentleman called his valet, who was a clever
rogue, and ordered him to follow her and win her over at any cost.
The valet, who was well trained, promised that he would perform his
task, and, as soon as he found her, set to work to employ honied phrases,
and if she had not been of Paris, and not the least cunning of the women of

that city, his soft speeches and the promises he made on behalf of his
master, would soon have gained her heart.
But as it was, after much talk between them, she cut matters short by
saying;
“I know well what your master wants, but he shall not touch me unless
I have ten crowns.”
The servant reported this to his master, who was not so generous, or at
least not in such a case, as to give ten crowns to enjoy a kitchen wench.
“Be that as it may,” replied the valet, “she will not budge from that;
and even then you must use precautions in going to her chamber, for you
must pass through that of the host. What do you intend to do?”
“By my oath!” said his master, “I regret sorely having to pay ten
crowns, but I am so smitten with the wench that I cannot give her up. To the
devil with avarice! she shall have the money.”
“Shall I tell her then you will give her the money?”
“Yes, in the devil’s name! Yes!”
The valet found the girl, and told her she should have the money, and
perhaps something more.
“Very good,” she replied.
To cut matters short, a time was arranged for the gentleman to come to
her, but, before she would show him the way to her room, she insisted on
the ten crowns being paid down.
The Burgundian was not over-pleased, and as he was on the way to her
chamber, it struck him that he was paying dearly for his amusement, and he
resolved that he would play her a trick.
He stole into her room so quietly that neither the host nor his wife
awaked. There he undressed, and said to himself that he would at least have
his money’s worth. He did marvels, and got as good as he sent.
What with jesting and other matters, the hours passed quickly, and
dawn was near. He was then more willing to sleep than to do anything else,
but the fair chambermaid said to him;
“Sir, I have heard and seen so much of your nobleness, honour, and
courtesy that I have consented to allow you to take that which I hold dearest
in all the world. I now beg and request of you that you will at once dress

and hasten away, for it is now day, and if by chance my master or mistress
should come here, as is often their custom in the morning, and should find
you here, I should be dishonoured, nor would it do you any good.”
“I care not,” quoth he, “what good or evil may happen, but here I will
remain, and sleep at my ease and leisure before I leave. I am entitled to that
for my money. Do you think you have so easily earned my ten crowns? You
took them quickly enough. By St. George! I have no fear; but I will stay
here and you shall bear me company, if you please.”
“Oh, sir,” she replied, “by my soul I cannot do this. You must leave. It
will be full day directly, and if you are found here what will become of me?
I would rather die than that should happen; and if you do not make haste I
much fear some one will come.”
“Let them come,” said the gentleman. “I care not, but, I tell you
plainly, that until you give me back my ten crowns, I will not leave here,
happen what may.”
“Your ten crowns?” she answered. “Are you a man of that sort, and so
devoid of any courtesy or grace as to take back from me in that fashion, that
which you have given? By my faith that is not the way to prove yourself a
gentleman.”
“Whatever I am,” said he, “I will not leave here, or shall you either,
until you have given me back my ten crowns; you gained them too easily.”
“May God help me,” she replied, “though you speak thus I do not
believe you would be so ungrateful, after the pleasure I have given you, or
so discorteous, as not to aid me to preserve my honour, and therefore I beg
of you to grant my request, and leave here.”
The gentleman said that he would do nothing of the sort, and in the end
the poor girl was forced—though God knows with what regret—to hand-
over the ten crowns in order to make him go. When the money had returned
to the hand that gave it, the girl was very angry, but the man was in great
glee.
“Now,” said the girl, angrily, “that you have thus tricked and deceived
me, at least make haste. Let it suffice that you have made a fool of me, and
do not by delay bring dishonour upon me by being seen here.”
“I have nothing to do with your honour,” said he. “Keep it as much as
like, but you brought me here and you must take me back to the place from

whence I came, for I do not intend to have the double trouble of coming and
returning.”
The chambermaid, seeing that she only made him more obstinate, and
that day was breaking fast, took the gentleman on her back, and though sick
at heart with fear and anger, began to carry him. And as she was picking her
way carefully and noiselessly, this courteous gentleman, who after having
ridden on her belly was now riding on her back, broke wind so loudly that
the host awoke, and called out in his fright;
“Who is there?”
“It is your chambermaid,” said the gentleman, “who is taking me back
to the place from whence she brought me.”
At these words the poor girl’s heart and strength failed her. She could
no longer bear her unpleasant burden, and she fell on the floor and rolled
one way, whilst the squire went rolling the other.
The host, who knew what was the matter, spoke sharply to the girl,
who soon afterwards left his house; and the gentleman returned to
Burgundy, where he often gleefully related to his gallant companions the
above written adventure.

STORY THE NINETEENTH — THE CHILD OF THE SNOW. 19

By Philippe Vignier.

Of an English merchant whose wife had a child in his
absence, and told him that it was his; and how he cleverly
got rid of the child—for his wife having asserted that it was
born of the snow, he declared it had been melted by the sun.

Moved by a strong desire to see and know foreign countries, and to
meet with adventures, a worthy and rich merchant of London left his fair
and good wife, his children, relations, friends, estates, and the greater part
of his possessions, and quitted the kingdom, well furnished with money and
great abundance of merchandise, such as England can supply to foreign
countries, and with many other things which, for the sake of brevity, I do
not mention here.
On this first voyage, the good merchant wandered about for a space of
five years, during which time his good wife looked after his property,
disposed of much merchandise profitably, and managed so well that her
husband, when he returned at the end of five years, greatly praised her, and
loved her more than ever.
The merchant, not content with the many strange and wonderful things
he had seen, or with the large fortune he had made, four or five months after
his return, again set forth in quest of adventures in foreign lands, both
Christian and pagan, and stayed there so long that ten years passed before
his wife again saw him, but he often wrote to her, that she might know that
he was still alive.
She was young and lusty, and wanted not any of the goods that God
could give, except the presence of her husband. His long absence
constrained her to provide herself with a lover, by whom shortly she had a
fine boy.
This son was nourished and brought up with the others, his half-
brothers, and, when the merchant returned, was about seven years old.
Great were the rejoicings between husband and wife when he came
back, and whilst they were conversing pleasantly, the good woman, at the
demand of her husband, caused to be brought all their children, not omitting
the one who had been born during the absence of him whose name she bore.

The worthy merchant seeing all these children, and remembering
perfectly how many there should be, found one over and above; at which he
was much astonished and surprised, and he inquired of his wife who was
this fair son, the youngest of their children?
“Who is he?” said she; “On my word, husband, he is our son! Who
else should he be?”
“I do not know,” he replied, “but, as I have never seen him before, is it
strange that I should ask?”
“No, by St. John,” said she; “but he is our son.”
“How can that be?” said her husband. “You were not pregnant when I
left.”
“Truly I was not, so far as I know,” she replied, “but I can swear that
the child is yours, and that no other man but you has ever lain with me.”
“I never said so,” he answered, “but, at any rate, it is ten years since I
left, and this child does not appear more than seven. How then can it be
mine? Did you carry him longer than you did the others?”
“By my oath, I know not!” she said; “but what I tell you is true.
Whether I carried it longer than the others I know not, and if you did not
make it before you left, I do not know how it could have come, unless it
was that, not long after your departure, I was one day in our garden, when
suddenly there came upon me a longing and desire to eat a leaf of sorrel,
which at that time was thickly covered with snow. I chose a large and fine
leaf, as I thought, and ate it, but it was only a white and hard piece of snow.
And no sooner had I eaten it than I felt myself to be in the same condition
as I was before each of my other children was born. In fact, a certain time
afterwards, I bore you this fair son.”
The merchant saw at once that he was being fooled, but he pretended
to believe the story his wife had told him, and replied;
“My dear, though what you tell me is hardly possible, and has never
happened to anyone else, let God be praised for what He has sent us. If He
has given us a child by a miracle, or by some secret method of which we are
ignorant, He has not forgotten to provide us with the wherewithal to keep
it.”
When the good woman saw that her husband was willing to believe the
tale she told him, she was greatly pleased. The merchant, who was both

wise and prudent, stayed at home the next ten years, without making any
other voyages, and in all that time breathed not a word to his wife to make
her suspect he knew aught of her doings, so virtuous and patient was he.
But he was not yet tired of travelling, and wished to begin again. He
told his wife, who was very dissatisfied thereat.
“Be at ease,” he said, “and, if God and St. George so will, I will return
shortly. And as our son, who was born during my last voyage, is now grown
up, and capable of seeing and learning, I will, if it seem good to you, take
him with me.”
“On my word”, said she “I hope you will, and you will do well.”
“It shall be done,” he said, and thereupon he started, and took with him
the young man, of whom he was not the father, and for whom he felt no
affection.
They had a good wind, and came to the port of Alexandria, where the
good merchant sold the greater part of his merchandise very well. But he
was not so foolish as to keep at his charge a child his wife had had by some
other man, and who, after his death, would inherit like the other children, so
he sold the youth as a slave, for good money paid down, and as the lad was
young and strong, nearly a hundred ducats was paid for him.
When this was done, the merchant returned to London, safe and sound,
thank God. And it need not be told how pleased his wife was to see him in
good health, but when she saw her son was not there, she knew not what to
think.
She could not conceal her feelings, and asked her husband what had
become of their son?
“Ah, my dear,” said he, “I will not conceal from you that a great
misfortune has befallen him.”
“Alas, what?” she asked. “Is he drowned?”
“No; but the truth is that the wind and waves wafted us to a country
that was so hot that we nearly died from the great heat of the sun. And one
day when we had all left the ship, in order that we each might dig a hole in
which to shield ourselves from the heat,—our dear son, who, as you know
was made of snow, began to melt in the sun, and in our presence was turned
into water, and ere you could have said one of the seven psalms, there was
nothing left of him. Thus strangely did he come into the world, and thus

suddenly did he leave it. I both was, and am, greatly vexed, and not one of
all the marvels I have ever seen astonished me so greatly.”
“Well!” said she. “Since it has pleased God to give and to take away,
His name be praised.”
As to whether she suspected anything or not, the history is silent and
makes no mention, but perhaps she learned that her husband was not to be
hood-winked.

STORY THE TWENTIETH — THE HUSBAND
AS DOCTOR.
By Philippe De Laon.

Of a young squire of Champagne who, when he
married, had never mounted a Christian creature,—much to
his wife’s regret. And of the method her mother found to
instruct him, and how the said squire suddenly wept at a
great feast that was made shortly after he had learned how
to perform the carnal act—as you will hear more plainly
hereafter.

It is well known that in the province of Champagne you are sure to
meet heavy and dull-witted persons—which has seemed strange to many
persons, seeing that the district is so near to the country of Mischief. (*)
Many stories could be told of the stupidity of the Champenois, but this
present story will suffice.

(*) Mal-Eugen in the original. The author probably means
Picardy or Lorraine.

In this province, there lived a young man, an orphan, who at the death
of his father and mother had become rich and powerful. He was stupid,
ignorant, and disagreeable, but hard-working and knew well how to take
care of himself and his affairs, and for this reason, many persons,—even
people of condition,—were willing to give him their daughter in marriage.
One of these damsels, above all others, pleased the friends and
relations of our Champenois, for her beauty, goodness, riches, and so forth.
They told him that it was time he married.
“You are now,” they said, “twenty-three years old, and there could not
be a better time. And if you will listen to us, we have searched out for you a
fair and good damsel who seems to us just suited to you. It is such an one—
you know her well;” and they told him her name.

The young man, who cared little whether he was married or not, as
long as he lost no money by it, replied that he would do whatever they
wished. “Since you think it will be to my advantage, manage the business
the best way you can, and I will follow your advice and instructions.”
“You say well,” replied these good people. “We will select your wife
as carefully as though it were for ourselves, or one of our children.”
To cut matters short, a little time afterwards our Champenois was
married; but on the first night, when he was sleeping with his wife, he,
never having mounted on any Christian woman, soon turned his back to her,
and a few poor kisses was all she had of him, but nothing on her back. You
may guess his wife was not well pleased at this; nevertheless, she concealed
her discontent.
This unsatisfactory state of things lasted ten days, and would have
continued longer if the girl’s mother had not put a stop to it.
It should be known to you that the young man was unskilled in the
mysteries of wedlock, for during the lifetime of his parents he had been
kept with a tight hand, and, above all things, had been forbidden to play at
the beast with two backs, lest he should take too much delight therein, and
waste all his patrimony. This was wise of his parents, for he was not a
young man likely to be loved for his good looks.
As he would do nothing to anger his father or mother, and was,
moreover, not of an amorous disposition, he had always preserved his
chastity, though his wife would willingly have deprived him of it, if she had
known how to do so honestly.
One day the mother of the bride came to her daughter, and asked her
all about her husband’s state and condition, and the thousand other things
which women like to know. To all of these questions the bride replied that
her husband was a good man, and she hoped and believed that she would be
happy with him.
But the old woman knew by her own experience that there are more
things in married life than eating and drinking, so she said to her daughter;
“Come here, and tell me, on your word of honour, how does he acquit
himself at night?”
When the girl heard this question she was so vexed and ashamed that
she could not reply, and her eyes filled with tears. Her mother understood

what these tears meant, and said;
“Do not weep, my child! Speak out boldly! I am your mother, and you
ought not to conceal anything from me, or be afraid of telling me. Has he
done nothing to you yet?”
The poor girl, having partly recovered, and being re-assured by her
mother’s words, ceased her tears, but yet could make no reply. Thereupon,
her mother asked again;
“Lay aside your grief and answer me honestly: has he done nothing to
you yet?”
In a low voice, mingled with tears, the girl replied, “On my word,
mother, he has never yet touched me, but, except for that, there is no more
kind or affectionate man.”
“Tell me,” said the mother; “do you know if he is properly furnished
with all his members? Speak out boldly, if you know.”
“By St. John! he is all right in that respect,” replied the bride. “I have
often, by chance, felt his luggage as I turned to and fro in our bed when I
could not sleep.”
“That is enough,” said the mother; “leave the rest to me. This is what
you must do. In the morning you must pretend to be very ill—even as
though your soul were departing from your body. Your husband will, I fully
expect, seek me out and bid me come to you, and I will play my part so well
that your business will be soon settled, for I shall take your water to a
certain doctor, who will give such advice as I order.”
All was done as arranged, for on the morrow, as soon as it was dawn,
the girl, who was sleeping with her husband, began to complain and to
sham sickness as though a strong fever racked her body.
Her booby husband was much vexed and astonished, and knew not
what to say or do. He sent forthwith for his mother-in-law, who was not
long in coming. As soon as he saw her, “Alas! mother!” said he, “your
daughter is dying.”
“My daughter?” said she. “What does she want?” and whilst she was
speaking she walked to the patient’s chamber.
As soon as the mother saw her daughter, she asked what was the
matter; and the girl, being well instructed what she was to do, answered not
at first, but, after a little time, said, “Mother, I am dying.”

“You shall not die, please God! Take courage! But how comes it that
you are taken ill so suddenly?”
“I do not know! I do not know!” replied the girl. “It drives me wild to
answer all these questions.”
The old woman took the girl’s hand, and felt her pulse; then she said to
her son-in-law;
“On my word she is very ill. She is full of fire, and we must find some
remedy. Have you any of her water?”
“That which she made last night is there,” said one of the attendants.
“Give it me,” said the mother.
She took the urine, and put it in a proper vessel, and told her son-in-
law that she was about to show it to such-and-such a doctor, that he might
know what he could do to her daughter to cure her.
“For God’s sake spare nothing,” said she. “I have yet some money left,
but I love my daughter better than money.”
“Spare!” quoth he. “If money can help, you shall not want.”
“No need to go so fast,” said she. “Whilst she is resting, I will go
home; but I will come back if I am wanted.”
Now you must know that the old woman had on the previous day,
when she left her daughter, instructed the doctor, who was well aware of
what he ought to say. So the young man carried his wife’s water to the
doctor, and when he had saluted him, related how sick and suffering his
wife was.
“And I have brought you some of her water that you may judge how ill
she is, and more easily cure her.”
The doctor took the vessel of urine, and turned it about and examined
it, then said;
“Your wife is afflicted with a sore malady, and is in danger of dying
unless help be forthcoming; her water shows it.”
“Ah, master, for God’s sake tell me what to do, and I will pay you well
if you can restore her to health, and prevent her from dying.”
“She need not die,” said the doctor; “but unless you make haste, all the
money in the world will not save her life.”
“Tell me, for God’s sake,” said the other, “what to do, and I will do it.”

“She must,” said the doctor, “have connection with a man, or she will
die.”
“Connection with a man?” said the other, “What is that?”
“That is to say,” continued the doctor, “that you must mount on the top
of her, and speedily ram her three or four times, or more if you can; for, if
not, the great heat which is consuming her will not be put out.”
“Ah! will that be good for her?”
“There is no chance of her living,” said the doctor, “if you do not do it,
and quickly too.”
“By St. John,” said the other, “I will try what I can do.”
With that he went home and found his wife, who was groaning and
lamenting loudly.
“How are you, my dear?” said he.
“I am dying, my dear,” she replied.
“You shall not die, please God,” said he. “I have seen the doctor, who
has told me what medicine will cure you,” and as he spoke, he undressed
himself, and lay down by his wife, and began to execute the orders he had
received from the doctor.
“What are you doing?” said she. “Do you want to kill me?”
“No! I am going to cure you,” he replied. “The doctor said so;” and
Nature instructing him, and the patient helping, he performed on her two or
three times.
When he was resting from his labours, much astonished at what had
happened, he asked his wife how she was?
“I am a little better than I was before;” she replied.
“God be praised,” said he. “I hope you will get well and that the doctor
told me truly:” and with that he began again.
To cut matters short, he performed so well that his wife was cured in a
few days, at which he was very joyful, and so was her mother when she
knew it.
The young man after this became a better fellow than he was before,
and his wife being now restored to health, he one day invited all his
relations and friends to dinner, and also the father and mother of his wife,

and he served grand cheer after his own fashion. They drank to him, and he
drank to them, and he was marvellous good company.
But hear what happened to him: in the midst of the dinner he began to
weep, which much astonished all his friends who were at table with him,
and they demanded what was the matter, but he could not reply for weeping
scalding tears. At last he spoke, and said;
“I have good cause to weep.”
“By my oath you have not,” replied his mother-in-law. “What ails you?
You are rich and powerful, and well housed, and have good friends; and you
must not forget that you have a fair and good wife whom God brought back
to health when she was on the edge of the grave. In my opinion you ought
to be light-hearted and joyful.”
“Alas!” said he, “woe is me! My father and mother, who both loved
me, and who amassed and left me so much wealth, are both dead, and by
my fault, for they died of a fever, and if I had well towzled them both when
they were ill, as I did to my wife, they would still be on their feet.”
There was no one at table who, on hearing this, would not have liked
to laugh, nevertheless they restrained themselves as best they could. The
tables were removed, and each went his way, and the young man continued
to live with his wife, and—in order that she might continue in good health
—he failed not to tail her pretty often.

STORY THE TWENTY-FIRST — THE ABBESS
CURED 21
By Philippe De Laon.

Of an abbess who was ill for want of—you know what
—but would not have it done, fearing to be reproached by
her nuns, but they all agreed to do the same and most
willingly did so.

In Normandy there is a fair nunnery, the Abbess of which was young,
fair, and well-made. It chanced that she fell ill. The good sisters who were
charitable and devout, hastened to visit her, and tried to comfort her, and do
all that lay in their power. And when they found she was getting no better,
they commanded one of the sisters to go to Rouen, and take her water to a
renowned doctor of that place.
So the next day one of the nuns started on this errand, and when she
arrived there she showed the water to the physician, and described at great
length the illness of the Lady Abbess, how she slept, ate, drank, etc.
The learned doctor understood the case, both from his examination of
the water, and the information given by the nun, and then he gave his
prescription.
Now I know that it is the custom in many cases to give a prescription
in writing, nevertheless this time he gave it by word of mouth, and said to
the nun;
“Fair sister, for the abbess to recover her health there is but one
remedy, and that is that she must have company with a man; otherwise in a
short time she will grew so bad that death will be the only remedy.”
Our nun was much astonished to hear such sad news, and said,
“Alas! Master John! is there no other method by which our abbess can
recover her health?”

“Certainly not,” he replied; “there is no other, and moreover, you must
make haste to do as I have bid you, for if the disease is not stopped and
takes its course, there is no man living who could cure it.”
The good nun, though much disconcerted, made haste to announce the
news to the Abbess, and by the aid of her stout cob, and the great desire she
had to be at home, made such speed that the abbess was astonished to see
her returned.
“What says the doctor, my dear?” cried the abbess. “Is there any fear
of death?”
“You will be soon in good health if God so wills, madam,” said the
messenger. “Be of good cheer, and take heart.”
“What! has not the doctor ordered me any medicine?” said the Abbess.
“Yes,” was the reply, and then the nun related how the doctor had
looked at her water, and asked her age, and how she ate and slept, etc. “And
then in conclusion he ordered that you must have, somehow or other, carnal
connection with some man, or otherwise you will shortly be dead, for there
is no other remedy for your complaint.”
“Connection with a man!” cried the lady. “I would rather die a
thousand times if it were possible.” And then she went on, “Since it is thus,
and my illness is incurable and deadly unless I take such a remedy, let God
be praised! I will die willingly. Call together quickly all the convent!”
The bell was rung, and all the nuns flocked round the Abbess, and,
when they were all in the chamber, the Abbess, who still had the use of her
tongue, however ill she was, began a long speech concerning the state of the
church, and in what condition she had found it and how she left it, and then
went on to speak of her illness, which was mortal and incurable as she well
knew and felt, and as such and such a physician had also declared.
“And so, my dear sisters, I recommend to you our church, and that you
pray for my poor soul.”
At these words, tears in great abundance welled from all eyes, and the
heart’s fountain of the convent was moved. This weeping lasted long, and
none of the company spoke.
After some time, the Prioress, who was wise and good, spoke for all
the convent, and said;

“Madam, your illness—what it is, God, from whom nothing is hidden,
alone knows—vexes us greatly, and there is not one of us who would not do
all in her power to aid your recovery. We therefore pray you to spare
nothing, not even the goods of the Church, for it would be better for us to
lose the greater part of our temporal goods than be deprived of the spiritual
profit which your presence gives us.”
“My good sister,” said the Abbess, “I have not deserved your kind
offer, but I thank you as much as I can, and again advise and beg of you to
take care of the Church—as I have already said—for it is a matter which
concerns me closely, God knows; and pray also for my poor soul, which
hath great need of your prayers.”
“Alas, madam,” said the Prioress, “is it not possible that by great care,
or the diligent attention of some physician, that you might be restored to
health?”
“No, no, my good sister,” replied the Abbess. “You must number me
among the dead—for I am hardly alive now, though I can still talk to you.”
Then stepped forth the nun who had carried the water to Rouen, and
said;
“Madam, there is a remedy if you would but try it.” “I do not choose
to,” replied the Abbess. “Here is sister Joan, who has returned from Rouen,
and has shown my water, and related my symptoms, to such and such a
physician, who has declared that I shall die unless I suffer some man to
approach me and have connection with me. By this means he hopes, and his
books informed him, that I should escape death; but if I did not do as he
bade me, there was no help for me. But as for me, I thank God that He has
deigned to call me, though I have sinned much. I yield myself to His will,
and my body is prepared for death, let it come when it may.”
“What, madam!” said the infirmary nun, “would you murder yourself?
It is in your power to save yourself, and you have but to put forth your hand
and ask for aid, and you will find it ready! That is not right; and I even
venture to tell you that you are imperilling your soul if you die in that
condition.”
“My dear sister,” said the Abbess, “how many times have I told you
that it is better for a person to die than commit a deadly sin. You know that I
cannot avoid death except by committing a deadly sin. Also I feel sure that

even by prolonging my life by this means, I should be dishonoured for ever,
and a reproach to all. Folks would say of me, ‘There is the lady who ——‘.
“All of you,—however you may advise me—would cease to reverence
and love me, for I should seem—and with good cause—unworthy to
preside over and govern you.”
“You must neither say nor think that,” said the Treasurer. “There is
nothing that we should not attempt to avoid death. Does not our good
father, St. Augustine, say that it is not permissible to anyone to take his own
life, nor to cut off one of his limbs? And are you not acting in direct
opposition to his teaching, if you allow yourself to die when you could
easily prevent it?”
“She says well!” cried all the sisters in chorus. “Madam, for God’s
sake obey the physician, and be not so obstinate in your own opinion as to
lose both your body and soul, and leave desolate, and deprived of your care,
the convent where you are so much loved.”
“My dear sisters,” replied the Abbess, “I much prefer to bow my head
to death than to live dishonoured. And would you not all say—‘There is the
woman who did so and so’.”
“Do not worry yourself with what people would say: you would never
be reproached by good and respectable people.”
“Yes, I should be,” replied the Abbess.
The nuns were greatly moved, and retired and held a meeting, and
passed a resolution, which the Prioress was charged to deliver to the
Abbess, which she did in the following words.
“Madam, the nuns are greatly grieved,—for never was any convent
more troubled than this is, and you are the cause. We believe that you are
ill-advised in allowing yourself to die when we are sure you could avoid it.
And, in order that you should comprehend our loyal and single-hearted love
for you, we have decided and concluded in a general assembly, to save you
and ourselves, and if you have connection secretly with some respectable
man, we will do the same, in order that you may not think or imagine that in
time to come you can be reproached by any of us. Is it not so, my sisters?”
“Yes,” they all shouted most willingly.
The Abbess heard the speech, and was much moved by the testimony
of the love the sisters bore her, and consented, though with much regret,

that the doctor’s advice should be carried out. Monks, priests, and clerks
were sent for, and they found plenty of work to do, and they worked so well
that the Abbess was soon cured, at which the nuns were right joyous.

STORY THE TWENTY-SECOND — THE
CHILD WITH TWO FATHERS. 22
By Caron.

Of a gentleman who seduced a young girl, and then
went away and joined the army. And before his return she
made the acquaintance of another, and pretended her child
was by him. When the gentleman returned from the war he
claimed the child, but she begged him to leave it with her
second lover, promising that the next she had she would give
to him, as is hereafter recorded.

Formerly there was a gentleman living at Bruges who was so often and
so long in the company of a certain pretty girl that at last he made her belly
swell.
And about the same time that he was aware of this, the Duke called
together his men-at-arms, and our gentleman was forced to abandon his
lady-love and go with others to serve the said lord, which he willingly did.
But, before leaving, he provided sponsors and a nurse against the time his
child should come into the world, and lodged the mother with good people
to whose care he recommended her, and left money for her. And when he
had done all this as quickly as he could, he took leave of his lady, and
promised that, if God pleased, he would return quickly.
You may fancy if she wept when she found that he whom she loved
better than any one in the world, was going away. She could not at first
speak, so much did her tears oppress her heart, but at last she grew calmer
when she saw that there was nothing else to be done.
About a month after the departure of her lover, desire burned in her
heart, and she remembered the pleasures she had formerly enjoyed, and of
which the unfortunate absence of her friend now deprived her. The God of
Love, who is never idle, whispered to her of the virtues and riches of a
certain merchant, a neighbour, who many times, both before and since the

departure of her lover, had solicited her love, so that she decided that if he
ever returned to the charge he should not be sent away discouraged, and that
even if she met him in the street she would behave herself in such a way as
would let him see that she liked him.
Now it happened that the day after she arrived at this determination,
Cupid sent round the merchant early in the morning to present her with
dogs and birds and other gifts, which those who seek after women are
always ready to present.
He was not rebuffed, for if he was willing to attack she was not the less
ready to surrender, and prepared to give him even more than he dared to
ask; for she found in him such chivalry, prowess, and virtue that she quite
forgot her old lover, who at that time suspected nothing.
The good merchant was much pleased with his new lady, and they so
loved each other, and their wills, desires, and thoughts so agreed, that it was
as though they had but a single heart between them. They could not be
content until they were living together, so one night the wench packed up
all her belongings and went to the merchant’s house, thus abandoning her
old lover, her landlord and his wife, and a number of other good people to
whose care she had been recommended.
She was not a fool, and as soon as she found herself well lodged, she
told the merchant she was pregnant, at which he was very joyful, believing
that he was the cause; and in about seven months the wench brought forth a
fine boy, and the adoptive father was very fond both of the child and its
mother.
A certain time afterwards the gentleman returned from the war, and
came to Bruges, and as soon as he decently could, took his way to the house
where he had left his mistress, and asked news of her from those whom he
had charged to lodge her and clothe her, and aid her in her confinement.
“What!” they said. “Do you not know? Have you not had the letters
which were written to you?”
“No, by my oath,” said he. “What has happened?’
“Holy Mary!” they replied, “you have good reason to ask. You had not
been gone more than a month when she packed up her combs and mirrors
and betook herself to the house of a certain merchant, who is greatly

attached to her. And, in fact, she has there been brought to bed of a fine boy.
The merchant has had the child christened, and believes it to be his own.”
“By St. John! that is something new,” said the gentleman, “but, since
she is that sort of a woman, she may go to the devil. The merchant may
have her and keep her, but as for the child I am sure it is mine, and I want
it.”
Thereupon he went and knocked loudly at the door of the merchant’s
house. By chance, the lady was at home and opened the door, and when she
recognised the lover she had deserted, they were both astonished.
Nevertheless, he asked her how she came in that place, and she replied that
Fortune had brought her there.
“Fortune?” said he; “Well then, fortune may keep you; but I want my
child. Your new master may have the cow, but I will have the calf; so give it
to me at once, for I will have it whatever may happen.”
“Alas!” said the wench, “what will my man say? I shall be disgraced,
for he certainly believes the child is his.”
“I don’t care what he thinks,” replied the other, “but he shall not have
what is mine.”
“Ah, my friend, I beg and request of you to leave the merchant this
child; you will do him a great service and me also. And by God! you will
not be tempted to have the child when once you have seen him, for he is an
ugly, awkward boy, all scrofulous and mis-shapen.”
“Whatever he is,” replied the other, “he is mine, and I will have him.”
“Don’t talk so loud, for God’s sake!” said the wench, “and be calm, I
beg! And if you will only leave me this child, I promise you that I will give
you the next I have.”
Angry as the gentleman was, he could not help smiling at hearing these
words, so he said no more and went away, and never again demanded the
child, which was brought up by the merchant.

STORY THE TWENTY-THIRD — THE
LAWYER’S WIFE WHO PASSED THE LINE. 23
By Monseigneur De Commesuram.

Of a clerk of whom his mistress was enamoured, and
what he promised to do and did to her if she crossed a line
which the said clerk had made. Seeing which, her little son
told his father when he returned that he must not cross the
line; or said he, “the clerk will serve you as he did mother.”

Formerly there lived in the town of Mons, in Hainault, a lawyer of a
ripe old age, who had, amongst his other clerks, a good-looking and
amiable youth, with whom the lawyer’s wife fell deeply in love, for it
appeared to her that he was much better fitted to do her business than her
husband was.
She decided that she would behave in such a way that, unless he were
more stupid than an ass, he would know what she wanted of him; and, to
carry out her design, this lusty wench, who was young, fresh, and buxom,
often brought her sewing to where the clerk was, and talked to him of a
hundred thousand matters, most of them about love.
And during all this talk she did not forget to practise little tricks:
sometimes she would knock his elbow when he was writing; another time
she threw gravel and spoiled his work, so that he was forced to write it all
over again. Another time also she recommenced these tricks, and took away
his paper and parchment, so that he could not work,—at which he was not
best pleased, fearing that his master would be angry.
For a long time his mistress practised these tricks, but he being young,
and his eyes not opened, he did not at first see what she intended;
nevertheless at last he concluded he was in her good books.
Not long after he arrived at this conclusion, it chanced that the lawyer
being out of the house, his wife came to the clerk to teaze him as was her

custom, and worried him more than usual, nudging him, talking to him,
preventing him from working, and hiding his paper, ink &c.
Our clerk more knowing than formerly, and seeing what all this meant,
sprang to his feet, attacked his mistress and drove her back, and begged of
her to allow him to write—but she who asked for nothing better than a
tussle, was not inclined to discontinue.
“Do you know, madam,” said he, “that I must finish this writing which
I have begun? I therefore ask of you to let me alone or, morbleu, I will pay
you out.”
“What would you do, my good lad?” said she. “Make ugly faces?”
“No, by God!*
“What then?”
“What?”
“Yes, tell me what!”
“Why,” said he, “since you have upset my inkstand, and crumpled my
writing, I will well crumple your parchment, and that I may not be
prevented from writing by want of ink, I will dip into your inkstand.”
“By my soul,” quoth she, “you are not the man to do it. Do you think I
am afraid of you?”
“It does not matter what sort of man I am,” said the clerk, “but if you
worry me any more, I am man enough to make you pay for it. Look here! I
will draw a line on the floor, and by God, if you overstep it, be it ever so
little, I wish I may die if I do not make you pay dearly for it.”
“By my word,” said she, “I am not afraid of you, and I will pass the
line and see what you will do,” and so saying the merry hussy made a little
jump which took her well over the line.
The clerk grappled with her, and threw her down on a bench, and
punished her well, for if she had rumpled him outside and openly, he
rumpled her inside and secretly.
Now you must know that there was present at the time a young child,
about two years old, the son of the lawyer. It need not be said either, that
after this first passage of arms between the clerk and his mistress, there
were many more secret encounters between them, with less talk and more
action than on the first occasion.

You must know too that, a few days after this adventure, the little child
was in the office where the clerk was writing, when there came in the
lawyer, the master of the house, who walked across the room to his clerk, to
see what he wrote, or for some other matter, and as he approached the line
which the clerk had drawn for his wife, and which still remained on the
floor, his little son cried,
“Father, take care you do not cross the line, or the clerk will lay you
down and tumble you as he did mother a few days ago.”
The lawyer heard the remark, and saw the line, but knew not what to
think; but if he remembered that fools, drunkards, and children always tell
the truth, at all events he made no sign, and it has never come to my
knowledge that he ever did so, either through want of confirmation of his
suspicions, or because he feared to make a scandal.

STORY THE TWENTY-FOURTH — HALF-
BOOTED. 24
By Monseigneur De Fiennes.

Of a Count who would ravish by force a fair, young girl
who was one of his subjects, and how she escaped from him
by means of his leggings, and how he overlooked her
conduct and helped her to a husband, as is hereafter related.

I know that in many of the stories already related the names of the
persons concerned are not stated, but I desire to give, in my little history,
the name of Comte Valerien, who was in his time Count of St. Pol, and was
called “the handsome Count”. Amongst his other lordships, he was lord of a
village in the district of Lille, called Vrelenchem, about a league distant
from Lille.
This gentle Count, though of a good and kind nature, was very
amorous. He learned by report from one of his retainers, who served him in
these matters, that at the said Vrelenchem there resided a very pretty girl of
good condition. He was not idle in these matters, and soon after he heard
the news, he was in that village, and with his own eyes confirmed the report
that his faithful servants had given him concerning the said maiden.
“The next thing to be done,” said the noble Count, “is that I must
speak to her alone, no matter what it may cost me.”
One of his followers, who was a doctor by profession, said, “My lord,
for your honour and that of the maiden also, it seems to me better that I
should make known to her your will, and you can frame your conduct
according to the reply that I receive.”
He did as he said, and went to the fair maiden and saluted her
courteously, and she, who was as wise as she was fair and good, politely
returned his salute.
To cut matters short, after a few ordinary phrases, the worthy
messenger preached much about the possessions and the honours of his

master, and told her that if she liked she would be the means of enriching all
her family.
The fair damsel knew what o’clock it was. (*) Her reply was like
herself—fair and good—for it was that she would obey, fear, and serve the
Count in anything that did not concern her honour, but that she held as dear
as her life.

(*) A literal translation. La bonne fille entendit tantost
quelle heure il estoit.

The one who was astonished and vexed at this reply was our go-
between, who returned disappointed to his master, his embassy having
failed. It need not be said that the Count was not best pleased at hearing of
this proud and harsh reply made by the woman he loved better than anyone
in the world, and whose person he wished to enjoy. But he said, “Let us
leave her alone for the present. I shall devise some plan when she thinks I
have forgotten her.”
He left there soon afterwards, and did not return until six weeks had
passed, and, when he did return it was very quietly, and he kept himself
private, and his presence unknown.
He learned from his spies one day that the fair maiden was cutting
grass at the edge of a wood, and aloof from all company; at which he was
very joyful, and, all booted as he was, set out for the place in company with
his spies. And when he came near to her whom he sought, he sent away his
company, and stole close to her before she was aware of his presence.
She was astonished and confused, and no wonder, to see the Count so
close to her, and she turned pale and could not speak, for she knew by
report that he was a bold and dangerous man to women.
“Ha, fair damsel,” said the Count, “you are wondrous proud! One is
obliged to lay siege to you. Now defend yourself as best you can, for there
will be a battle between us, and, before I leave, you shall suffer by my will
and desire, all the pains that I have suffered and endured for love of you.”
“Alas, my lord!” said the young girl, who was frightened and
surprised. “I ask your mercy! If I have said or done anything that may
displease you, I ask your pardon; though I do not think I have said or done
anything for which you should owe me a grudge. I do not know what report

was made of me. Dishonourable proposals were made to me in your name,
but I did not believe them, for I deem you so virtuous that on no account
would you dishonour one of your poor, humble subjects like me, but on the
contrary protect her.”
“Drop this talk!” said my lord, “and be sure that you shall not escape
me. I told you why I sent to you, and of the good I intended to do you,” and
without another word, he seized her in his arms, and threw her down on a
heap of grass which was there, and pressed her closely, and quickly made
all preparations to accomplish his desire.
The young girl, who saw that she was on the point of losing that which
she held most precious, bethought her of a trick, and said,
“Ah, my lord, I surrender! I will do whatever you like, and without
refusal or contradiction, but it would be better that you should do with me
whatever you will by my free consent, than by force and against my will
accomplish your intent.”
“At any rate,” said my lord, “you shall not escape me! What is it you
want?”
“I would beg of you,” said she, “to do me the honour not to dirty me
with your leggings, which are greasy and dirty, and which you do not
require.”
“What can I do with them?” asked my lord.
“I will take them off nicely for you,” said she, “if you please; for by
my word, I have neither heart nor courage to welcome you if you wear
those mucky leggings.”
“The leggings do not make much difference,” said my lord,
“nevertheless if you wish it, they shall be taken off.”
Then he let go of her, and seated himself on the grass, and stretched
out his legs, and the fair damsel took off his spurs, and then tugged at one of
his leggings, which were very tight. And when with much difficulty she had
got it half off, she ran away as fast as her legs could carry her with her will
assisting, and left the noble Count, and never ceased running until she was
in her father’s house.

The worthy lord who was thus deceived was in as great a rage as he
could be. With much trouble he got on his feet, thinking that if he stepped
on his legging he could pull it off, but it was no good, it was too tight, and
there was nothing for him to do but return to his servants. He did not go
very far before he found his retainers waiting for him by the side of a ditch;
they did not know what to think when they saw him in that disarray. He

related his story, and they put his boots on for him, and if you had heard
him you would have thought that she who thus deceived him was not long
for this world, he so cursed and threatened her.
But angry as he was for a time, his anger soon cooled, and was
converted into sincere respect. Indeed he afterwards provided for her, and
married her at his own cost and expense to a rich and good husband, on
account of her frankness and loyalty.

STORY THE TWENTY-FIFTH — FORCED
WILLINGLY. 25
By Philippe De Saint-Yon.

Of a girl who complained of being forced by a young
man, whereas she herself had helped him to find that which
he sought;—and of the judgment which was given thereon.

The incident on which I found my story happened so recently that I
need not alter, nor add to, nor suppress, the facts. There recently came to the
provost at Quesnay, a fair wench, to complain of the force and violence she
had suffered owing to the uncontrollable lust of a young man. The
complaint being laid before the provost, the young man accused of this
crime was seized, and as the common people say, was already looked upon
as food for the gibbet, or the headsman’s axe.
The wench, seeing and knowing that he of whom she had complained
was in prison, greatly pestered the provost that justice might be done her,
declaring that without her will and consent, she had by force been violated
and dishonoured.
The provost, who was a discreet and wise man, and very experienced
in judicial matters, assembled together all the notables and chief men, and
commanded the prisoner to be brought forth, and he having come before the
persons assembled to judge him, was asked whether he would confess, by
torture or otherwise, the horrible crime laid to his charge, and the provost
took him aside and adjured him to tell the truth.
“Here is such and such a woman,” said he, “who complains bitterly
that you have forced her. Is it so? Have you forced her? Take care that you
tell the truth, for if you do not you will die, but if you do you will be
pardoned.”
“On my oath, provost,” replied the prisoner, “I will not conceal from
you that I have often sought her love. And, in fact, the day before yesterday,
after a long talk together, I laid her upon the bed, to do you know what, and

pulled up her dress, petticoat, and chemise. But my weasel could not find
her rabbit hole, and went now here now there, until she kindly showed it the
right road, and with her own hands pushed it in. I am sure that it did not
come out till it had found its prey, but as to force, by my oath there was
none.”
“Is that true?” asked the provost.
“Yes, on my oath,” answered the young man.
“Very good,” said he, “we shall soon arrange matters.”
After these words, the provost took his seat in the pontifical chair,
surrounded by all the notable persons; and the young man was seated on a
small bench in front of the judges, and all the people, and of her who
accused him.
‘“Now, my dear,” said the provost, “what have you to say about the
prisoner?”
“Provost!” said she, “I complain that he has forced me and violated me
against my will and in spite of me. Therefore I demand justice.”
“What have you to say in reply?” asked the provost of the prisoner.
“Sir,” he replied, “I have already told how it happened, and I do not
think she can contradict me.”
“My dear!” said the provost to the girl, “think well of what you are
saying! You complain of being forced. It is a very serious charge! He says
that he did not use any force, but that you consented, and indeed almost
asked for what you got. And if he speaks truly, you yourself directed his
weasel, which was wandering about near your rabbit-hole, and with your
two hands—or at least with one—pushed the said weasel into your burrow.
Which thing he could never have done without your help, and if you had
resisted but ever so little he would never have effected his purpose. If his
weasel was allowed to rummage in your burrow, that is not his fault, and he
is not punishable.”
“Ah, Provost,” said the girl plaintively, “what do you mean by that? It
is quite true, and I will not deny it, that I conducted his weasel into my
burrow—but why did I do so? By my oath, Sir, its head was so stiff, and its
muzzle so hard, that I was sure that it would make a large cut, or two or
three, on my belly, if I did not make haste and put it where it could do little
harm—and that is what I did.”

You may fancy what a burst of laughter there was at the end of this
trial, both from the judges and the public. The young man was discharged,
—to continue his rabbit-hunting if he saw fit.
The girl was angry that he was not hanged on a high forked tree for
having hung on her “low forks” (*). But this anger and resentment did not
last long, for as I heard afterwards on good authority, peace was concluded
between them, and the youth had the right to ferret in the coney burrow
whenever he felt inclined.

(*) A play upon words, which is not easily translatable, in
allusion to the gallows.

STORY THE TWENTY-SIXTH — THE
DAMSEL KNIGHT. 26
By Monseigneur De Foquessoles.

Of the loves of a young gentleman and a damsel, who
tested the loyalty of the gentleman in a marvellous and
courteous manner, and slept three nights with him without
his knowing that it was not a man,—as you will more fully
hear hereafter.

In the duchy of Brabant—not so long ago but that the memory of it is
fresh in the present day—happened a strange thing, which is worthy of
being related, and is not unfit to furnish a story. And in order that it should
be publicly known and reported, here is the tale.
In the household of a great baron of the said country there lived and
resided a young, gracious, and kind gentleman, named Gerard, who was
greatly in love with a damsel of the said household, named Katherine. And
when he found opportunity, he ventured to tell her of his piteous case. Most
people will be able to guess the answer he received, and therefore, to
shorten matters, I omit it here.
In due time Gerard and Katherine loved each other so warmly that
there was but one heart and one will between them. This loyal and perfect
love endured no little time—indeed two years passed away. Love, who
blinds the eyes of his disciples, had so blinded these two that they did not
know that this affection, which they thought secret, was perceived by every
one; there was not a man or a woman in the chateau who was not aware of
it—in fact the matter was so noised abroad that all the talk of the household
was of the loves of Gerard and Katherine.
These two poor, deluded fools were so much occupied with their own
affairs that they did not suspect their love affairs were discussed by others.
Envious persons, or those whom it did not concern, brought this love affair

to the knowledge of the master and mistress of the two lovers, and it also
came to the ears of the father and mother of Katherine.
Katherine was informed by a damsel belonging to the household, who
was one of her friends and companions, that her love for Gerard had been
discovered and revealed both to her father and mother, and also to the
master and mistress of the house.
“Alas, what is to be done, my dear sister and friend?” asked Katherine.
“I am lost, now that so many persons know, or guess at, my condition.
Advise me, or I am ruined, and the most unfortunate woman in the world,”
and at these words her eyes filled with tears, which rolled down her fair
cheeks and even fell to the edge of her robe.
Her friend was very vexed to see her grief, and tried to console her.
“My sister,” she said, “it is foolish to show such great grief; for, thank
God, no one can reproach you with anything that touches your honour or
that of your friends. If you have listened to the vows of a gentleman, that is
not a thing forbidden by the Court of Honour, it is even the path, the true
road, to arrive there. You have no cause for grief, for there is not a soul
living who can bring a charge against you. But, at any rate, I should advise
that, to stop chattering tongues which are discussing your love affairs, your
lover, Gerard, should, without more ado, take leave of our lord and lady,
alleging that he is to set out on a long voyage, or take part in some war now
going on, and, under that excuse, repair to some house and wait there until
God and Cupid have arranged matters. He will keep you informed by
messages how he is, and you will do the same to him; and by that time the
rumours will have ceased, and you can communicate with one another by
letter until better times arrive. And do not imagine that your love will cease
—it will be as great, or greater, than ever, for during a long time you will
only hear from each other occasionally, and that is one of the surest ways of
preserving love.”
The kind and good advice of this gentle dame was followed, for as
soon as Katherine found means to speak to her lover, Gerard, she told him
how the secret of their love had been discovered and had come to the
knowledge of her father and mother, and the master and mistress of the
house.
“And you may believe,” she said, “that it did not reach that point
without much talk on the part of those of the household and many of the

neighbours. And since Fortune is not so friendly to us as to permit us to live
happily as we began, but menaces us with further troubles, it is necessary to
be fore-armed against them. Therefore, as the matter much concerns me,
and still more you, I will tell you my opinion.”
With that she recounted at full length the good advice which had been
given by her friend and companion.
Gerard, who had expected a misfortune of this kind, replied;
“My loyal and dear mistress, I am your humble and obedient servant,
and, except God, I love no one so dearly as you. You may command me to
do anything that seems good to you, and whatever you order shall be
joyfully and willingly obeyed. But, believe me, there is nothing left for me
in the world when once I am removed from your much-wished-for
presence. Alas, if I must leave you, I fear that the first news you will hear
will be that of my sad and pitiful death, caused by your absence, but, be that
as it may, you are the only living person I will obey, and I prefer rather to
obey you and die, than live for ever and disobey you. My body is yours. Cut
it, hack it, do what you like with it!”
You may guess that Katherine was grieved and vexed at seeing her
lover, whom she adored more than anyone in the world, thus troubled. Had
it not been for the virtue with which God had largely endowed her, she
would have proposed to accompany him on his travels, but she hoped for
happier days, and refrained from making such a proposal. After a pause, she
replied;
“My friend you must go away, but do not forget her who has given you
her heart. And that you may have courage in the struggle which is imposed
on you, know that I promise you on my word that as long as I live I will
never marry any man but you of my own free-will, provided that you are
equally loyal and true to me, as I hope you will be. And in proof of this, I
give you this ring, which is of gold enamelled with black tears. If by chance
they would marry me to some one else, I will defend myself so stoutly that
you will be pleased with me, and I will prove to you that I can keep my
promise without flinching from it. And, lastly, I beg of you that wherever
you may stop, you will send me news about yourself, and I will do the
same.”
“Ah, my dear mistress,” said Gerard, “I see plainly that I must leave
you for a time. I pray to God that he will give you more joy and happiness

than I am likely to have. You have kindly given me, though I am not worthy
of it, a noble and honourable promise, for which I cannot sufficiently thank
you. Still less do I deserve it, but I venture in return to make a similar
promise, begging most humbly and with all my heart, that my vow may
have as great a weight as if it came from a much nobler man than I. Adieu,
dearest lady. My eyes demand their turn, and prevent my tongue from
speaking.”
With these words he kissed her, and pressed her tightly to his bosom,
and then each went away to think over his or her griefs.
God knows that they wept with their eyes, their hearts, and their heads,
but ere they showed themselves, they concealed all traces of their grief, and
put on a semblance of cheerfulness.
To cut matters short, Gerard did so much in a few days that he
obtained leave of absence from his master—which was not very difficult,
not that he had committed any fault, but owing to his love affair with
Katherine, with which her friends were not best pleased, seeing that Gerard
was not of such a good family or so rich as she was, and could not expect to
marry her.
So Gerard left, and covered such a distance in one day that he came to
Barrois, where he found shelter in the castle of a great nobleman of the
country; and being safely housed he soon sent news of himself to the lady,
who was very joyful thereat, and by the same messenger wrote to tell him
of her condition, and the goodwill she bore him, and how she would always
be loyal to him.
Now you must know that as soon as Gerard had left Brabant, many
gentlemen, knights and squires, came to Katherine, desiring above all things
to make her acquaintance, which during the time that Gerard had been there
they had been unable to do, knowing that her heart was already occupied.
Indeed many of them demanded her hand in marriage of her father, and
amongst them was one who seemed to him a very suitable match. So he
called together many of his friends, and summoned his fair daughter, and
told them that he was already growing old, and that one of the greatest
pleasures he could have in the world was to see his daughter well married
before he died. Moreover, he said to them;
“A certain gentleman has asked for my daughter’s hand, and he seems
to me a suitable match. If your opinion agrees with mine, and my daughter

will obey me, his honourable request will not be rejected.”
All his friends and relations approved of the proposed marriage, on
account of the virtues, riches, and other gifts of the said gentleman. But
when they asked the opinion of the fair Katherine, she sought to excuse
herself, and gave several reasons for refusing, or at least postponing this
marriage, but at last she saw that she would be in the bad books of her
father, her mother, her relatives, friends, and her master and mistress, if she
continued to keep her promise to her lover, Gerard.
At last she thought of a means by which she could satisfy her parents
without breaking her word to her lover, and said,
“My dearest lord and father, I do not wish to disobey you in anything
you may command, but I have made a vow to God, my creator, which I
must keep. Now I have made a resolution and sworn in my heart to God
that I would never marry unless He would of His mercy show me that that
condition was necessary for the salvation of my poor soul. But as I do not
wish to be a trouble to you, I am content to accept this condition of
matrimony, or any other that you please, if you will first give me leave to
make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Nicolas at Varengeville (*) which
pilgrimage I vowed and promised to make before I changed my present
condition.”

(*) A town of Lorraine, on the Meurthe, about six miles from
Kancy. Pilgrims flocked thither from all parts to worship
the relics of St. Nicolas.

She said this in order that she might see her lover on the road, and tell
him how she was constrained against her will.
Her father was rather pleased to hear the wise and dutiful reply of his
daughter. He granted her request, and wished to at once order her retinue,
and spoke to his wife about it when his daughter was present.
“We will give her such and such gentlemen, who with Ysabeau,
Marguerite and Jehanneton, will be sufficient for her condition.”
“Ah, my lord,” said Katherine, “if it so please you we will order it
otherwise. You know that the road from here to St. Nicolas is not very safe,
and that when women are to be escorted great precautions must be taken. I
could not go thus without great expense; moreover, the road is long, and if
it happened that we lost either our goods or honour (which may God

forfend) it would be a great misfortune. Therefore it seems good to me—
subject to your good pleasure—that there should be made for me a man’s
dress and that I should be escorted by my uncle, the bastard, each mounted
on a stout horse. We should go much quicker, more safely, and with less
expense, and I should have more confidence than with a large retinue.”
The good lord, having thought over the matter a little while, spoke
about it to his wife, and it seemed to them that the proposal showed much
common sense and dutiful feeling. So everything was prepared for their
departure.
They set out on their journey, the fair Katherine and her uncle, the
bastard, without any other companion. Katherine, who was dressed in the
German fashion very elegantly, was the master, and her uncle, the bastard,
was the serving man. They made such haste that their pilgrimage was soon
accomplished, as far as St. Nicolas was concerned, and, as they were on
their return journey-praising God for having preserved them, and talking
over various matters Katherine said to her uncle,
“Uncle, you know that I am sole heiress to my father, and that I could
bestow many benefits upon you, which I will most willingly do if you will
aid me in a small quest I am about to undertake—that is to go to the castle
of a certain lord of Barrois (whom she named) to see Gerard, whom you
know. And, in order that when we return we may have some news to tell,
we will demand hospitality, and if we obtain it we will stop there for some
days and see the country, and you need be under no fear but that I shall take
care of my honour, as a good girl should.”
The uncle, who hoped to be rewarded some day, and knew she was
virtuous, vowed to himself that he would keep an eye upon her, and
promised to serve her and accompany her wherever she wished. He was
much thanked no doubt, and it was then decided that he should call his
niece, Conrad.
They soon came, as they desired, to the wished-for place, and
addressed themselves to the lord’s major-domo, who was an old knight, and
who received them most joyfully and most honourably.
Conrad asked him if the lord, his master, did not wish to have in his
service a young gentleman who was fond of adventures, and desirous of
seeing various countries?

The major-domo asked him whence he came, and he replied, from
Brabant.
“Well then,” said the major-domo, “you shall dine here, and after
dinner I will speak to my lord.”
With that he had them conducted to a fair chamber, and ordered the
table to be laid, and a good fire to be lighted, and sent them soup and a
piece of mutton, and white wine while dinner was preparing.
Then he went to his master and told him of the arrival of a young
gentleman of Brabant, who wished to serve him, and the lord was content to
take the youth if he wished.
To cut matters short, as soon as he had served his master, he returned
to Conrad to dine with him, and brought with him, because he was of
Brabant, the aforesaid Gerard, and said to Conrad;
“Here is a young gentleman who belongs to your country.”
“I am glad to meet him,” said Conrad.
“And you are very welcome,” replied Gerard.
But he did not recognise his lady-love, though she knew him very
well.
Whilst they were making each other’s acquaintance, the meat was
brought in, and each took his place on either hand of the major-domo.
The dinner seemed long to Conrad, who hoped afterwards to have
some conversation with her lover, and expected also that she would soon be
recognised either by her voice, or by the replies she made to questions
concerning Brabant; but it happened quite otherwise, for during all the
dinner, the worthy Gerard did not ask after either man or woman in all
Brabant; which Conrad could not at all understand.
Dinner passed, and after dinner my lord engaged Conrad in his service;
and the major-domo, who was a thoughtful, experienced man, gave
instructions that as Gerard and Conrad came from the same place, they
should share the same chamber.
After this Gerard and Conrad went off arm in arm to look at their
horses, but as far as Gerard was concerned, if he talked about anything it
was not Brabant. Poor Conrad—that is to say the fair Katherine—began to
suspect that she was like forgotten sins, and had gone clean out of Gerard’s

mind; but she could not imagine why, at least, he did not ask about the lord
and lady with whom she lived. The poor girl was, though she could not
show it, in great distress of mind, and did not know what to do; whether to
still conceal her identity, and test him by some cunning phrases, or to
suddenly make herself known.
In the end she decided that she would still remain Conrad, and say
nothing about Katherine unless Gerard should alter his manner.
The evening passed as the dinner had done, and when they came to
their chamber, Gerard and Conrad spoke of many things, but not of the one
subject pleasing to the said Conrad. When he saw that the other only replied
in the words that were put into his mouth, she asked of what family he was
in Brabant, and why he left there, and where he was when he was there, and
he replied as it seemed good to him.
“And do you not know,” she said, “such and such a lord, and such
another?”
“By St. John, yes!” he replied.
Finally, she named the lord at whose castle she had lived; and he
replied that he knew him well, but not saying that he had lived there, or ever
been there in his life.
“It is rumoured,” she said, “there are some pretty girls there. Do you
know of any?”
“I know very little,” he replied, “and care less. Leave me alone; for I
am dying to go to sleep!”
“What!” she said. “Can you sleep when pretty girls are being talked
about? That is a sign that you are not in love!”
He did not reply, but slept like a pig, and poor Katherine began to have
serious doubts about him, but she resolved to try him again.
When the morrow came, each dressed himself, talking and chattering
meanwhile of what each liked best—Gerard of dogs and hawks, and Conrad
of the pretty girls of that place and Brabant.
After dinner, Conrad managed to separate Gerard from the others, and
told him that the country of Barrois was very flat and ugly, but Brabant was
quite different, and let him know that he (Conrad) longed to return thither.

“For what purpose?” asked Gerard. “What do you see in Brabant that
is not here? Have you not here fine forests for hunting, good rivers, and
plains as pleasant as could be wished for flying falcons, and plenty of game
of all sorts?”
“Still that is nothing!” said Conrad. “The women of Brabant are very
different, and they please me much more than any amount of hunting or
hawking!”
“By St. John! they are quite another affair,” said Gerard. “You are
exceedingly amorous in your Brabant, I dare swear!”
“By my oath!” said Conrad, “it is not a thing that can be hidden, for I
myself am madly in love. In fact my heart is drawn so forcibly that I fear I
shall be forced to quit your Barrois, for it will not be possible for me to live
long without seeing my lady love.”
“Then it was a madness,” said Gerard, “to have left her, if you felt
yourself so inconstant.”
“Inconstant, my friend! Where is the man who can guarantee that he
will be constant in love. No one is so wise or cautious that he knows for
certain how to conduct himself. Love often drives both sense and reason out
of his followers.”
The conversation dropped as supper time came, and was not renewed
till they were in bed. Gerard would have desired nothing better than to go to
sleep, but Conrad renewed the discussion, and began a piteous, long, and
sad complaint about his ladylove (which, to shorten matters, I omit) and at
last he said,
“Alas, Gerard, and how can you desire to sleep whilst I am so wide
awake, and my soul is filled with cares, and regrets, and troubles. It is
strange that you are not a little touched yourself, for, believe me, if it were a
contagious disease you could not be so close to me and escape unscathed. I
beg of you, though you do not feel yourself, to have some pity and
compassion on me, for I shall die soon if I do not behold my lady-love.”
“I never saw such a love-sick fool!” cried Gerard. “Do you think that I
have never been in love? I know what it is, for I have passed through it the
same as you—certainly I have! But I was never so love-mad as to lose my
sleep or upset myself, as you are doing now. You are an idiot, and your love

is not worth a doit. Besides do you think your lady is the same as you are?
No, no!”
“I am sure she is,” replied Conrad; “she is so true-hearted.”
“Ah, you speak as you wish,” said Gerard, “but I do not believe that
women are so true as to always remain faithful to their vows; and those who
believe in them are blockheads. Like you, I have loved, and still love. For,
to tell you the truth, I left Brabant on account of a love affair, and when I
left I was high in the graces of a very beautiful, good, and noble damsel,
whom I quitted with much regret; and for no small time I was in great grief
at not being able to see her—though I did not cease to sleep, drink, or eat,
as you do. When I found that I was no longer able to see her, I cured myself
by following Ovid’s advice, for I had not been here long before I made the
acquaintance of a pretty girl in the house, and so managed, that—thank God
—she now likes me very much, and I love her. So that now I have forgotten
the one I formerly loved, and only care for the one I now possess, who has
turned my thoughts from my old love!”
“What!” cried Conrad. “Is it possible that, if you really loved the other,
you can so soon forget her and desert her? I cannot understand nor imagine
how that can be!”
“It is so, nevertheless, whether you understand it or not.” “That is not
keeping faith loyally,” said Conrad. “As for me, I would rather die a
thousand times, if that were possible, than be so false to my lady. However
long God may let me live, I shall never have the will, or even the lightest
thought, of ever loving any but her.”
“So much the greater fool you,” said Gerard, “and if you persevere in
this folly, you will never be of any good, and will do nothing but dream and
muse; and you will dry up like the green herb that is cast into the furnace,
and kill yourself, and never have known any pleasure, and even your
mistress will laugh at you,—if you are lucky enough to be remembered by
her at all.”
“Well!” said Conrad. “You are very experienced in love affairs. I
would beg of you to be my intermediary, here or elsewhere, and introduce
me to some damsel that I may be cured like you.”
“I will tell you what I will do,” said Gerard. “Tomorrow I will speak to
my mistress and tell her that we are comrades, and ask her to speak to one
of her lady friends, who will undertake your business, and I do not doubt

but that, if you like, you will have a good time, and that the melancholy
which now bears you down will disappear—if you care to get rid of it.”
“If it were not for breaking my vow to my mistress, I should desire
nothing better,” said Conrad, “but at any rate I will try it.”
With that Gerard turned over and went to sleep, but Katherine was so
stricken with grief at seeing and hearing the falsehood of him whom she
loved more than all the world, that she wished herself dead and more than
dead. Nevertheless, she put aside all feminine feeling, and assumed manly
vigour. She even had the strength of mind to talk for a long time the next
day with the girl who loved the man she had once adored; and even
compelled her heart and eyes to be witnesses of many interviews and love
passages that were most galling to her.
Whilst she was talking to Gerard’s mistress, she saw the ring that she
had given her unfaithful lover, but she was not so foolish as to admire it, but
nevertheless found an opportunity to examine it closely on the girl’s finger,
but appeared to pay no heed to it, and soon afterwards left.
As soon as supper was over, she went to her uncle, and said to him;
“We have been long enough in Barrois! It is time to leave. Be ready to-
morrow morning at daybreak, and I will be also. And take care that all our
baggage is prepared. Come for me as early as you like.”
“You have but to come down when you will,” replied the uncle.
Now you must know that after supper, whilst Gerard was conversing
with his mistress, she who had been his lady-love went to her chamber and
began to write a letter, which narrated at full length the love affairs of
herself and Gerard, also “the promises which they made at parting, how
they had wished to marry her to another and how she had refused, and the
pilgrimage that she had undertaken to keep her word and come to him, and
the disloyalty and falsehood she had found in him, in word, act, and deed.
And that, for the causes mentioned, she held herself free and disengaged
from the promise she had formerly made. And that she was going to return
to her own country and never wished to see him or meet him again, he
being the falsest man who ever made vows to a woman. And as regards the
ring that she had given him, that he had forfeited it by passing it into the
hands of a third person. And if he could boast that he had lain three nights
by her side, there was no harm, and he might say what he liked, and she was
not afraid.”

Letter written by a hand you ought to know, and underneath Katherine
etc., otherwise known as Conrad; and on the back, To the false Gerard etc.
She scarcely slept all night, and as soon as she saw the dawn, she rose
gently and dressed herself without awaking Gerard. She took the letter,
which she had folded and sealed, and placed it in the sleeve of Gerard’s
jerkin; then in a vow voice prayed to God for him, and wept gently on
account of the grief she endured on account of the falseness she had met
with.
Gerard still slept, and did not reply a word. Then she went to her uncle,
who gave her her horse which she mounted, and they left the country, and
soon came to Brabant, where they were joyfully received, God knows.
You may imagine that all sorts of questions were asked about their
adventures and travels, and how they had managed, but whatever they
replied they took care to say nothing about their principal adventure.
But to return to Gerard. He awoke about 10 o’clock on the morning of
the day when Katherine left, and looked to see if his companion Conrad
was already risen. He did not know it was so late, and jumped out of bed in
haste to seek for his jerkin. When he put his arm in the sleeve, out dropped
the letter, at which he was much astonished, for he did not remember
putting it there.
At any rate, he picked it up, and saw that it was sealed, and had written
on the back, To the false Gerard. If he had been astonished before, he was
still more so now.
After a little while he opened it and saw the signature, Katherine
known as Conrad etc.
He did not know what to think, nevertheless he read the letter, and in
reading it the blood mounted to his cheeks, and his heart sank within him,
so that he was quite changed both in looks and complexion.
He finished reading the letter the best way he could, and learned that
his falseness had come to the knowledge of her who wished so well to him,
and that she knew him to be what he was, not by the report of another
person, but by her own eyes; and what touched him most to the heart was
that he had lain three nights with her without having thanked her for the
trouble she had taken to come so far to make trial of his love.

He champed the bit, and was wild with rage, when he saw how he had
been mystified. After much thought, he resolved that the best thing to do
was to follow her, as he thought he might overtake her.
He took leave of his master and set out, and followed the trail of their
horses, but did not catch them up before they came to Brabant, where he
arrived opportunely on the day of the marriage of the woman who had
tested his affection.
He wished to kiss her and salute her, and make some poor excuse for
his fault, but he was not able to do so, for she turned her back on him, and
he could not, all the time that he was there, find an opportunity of talking
with her.
Once he advanced to lead her to the dance, but she flatly refused in the
face of all the company, many of whom took note of the incident. For, not
long after, another gentleman entered, and caused the minstrels to strike up,
and advanced towards her, and she came down and danced with him.
Thus, as you have heard, did the false lover lose his mistress. If there
are others like him, let them take warning by this example, which is
perfectly true, and is well known, and happened not so very long ago.

STORY THE TWENTY-SEVENTH — THE
HUSBAND IN THE CLOTHES-CHEST. 27
By Monseigneur De Beauvoir.

Of a great lord of this kingdom and a married lady, who
in order that she might be with her lover caused her
husband to be shut in a clothes-chest by her waiting women,
and kept him there all the night, whilst she passed the time
with her lover; and of the wagers made between her and the
said husband, as you will find afterwards recorded.

It is not an unusual thing, especially in this country, for fair dames and
damsels to often and willingly keep company with young gentlemen, and
the pleasant joyful games they have together, and the kind requests which
are made, are not difficult to guess.
Not long ago, there was a most noble lord, who might be reckoned as
one of the princes, but whose name shall not issue from my pen, who was
much in the good graces of a damsel who was married, and of whom report
spoke so highly that the greatest personage in the kingdom might have
deemed himself lucky to be her lover.
She would have liked to prove to him how greatly she esteemed him,
but it was not easy; there were so many adversaries and enemies to be
outwitted. And what more especially annoyed her was her worthy husband,
who kept to the house and played the part of the cursed Dangier, (*) and the
lover could not find any honourable excuse to make him leave.

(*) Allegorical personage typifying jealousy, taken from Le
Romaunt de la Rose.

As you may imagine, the lover was greatly dissatisfied at having to
wait so long, for he desired the fair quarry, the object of his long chase,
more than he had ever desired anybody in all his life.

For this cause he continued to importune his mistress, till she said to
him.
“I am quite as displeased as you can be that I can give you no better
welcome; but, you know, as long as my husband is in the house he must be
considered.”
“Alas!” said he, “cannot you find any method to abridge my hard and
cruel martyrdom?”
She—who as has been said above, was quite as desirous of being with
her lover as he was with her—replied;
“Come to-night, at such and such an hour, and knock at my chamber
door. I will let you in, and will find some method to be freed from my
husband, if Fortune does not upset our plans.”
Her lover had never heard anything which pleased him better, and after
many gracious thanks,—which he was no bad hand at making—he left her,
and awaited the hour assigned.
Now you must know that a good hour or more before the appointed
time, our gentle damsel, with her women and her husband, had withdrawn
to her chamber after supper; nor was her imagination idle, but she studied
with all her mind how she could keep her promise to her lover. Now she
thought of one means, now of another, but nothing occurred to her by which
she could get rid of her cursed husband; and all the time the wished-for
hour was fast approaching.
Whilst she was thus buried in thought, Fortune was kind enough to do
her a good turn, and her husband a bad one.
He was looking round the chamber, and by chance he saw at the foot
of the bed his wife’s clothes-chest. In order to make her speak, and arouse
her from her reverie, he asked what that chest was used for, and why they
did not take it to the wardrobe, or some other place where it would be more
suitable.
“There is no need, Monseigneur,” said Madame; “no one comes here
but us. I left it here on purpose, because there are still some gowns in it, but
if you are not pleased, my dear, my women will soon take it away.”
“Not pleased?” said he. “No, I am not; but I like it as much here as
anywhere else, since it pleases you; but it seems to me much too small to

hold your gowns well without crumpling them, seeing what great and long
trains are worn now.”
“By my word, sir,” said she, “it is big enough.”
“It hardly seems so,” replied he, “really; and I have looked at it well.”
“Well, sir,” said she, “will you make a bet with me?”
“Certainly I will,” he answered; “what shall it be?”
“I will bet, if you like, half a dozen of the best shirts against the satin
to make a plain petticoat, that we can put you inside the box just as you
are.”
“On my soul,” said he, “I will bet I cannot get in.”
“And I will bet you can.”
“Come on!” said the women. “We will soon see who is the winner.”
“It will soon be proved,” said Monsieur, and then he made them take
out of the chest all the gowns which were in it, and when it was empty,
Madam and her women put in Monsieur easily enough.
Then there was much chattering, and discussion, and laughter, and
Madam said;
“Well, sir; you have lost your wager! You own that, do you not?”
“Yes,” said he, “you are right.”
As he said these words, the chest was locked, and the girls all
laughing, playing, and dancing, carried both chest and man together, and
put it in a big cupboard some distance away from the chamber.
He cried, and struggled, and made a great noise; but it was no good,
and he was left there all the night. He could sleep, or think, or do the best he
could, but Madam had given secret instructions that he was not to be let out
that day, because she had been too much bothered by him already.
But to return to the tale we had begun. We will leave our man in his
chest, and talk about Madam, who was awaiting her lover, surrounded by
her waiting women, who were so good and discreet that they never revealed
any secrets. They knew well enough that the dearly beloved adorer was to
occupy that night the place of the man who was doing penance in the
clothes-chest.
They did not wait long before the lover, without making any noise or
scare, knocked at the chamber door, and they knew his knock, and quickly

let him in. He was joyfully received and kindly entertained by Madam and
her maids; and he was glad to find himself alone with his lady love, who
told him what good fortune God had given her, that is to say how she had
made a bet with her husband that he could get into the chest, how he had
got in, and how she and her women had carried him away to a cupboard.
“What?” said her lover. “I cannot believe that he is in the house. By
my word, I believed that you had found some excuse to send him out whilst
I took his place with you for a time.”
“You need not go,” she said. “He cannot get out of where he is. He
may cry as much as he will, but there is no one here likes him well enough
to let him out, and there he will stay; but if you would like to have him set
free, you have but to say so.”
“By Our Lady,” said he, “if he does not come out till I let him out, he
will wait a good long time.”
“Well then, let us enjoy ourselves,” said she, “and think no more about
him.”
To cut matters short, they both undressed, and the two lovers lay down
in the fair bed, and did what they intended to do, and which is better
imagined than described.
When day dawned, her paramour took leave of her as secretly as he
could, and returned to his lodgings to sleep, I hope, and to breakfast, for he
had need of both.
Madam, who was as cunning as she was wise and good, rose at the
usual hour, and said to her women;
“It will soon be time to let out our prisoner. I will go and see what he
says, and whether he will pay his ransom.”
“Put all the blame on us,” they said. “We will appease him.”
“All right, I will do so,” she said.
With these words she made the sign of the Cross, and went
nonchalantly, as though not thinking what she was doing, into the cupboard
where her husband was still shut up in the chest. And when he heard her he
began to make a great noise and cry out, “Who is there? Why do you leave
me locked up here?”

His good wife, who heard the noise he was making replied timidly, as
though frightened, and playing the simpleton;
“Heavens! who is it that I hear crying?”
“It is I! It is I!” cried the husband.
“You?” she cried; “and where do you come from at this time?”
“Whence do I come?” said he. “You know very well, madam. There is
no need for me to tell you—but what you did to me I will some day do to
you,”—for he was so angry that he would willingly have showered abuse
upon his wife, but she cut him short, and said;
“Sir, for God’s sake pardon me. On my oath I assure you that I did not
know you were here now, for, believe me, I am very much astonished that
you should be still here, for I ordered my women to let you out whilst I was
at prayers, and they told me they would do so; and, in fact, one of them told
me that you had been let out, and had gone into the town, and would not
return home, and so I went to bed soon afterwards without waiting for you.”
“Saint John!” said he; “you see how it is. But make haste and let me
out, for I am so exhausted that I can stand it no longer.”
“That may well be,” said she, “but you will not come out till you have
promised to pay me the wager you lost, and also pardon me, or otherwise I
will not let you out.”
“Make haste, for God’s sake! I will pay you—really.”
“And you promise?”
“Yes—on my oath!”
This arrangement being concluded, Madam opened the chest, and
Monsieur came out, tired, cramped, and exhausted.
She took him by the arm, and kissed him, and embraced him as gently
as could be, praying to God that he would not be angry.
The poor blockhead said that he was not angry with her, because she
knew nothing about it, but that he would certainly punish her women.
“By my oath, sir,” said she, “they are well revenged upon you—for I
expect you have done something to them.”
“Not I certainly, that I know of—but at any rate the trick they have
played me will cost them dear.”

He had hardly finished this speech, when all the women came into the
room, and laughed so loudly and so heartily that they could not say a word
for a long time; and Monsieur, who was going to do such wonders, when he
saw them laugh to such a degree, had not the heart to interfere with them.
Madame, to keep him company, did not fail to laugh also. There was a
marvellous amount of laughing, and he who had the least cause to laugh,
laughed one of the loudest.
After a certain time, this amusement ceased, and Monsieur said;
“Mesdames, I thank you much for the kindness you have done me.”
“You are quite welcome, sir,” said one of the women, “and still we are
not quits. You have given us so much trouble, and caused as so much
mischief, that we owed you a grudge, and if we have any regret it is that
you did not remain in the box longer. And, in fact, if it had not been for
Madame you would still be there;—so you may take it how you will!”
“Is that so?” said he. “Well, well, you shall see how I will take it. By
my oath I am well treated, when, after all I have suffered, I am only
laughed, at, and what is still worse, must pay for the satin for the petticoat.
Really, I ought to have the shirts that were bet, as a compensation for what I
have suffered.”
“By Heaven, he is right,” said the women. “We are on your side as to
that, and you shall have them. Shall he not have them, Madame?”
“On what grounds?” said she. “He lost the wager.”
“Oh, yes, we know that well enough: he has no right to them,—indeed
he does not ask for them on that account, but he has well deserved them for
another reason.”
“Never mind about that,” said Madame. “I will willingly give the
material out of love for you, mesdames, who have so warmly pleaded for
him, if you will undertake to do the sewing.”
“Yes, truly, Madame.”
Like one who when he wakes in the morning has but to give himself a
shake and he is ready, Monsieur needed but a bunch of twigs to beat his
clothes and he was ready, and so he went to Mass; and Madame and her
women followed him, laughing loudly at him I can assure you.
And you may imagine that during the Mass there was more than one
giggle when they remembered that Monsieur, whilst he was in the chest

(though he did not know it himself) had been registered in the book which
has no name. (*) And unless by chance this book falls into his hands, he
will never,—please God—know of his misfortune, which on no account
would I have him know. So I beg of any reader who may know him, to take
care not to show it to him.

(*) The Book of Cuckolds.

STORY THE TWENTY-EIGHTH — THE
INCAPABLE LOVER. 28
By Messire Miohaut De Changy.

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

If in the time of the most renowned and eloquent Boccaccio, the
adventure which forms the subject of my tale had come to his knowledge, I
do not doubt but that he would have added it to his stories of great men who
met with bad fortune. For I think that no nobleman ever had a greater
misfortune to bear than the good lord (whom may God pardon!) whose
adventure I will relate, and whether his ill fortune is worthy to be in the
aforesaid books of Boccaccio, I leave those who hear it to judge.
The good lord of whom I speak was, in his time, one of the great
princes of this kingdom, apparelled and furnished with all that befits a
nobleman; and amongst his other qualities was this,—that never was man
more destined to be a favourite with the ladies.
Now it happened to him at the time when his fame in this respect most
flourished, and everybody was talking about him, that Cupid, who casts his
darts wherever he likes, caused him to be smitten by the charms of a
beautiful, young, gentle and gracious damsel, who also had made a
reputation second to no other of that day on account of her great and
unequalled beauty and her good manners and virtues, and who, moreover,
was such a favourite with the Queen of that country that she shared the
royal bed on the nights when the said Queen did not sleep with the king.
This love affair, I must tell you, had advanced to such a point that each
only desired time and place to say and do what would most please both.

They were many days considering how to find a convenient opportunity,
and at last, she—who was as anxious for the welfare of her lover as she was
for the safety of her own reputation—thought of a good plan, of which she
hastened to inform him, saying as follows;
“My dearest friend, you know that I sleep with the Queen, and that it is
not possible for me—unless I would spoil everything—to resign that
honour and position which the noblest lady of the land would think herself
proud and happy to obtain. So that, though I would like to please you and
do your pleasure, I would remain on good terms with her, and not desert her
who can and does give me all the advancement and honour in the world. I
do not suppose that you would have me act otherwise.”
“No, by my soul, dearest,” replied the worthy lord; “but at any rate I
would beg you that in serving your mistress your devoted lover should not
be forgotten, and that you do for him all that lies in your power, for he
would rather gain your love and good-will than aught else in the world.”
“This is what I will do for you, Monseigneur,” said she. “The Queen,
as you know, has a greyhound of which she is very fond, that sleeps in her
chamber. I will find means to shut it out of the room without her
knowledge, and when everybody has retired, I will jump out of bed, run to
the reception room, and unbolt the door. Then, when you think that the
Queen is in bed, you must come quietly, and enter the reception room and
close the door after you. There you will find the greyhound, who knows you
well enough, and will let you approach it; pull its ears and make it cry out,
and when the Queen hears that, I expect that she will make me get out of
bed at once to let it in. Then I will come to you, and fail me not, if ever you
would speak to me again.”
“My most dear and loyal sweetheart,” said Monseigneur, “I thank you
all I can. Be sure that I will fail not to be there.”
Then he rose and went away, and the lady also; each thinking and
desiring how to carry out the proposed plan.
What need of a long story? The greyhound wanted to come into the
chamber of his mistress at the usual time, as it had been accustomed, but the
damsel had condemned it to banishment, and it was quickly made to beat a
retreat. The Queen went to bed without noticing the absence of the dog, and
soon afterwards there came to keep her company, the gentle damsel, who
was only waiting to hear the greyhound cry out as the signal for the battle.

It was not long before the worthy lord set to work, and soon managed
to reach the chamber where the greyhound was sleeping. He felt for it, with
his foot or with his hand, until he found it, then he took it by the ears and
made it cry aloud two or three times.
The Queen, who heard it, soon knew that it was her greyhound, and
thought that it wanted to come in. She called the damsel, and said;
“My dear, my greyhound is howling outside. Get up, and let it in!”
“Willingly, madam,” said the damsel, and as she awaited the battle, the
day and hour of which she had herself appointed, she only armed herself
with her chemise, and in that guise, came to the door and opened it, and
soon met with him who was awaiting her.
He was so delighted and so surprised to see his ladylove so beautiful,
and so well-prepared for the encounter, that he lost his strength and sense,
and had not force enough left to draw his dagger, and try whether it could
penetrate her cuirass. Of kissing, and cuddling, and playing with her
breasts, he could do plenty; but for the grand operation—nihil.
So the fair damsel was forced to return without leaving him that which
he could not gain by force of arms. But when she would quit him, he tried
to detain her by force and by soft speeches, but she dared not stay, so she
shut the door in his face, and came back to the Queen, who asked her if she
had let the greyhound in? And she said, “No, because she could not find it
though she had looked well for it.”
“Oh, well” said the Queen, “go to bed. It will be all right.”
The poor lover was very dissatisfied with himself, and thought himself
dishonoured and disgraced, for he had up till then had such confidence in
himself that he believed he could in less than one hour have tackled three
ladies, and come off every time with honour.
At last his courage returned, and he said to himself that if he ever were
so fortunate as to find another such opportunity with his sweetheart, she
should not escape as she did the previous time.
Thus animated and spurred on by shame and desire, he again took the
greyhound by the ears, and made it cry out much louder than it had before.
Awakened by this cry, the Queen again sent her damsel, who opened
the door as before, but had to return to her mistress without getting any
more pleasure than she had the first time.

A third time did the poor gentleman do all in his power to tumble her,
but the devil a bit could he find a lance to encounter her with, though she
awaited his onslaught with a firm foot. And when she saw that she could not
have her basket pierced, and that he could not lay his lance in rest, whatever
advantage she gave him, she knew that the joust had come to nothing, and
had a very poor opinion of the jouster.
She would no longer stay with him for all that he could say or do. She
wished to return to the chamber, but her lover held her by force and said;
“Alas, sweetheart, stay a little longer, I pray!”
“I cannot,” she said: “let me go! I have stayed too long already,
considering the little I got by it,” and with that she turned towards the
chamber, but he followed her and tried to detain her.
When she saw that—to pay him out, and also hoodwink the Queen—
she called out loud,
“Get out! get out! dirty beast that you are! By God! you shall not come
in here, dirty beast that you are!” and so saying she closed the door.
The Queen, who heard it, asked,
“To whom are you speaking, my dear?”
“To this dirty dog, madam, who has given me such trouble to look for
him. He was lying quite flat, and with his nose on the ground, hidden under
a bench, so that I could not find him. And when I did find him he would not
get up for anything that I could do. I would willingly have put him in, but
he would not deign to lift up his head, so, in disgust, I have shut the door
upon him and left him outside.”
“You did quite right, my dear,” said the Queen. “Come to bed, and go
to sleep!”
Such, as you have heard, was the bad luck of this noble lord; and since
he could not when his lady would, I believe that since then, when he had the
power, his lady’s will was not to be had.

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

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

It is not a hundred years ago since a young gentleman of this country
wished to know and experience the joys of matrimony, and—to cut matters
short—the much-desired day of his marriage duly came.
After much good cheer and the usual amusements, the bride was put to
bed, and a short time afterwards her husband followed, and lay close to her,
and without delay duly began the assault on her fortress. With some trouble
he entered in and gained the stronghold, but you must understand that he
did not complete the conquest without accomplishing many feats of arms
which it would take long to enumerate; for before he came to the donjon of
the castle he had other outworks, with which it was provided, to carry, like a
place that had never been taken or was still quite new, and which nature had
provided with many defences.
When he was master of the place, he broke his lance, and ceased the
assault. But the fair damsel when she saw herself at the mercy of her
husband, and how he had foraged the greater part of her manor, wished to
show him a prisoner whom she held confined in a secret place,—or to speak
plainly she was delivered on the spot, after this first encounter, of a fine
boy; at which her husband was so ashamed and so astonished that he did
not know what to do except to hold his tongue.
Out of kindness and pity, he did all that he possibly could for both
mother and child, but, as you may believe, the poor woman could not
restrain from uttering a loud cry when the child was born. Many persons

heard this cry, and believed that it was “the cry of the maidenhead,” (*)
which is a custom of this country.

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

Immediately all the gentlemen in the house where the bridegroom
resided, came and knocked at the door of the chamber, and brought the
caudle; but though they knocked loudly they received no reply, for the bride
was in a condition in which silence is excusable, and the bridegroom had
not much to chatter about.
“What is the matter?” cried the guests. “Why do you not open the
door? If you do not make haste we will break it open; the caudle we have
brought you will be quite cold;” and they began to knock louder than ever.
But the bridegroom would not have uttered a word for a hundred
francs; at which those outside did not know what to think, for he was not
ordinarily a silent man. At last he rose, and put on a dressing-gown he had,
and let in his friends, who soon asked him whether the caudle had been
earned, and what sort of a time he had had? Then one of them laid the table-
cloth, and spread the banquet, for they had everything prepared, and spared
nothing in such cases. They all sat round to eat, and the bridegroom took his
seat in a high-backed chair placed near his bed, looking very stupid and
pitiful as you may imagine. And whatever the others said, he did not answer
a word, but sat there like a statue or a carved idol.
“What is the matter?” cried one. “You take no notice of the excellent
repast that our host has provided. You have not said a single word yet.”
“Marry!” said another, “he has no jokes ready.”
“By my soul!” said another, “marriage has wondrous properties. He
has but been married an hour and he has lost his tongue. If he goes on at
that rate there will soon be nothing left of him.”
To tell the truth, he had formerly been known as a merry fellow, fond
of a joke, and never uttered a word but a jest; but now he was utterly cast
down.

The gentlemen drank to the bride and bridegroom, but devil a drop
would either of them quaff in return; the one was in a violent rage, and the
other was far from being at ease.
“I am not experienced in these affairs,” said a gentleman, “but it seems
we must feast by ourselves. I never saw a man with such a grim-looking
face, and so soon sobered by a woman. You might hear a pin drop in his
company. Marry! his loud jests are small enough now!”
“I drink to the bridegroom,” said another, but the bridegroom neither
drank, eat, laughed, or spoke. Nevertheless, after some time that he had
been both scolded and teased by his friends, like a wild boar at bay, he
retorted;
“Gentlemen, I have listened for some time to your jokes and reproofs.
I would like you to understand that I have good reason to reflect and keep
silent, and I am sure that there is no one here but would do the same if he
had the same reasons that I have. By heavens! if I were as rich as the King
of France, or the Duke of Burgundy, or all the princes of Christendom, I
should not be able to provide that which, apparently, I shall have to provide.
I have but touched my wife once, and she has brought forth a child! Now if
each time that I begin again she does the same, how shall I be able to keep
my family?”
“What? a child?” said his friends.
“Yes, yes! Really a child! Look here!” and he turned towards the bed
and lifted up the clothes and showed them.
“There!” said he. “There is the cow and the calf! Am I not well
swindled?”
Many of his friends were much astonished, and quite excused their
host’s conduct, and went away each to his own home. And the poor
bridegroom abandoned his newly-delivered bride the first night, fearing that
she would do the same another time, and not knowing what would become
of him if so.

STORY THE THIRTIETH — THE THREE
CORDELIERS
By Monsigneur de Beauvoir

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

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

It is as true as the Gospel, that three worthy merchants of Savoy set out
with their wives to go on a pilgrimage to St. Anthony of Vienne. And in
order to render their journey more devout and more agreeable to God and
St. Anthony, they determined that from the time they left their houses, and
all through the journey, they would not sleep with their wives, but live in
continence, both going and returning.
They arrived one night in the town, where they found good lodgings,
and had excellent cheer at supper, like those who have plenty of money and
know well what to do with it, and enjoyed themselves so much that each
determined to break his oath, and sleep with his wife.
However, it happened otherwise, for when it was time to retire to rest,
the women said good night to their husbands and left them, and shut
themselves up in a chamber near, where each had ordered her bed to be
made.
Now you must know that that same evening there arrived in the house
three Cordeliers, who were going to Geneva, and who ordered a chamber
not very far from that of the merchant’s wives.

The women, when they were alone, began to talk about a hundred
thousand things, and though there were only three of them they made
enough noise for forty.
The good Cordeliers, hearing all this womens’ chatter, came out of
their chamber, without making any noise, and approached the door without
being heard. They saw three pretty women, each lying by herself in a fair
bed, big enough to accommodate a second bed-fellow; then they saw and
heard also the three husbands go to bed in another chamber, and they said to
themselves that fortune had done them a good turn, and that they would be
unworthy to meet with any other good luck if they were cowardly enough to
allow this opportunity to escape them.
“So,” said one of them, “there needs no further deliberation as to what
we are to do; we are three and they are three—let each take his place when
they are asleep.”
As it was said, so it was done, and such good luck had the good
brothers that they found the key of the room in which the women were, and
opened the door so gently that they were not heard by a soul, and they were
not such fools when they had gained the outworks as not to close the door
after them and take out the key, and then, without more ado, each picked
out a bed-fellow, and began to ruffle her as well as he could.
One of the women, believing it was her husband, spoke, and said;
“What are you doing? Do you not remember your vow?” But the good
Cordelier answered not a word, but did that for which he came, and did it so
energetically that she could not help assisting in the performance.
The other two also were not idle, and the good women did not know
what had caused their husbands thus to break their vow. Nevertheless, they
thought they ought to obey, and bear it all patiently without speaking, each
being afraid of being heard by her companions, for really each thought that
she alone was getting the benefit.
When the good Cordeliers had done all they could, they left without
saying a word, and returned to their chamber, each recounting his
adventures. One had broken three lances; another, four; and the other, six.
They rose early in the morning, and left the town.
The good ladies, who had not slept all night, did not rise very early in
the morning, for they fell asleep at daybreak, which caused them to get up

late.
On the other hand, their husbands, who had supped well the previous
night, and who expected to be called by their wives, slept heavily till an
hour so late that on other days they had generally travelled two leagues by
that time.
At last the women got up, and dressed themselves as quickly as they
could, and not without talking. And, amongst other things, the one who had
the longest tongue, said;
“Between ourselves, mesdames—how have you passed the night?
Have your husbands worked like mine did? He has not ceased to ruffle me
all night.”
“By St. John!” said they, “if your husband ruffled you well last night,
ours have not been idle. They have soon forgotten what they promised at
parting; though believe us we did not forget to remind them.”
“I warned mine also,” said the first speaker, “when he began, but he
did not leave off working, and hurried on like a hungry man who had been
deprived of my company for two nights.”
When they were attired, they went to find their husbands, who were
already dressed;
“Good morning, good morning! you sleepers!” cried the ladies.
“Thank you,” said the men, “for having called us.”
“By my oath!” said one lady. “We have no more qualms of conscience
for not calling you than you have for breaking your vow.”
“What vow?” said one of the men.
“The vow,” said she, “that you made on leaving, not to sleep with your
wife.”
“And who has slept with his wife?” asked he. “You know well
enough,” said she, “and so do I.”
“And I also,” said her companion. “Here is my husband who never
gave me such a tumbling as he did last night—indeed if he had not done his
duty so well I should not be so pleased that he had broken his vow, but I
pass over that, for I suppose he is like young children, who when they know
they deserve punishment, think they may as well be hanged for a sheep as a
lamb.”

“By St. John! so did mine!” cried the third. “But I am not going to
scold him for it. If there was any harm done there was good reason for it.”
“And I declare by my oath,” cried one of the men, “that you dream,
and that you are drunken with sleep. As for me I slept alone, and did not
leave my bed all night.”
“Nor did I,” said another.
“Nor I, by St. John!” said the third. “I would not on any account break
my oath. And I feel sure that my friend here, and my neighbour there, who
also promised, have not so quickly forgotten.”
The women began to change colour and to suspect some trickery,
when one of the husbands began to fear the truth. Without giving the
women time to reply, he made a sign to his companions, and said, laughing;
“By my oath, madam, the good wine here, and the excellent cheer last
night made us forget our promise; but be not displeased at the adventure; if
it please God we each last night, with your help, made a fine baby, which is
a work of great merit, and will be sufficient to wipe out the fault of breaking
our vow!”
“May God will it so!” said the women. “But you so strongly declared
that you had not been near us that we began to doubt a little.”
“We did it on purpose,” said he, “in order to hear what you would say.”
“And so you committed a double sin; first to break your oath, then to
knowingly lie about it; and also you have much troubled us.”
“Do not worry yourselves about that,” said he; “it is no great matter;
but go to Mass, and we will follow you.”
The women set out towards the church, and their husbands remained
behind, without following them too closely; then they all said together,
without picking their words;
“We are deceived! Those devils of Cordeliers have cuckolded us; they
have taken our places, and shown us the folly of not sleeping with our
wives. They should never have slept out of our rooms, and if it was
dangerous to be in bed with them, is there not plenty of good straw to be
had?”
“Marry!” said one of them, “we are well punished this time; but at any
rate it is better that the trick should only be known to us than to us and our

wives, for there would be much danger if it came to their knowledge. You
hear by their confession that these ribald monks have done marvels—both
more and better than we could do. And, if our wives knew that, they would
not be satisfied with this experience only. My advice is that we swallow the
business without chewing it.”
“So help me God!” cried the third, “my friend speaks well. As for me,
I revoke my vow, for it is not my intention to run any more risks.”
“As you will,” said the other two; “and we will follow your example.”
So all the rest of the journey the wives slept with their husbands,
though the latter took care not to explain the cause. And when the women
saw that, they demanded the cause of this sudden change. And they
answered deceitfully, that as they had begun to break their vow they had
better go on.
Thus were the three worthy merchants deceived by the three good
Cordeliers, without it ever coming to the knowledge of their wives, who
would have died of grief had they known the truth; for every day we see
women die for less cause and occasion.

STORY THE THIRTY-FIRST — TWO LOVERS
FOR ONE LADY. 31
By Monseigneur De La Barde.

Of a squire who found the mule of his companion, and mounted
thereon and it took him to the house of his master’s mistress; and the squire
slept there, where his friend found him; also of the words which passed
between them—as is more clearly set out below.
A gentleman of this kingdom—a squire of great renown and reputation
—fell in love with a beautiful damsel of Rouen, and did all in his power to
gain her good graces. But fortune was contrary to him, and his lady so
unkind, that finally he abandoned the pursuit in despair.
He was not very wrong to do so, for she was provided with a lover—
not that the squire knew of that, however much he might suspect it.
He who enjoyed her love was a knight, and a man of great authority,
and was so familiar with the squire as to tell him much concerning his love-
affair. Often the knight said; “By my faith, friend, I would have you know
that I have a mistress in this town to whom I am devoted; for, however tired
I may be, I would willingly go three or four leagues to see her—a mere
couple of leagues I would run over without stopping to take breath.”
“Is there no request or prayer that I can make” said the squire, “that
will cause you to tell me her name?”
“No, no!” said the other, “you shall not know that.”
“Well!” said the squire, “when I am so fortunate as to have something
good, I will be as reticent as you are.”
It happened some time after this that the good knight asked the squire
to supper at the castle of Rouen, where he was then lodged. He came, and
they had some talk; the gentle knight, who had an appointment to see his
lady at a certain hour, said farewell to the squire, and added,
“You know that we have various things to see to to-morrow, and that
we must rise early in order to arrange various matters. It is advisable

therefore to go to bed early, and for that reason I bid you goodnight.”
The squire, who was cunning enough, suspected that the good knight
wished to go somewhere, and that he was making the duties of the morrow
an excuse to get rid of him, but he took no notice, and on taking leave and
wishing good-night to his host, said;
“Monseigneur you say well; rise early to-morrow morning, and I will
do the same.”
When the good squire went down, he found a little mule at the foot of
the staircase of the castle, with no one minding it. He soon guessed that the
page he had met as he came down had gone to seek for a saddle-cloth for
his master.
“Ah, ah” he said to himself, “my host did not get rid of me at this early
hour for nothing. Here is his mule, which only waits till I am gone to carry
his master to some place he does not wish me to know. Ah, mule!” said he,
“if you could speak, you could tell me some news. Let me beg of you to
lead me where your master wishes to be.”
With that he made his page hold the stirrup, and mounted the mule,
and laid the reins on the mule’s neck, and let it amble on wherever it liked.
And the little mule led him by streets and alleys here and there, till at
last it stopped before a little wicket, which was in a side street where its
master was accustomed to come, and which was the garden gate of the
house of the very damsel the squire had so loved and had abandoned in
despair.
He dismounted, and tapped gently at the wicket, and a damsel, who
was watching through a hidden lattice, believing it to be the knight, came
down and opened the door, and said;
“Monseigneur you are welcome; mademoiselle is in her chamber, and
awaits you.”
She did not recognise him, because it was late, and he had a velvet cap
drawn down over his face. And the good squire replied, “I will go to her.”
The he whispered to his page, “Go quickly and put the mule where we
found it; then go to bed.”
“It shall be done, sir,” he said.

The woman closed the gate, and led the way to the chamber. Our good
squire, much occupied with the business in hand, walked boldly to the room
where the lady was, and he found her simply dressed in a plain petticoat,
and with a gold chain round her neck.
He saluted her politely, for he was kind, courteous and well-spoken,
but she, who was as much astonished as though horns had sprouted out of
her head, did not for the moment know how to reply, but at last she asked
him what he sought there, why he came at that hour, and who had sent him?
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you may well imagine that if I had had to
rely on myself alone I should not be here; but, thank God, one who has
more pity for me than you ever had, has done this kindness to me.”
“Who brought you here, sir?” she asked.
“By my oath, mademoiselle, I will not conceal that from you; it was
such and such a lord (and he named the knight who had invited him to
supper), who sent me here.”
“Ah!” she cried. “Traitor and disloyal knight that he is, has he betrayed
my confidence? Well, well! I will be revenged on him some day.”
“Oh, mademoiselle! it is not right of you to say that, for it is no treason
to give pleasure to one’s friend, or to render him aid and service when one
can. You know what a great friendship exists between him and me, and that
neither hides from the other what is in his heart. It happened that not long
ago I related and confessed to him the great love I bore you, and that
because of you I had no happiness left in the world, for that by no means
could I ever win your affection, and that it was not possible for me to long
endure this horrible martyrdom. When the good knight knew that my words
were really true, and was aware of the sorrow I endured, he was fain to tell
me how he stood with regard to you, and preferred to lose you, and so save
my life, than to see me die miserably and retain your affection. And if you
are such a woman as you should be, you would not hesitate to give comfort
and consolation to me, your obedient servant, who has always loyally
served and obeyed you.”
“I beg of you,” she said, “not to speak of that, and to leave here at
once. Cursed be he who made you come!”
“Do you know, mademoiselle,” he replied, “that it is not my intention
to leave here before to-morrow morning?”

“By my oath,” she cried, “you will go now, at once!”
“Morbleu! I will not—for I will sleep with you.”
When she saw that he was not to be got rid of by hard words, she
resolved to try kindness, and said;
“I beg of you with all my heart to leave my house now, and by my
oath, another time I will do whatever you wish.”
“Bah!” said he; “Waste no more words, for I shall sleep here,” and
with that he removed his cloak, and led the damsel to the table, and finally
—to cut the tale short—she went to bed with him by her side.
They had not been in bed long, and he had but broken one lance, when
the good knight arrived on his mule, and knocked at the wicket. When the
squire heard that and knew who it was, he began to growl, imitating a dog
very well.
The knight, hearing this, was both astonished and angry. He knocked
at the door more loudly than before, and the other growled louder than ever.
“Who is that growling?” said he outside. “Morbleu! but I will soon
find out! Open the door, or I will carry it away!”
The fair damsel, who was in a great rage, went to the window in her
chemise, and said;
“Are you there, false and disloyal knight? You may knock as much as
you like, but you will not come in!”
“Why shall I not come in?” said he.
“Because,” said she, “you are the falsest man that ever woman met,
and are not worthy to be with respectable people.”
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you blason my arms very well, but I do not
know what excites you, for I have never been false to you that I am aware
of.”
“Yes, you have,” she cried, “done me the greatest wrong that ever man
did to woman.”
“I have not, I swear. But tell me who is in there?”
“You know very well, wretched traitor that you are,” she replied.
Thereupon the squire, who was in bed, began to growl like a dog as
before.

“Marry!” said he outside, “I do not understand this. Who is this
growler?”
“By St. John! you shall know,” cried the other, and jumped out of bed
and came to the window, and said;
“And please you, sir, you have no right to wake us up.”
The good knight, when he knew who spoke to him, was marvellously
astonished, and when at last he spoke, he said.
“How did you come here?”
“I supped at your house and slept here.”
“The fault is mine,” said he. Then addressing the damsel, he added,
“Mademoiselle, do you harbour such guests in your house?”
“Yes, monseigneur,” she replied, “and thank you for having sent him.”
“I?” said he. “By St. John I have nothing to do with it. I came to
occupy my usual place, but it seems I am too late. At least I beg, since I
cannot have anything else, that you open the door and let me drink a cup of
wine.”
“By God, you shall not enter here!” she cried.
“By St. John! he shall,” cried the squire, and ran down and opened the
door, and then went back to bed, and she did also, though, God knows,
much ashamed and dissatisfied.
When the good knight entered the chamber, he lighted a candle, and
looked at the couple in bed and said;
“Good luck to you, mademoiselle, and to you also squire.”
“Many thanks, monseigneur,” said he.
But the damsel could not say a word, her heart was so full, for she felt
certain that the knight had connived at the squire’s coming, and she felt so
angry that she would not speak to him.
“Who showed you the way here, squire?” asked the knight.
“Your little mule, monseigneur,” said he. “I found it at the foot of the
stairs, when I supped with you at the castle. It was there alone, and
seemingly lost, so I asked it what it was waiting for, and it replied that it
was waiting for its saddle-cloth and you. ‘To go where?’ I asked. ‘Where
we usually go,’ replied the mule. ‘I am sure,’ said I, ‘that your master will
not leave the house to-night, for he is going to bed, so take me where you

usually go, I beg.’ It was content, so I mounted on it, and it brought me
here, for which I give it thanks.”
“God reward the little beast that betrayed me,” said the good knight.
“Ah, you have fully deserved it, monseigneur,” said the damsel, when
at last she was able to speak. “I know well that you have deceived me, but I
wish you to know that it is not much to your honour. There was no need, if
you would not come yourself, to send some one else surreptitiously. It was
an evil day for me when first I saw you.”
“Morbleu! I never sent him,” he said; “but since he is here I will not
drive him away. Besides there is enough for the two of us; is there not my
friend?”
“Oh, yes, monseigneur, plenty of spoil to divide. Let us celebrate the
arrangement by a drink.”
He went to the side-board and filled a large cup with wine, and said, “I
drink to you, friend.”
“And I pledge you, friend,” said the other, and poured out another cup
for the damsel, who refused to drink, but at last, unwillingly, kissed the cup.
“Well, friend,” said the knight, “I will leave you here. Ruffle her well;
it is your turn to-day and will be mine to morrow, please God, and I hope
you will be as obliging to me, if ever you find me here, as I am to you
now.”
“By Our Lady, friend, doubt not but I shall be.”
Then the knight went away and left the squire, who did as well as he
could on the first night. And he told the damsel the whole truth of his
adventure, at which she was somewhat relieved to find that he had not been
sent.
Thus was the fair damsel deceived by the mule, and obliged to obey
the knight and the squire, each in his turn—an arrangement to which she
finally became accustomed. The knight and squire grew more attached to
each other than before this adventure; their affection increased, and no evil
counsels engendered discord and hate between them.

STORY THE THIRTY-SECOND — THE
WOMEN WHO PAID TITHE. 32
By Monseigneur De Villiers.

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

In order that I may not be excluded from the number of fortunate and
meritorious writers who have worked to increase the number of stories in
this book, I will briefly relate a new story, which will serve as a substitute
for the tale previously required of me.
It is a well-known fact that in the town of Hostelleria, in Catalonia, (*)
there arrived some minor friars of the order of Observance, (**) who had
been driven out of the kingdom of Spain.

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

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

They managed to worm themselves into the good graces of the Lord of
that town, who was an old man, so that he built for them a fair church and a
large convent, and maintained and supported them all his life as best he
could. And after him came his eldest son, who did quite as much for them
as his worthy father had done.
In fact they prospered so, that, in a few years they had everything that
a convent of mendicant friars could desire. Nor were they idle during all the
time they were acquiring these riches; they preached both in the town and in
the neighbouring villages, and had such influence over the people that there
was not a good christian who did not confess to them, they had such great
renown for pointing out faults to sinners.

But of all who praised them and held them in esteem, the women were
foremost, such saints did they deem them on account of their charity and
devotion.
Now listen to the wickedness, deception, and horrible treason which
these false hypocrites practised on the men and women who every day gave
them so many good gifts. They made it known to all the women in the town
that they were to give to God a tenth of all their goods.
“You render to your Lord such and such a thing; to your parish and
priest such and such a thing; and to us you must render and deliver the tithe
of the number of times that you have carnal connection with your husband.
We will take no other tithe from you, for, as you know, we carry no money
—for the temporal and transitory things of this world are nothing to us. We
ask and demand only spiritual goods. The tithes which we ask and which
you owe us are not temporal goods; as the Holy Sacrament, which you
receive, is a divine and holy thing, so no one may receive the tithe but us,
who are monks of the order of the Observance.”
The poor simple women, who believed the good friars were more like
angels than terrestrial beings, did not refuse to pay the tithe. There was not
one who did not pay in her turn, from the highest to the lowest, even the
wife of the Lord was not excused.
Thus were all the women of the town parcelled out amongst these
rascally monks, and there was not a monk who did not have fifteen or
sixteen women to pay tithes to him, and God knows what other presents
they had from the women, and all under cover of devotion.
This state of affairs lasted long without its ever coming to the
knowledge of those who were most concerned in the payment of the new
tithe; but at last it was discovered in the following manner.
A young man who was newly married, was invited to supper at the
house of one of his relations—he and his wife—and as they were returning
home, and passing the church of the above-mentioned good Cordeliers,
suddenly the bell rang out the Ave Maria, and the young man bowed to the
ground to say his prayers.
His wife said, “I would willingly enter this church.”
“What would you do in there at this hour?” asked her husband. “You
can easily come again when it is daylight; to-morrow, or some other time.”

“I beg of you,” she said, “to let me go: I will soon return.”
“By Our Lady!” said he, “you shall not go in now.”
“By my oath!” she replied, “it is compulsory. I must go in, but I will
not stay. If you are in a hurry to get home, go on, and I will follow you
directly.”
“Get on! get forward!” he said, “you have nothing to do here. If you
want to say a Pater noster, or an Ave Maria, there is plenty of room at
home, and it is quite as good to say it there as in this monastery, which is
now as dark as pitch.”
“Marry!” said she, “you may say what you like, but by my oath, it is
necessary that I should enter here for a little while.”
“Why?” said he. “Do you want to sleep with any of the brothers.”
She imagined that her husband knew that she paid the tithe, and
replied;
“No, I do not want to sleep with him; I only want to pay.”
“Pay what?” said he.
“You know very well,” she answered; “Why do you ask?”
“What do I know well?” he asked, “I never meddle with your debts.”
“At least,” she said, “you know very well that I must pay the tithe.”
“What tithe?”
“Marry!” she replied. “It always has to be paid;—the tithe for our
nights together. You are lucky—I have to pay for us both.”
“And to whom do you pay?” he asked.
“To brother Eustace,” she replied. “You go on home, and let me go in
and discharge my debt. It is a great sin not to pay, and I am never at ease in
my mind when I owe him anything.”
“It is too late to-night,” said he, “he has gone to bed an hour ago.”
“By my oath,” said she, “I have been this year later than this. If one
wants to pay one can go in at any hour.”
“Come along! come along!” he said. “One night makes no such great
matter.”
So they returned home; both husband and wife vexed and displeased—
the wife because she was not allowed to pay her tithe, and the husband

because he had learned how he had been deceived, and was filled with
anger and thoughts of vengeance, rendered doubly bitter by the fact that he
did not dare to show his anger.
A little later they went to bed together, and the husband, who was
cunning enough, questioned his wife indirectly, and asked if the other
women of the town paid tithes as she did?
“By my faith they do,” she replied. “What privilege should they have
more than me? There are sixteen to twenty of us who pay brother Eustace.
Ah, he is so devout. And he has so much patience. Brother Bartholomew
has as many or more, and amongst others my lady (*) is of the number.
Brother Jacques also has many; Brother Anthony also—there is not one of
them who has not a number.”

(*) The wife of the Seigneur.

“St. John!” said the husband, “they do not do their work by halves.
Now I understand well that they are more holy than I thought them; and
truly I will invite them all to my house, one after the other, to feast them
and hear their good words. And since Brother Eustace receives your tithes,
he shall be the first. See that we have a good dinner to-morrow, and I will
bring him.”
“Most willingly,” she replied, “for then at all events I shall not have to
go to his chamber to pay him; he can receive it when he comes here.”
“Well said,” he replied; “give it him here;” but as you may imagine he
was on his guard, and instead of sleeping all night, thought over at his
leisure the plan he intended to carry out on the morrow.
The dinner arrived, and Brother Eustace, who did not know his host’s
intentions stuffed a good meal under his hood. And when he had well eaten,
he rolled his eyes on his hostess, and did not spare to press her foot under
the table—all of which the host saw, though he pretended not to, however
much to his prejudice it was.
After the meal was over and grace was said, he called Brother Eustace
and told him that he wanted to show him an image of Our Lady that he had
in his chamber, and the monk replied that he would willingly come.
They both entered the chamber, and the host closed the door so that he
could not leave, and then laying hold of a big axe, said to the Cordelier.

“By God’s death, father! you shall never go out of this room—unless it
be feet foremost—if you do not confess the truth.”
“Alas, my host, I beg for mercy. What is it you, would ask of me?”
“I ask,” said he, “the tithe of the tithe you have received from my
wife.”
When the Cordelier heard the word tithes, he began to think that he
was in a fix, and did not know what to reply except to beg for mercy, and to
excuse himself as well as he could.
“Now tell me,” said the husband, “what tithe it is that you take from
my wife and the others?”
The poor Cordelier was so frightened that he could not speak, and
answered never a word.
“Tell me all about it,” said the young man, “and I swear to you I will
let you go and do you no harm;—but if you do not confess I will kill you
stone dead.”
When the other felt convinced that he had better confess his sin and
that of his companions and escape, than conceal the facts and be in danger
of losing his life, he said;
“My host, I beg for mercy, and I will tell you the truth. It is true that
my companions and I have made all the women of this town believe that
they owe us tithes for all the times their husbands sleep with them. They
believed us, and they all pay—young and old—when once they are married.
There is not one that is excused—my lady even pays like the others—her
two nieces also—and in general there is no one that is exempt.”
“Marry!” said the other, “since my lord and other great folks pay it, I
ought not to be dissatisfied, however much I may dislike it. Well! you may
go, worthy father, on this condition—that you do not attempt to collect the
tithe that my wife owes you.”
The other was never so joyous as when he found himself outside the
house, and said to himself that he would never ask for anything of the kind
again, nor did he, as you will hear.
When the host of the Cordelier was informed by his wife of this new
tithe, he went to his Lord and told him all about the tax and how it
concerned him. You may imagine that he was much astonished, and said;

“Ah, cursed wretches that they are! Cursed be the hour that ever my
father—whom may God pardon—received them! And now they take our
spoils and dishonour us, and ere long they may do worse. What is to be
done?”
“By my faith, Monseigneur” said the other, “if it please you and seem
good to you, you should assemble all your subjects in this town, for the
matter touches them as much as you. Inform them of this affair, and consult
with them what remedy can be devised before it is too late.”
Monseigneur approved, and ordered all his married subjects to come to
him, and in the great hall of his castle, he showed them at full length why
he had called them together.
If my lord had been astonished and surprised when he heard the news,
so also were all the good people who were there assembled. Some of them
said, “We ought to kill them,” others “They should be hanged!” others
“Drown them!” Others said they could not believe it was true—the monks
were so devout and led such holy lives. One said one thing, another said
another.
“I will tell you,” said the Seigneur, “what we will do. We will bring
our wives hither, and Master John, or some other, shall preach a little
sermon in which he will take care to make allusion to tithes, and ask the
women, in the name of all of us, whether they discharge their debts, as we
are anxious they should be paid, and we shall hear their reply.”
After some discussion they all agreed to the Seigneur’s proposal. So
orders were issued to all the married women of the town, and they all came
to the great hall, where their husbands were assembled. My lord even
brought my lady, who was quite astonished to see so many persons. An
usher of my lord’s commanded silence, and Master John, who was slightly
raised above the other people, began the address which follows;
“Mesdames and mesdemoiselles, I am charged by my lord and those of
his council to explain briefly the reason why you are called together. It is
true that my lord, his council, and all his people who are here met together,
desire to make a public examination of their conscience,—the cause being
that that they wish (God willing) to make ere long a holy procession in
praise of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and His Glorious Mother, and from the
present moment to be in such a devout frame of mind that they may the
better praise him in their prayers, and that all the works which they do may

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

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

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

There were also I know not how many old women who said not a
word, and Master John asked them if they had paid their tithe, and they
replied that they had made an arrangement with the Cordeliers.
“What!” said he, “you do not pay? You ought to advise and persuade
the others to do their duty, and you yourselves are in default!”
“Marry!” said one of them, “I am not to blame. I have been several
times to perform my duty, but my confessor would not listen to me: he
always says he is too busy.”
“St. John!” said the other old women, “we have compounded with the
monks to pay them the tithe we owe them in linen, cloth, cushions, quilts,
pillow-cases and such other trifles; and that by their own instructions and
desire, for we should prefer to pay like the others.”
“By Our Lady!” said Master John, “there is no harm done; it is quite
right.
“I suppose they can go away now; can they not?” said the Seigneur to
Master John.
“Yes!” said he, “but let them be sure and not forget to pay the tithe.”
When they had all left the hall, the door was closed, and every man
present looked hard at his neighbour.
“Well!” said the Seigneur. “What is to be done? We know for certain
what these ribald monks have done to us, by the confession of one of them,
and by our wives; we need no further witness.”
After many and various opinions, it was resolved to set the convent on
fire, and burn both monks and monastery.
They went to the bottom of the town, and came to the monastery, and
took away the Corpus Domini and all the relics and sent them to the parish
church. Then without more ado, they set fire to the convent in several
places, and did not leave till all was consumed—monks, convent, church,
dormitory, and all the other buildings, of which there were plenty. So the
poor Cordeliers had to pay very dearly for the new tithe they had levied.
Even God could do nothing, but had His house burned down.

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

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

A noble knight who lived in the marches of Burgundy, who was wise,
valiant, much esteemed, and worthy of the great reputation he had, was so
much in the graces of a fair damsel, that he was esteemed as her lover, and
obtained from her, at sundry times, all the favours that she could
honourably give him. She was also smitten with a great and noble lord, a
prudent man, whose name and qualities I pass over, though if I were to
recount them there is not one of you who would not recognise the person
intended, which I do not wish.
This gentle lord, I say, soon perceived the love affair of the valiant
gentleman just named, and asked him if he were not in the good graces of
such and such a damsel,—that is to say the lady before mentioned.
He replied that he was not, but the other, who knew the contrary to be
case, said that he was sure he was,
“For whatever he might say or do, he should not try to conceal such a
circumstance, for if the like or anything more important had occurred to
him (the speaker) he would not have concealed it.”
And having nothing else to do, and to pass the time, he found means to
make her fall in love with him. In which he succeeded, for in a very short
time he was high in her graces and could boast of having obtained her
favours without any trouble to win them.
The other did not expect to have a companion, but you must not think
that the fair wench did not treat him as well or better than before, which
encouraged him in his foolish love. And you must know that the brave

wench was not idle, for she entertained the two at once, and would with
much regret have lost either, and more especially the last-comer, for he was
of better estate and furnished with a bigger lance than her first lover; and
she always assigned them different times to come, one after the other, as for
instance one to-day and the other to-morrow.
The last-comer knew very well what she was doing, but he pretended
not to, and in fact he cared very little, except that he was rather disgusted at
the folly of the first-comer, who esteemed too highly a thing of little value.
So he made up his mind that he would warn his rival, which he did. He
knew that the days on which the wench had forbidden him to come to her
(which displeased him much) were reserved for his friend the first-comer.
He kept watch several nights, and saw his rival enter by the same door and
at the same hour as he did himself on the other days.
One day he said to him, “You well concealed your amours with such
an one. I am rather astonished that you had so little confidence in me,
considering what I know to be really the case between you and her. And in
order that you may understand that I know all, let me tell you that I saw you
enter her house at such and such an hour, and indeed no longer ago than
yesterday I had an eye upon you, and from a place where I was, I saw you
arrive—you know whether I speak the truth.”
When the first-comer heard this accusation, he did not know what to
say, and he was forced to confess what he would have willingly concealed,
and which he thought no one knew but himself; and he told the last-comer
that he would not conceal the fact that he was in love, but begged him not to
make it known.
“And what would you say,” asked the other, “if you found you had a
companion?”
“Companion?” said he; “What companion? In a love affair? I never
thought of it.”
“By St. John!” said the last-comer, “I ought not to keep you longer in
suspense—it is I. And since I see that you are in love with a woman who is
not worth it, and if I had not more pity on you than you have on yourself I
should leave you in your folly, but I cannot suffer such a wench to deceive
you and me so long.”

If any one was astonished at this news it was the first-comer who
believed himself firmly established in the good graces of the wench, and
that she loved no one but him. He did not know what to say or think, and
for a long time could not speak a word. When at last he spoke, he said,
“By Our Lady! they have given me the onion (*) and I never suspected
it. I was easily enough deceived. May the devil carry away the wench, just
as she is!”

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

“She has fooled the two of us,” said the last-comer;
“at least she has begun well,—but we must even fool her.”
“Do so I beg,” said the first. “St. Anthony’s fire burn me if ever I see
the jade again.”
“You know,” said the second, “that we go to her each in turn. Well, the
next time that you go, you must tell her that you well know that I am in love
with her, and that you have seen me enter her house at such an hour, and
dressed in such a manner, and that, by heaven, if ever you find me there
again you will kill me stone dead, whatever may happen to you. I will say
the same thing about you, and we shall then see what she will say and do,
and then we shall know how to act.”
“Well said, and just what I would wish,” said the first.
As it was arranged, so was it done, for some days later it was the last-
comer’s turn to go and visit her; he set out and came to the place appointed.
When he was alone with the wench, who received him very kindly and
lovingly it appeared, he put on—as he well knew how—a troubled,
bothered air, and pretended to be very angry. She, who had been
accustomed to see him quite otherwise, did not know what to think, and she
asked what was the matter, for his manner showed that his heart was not at
ease.
“Truly, mademoiselle,” said he, “you are right; and I have good cause
to be displeased and angry. Moreover, it is owing to you that I am in this
condition.”
“To me?” said she. “Alas, I have done nothing that I am aware of, for
you are the only man in the world to whom I would give pleasure, and

whose grief and displeasure touch my heart.”
“The man who refuses to believe that will not be damned,” said he.
“Do you think that I have not perceived that you are on good terms with so-
and-so (that is to say the first-comer). It is so, by my oath, and I have but
too often seen him speak to you apart, and, what is more, I have watched
and seen him enter here. But by heaven, if ever I find him here his last day
has come, whatever may happen to me in consequence. I could not allow
him to be aware that he has done me this injury—I would rather die a
thousand times if it were possible. And you are as false as he is for you
know of a truth that after God I love no one but you, and yet you encourage
him, and so do me great wrong!”
“Ah, monseigneur!” she replied, “who has told you this story? By my
soul! I wish that God and you should know that it is quite otherwise, and I
call Him to witness that never in my life have I given an assignation to him
of whom you speak, nor to any other whoever he may be—so you have
little enough cause to be displeased with me. I will not deny that I have
spoken to him, and speak to him every day, and also to many others, but I
have never had aught to do with him, nor do I believe that he thinks of me
even for a moment, or if so, by God he is mistaken. May God not suffer me
to live if any but you has part or parcel in what is yours entirely.”
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you talk very well, but I am not such a fool
as to believe you.”
Angry and displeased as he was, he nevertheless did that for which he
came, and on leaving, said,
“I have told you, and given you fair warning that if ever I find any
other person comes here, I will put him, or cause him to be put, in such a
condition that he will never again worry me or any one else.”
“Ah, Monseigneur,” she replied, “by God you are wrong to imagine
such things about him, and I am sure also that he does not think of me.”
With that, the last-comer left, and, on the morrow, his friend, the first-
comer did not fail to come early in the morning to hear the news, and the
other related to him in full all that had passed, how he had pretended to be
angry and threatened to kill his rival, and the replies the jade made.
“By my oath,” said the first, “she acted the comedy well! Now let me
have my turn, and I shall be very much surprised if I do not play my part

equally well.”
A certain time afterwards his turn came, and he went to the wench,
who received him as lovingly as she always did, and as she had previously
received her other lover. If his friend the last-comer had been cross and
quarrelsome both in manner and words, he was still more so, and spoke to
her in this manner;
“I curse the hour and the day on which I made your acquaintance, for it
is not possible to load the heart of a poor lover with more sorrows, regrets,
and bitter cares than oppress and weigh down my heart to-day. Alas! I chose
you amongst all others as the perfection of beauty, gentleness, and kindness,
and hoped that I should find in you truth and fidelity, and therefore I gave
you all my heart, believing in truth that it was safe in your keeping, and I
had such faith in you that I would have met death, or worse, had it been
possible, to save your honour. Yet, when I thought myself most sure of your
faith, I learned, not only by the report of others but by my own eyes, that
another had snatched your love from me, and deprived me of the hope of
being the one person in the world who was dearest to you.”
“My friend,” said the wench, “I do not know what your trouble is, but
from your manner and your words I judge that there is something the
matter, but I cannot tell what it is if you do not speak more plainly—unless
it be a little jealousy which torments you, and if so, I think, if you are wise,
that you will soon banish it from your mind. For I have never given you any
cause for that, as you know me well enough to be aware, and you should be
sorry for having used such expressions to me.”
“I am not the sort of man,” said he, “to be satisfied with mere words.
Your excuses are worth nothing. You cannot deny that so-and-so (that is to
say the last-comer) does not keep you. I know well he does, for I have
noticed you, and moreover, have watched, and saw him yesterday come to
you at such an hour, dressed in such and such a manner. But I swear to God
he has had his last pleasure with you, for I bear him a grudge, and were he
ten times as great a man as he is, when I meet him I will deprive him of his
life, or he shall deprive me of mine; one of us two must die for I cannot live
and see another enjoy you. You are false and disloyal to have deceived me,
and it is not without cause that I curse the hour I made your acquaintance,
for I know for a certainty that you will cause my death if my rival knows
my determination, as I hope he will. I know that I am now as good as dead,

and even if he should spare me, he does but sharpen the knife which is to
shorten his own days, and then the world would not be big enough to save
me, and die I must.”
The wench could not readily find a sufficient excuse to satisfy him in
his present state of mind. Nevertheless, she did her best to dissipate his
melancholy, and drive away his suspicions, and said to him;
“My friend, I have heard your long tirade, which, to tell the truth,
makes me reflect that I have not been so prudent as I ought, and have too
readily believed your deceitful speeches, and obeyed you in all things,
which is the reason you now think so little of me. Another reason why you
speak to me thus, is that you know that I am so much in love with you that I
cannot bear to live out of your presence. And for this cause, and many
others that I need not mention, you deem me your subject and slave, with
no right to speak or look at any but you. Since that pleases you, I am
satisfied, but you have no right to suspect me with regard to any living
person, nor have I any need to excuse myself. Truth, which conquers all
things, will right me in the end!”
“By God, my dear,” said the young man, “the truth is what I have
already told you—as both and he will find to your cost if you do not take
care.”
After these speeches, and others too long to recount here, he left, and
did not forget on the following morning to recount everything to his friend
the last-comer; and God knows what laughter and jests they had between
them.
The wench, who still had wool on her distaff (*), saw and knew very
well that each of her lovers suspected the other, nevertheless she continued
to receive them each in his turn, without sending either away. She warned
each earnestly that he must come to her in the most secret manner, in order
that he should not be perceived.

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

You must know that when the first-comer had his turn that he did not
forget to complain as before, and threatened to kill his rival should he meet
him. Also at his last meeting, he pretended to be more angry than he really
was, and made very light of his rival, who, according to him, was as good

as dead if he were caught with her. But the cunning and double-dealing jade
had so many deceitful speeches ready that her excuses sounded as true as
the Gospel. For she believed that, whatever doubts and suspicions they had,
the affair would never really be found out, and that she was capable of
satisfying them both.
It was otherwise in the end, for the last-comer, whom she was greatly
afraid to lose, one day read her a sharp lesson. In fact he told her that he
would never see her again, and did not for a long time afterwards, at which
she was much displeased and dissatisfied.
And in order to embarrass and annoy her still more, he sent to her a
gentleman, a confidential friend, to point out how disgusted he was to find
he had a rival, and to tell her, in short, that if she did not send away this
rival, that he would never see her again as long as he lived.
As you have already heard, she would not willingly give up his
acquaintance, and there was no male or female saint by whom she did not
perjure herself in explaining away her love passages with her other lover,
and at last, quite beside herself, she said to the squire;
“I will show your master that I love him; give me your knife.”
Then, when she had the knife, she took off her headdress, and with the
knife cut off all her hair—not very evenly.
The squire, who knew the facts of the case, took this present, and said
he would do his duty and give it to his master, which he soon did. The last-
comer received the parcel, which he undid, and found the hair of his
mistress, which was very long and beautiful. He did not feel much at ease
until he had sent for his friend and revealed to him the message he had sent,
and the valuable present she had given him in return, and then he showed
the beautiful long tresses.
“I fancy,” said he, “I must be very high in her good graces. You can
scarcely expect that she would do as much for you.”
“By St. John!” said the other, “this is strange news. I see plainly that I
am left out in the cold. It is finished! You are the favoured one. But let us”
he added, “think what is to be done. We must show her plainly that we
know what she is.”
“That’s what I wish,” said the other.
They thought the matter over, and arranged their plan as follows.

The next day, or soon afterwards, the two friends were in a chamber
where there were assembled their fair lady and many others. Each took his
place where he liked; the first-comer sat near the damsel, and after some
talk, he showed her the hair which she had sent to his friend.
Whatever she may have thought, she was not startled, but said she did
not know whose hair it was, but it did not belong to her.
“What?” he said. “Has it so quickly changed that it cannot be
recognised?”
“That I cannot say,” she replied, “but it does not belong to me.”
When he heard that, he thought it was time to play his best card, and,
as though by accident, gave her chaperon (*) such a twitch that it fell to the
ground, at which she was both angry and ashamed. And all those who were
present saw that her hair was short, and had been badly hacked.

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

She rose in haste, and snatched up her head-dress, and ran into another
chamber to attire herself, and he followed her. He found her angry and
ashamed, and weeping bitterly with vexation at being thus caught. He asked
her what she had to weep about, and at what game she had lost her hair?
She did not know what to reply, she was so vexed and astonished; and
he, who was determined to carry out the arrangement he had concluded
with his friend, said to her;
“False and disloyal as you are, you have not cared that I and my friend
were deceived and dishonoured. You wished,—as you have plainly shown
—to add two more victims to your list, but, thank God, we were on our
guard. And, in order that you may see that we both know you, here is your
hair which you sent him, and which he has presented to me; and do not
believe that we are such fools as you have hitherto thought us.”
Then he called his friend, who came, and the first said,
“I have given back this fair damsel her hair, an have begun to tell her
how she has accepted the love of both of us, and how by her manner of

acting she has shown us that she did not care whether she disgraced us both
—may God save us!”
“Truly—by St. John!” said the other, and thereupon he made a long
speech to the wench, and God knows he talked to her well, remonstrating
with her on her cowardice and disloyal heart. Never was woman so well
lectured as she was at that time, first by one then by the other.
She was so taken by surprise that she did not know what to reply,
except by tears, which she shed abundantly.
She had never had enough pleasure out of both her lovers to
compensate for the vexation she suffered at that moment.
Nevertheless, in the end they did not desert her, but lived as they did
before, each taking his turn, and if by chance they both came to her
together, the one gave place to the other, and they were both good friends as
before, without ever talking of killing or fighting.
For a long time the two friends continued this pleasant manner of
loving, and the poor wench never dared to refuse either of them. And
whenever the one wished to have intercourse with her, he told the other, and
whenever the second went to see her, the first stayed at home. They made
each other many compliments, and sent one another rondels and songs
which are now celebrated, about the circumstances I have already related,
and of which I now conclude the account.

STORY THE THIRTY-FOURTH — THE MAN
ABOVE AND THE MAN BELOW. 34
By Monsigneur De La Roche.

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

I knew in my time a brave and worthy woman, deserving to be
remembered and respected, for her virtues should not be hidden and kept
dark, but publicly blazoned to the world. You will shortly hear, if you will,
in this story something which will increase and magnify her fame.
This gallant wench was married to a countryman of ours, and had
many lovers seeking and desiring her favours,—which were not over
difficult to obtain, for she was so kind and compassionate that she both
would and could bestow herself freely whenever she liked.
It happened one day that two men came to see her, as both were
accustomed, to ask for a rendezvous. She would not have retreated before
two or even three, and appointed a day and hour for each to come to her—
the one at eight o’clock the morrow morning, and the other at nine, and
charged each one expressly that he should not fail to keep his appointed
hour.
They promised on their faith and honour that if they were alive they
would keep their assignation.
When the morrow came, at about 6 o’clock in the morning, the
husband of this brave wench rose, dressed himself, and called his wife, but
she bluntly refused to get up when ordered.
“Faith!” she said, “I have such a headache that I cannot stand on my
feet, or if I did get up I should die, I am so weak and worn-out; and, as you
know, I did not sleep all the night. I beg of you to leave me here, and I hope
that when I am alone I shall get a little rest.”

Her husband, though he suspected something, did not dare to
contradict her or reply, but went about his business in the town, whilst his
wife was not idle at home, for eight o’clock had no sooner struck than the
honest fellow, to whom on the previous day an assignation had been given,
came and knocked at the door, and she let him in. He soon took off his long
gown and his other clothes, and joined madame in bed, in order to cheer her
up.
Whilst these two were locked in each other’s arms, and otherwise
engaged, the time passed quickly without her noticing it, when she heard
some one knock loudly at the door.
“Ah!” she said, “as I live, there is my husband; make haste and take
your clothes.”
“Your husband?” he said, “Why, do you know his knock?”
“Yes,” she replied, “I know it very well. Make haste lest he find you
here.”
“If it be your husband, he must find me here, for I know not where I
can hide.”
“No, please God, he must not find you here, for you would be killed
and so should I, he is so terrible. Get up into this little attic, and keep quite
quiet and do not move, that he may not find you here.”
The other climbed into the garret as he was told, and found the planks
stripped away in many places, and the laths broken.
As soon as he was safe, mademoiselle made one bound to the door,
knowing very well that it was not her husband who was there, and let in the
man who had promised to come to her at nine o’clock. They came into the
chamber, where they were not long on their feet, but laid down and cuddled
and kissed in the same manner as he in the garret had done, whilst he,
through a chink, kept his eye on the couple, and was not best pleased. He
could not make up his mind whether he should speak or hold his tongue. At
last he determined to keep silence, and not say a word till the opportunity
came,—and you may guess that he had plenty of patience.
Whilst he was waiting and looking at the lady engaged with the last
comer, the worthy husband came home to enquire after the health of his
good wife, as it was very proper of him to do.

She soon heard him, and as quickly as may be, made her lover get out
of bed, and as she did not know where to hide him, since she could not put
him in the garret, she made him lie down between the bed and the wall, and
covered him with his clothes, and said to him.
“I have no better place to put you—have a little patience.”
She had hardly finished speaking when her husband came into the
room, and though he had heard nothing, he found the bed all rumpled and
tossed about, the quilt dirty and soiled, and looking more like the bed of a
bride than the couch of an invalid.
The doubts he had formerly entertained, combined with the appearance
of the bed, made him call his wife by her name, and say.
“Wicked whore that you are! I did not believe you when you shammed
illness this morning! Where is the whoremonger? I swear to God, if I find
him, he will have a bad end, and you too.” Then, putting his hand on the
quilt, he went on. “This looks nice, doesn’t it? It looks as though the pigs
had slept on it!”
“What is the matter with you, you nasty drunkard?” she replied. “Why
make me suffer when you get too much wine in your belly? That’s a nice
salutation, to call me a whore! I would have you to know that I am nothing
of the kind, but much too virtuous and too honest for a rascal like you, and
my only regret is that I have been so good to you, for you are not worth it. I
do not know why I do not get up and scratch your face in such a manner
that you would remember it all your life, for having abused me without
cause.”
If you ask how she dared reply to her husband in this manner, I should
answer there were two reasons,—that is she had both right and might on her
side. For, as you may guess, if it had come to blows, both the lover in the
garret, and the one by the bed, would have come to her assistance.
The poor husband did not know what to say when he heard his wife
abuse him thus, and as he saw that big words were of no use, he left the
matter to God, who does justice to all, and replied;
“You make many excuses for your palpable faults, but I care little what
you say. I am not going to quarrel and make a noise; there is One above
who will repay all!”
By “One above”, he meant God,—as though he had said,

“God, who gives everyone his due, will repay you according to your
deserts.” But the gallant who was in the garret, and heard these words,
really believed they were meant for him, and that he was expected to pay
for the misdeeds of another besides himself, and he replied aloud;
“What? Surely it will suffice if I pay half! The man who is down by
the side of the bed can pay the other half—he is as much concerned as I
am!”
You may guess that the husband was much astonished, for he thought
that God was speaking to him; and the man by the bed did not know what to
think, for he knew nothing about the existence of the other man. He quickly
jumped up, and the other man came down, and they recognised each other.
They went off together, and left the couple looking vexed and angry,
but they did not trouble much about that and for good reason.

STORY THE THIRTY-FIFTH — THE
EXCHANGE.
By Monseigneur De Villiers.

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

A gentleman, a knight of this kingdom, a most virtuous man, and of
great renown, a great traveller and a celebrated warrior, fell in love with a
very beautiful damsel, and so advanced in her good graces that nothing that
he demanded was refused him. It happened, I know not how long after that,
this good knight, to acquire honour and merit, left his castle, in good health
and well accompanied, by the permission of his master, to bear arms
elsewhere, and he went to Spain and various places, where he did such feats
that he was received in great triumph at his return.
During this time the lady married an old knight who was courteous and
wise, and who in his time had been a courtier, and—to say truth—was
known as the very mirror of honour. It was a matter for regret that he did
not marry better, but at any rate he had not then discovered his wife’s
misconduct, as he did afterwards, as you shall hear.
The first-named knight, returning from the war, as he was travelling
through the country, arrived by chance one night at the castle where his
mistress lived, and God knows what good cheer she and her husband made
for him, for there had been a great friendship between them.
But you must know that whilst the master of the house was doing all
he could to honour his guest, the guest was conversing with his former
lady-love, and was willing to renew with her the intimacy that had existed

before she married. She asked for nothing better, but excused herself on
account of want of opportunity.
“It is not possible to find a chance.”
“Ah, madam,” he said, “by my oath, if you want to, you will make a
chance. When your husband is in bed and asleep, you can come to my
chamber, or, if you prefer it, I will come to you.”
“It cannot be managed so,” she replied; “the danger is too great; for
monseigneur is a very light sleeper, and he never wakes but what he feels
for me, and if he did not find me, you may guess what it would be.”
“And when he does find you,” he said, “what does he do to you?”
“Nothing else,” she replied; “he turns over on the other side.”
“Faith!” said he, “he is a very bad bed-fellow; it is very lucky for you
that I came to your aid to perform for you what he cannot.”
“So help me God,” she said, “when he lies with me once a month it is
the best he can do. I may be difficult to please, but I could take a good deal
more than that.
“That is not to be wondered at,” he said; “but let us consider what we
shall do.”
“There is no way that I see,” she replied, “that it can be managed.”
“What?” he said; “have you no woman in the house to whom you can
explain the difficulty?”
“Yes, by God! I have one,” she said, “in whom I have such confidence
that I would tell her anything in the world I wanted kept secret? without
fearing that she would ever repeat it.”
“What more do we want then?” he said. “The rest concerns you and
her.”
The lady who was anxious to be with her lover, called the damsel, and
said,
“My dear, you must help me to-night to do something which is very
dear to my heart.”
“Madam,” said the damsel, “I am ready and glad, as I ought to be, to
serve you and obey you in any way possible; command me, and I will
perform your orders.”

“I thank you, my dear,” said madam, “and be sure that you will lose
nothing by it. This is what is the matter. The knight here is the man whom I
love best in all the world, and I would not that he left here without my
having a few words with him. Now he cannot tell me what is in his heart
unless we be alone together, and you are the only person to take my place
by the side of monseigneur. He is accustomed, as you know, to turn in the
night and touch me, and then he leaves me and goes to sleep again.”
“I will do your pleasure, madam; there is nothing that you can
command that I will not do.”
“Well, my dear,” she said, “you will go to bed as I do, keeping a good
way off from monseigneur, and take care that if he should speak to you not
to reply, and suffer him to do whatever he may like.”
“I will do your pleasure, madam.”
Supper-time came. There is no need to describe the meal, suffice it to
say there was good cheer and plenty of it, and after supper, sports, and the
visitor took madam’s arm, and the other gentlemen escorted the other
damsels. The host came last, and enquired about the knight’s travels from
an old gentleman who had accompanied him.
Madame did not forget to tell her lover that one of her women would
take her place that night, and that she would come to him; at which he was
very joyful, and thanked her much, and wished that the hour had come.
They returned to the reception hall, where monseigneur said good
night to his guest, and his wife did the same. The visitor went to his
chamber, which was large and well-furnished, and there was a fine
sideboard laden with spices and preserves, and good wine of many sorts.
He soon undressed, and drank a cup, and made his attendants drink
also, and then sent them to bed, and remained alone, waiting for the lady,
who was with her husband. Both she and her husband undressed and got
into bed.
The damsel was in the ruelle, and as soon as my lord was in bed, she
took the place of her mistress, who—as her heart desired—made but one
bound to the chamber of the lover, who was anxiously awaiting her.
Thus were they all lodged—monseigneur with the chambermaid, and
his guest with madame—and you may guess that these two did not pass all
the night in sleeping.

Monseigneur, as was his wont, awoke an hour before day-break, and
turned to the chamber-maid, believing it to be his wife, and to feel her he
put out his hand, which by chance encountered one of her breasts, which
were large and firm, and he knew at once that it was not his wife, for she
was not well furnished in that respect.
“Ha, ha!” he said to himself, “I understand what it is! They are playing
me a trick, and I will play them another.”
He turned towards the girl, and with some trouble managed to break a
lance, but she let him do it without uttering a word or half a word.
When he had finished, he began to call as loudly as he could to the
man who was sleeping with his wife.
“Hallo! my lord of such a place! Where are you? Speak to me!”
The other, when he heard himself called, was much astonished, and the
lady quite overwhelmed with shame.
“Alas!” she said, “our deeds are discovered: I am a lost woman!”
Her husband called out,
“Hallo, monseigneur! hallo, my guest! Speak to me.”
The other ventured to speak, and said,
“What is it, so please you, monsiegneur?”
“I will make this exchange with you whenever you like.”
“What exchange?” he asked.
“An old, worn-out false, treacherous woman, for a good, pretty, and
fresh young girl. That is what I have gained by the exchange and I thank
you for it.”
None of the others knew what to reply, even the poor chamber-maid
wished she were dead, both on account of the dishonour to her mistress and
the unfortunate loss of her own virginity.
The visitor left the lady and the castle as soon as could, without
thanking his host, or saying farewell. And never again did he go there, so he
never knew how she settled the matter with her husband afterwards, so I
can tell you no more.

STORY THE THIRTY-SIXTH — AT WORK.
By Monseigneur De La Roche.

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

A kind and noble gentleman, who wished to spend his time in the
service of the Court of Love, devoted himself, heart, body, and goods, to a
fair and honest damsel who well deserved it, and who was specially suited
to do what she liked with men; and his amour with her lasted long. And he
thought that he stood high in her good graces, though to say the truth, he
was no more a favourite than the others, of whom there were many.
It happened one day that this worthy gentleman found his lady, by
chance, in the embrasure of a window, between a knight and a squire, to
whom she was talking. Sometimes she would speak to one apart and not let
the other hear, another time she did the same to the other, to please both of
them, but the poor lover was greatly vexed and jealous, and did not dare to
approach the group.
The only thing to do was to walk away from her, although he desired
her presence more than anything else in the world. His heart told him that
this conversation would not tend to his advantage, in which he was not far
wrong. For, if his eyes had not been blinded by affection, he could easily
have seen what another, who was not concerned, quickly perceived, and
showed him, in this wise.
When he saw and knew for certain that the lady had neither leisure nor
inclination to talk to him, he retired to a couch and lay down, but he could
not sleep.
Whilst he was thus sulking, there came a gentleman, who saluted all
the company, and seeing that the damsel was engaged, withdrew to the

recess where the squire was lying sleepless upon the couch; and amongst
other conversation the squire said,
“By my faith, monseigneur, look towards the window; there are some
people who are making themselves comfortable. Do you not see how
pleasantly they are talking.”
“By St. John, I see them,” said the knight, “and see that they are doing
something more than talking.”
“What else?” said the other.
“What else? Do you not see that she has got hold of both of them?”
“Got hold of them!”
“Truly yes, poor fellow! Where are your eyes? But there is a great
difference between the two, for the one she holds in her left hand is neither
so big nor so long as that which she holds in her right hand.”
“Ha!” said the squire, “you say right. May St. Anthony burn the
wanton;” and you may guess that he was not well pleased.
“Take no heed,” said the knight, “and bear your wrong as patiently as
you can. It is not here that you have to show your courage: make a virtue of
necessity.”
Having thus spoken, the worthy knight approached the window where
the three were standing, and noticed by chance that the knight on the left,
hand, was standing on tip-toe, attending to what the fair damsel and the
squire were saying and doing.
Giving him a slight tap on his hat, the knight said,
“Mind your own business in the devil’s name, and don’t trouble about
other people.”
The other withdrew, and began to laugh, but the damsel, who was not
the sort of woman to care about trifles, scarcely showed any concern, but
quietly let go her hold without brushing or changing colour, though she was
sorry in her heart to let out of her hand what she could have well used in
another place.
As you may guess, both before and after that time, either of those two
would most willingly have done her a service, and the poor, sick lover was
obliged to be a witness of the greatest misfortune which could happen to
him, and his poor heart would have driven him to despair, if reason had not

come to his help, and caused him to abandon his love affairs, out of which
he had never derived any benefit.

STORY THE THIRTY-SEVENTH — THE USE
OF DIRTY WATER.
By Monseigneur De La Roche.

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

Whilst others are thinking and ransacking their memories for
adventures and deeds fit to be narrated and added to the present history, I
will relate to you, briefly, how the most jealous man in this kingdom, in his
time, was deceived. I do not suppose that he was the only one who ever
suffered this misfortune, but at any rate I will not omit to describe the clever
trick that was played upon him.
This jealous old hunks was a great historian, and had often read and re-
read all sorts of stories; but the principal end and aim of all his study was to
learn and know all the ways and manners in which wives had deceived their
husbands. For—thank God—old histories like Matheolus (*), Juvenal, the
Fifteen Joys of Marriage (**), and more others than I can count, abound in
descriptions of deceits, tricks, and deceptions of that sort.

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

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

Our jealous husband had always one or other of these books in his
hand, and was as fond of them as a fool is of his bauble,—reading or
studying them; and indeed he had made from these books a compendium
for his own use, in which all the tricks and deceits practised by wives on
their husbands were noted and described.
This he had done in order to be forewarned and on his guard, should
his wife perchance use any of the plans or subterfuges chronicled or
registered in his book. For he watched his wife as carefully as the most
jealous Italian would, and still was not content, so ruled was he by this
cursed passion of jealousy.
In this delectable state did the poor man live three or four years with
his wife, and the only amusement she had in that time was to escape out of
his hateful presence by going to Mass, and then she was always
accompanied by an old servant, who was charged to watch over her.
A gentle knight, who had heard how the fair lady was watched, one
day met the damsel, who was both beautiful and witty, and told her how
willing he was to do her a service, that he sighed for her love, and condoled
with her evil fortune in being allied to the most jealous wretch there was on
the face of the earth, and saying, moreover, that she was the sole person on
earth for whom he cared.
“And since I cannot tell you here how much I love you, and many
other things which I hope you will be glad to hear, I will, if you wish, put it
all in writing and give it you to-morrow, begging also that any small service
that I most willingly do for you, be not refused.”
She gladly listened, but owing to the presence of Dangier, (*) who was
near, hardly replied; nevertheless she said she would be glad to have his
letter when it came.

(*) See note page 159.

Her lover was very joyful when he took leave of her, and with good
cause, and the damsel said farewell to him in a kind and gracious manner,
but the old woman, who watched her, did not fail to ask her what
conversation had taken place between her and the man who had just left.
“He brought me news of my mother,” she replied; “at which I am very
joyful, for she is in good health.”

The old woman asked no more, and they returned home.
On the morrow, the lover, provided with a letter written God knows in
what terms, met the lady, and gave her this letter so quickly and cunningly
that the old servant, who was watching, saw nothing.
The letter was opened by her most joyfully when she was alone. The
gist of the contents was that he had fallen in love with her, and that he knew
not a day’s happiness when he was absent from her, and finally hoped that
she would of her kindness appoint a suitable place where she could give
him a reply to this letter.
She wrote a reply in which she said she could love no one but her
husband, to whom she owed all faith and loyalty; nevertheless, she was
pleased to know the writer was so much in love with her, but, though she
could promise him no reward, would be glad to hear what he had to say, but
certainly that could not be, because her husband never left her except when
she went to church, and then she was guarded, and more than guarded, by
the dirtiest old hag that ever interfered with anybody.
The lover, dressed quite differently to what he had been the preceding
day, met the lady, who knew him at once, and as he passed close to her,
received from her hand the letter already mentioned. That he was anxious to
know the contents was no marvel. He went round a corner, and there, at his
leisure, learned the condition of affairs, which seemed to be progressing
favourably.
It needed but time and place to carry out his enterprise, and he thought
night and day how this was to be accomplished. At last he thought of a first-
rate trick, for he remembered that a lady friend of his lived between the
church where his lady went to Mass and her house, and he told her the
history of his love affair, concealing nothing from her, and begging her to
help him.
“Whatever I can do for you, I will do with all my heart,” she said.
“I thank you,” said he. “Would you mind if I met her here?”
“Faith!” she said, “to please you, I do not mind!”
“Well!” he replied, “if ever it is in my power to do you a service, you
may be sure that I will remember this kindness.”
He was not satisfied till he had written again to his lady-love and given
her the letter, in which he said that he had made an arrangement with a

certain woman, “who is a great friend of mine, a respectable woman, who
can loyally keep a secret, and who knows you well and loves you, and who
will lend us her house where we may meet. And this is the plan I have
devised. I will be to-morrow in an upper chamber which looks on the street,
and I will have by me a large pitcher of water mingled with ashes, which I
will upset on you suddenly as you pass. And I shall be so disguised that
neither your old woman, nor anyone else in the world, will recognise me.
When you have been drenched with this water, you will pretend to be very
angry and surprised, and take refuge in the house, and send your Dangier to
seek another gown; and while she is on the road we will talk together.”
To shorten the story, the letter was given, and the lady, who was very
well pleased, sent a reply.
The next day came, and the lady was drenched by her lover with a
pitcher of water and cinders, in such fashion that her kerchief, gown, and
other habiliments were all spoiled and ruined. God knows that she was very
astonished and displeased, and rushed into the house, as though she were
beside herself, and ignorant of where she was.
When she saw the lady of the house, she complained bitterly of the
mischief which had been done, and I cannot tell you how much she grieved
over this misadventure. Now she grieved for her kerchief, now for her
gown, and another time for her other clothes,—in short, if anyone had heard
her, they would have thought the world was coming to an end.
The old woman, who was also in a great rage, had a knife in her hand,
with which she scraped the gown as well as she could.
“No, no, my friend! you only waste your time. It cannot be cleaned as
easily as that: you cannot do any good. I must have another gown and
another kerchief-there is nothing else to be done. Go home and fetch them,
and make haste and come back, or we shall lose the Mass in addition to our
other troubles.”
The old woman seeing that there was imperative need of the clothes,
did not dare to refuse her mistress, and took the gown and kerchief under
her mantle, and went home.
She had scarcely turned on her heels, before her mistress was
conducted to the chamber where her lover was, who was pleased to see her
in a simple petticoat and with her hair down.

Whilst they are talking together, let us return to the old woman, who
went back to the house, where she found her master, who did not wait for
her to speak, but asked her at once,
“What have you done with my wife? where is she?”
“I have left her,” she replied, “at such a person’s house, in such a
place.”
“And for what purpose?” said he.
Then she showed him the gown and the kerchief, and told him about
the pitcher of water and ashes, and said that she had been sent to seek other
clothes, for her mistress could not leave the place where she was in that
state.
“Is that so?” said he. “By Our Lady! that trick is not in my book! Go!
Go! I know well what has happened.”
He would have added that he was cuckolded, and I believe he was at
that time, and he never again kept a record of the various tricks that had
been played on husbands. Moreover, it is believed that he never forgot the
trick which had been played on him. There was no need for him to write it
down—he preserved a lively memory of it the few good days that he had to
live.

STORY THE THIRTY-EIGHTH — A ROD FOR
ANOTHER’S BACK. 38
By The Seneschal Of Guyenne.

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

There was formerly a merchant of Tours, who, to give a feast to his
curé and other worthy people, bought a large lamprey, and sent it to his
house, and charged his wife to cook it, as she well knew how to do.
“And see,” said he, “that the dinner is ready at twelve o’clock, for I
shall bring our curé, and some other people” (whom he named).
“All shall be ready,” she replied, “bring whom you will.”
She prepared a lot of nice fish, and when she saw the lamprey she
wished that her paramour, a Cordelier, could have it, and said to herself,
“Ah, Brother Bernard, why are you not here? By my oath, you should
not leave till you had tasted this lamprey, or, if you liked, you should take it
to your own room, and I would not fail to keep you company.”
It was with great regret that the good woman began to prepare the
lamprey for her husband, for she was thinking how the Cordelier could have
it. She thought so much about it that she finally determined to send the
lamprey by an old woman, who knew her secret. She did so, and told the
Cordelier that she would come at night, and sup and sleep with him.
When the Cordelier heard that she was coming, you may guess that he
was joyful and contented, and he told the old woman that he would get
some good wine to do honour to the lamprey. The old woman returned, and
delivered his message.

About twelve o’clock came our merchant, the curé, and the other
guests, to eat this lamprey, which had now gone far out of their reach. When
they were all in the merchant’s house, he took them all into the kitchen to
show them the big lamprey that he was going to give them, and called his
wife, and said,
“Show us our lamprey, I want to tell our guests how cheap I bought it.”
“What lamprey?” she asked.
“The lamprey that I gave you for our dinner, along with the other fish.”
“I have seen no lamprey,” she said; “I think you must be dreaming.
Here are a carp, two pike, and I know not what fish beside, but I have seen
no lamprey to day.”
“What?” said he. “Do you think I am drunk?”
“Yes,” replied the curé and the other guests, “we think no less. You are
too niggardly to buy such a lamprey.”
“By God,” said his wife, “he is either making fun of you or he is
dreaming—for certainly I have never seen this lamprey.”
Her husband grew angry, and cried,
“You lie, you whore! Either you have eaten it, or you have hidden it
somewhere. I promise you it will be the dearest lamprey you ever had.”
With that he turned to the curé and the others, and swore by God’s
death and a hundred other oaths, that he had given his wife a lamprey which
had cost him a franc; but they, to tease him and torment him still more,
pretended not to believe him, and that they were very disappointed, and
said;
“We were invited to dinner at such houses, but we refused in order to
come here, thinking we were going to eat this lamprey; but, as far as we can
see, there is no chance of that.”
Their host, who was in a terrible rage, picked up a stick, and advanced
towards his wife to thrash her, but the others held him back, and dragged
him by force out of the house, and with much trouble appeased him as well
as they could. Then, since they could not have the lamprey, the curé had the
table laid, and they made as good cheer as they could.
The good dame meanwhile sent for one of her neighbours, who was a
widow, but still good-looking and lively, and invited her to dinner; and

when she saw her opportunity, she said;
“My dear neighbour, it would be very kind of you to do me a great
service and pleasure, and if you will do this for me, I will repay you in a
manner that will please you.”
“And what do you want me to do?” asked the other.
“I will tell you,” said she. “My husband is so violent in his night-work
that it is astounding, and, in fact, last night he so tumbled me, that by my
oath I am afraid of him to-night. Therefore I would beg of you to take my
place, and if ever I can do anything for you in return, you may command
me—body and goods.”
The good neighbour, to oblige her, promised to take her place—for
which she was greatly thanked.
Now you must know that our merchant when he returned from dinner,
laid in a good stock of birch rods, which he carried secretly into his house,
and hid near his bed, saying to himself that if his wife worried him she
should be well paid.
But he did not do this so secretly but what his wife was on her guard
and prepared, for she knew by long experience her husband’s brutality.
He did not sup at home, but stopped out late, and came home when he
expected she would be in bed and naked. But his design failed, for late that
evening she made her neighbour undress and go to bed in her place, and
charged her expressly not to speak to her husband when he came, but
pretend to be dumb and ill. And she did more, for she put out the fire both
in the chamber and in the kitchen. That being done, she told her neighbour
that as soon as ever her husband rose in the morning, she was to leave and
return to her own house, and she promised that she would.
The neighbour being thus put to bed, the brave woman went off to the
Cordelier to eat the lamprey and gain her pardons, as was her custom.
While she was feasting there, the merchant came home after supper,
full of spite and anger about the lamprey, and to execute the plan he had
conceived, took his rods in his hand and then searched for a light for the
candle, but found no fire even in the chimney.
When he saw that, he went to bed without saying a word, and slept till
dawn, when he rose and dressed, and took his rods, and so thrashed his
wife’s substitute, in revenge for the lamprey, till she bled all over, and the

sheets of the bed were as bloody as though a bullock had been flayed on
them, but the poor woman did not dare to say a word, or even to show her
face.
His rods being all broken, and his arm tired, he left the house, and the
poor woman, who had expected to enjoy the pleasant pastime of the sports
of love, went home soon afterwards to bemoan her ill-luck and her wounds,
and not without cursing and threatening the woman who had brought this
upon her.
Whilst the husband was still away from home, the good woman
returned from seeing the Cordelier, and found the bed-chamber all strewn
with birch twigs, the bed all crumpled, and the sheets covered with blood,
and she then knew that her neighbour had suffered bodily injury, as she had
expected. She at once remade the bed, and put on fresh and clean sheets,
and swept the chamber, and then she went to see her neighbour, whom she
found in a pitiable condition, and it need not be said was not able to give
her any consolation.
As soon as she could, she returned home, and undressed, and laid
down on the fair white bed that she had prepared, and slept well till her
husband returned from the town, his anger quite dissipated by the revenge
he had taken, and came to his wife whom he found in bed pretending to
sleep.
“What is the meaning of this, mademoiselle?” he said. “Is it not time to
get up?”
“Oh dear!” she said, “is it day yet? By my oath I never heard you get
up. I was having a dream which had lasted a long time.”
“I expect,” he replied, “that you were dreaming about the lamprey,
were you not? It would not be very wonderful if you did, for I gave you
something to remember it by this morning.”
“By God!” she said, “I never thought about you or your lamprey.”
“What?” said he. “Have you so soon forgotten?”
“Forgotten?” she answered. “Why not? a dream is soon forgotten.”
“Well, then, did you dream about the bundle of birch rods I used on
you not two hours ago?”
“On me?” she asked.

“Yes, certainly; on you,” he said. “I know very well I thrashed you
soundly, as the sheets of the bed would show.”
“By my oath, dear friend,” she replied, “I do not know what you did or
dreamed, but for my part I recollect very well that this morning you
indulged in the sports of love with much desire; I am sure that if you
dreamed you did anything else to me it must be like yesterday, when you
made sure you had given me the lamprey.”
“That would be a strange dream,” said he. “Show yourself that I may
see you.”
She turned down the bed-clothes and showed herself quite naked, and
without mark or wound. He saw also that the sheets were fair and white,
and without any stain. It need not be said that he was much astonished, and
he thought the matter over for a long time, and was silent. At last he said;
“By my oath, my dear, I imagined that I gave you a good beating this
morning, even till you bled—but I see well I did nothing of the kind, and I
do not know exactly what did happen.”
“Marry!” she said “Get the idea that you have beaten me out of your
head, for you never touched me, as you can see. Make up your mind that
you dreamed it.”
“I am sure you are right,” said he, “and I beg of you to pardon me, for
I did wrong to abuse you before all the strangers I brought to the house.”
“That is easily pardoned,” she replied; “but at any rate take care that
you are not so rash and hasty another time.”
“No, I will not be, my dear!” said he.
Thus, as you have heard, was the merchant deceived by his wife, and
made to believe that he had dreamed that he had bought the lamprey; also in
the other matters mentioned above.

STORY THE THIRTY-NINTH — BOTH WELL
SERVED. 39
By Monseigneur De Saint Pol.

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

A noble knight of the Marches of Haynau—rich, powerful, brave, and
a good fellow—was in love with a fair lady for a long time, and was so
esteemed and secretly loved by her, that whenever he liked he repaired to a
private and remote part of her castle, where she came to visit him, and they
conversed at their leisure of their pleasant mutual love.
Not a soul knew of their pleasant pastime, except a damsel who served
the lady, and who had kept the matter secret for a long time, and had served
the dame so willingly in all her affairs that she was worthy of a great
reward. Moreover, she was such a good girl, that not only had she gained
the affection of her mistress for her services in this and other matters, but
the husband of the lady esteemed her as much as his wife did, because he
found her good, trustworthy, and diligent.
It chanced one day that the lady knew her aforesaid lover to be in the
house, but could not go to him as soon as she wished, because her husband
detained her; at which she was much vexed, and sent the damsel to tell him
that he must yet have patience, and that, as soon as she could get rid of her
husband, she would come to him.
The damsel went to the knight, who was awaiting the lady, and
delivered her message, and he, being a courteous knight, thanked her much
for her message, and made her sit by him; then tenderly kissed her two or

three times. She did not object, which gave the knight encouragement to
proceed to other liberties, which also were not refused him.
This being finished, she returned to her mistress, and told her that her
lover was anxiously awaiting her.
“Alas!” said the lady, “I know full well he is, but my husband will not
go to bed, and there are a lot of people here whom I cannot leave. God
curse them! I would much rather be with him. He is very dull, is he not—all
alone up there?”
“Faith! I believe he is,” replied the damsel, “but he comforts himself as
well as he can with the hope of your coming.‘’
“That I believe, but at any rate he has been all alone, and without a
light, for more than two hours; it must be very lonely. I beg you, my dear, to
go back to him again and make excuses for me, and stay with him. May the
devil take the people who keep me here!”
“I will do what you please, madam, but it seems to me that he loves
you so much you have no need to make excuses; and also, that, if I go, you
will have no woman here, and perhaps monseigneur may ask for me and I
cannot be found.”
“Do not trouble about that,” said the lady. “I will manage that all right
if he should ask for you. But it vexes me that my friend should be alone—
go and see what he is doing, I beg.”
“I will go, since you wish it,” she replied.
That she was pleased with her errand need not be said, though to
conceal her willingness she had made excuses to her mistress. She soon
came to the knight, who was still waiting, and said to him;
“Monseigneur, madame has sent me to you again to make her excuses
for keeping you so long waiting, and to tell you how vexed she is.”
“You may tell her,” said he, “that she may come at her leisure, and not
to hurry on my account, for you can take her place.”
With that he kissed and cuddled her, and did not suffer her to depart till
he had tumbled her twice, which was not much trouble to him, for he was
young and vigorous, and fond of that sport.
The damsel bore it all patiently, and would have been glad to often
have the same luck, if she could without prejudice to her mistress.

When she was about to leave, she begged the knight to say nothing to
her mistress.
“Have no fear,” said he.
“I beg of you to be silent,” she said.
Then she returned to her mistress, who asked what her friend was
doing?
“He is still,” the damsel replied, “awaiting you.”
“But,” said the lady, “is he not vexed and angry?”
“No,” said the damsel, “since he had company. He is much obliged to
you for having sent me, and if he often had to wait would like to have me to
talk to him to pass the time,—and, faith! I should like nothing better, for he
is the pleasantest man I ever talked to. God knows that it was good to hear
him curse the folks who detained you—all except monseigneur; he would
say nothing against him.”
“St. John! I wish that he and all his company were in the river, so that I
could get away.”
In due time monseigneur—thank God—sent away his servants, retired
to his chamber, undressed, and went to bed. Madame, dressed only in a
petticoat, put on her night-dress, took her prayer-book, and began,—
devoutly enough God knows—to say her psalms and paternosters, but
monseigneur, who was as wide awake as a rat, was anxious for a little
conversation, and wished madame to put off saying her prayers till the
morrow, and talk to him.
“Pardon me,” she replied, “but I cannot talk to you now—God comes
first you know. Nothing would go right in the house all the week if I did not
give God what little praise I can, and I should expect bad luck if I did not
say my prayers now.”
“You sicken me with all this bigotry,” said monseigneur. “What is the
use of saying all these prayers? Come on, come on! and leave that business
to the priests. Am I not right, Jehannette?” he added, addressing the damsel
before mentioned.
“Monseigneur,” she replied, “I do not know what to say, except that as
madame is accustomed to serve God, let her do so.”

“There, there!” said madame to her husband, “I see well that you want
to argue, and I wish to finish my prayers, so we shall not agree. I will leave
Jehannette to talk to you, and will go to my little chamber behind to petition
God.”
Monseigneur was satisfied, and madame went off at full gallop to her
friend, the knight, who received her with God knows how great joy, and the
honour that he did her was to bend her knees and lay her down.
But you must know that whilst madame was saying her prayers with
her lover, it happened, I know not how, that her husband begged Jehannette,
who was keeping him company, to grant him her favours.
To cut matters short, by his promises and fine words she was induced
to obey him, but the worst of it was that madame, when she returned from
seeing her lover, who had tumbled her twice before she left, found her
husband and Jehannette, her waiting-woman, engaged in the very same
work which she had been performing, at which she was much astonished;
and still more so were her husband and Jehannette at being thus surprised.
When madame saw that, God knows how she saluted them, though she
would have done better to hold her tongue; and she vented her rage so on
poor Jehannette that it seemed as though she must have a devil in her belly,
or she could not have used such abominable words.
Indeed she did more and worse, for she picked up a big stick and laid it
across the girl’s shoulders, on seeing which, monseigneur, who was already
vexed and angry, jumped up and so beat his wife that she could not rise.
Having then nothing but her tongue, she used it freely God knows, but
addressed most of her venomous speeches to poor Jehannette, who no
longer able to bear them, told monseigneur of the goings-on of his wife, and
where she had been to say her prayers, and with whom.
The whole company was troubled—monseigneur because he had good
cause to suspect his wife, and madame, who was wild with rage, well
beaten, and accused by her waiting-woman.
How this unfortunate household lived after that, those who know can
tell.

STORY THE FORTIETH — THE BUTCHER’S
WIFE WHO PLAYED THE GHOST IN THE
CHIMNEY.
By Michault De Changy.

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

It happened formerly at Lille, that a famous clerk and preacher of the
order of St. Dominic, converted, by his holy and eloquent preaching, the
wife of a butcher; in such wise that she loved him more than all the world,
and was never perfectly happy when he was not with her.
But in the end Master Monk tired of her, and wished that she would
not visit him so often, at which she was as vexed as she could be, but the
rebuff only made her love him the more.
The monk, seeing that, forbade her to come to his chamber, and
charged his clerk not to admit her, whatever she might say; at which she
was more vexed and infuriated than ever, and small marvel.
If you ask me why the monk did this, I should reply that it was not
from devotion, or a desire to lead a chaste life, but that he had made the
acquaintance of another woman, who was prettier, much younger, and
richer, and with whom he was on such terms that she had a key to his
chamber.
Thus it was that the butcher’s wife never came to him, as she had been
accustomed, so that his new mistress could in all leisure and security come
and gain her pardons and pay her tithe, like the women of Ostelleria, of
whom mention has been made.
One day, after dinner, there was a great feast held in the chamber of
Master Monk, and his mistress had promised to come and bring her share
both of wine and meat. And as some of the other brothers in that monastery

were of the same kidney, he secretly invited two or three of them; and God
knows they had good cheer at this dinner, which did not finish without
plenty of drink.
Now you must know that the butcher’s wife was acquainted with many
of the servants of these preachers, and she saw them pass her house, some
bearing wine, some pasties, some tarts, and so many other things that it was
wonderful.
She could not refrain from asking what feast was going forward at
their house? And the answer was that all this dainties were for such an one,
—that is to say her monk—who had some great people to dinner.
“And who are they?” she asked.
“Faith! I know not,” he said. “I only carry my wine to the door, and
there our master takes it from us. I know not who is there!”
“I see,” she said, “that it is a secret. Well, well! go on and do your
duty.”
Soon there passed another servant, of whom she asked the same
questions, and he replied as his fellow had done, but rather more, for he
said,
“I believe there is a damsel there;—but she wishes her presence to be
neither seen nor known.”
She guessed who it was, and was in a great rage, and said to herself
that she would keep an eye upon the woman who had robbed her of the love
of her friend, and, no doubt, if she had met her she would have read her a
pretty lesson, and scratched her face.
She set forth with the intention of executing the plan she had
conceived. When she arrived at the place, she waited long to meet the
person she most hated in the world, but she had not the patience to wait till
her rival came out of the chamber where the feast was being held, so at last
she determined to use a ladder that a tiler, who was at work at the roof, had
left there whilst he went to dinner.
She placed this ladder against the kitchen chimney of the house, with
the intention of dropping in and saluting the company, for she knew well
that she could not enter in any other way.
The ladder being placed exactly as she wished it, she ascended it to the
chimney, round which she tied a fairly thick cord that by chance she found