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015a.jpg the Gentleman and his Friend Annoyed by The Smell of That Which They Thought Was Sugar
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An apothecary s man, espying behind him an advocate who wasto plague him, and on whom he desired to be revenged,dropped from his sleeve a lump of frozen ordure, wrapped inpaper like a sugar-loaf, which a gentleman who was with theadvocate picked up and hid in his bosom, and then went tobreakfast at a tavern, whence he came forth with all thecost and shame that he had thought to bring upon the poorvarlet.
Near the town of Alençon there lived a gentleman called the Lord of La Tireliere, who one morning came from his house to the town afoot, both because the distance was not great and because it was freezing hard. (1) When he had done his business, he sought out a crony of his, an advocate named Anthony Bacheré, and, after speaking with him of his affairs, he told him that he should much like to meet with a good breakfast, but at somebody else’s expense. While thus discussing, they sat themselves down in front of an apothecary’s shop, where there was a varlet who listened to them, and who forthwith resolved to give them their breakfast.
1 The phraseology of this story varies considerably in thedifferent MSS. of theHeptameron. In No. 1520, forinstance, the tale begins as follows: “In the town ofAlençon, in the time of the last Duke Charles, there was anadvocate, a merry companion, fond of breakfasting o’mornings. One day, whilst he sat at his door, he saw pass agentleman called the Lord of La Tilleriere, who, by reasonof the extreme cold, had come on foot from his house to thetown in order to attend to certain business there, and indoing so had not forgotten to put on his great robe, linedwith fox-skin. And when he saw the advocate, who was muchsuch a man as himself, he told him that he had completed hisbusiness, and had nothing further to do, except it were tofind a good breakfast. The advocate made answer that theycould find breakfasts enough and to spare, provided they hadsome one to defray the cost, and, taking the other under thearm, he said to him, ‘Come, gossip, we may perhaps find somefool who will pay the reckoning for us both.’ Now behindthem was an apothecary’s man, an artful and inventivefellow, whom this advocate was always plaguing,” &c.—L.
He went out from his shop into a street whither all repaired on needful occasions, (2) and there found a large lump of ordure standing on end, and so well frozen that it looked like a small loaf of fine sugar. Forthwith he wrapped it in handsome white paper, in the manner he was wont to use for the attraction of customers, and hid it in his sleeve.
2 In olden time, as shown in theMémoires de l’Académie deTroyes, there were in most French towns streets speciallyset aside for the purpose referred to. At Alençon, in QueenMargaret’s time, there was a street called the Rue desFumiers, as appears from a report dated March 8, 1564(Archives of the Orne, Series A). Probably it is to thisstreet that she alludes. (Communicated by M. L. Duval,archivist of the department of the Orne).—M.
Afterwards he came and passed in front of the gentleman and the advocate, and, letting the sugar-loaf (3) fall near them, as if by mischance, went into a house whither he had pretended to be carrying it.
The Lord of La Tirelière (4) hastened back with all speed to pick up what he thought to be a sugar-loaf, and just as he had done so the apothecary’s man also came back looking and asking for his sugar everywhere.
3 M. Duval, archivist of the Orne, states that LaTirelière, which is situated near St. Germain-du-Corbois,within three miles of Alençon, is an oldgentilhommièreormanor-house, surrounded by a moat. It was originally asimplevavassonrieheld in fief from the Counts and Dukesof Alençon by the Pantolf and Crouches families, and in theseventeenth century was merged into the marquisate ofL’Isle.—M.4 Sugar was at this period sold by apothecaries, and was arare and costly luxury. There were loaves of various sizes,but none so large as those of the present time.—M.
The gentleman, thinking that he had cleverly tricked him, then went in haste to a tavern with his crony, to whom he said—
“Our breakfast has been paid for at the cost of that varlet.”
When he was come to the tavern he called for good bread, good wine and good meat, for he thought that he had wherewith to pay. But whilst he was eating, as he began to grow warm, his sugar-loaf in its turn began to thaw and melt, and filled the whole room with the smell peculiar to it, whereupon he, who carried it in his bosom, grew wroth with the waiting-woman, and said to her—
“You are the filthiest folks that ever I knew in this town, for either you or your children have strewn all this room with filth.”
“By St. Peter!” replied the woman, “there is no filth here unless you have brought it in yourselves.”
Thereupon they rose, by reason of the great stench that they smelt, and went up to the fire, where the gentleman drew out of his bosom a handkerchief all dyed with the melted sugar, and on opening his robe, lined with fox-skin, found it to be quite spoiled.
And all that he was able to say to his crony was this—
“The rogue whom we thought to deceive has deceived us instead.”
Then they paid their reckoning and went away as vexed as they had been merry on their arrival, when they fancied they had tricked the apothecary’s varlet. (5)
5 In MS. 1520, this tale ends in the following manner:—“They were no sooner in the street than they perceived theapothecary’s man going about and making inquiry of every onewhether they had not seen a loaf of sugar wrapped in paper.They [the advocate and his companion] sought to avoid him,but he called aloud to the advocate, ‘If you have my loaf ofsugar, sir, I beg that you will give it back to me, for ‘tisa double sin to rob a poor servant.’ His shouts brought tothe spot many people curious to witness the dispute, and thetrue circumstances of the case were so well proven, that theapothecary’s man was as glad to have been robbed as theothers were vexed at having committed such a nasty theft.However, they comforted themselves with the hope that theymight some day give him tit for tat.”—Ed.
“Often, ladies, do we see the like befall those who delight in using such cunning. If the gentleman had not sought to eat at another’s expense, he would not have drunk so vile a beverage at his own. It is true, ladies, that my story is not a very clean one, but you gave me license to speak the truth, and I have done so in order to show you that no one is sorry when a deceiver is deceived.”
“It is commonly said,” replied Hircan, “that words have no stink, yet those for whom they are intended do not easily escape smelling them.”
“It is true,” said Oisille, “that such words do not stink, but there are others which are spoken of as nasty, and which are of such evil odour that they disgust the soul even more than the body is disgusted when it smells such a sugar-loaf as you described in the tale.”
“I pray you,” said Hircan, “tell me what words you know of so foul as to sicken both the heart and soul of a virtuous woman.”
“It would indeed be seemly,” replied Oisille, “that I should tell you words which I counsel no woman to utter.”
“By that,” said Saffredent, “I quite understand what those terms are. They are such as women desirous of being held discreet do not commonly employ. But I would ask all the ladies present why, when they dare not utter them, they are so ready to laugh at them when they are used in their presence.”
Then said Parlamente—
“We do not laugh because we hear such pretty expressions, though it is indeed true that every one is disposed to laugh on seeing anybody stumble or on hearing any one utter an unfitting word, as often happens. The tongue will trip and cause one word to be used for another, even by the discreetest and most excellent speakers. But when you men talk viciously, not from ignorance, but by reason of your own wickedness, I know of no virtuous woman who does not feel a loathing for such speakers, and who would not merely refuse to hearken to them, but even to remain in their company.”
“That is very true,” responded Geburon. “I have frequently seen women make the sign of the cross on hearing certain words spoken, and cease not in doing so after these words had been uttered a second time.”
“But how many times,” said Simontault, “have they put on their masks (6) in order to laugh as freely as they pretended to be angry?”
“Yet it were better to do this,” said Parlamente, “than to let it be seen that the talk pleased them.”
“Then,” said Dagoucin, “you praise a lady’s hypocrisy no less than her virtue?”
“Virtue would be far better,” said Longarine, “but, when it is lacking, recourse must be had to hypocrisy, just as we use our slippers (7) to disguise our littleness. And it is no small matter to be able to conceal our imperfections.”
8Tourets-de-nez.See ante, vol. iii. p. 27, note 5.—Ed.7 High-heeled slippers ormuleswere then worn.—B. J.
“By my word,” said Hircan, “it were better sometimes to show some slight imperfection than to cover it so closely with the cloak of virtue.”
“It is true,” said Ennasuitc, “that a borrowed garment brings the borrower as much dishonour when he is constrained to return it as it brought him honour whilst it was being worn, and there is a lady now living who, by being too eager to conceal a small error, fell into a greater.”
“I think,” said Hircan, “that I know whom you mean; in any case, however, do not pronounce her name.”
“Ho! ho!” said Geburon [to Ennasuite], “I give you my vote on condition that when you have related the story you will tell us the names. We will swear never to mention them.”
“I promise it,” said Knnasuite, “for there is nothing that may not be told in all honour.”
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023a.jpg the Lord Des Cheriots Flying from The Prince’s Servant
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By her dissimulation the Lady of Neufchastel caused thePrince of Belhoste to put her to such proof that it turnedto her dishonour.
King Francis the First was once at a handsome and pleasant castle, whither he had gone with a small following, both for the purpose of hunting and in order to take some repose. With him in his train was a certain Prince of Belhoste, (1) as worshipful, virtuous, discreet and handsome a Prince as any at Court. The wife he had married did not belong to a family of high rank, yet he loved her as dearly and treated her as well as it were possible for a husband to do, and also trusted in her. And when he was in love with anybody he never concealed it from her, knowing that she had no other will than his own.
1 The Bibliophile Jacob surmises that this personage may beone of the Italian grandees at that period in the service ofFrance, in which case the allusion may be to JohnCaraccioli, Prince of Melphes, created a marshal of Francein 1544. Queen Margaret, however, makes no mention of herPrince being a foreigner. “Belhoste” is of course afictitious name invented to replace that which the Princereally bore, and admits of so many interpretations that itsmeaning in the present instance cannot well be determined.From the circumstance, however, that the Prince’s wife wasof inferior birth to himself, it is not impossible that thepersonage referred to may be either Charles de Bourbon,Prince of La Roche-sur-Yonne and Duke of Beaupréau, or JohnVIII., Lord of Créqui, Canaples and Pontdormi, and Prince ofPoix. The former, who married Philippa de Montespedon, widowof René de Montéjan, and a lady of honour to Catherine de’Medici when Dauphiness, took a prominent part in the lastwars of Francis I.‘s reign, and survived till 1565. Thelatter, generally known at Court by the name of Canaples,was a gentleman of the chamber and an especial favourite ofFrancis I. Brantôme says of him in hisHomines Illustresthat he was “a valiant lord and the strongest man of armsthat in those days existed in all Christendom, for he brokea lance, no matter its strength, as easily as though it werea mere switch, and few were able to withstand him.” In 1525the Prince of Poix married a Demoiselle d’Acigné or Assigny,ofpetite noblesse, who in 1532 became a lady of honour toQueen Eleanor. She died in 1558, surviving her husband bythree years. See Rouard’s rareNotice dun Recueil deCrayons à la Bibliothèque Méjanes d’Aix, Paris, 1863.—Ed.
Now this Prince conceived a deep affection for a widow lady called Madame de Neufchastel, (2) who was reputed the most beautiful woman it were possible to see; and if the Prince of Bel-hoste loved her well, his wife loved her no less, and would often send and bid her to dinner, for she deemed her so discreet and honourable, that, instead of being grieved by her husband’s love for her, she rejoiced to see him address his attentions to one so full of honour and virtue.
2 M. Lacroix thinks that this lady may be Jane de Hochberg,only daughter of Philip, sovereign Count of Neufchâtel.According to the custom of the time, she was commonly calledMadame de Neufchâtel, despite her marriage with Louisd’Orléans, Duke of Longueville. She died in 1543, after alengthy widowhood. We consider the accuracy of M. Lacroix’ssurmise to be extremely doubtful, for the names of both themen figuring in the story are obviously altered so as toconceal their identity, and it is therefore not likely thatQueen Margaret would designate the lady by her real name,and thus publish her shame to the world. The Madame deNeufchâtel she speaks of may really have been a Madame deChâteauneuf, Châteauvieux or Maisonneuve; or we may again bein presence of Margaret’s lady of honour, the widowedBlanche de Chastillon,néede Tournon, to whom frequentreference has been made.—Ed.
This affection lasted for a great while, the Prince of Belhoste caring for all the lady’s affairs as though they were his own, and his wife doing no less. By reason, however, of her beauty many great lords and gentlemen earnestly sought the lady’s favour, some only for love’s sake, others for sake of the ring, for, besides being beautiful, she was also very rich.
Among the rest was a young gentleman, called the Lord des Cheriots, (3) who wooed her so ardently that he was never absent from her levee and couchée, and was also with her as much as possible during the day. This did not please the Prince of Belhoste, who thought that a man of such poor estate, and so lacking in grace, did not deserve an honourable and gracious reception, and he often made remonstrances about it to the lady. She, however, being one of Eve’s daughters, (4) excused herself by saying that she spoke with every one in general, and that their own affection was the better concealed, since she never spoke more with one than with another.
3 “Des Cheriots” (occasionally Des Cheriotz in the MS.) maybe a play upon the name of D’Escars, sometimes written DesCars. According to La Curne de Ste. Palayecaras well ascharsignified chariot. The D’Escars dukedom is modern,dating from 1815, and in the time of Francis I. the familywas of small estate. Some members of it may well have filledinferior offices about the court, as in 1536 a DemoiselleSuzanne d’Escars married Geoffrey de Pompadour, who was botha prothonotary and cupbearer to Francis I., and lived tobecome Governor of the Limousin under Charles IX.—M. andEd.4 We take this expression from MS. 1520. Ours says, “adaughter of the Duke,” which is evidently an error.—L.
Albeit, after some time, this Lord des Cheriots so pressed her that, more through his importunity than through love, she promised to marry him, begging him, however, not to urge her to reveal the marriage until her daughters were wedded. After this the gentleman was wont to go with untroubled conscience to her chamber at whatsoever hour he chose, and none but a waiting-woman and a serving-man had knowledge of the matter.
When the Prince perceived that the gentleman was growing more and more familiar in the house of her whom he so dearly loved, he took it in ill-part, and could not refrain from saying to the lady—
“I have always prized your honour like that of my own sister, and you are aware of the honourable manner in which I have addressed you, and the happiness that I have in loving a lady as discreet and virtuous as yourself; but did I think that another who deserves it not could win by importunity that which I am not willing to crave, contrary to your own desire, this would be unendurable to me, and in the like degree dishonouring to you. I tell you this because you are beautiful and young, and although hitherto of good repute, are now beginning to gain a very evil fame. Even though he be not your equal in birth or fortune, and have less influence, knowledge and address, yet it were better to have married him than to give all men matter for suspicion. I pray you, therefore, tell me whether you are resolved to love him, for I will not have him as fellow of mine. I would rather leave you altogether to him, and put away from me the feelings that I have hitherto borne you.”
The poor lady, fearful of losing his affection, thereupon began to weep, and vowed to him that she would rather die than wed the gentleman of whom he had spoken, but (she added) he was so importunate that she could not help his entering her chamber at a time when every one else did so.
“Of such times as those,” said the Prince, “I do not speak, for I can go as well as he, and see all what you are doing. But I have been told that he goes after you are in bed, and this I look upon as so extraordinary that, if you should continue in this mode of life without declaring him to be your husband, you will be disgraced more than any woman that ever lived.”
She swore to him with all the oaths she could utter that the other was neither her husband nor her lover, but only as importunate a gentleman as there well could be.
“Since he is troublesome to you,” said the Prince, “I promise you that I will rid you of him.”
“What!” asked the lady. “Would you kill him?”
“No, no,” said the Prince, “but I will give him to understood that it is not in such a place as this, not in such a house as the King’s, that ladies are to be put to shame. And I swear to you by the faith of the lover that I am, that if, after I have spoken with him, he does not correct himself, I will correct him in such a manner as to make him a warning to others.”
So saying he went away, and on leaving the room failed not to meet the Lord des Cheriots on his way in. To him he spoke after the fashion that you have heard, assuring him that the first time he was found there after an hour at which gentlemen might reasonably visit the ladies, he would give him such a fright as he would ever remember. And he added that the lady was of too noble a house to be trifled with after such a fashion.
The gentleman protested that he had never been in the room except in the same manner as the rest, and, if the Prince should find him there, he gave him full leave to do his worst.
One day afterwards, when the gentleman believed the Prince’s words to have been forgotten, he went to see his lady in the evening, and remained sufficiently late.
The Prince [that same evening] told his wife that Madame de Neufchastel had a severe cold, upon hearing which the worthy lady begged that he would visit her on behalf of them both, and make excuse for herself, since she could not go by reason of a certain matter that she must needs attend to in her room.
The Prince waited until the King was in bed, and then went to give the lady good-evening, but as he was going up a stairway he met a serving-man coming down, who, on being asked how his mistress did, swore that she was in bed and asleep.
The Prince went down the stairway, but, suspecting that the servant had lied, looked behind and saw him going back again with all speed. He walked about the courtyard in front of the door to see whether the servant would return. A quarter of an hour later he perceived him come down again and look all about to see who was in the courtyard.
Forthwith the Prince was convinced that the Lord des Cheriots was in the lady’s chamber, but through fear of himself durst not come down, and he therefore again walked about for a long-while.
At last, observing that the lady’s room had a casement which was not at all high up, and which looked upon a little garden, he remembered the proverb which says, “When the door fails the window avails,” and he thereupon called a servant of his own, and said to him—
“Go into the garden there behind, and, if you see a gentleman come down from the window, draw your sword as soon as he reaches the ground, clash it against the wall, and cry out, ‘Slay! slay!’ Be careful, however, that you do not touch him.”
The servant went whither his master had sent him, and the Prince walked about until three hours after midnight.
When the Lord des Cheriots heard that the Prince was still in the yard, he resolved to descend by the window, and, having first thrown clown his cloak, he then, by the help of his good friends, leapt into the garden. As soon as the servant saw him, he failed not to make a noise with his sword, at the same time crying, “Slay! slay!” Upon this the poor gentleman, believing it was his [the servant’s] master, was in such great fear that, without thinking of his cloak, he fled as quickly as he was able.
He met the archers of the watch, who wondered greatly to see him running in this fashion, but he durst say nothing to them, except to beg them to open him the gate [of the castle], or else to lodge him with themselves until morning. And this, as they had not the keys, they did.
Then the Prince went to bed, and, finding his wife asleep, awoke her saying—
“Guess, my wife, what hour it is.‘’
“I have not heard the clock strike since I went to bed,” she replied.
“It is three hours after midnight,” said he.
“If that be so,” said his wife, “where have you been all this time? I greatly fear that your health will be the worse for it.”
“Sweetheart,” said the Prince, “watching will never make me ill when I am engaged in preventing those who try to deceive me from going to sleep.”
So saying, he began to laugh so heartily that his wife begged him to tell her of the matter. This he did at length, showing her the wolf’s skin (4) which his servant had brought him. After making merry at the expense of the hapless lovers, they went to sleep in gentle tranquillity, while the other two passed the night in torment, fearing and dreading lest the affair should be revealed.
However, the gentleman, knowing right well that he could not use concealment with the Prince, came to him in the morning when he was dressing to beg that he would not expose him, and would give orders for the return of his cloak.
The Prince pretended that he knew nothing of the matter, and put such a face on it that the gentleman was wholly at a loss what to think. But in the end he received a rating that he had not expected, for the Prince assured him that, if ever he went to the lady’s room again, he would tell the King of it, and have him banished the Court.
“I pray you, ladies, judge whether it had not been better for this poor lady to have spoken freely to him who did her the honour of loving and esteeming her, instead of leading him by her dissimulation to prove her in a way that brought her so much shame.”
“She knew,” said Geburon, “that if she confessed the truth she would wholly lose his favour, and this she on no account desired to do.”
“It seems to me,” said Longarine, “that when she had chosen a husband to her liking, she ought not to have feared the loss of any other man’s affection.”
“I am sure,” said Parlamente, “that if she had dared to reveal her marriage, she would have been quite content with her husband; but she wished to hide it until her daughters were wed, and so she would not abandon so good a means of concealment.”
“It was not for that reason,” said Saffredent, “but because the ambition of women is so great that they are never satisfied with having only one lover. I have heard that the discreetest of them are glad to have three—one, namely, for honour, one for profit, and one for delight. Each of the three thinks himself loved the best, but the first two are as servants to the last.”
“You speak,” said Oisille, “of such women as have neither love nor honour.”
“Madam,” said Saffredent, “there are some of the kind that I describe, whom you reckon among the most honourable in the land.”
“You may be sure,” said Hircan, “that a crafty woman will be able to live where all others die of hunger.”
“And,” said Longarine, “when their craftiness is discerned, ‘tis death.”
“Nay, ‘tis life,” said Simontault, “for they deem it no small glory to be reputed more crafty than their fellows. And the reputation of ‘crafty,’ gained thus at their own expense, brings lovers more readily under subjection to them than does their beauty, for one of the greatest delights shared by those who are in love is to conduct the affair slyly.”
“You speak,” said Ennasuite, “of wanton love, for the honourable has no need of concealment.”
“Ah!” said Dagoucin, “I pray you put that thought out of your head. The more precious the drug, the less should it be exposed to the air, because of the perverseness of those who trust only to outward signs. These are not different in the case of honourable and faithful affection than in any other case, so they must none the less be hidden when the love is virtuous than when it is the opposite, if one would avoid the evil opinion of those who cannot believe that a man may love a lady in all honour, and who, being themselves slaves to pleasure, think every one else the same. If we were all of good faith, look and speech would be without concealment, at least toward those who would rather die than take them in an evil sense.”
“I protest to you, Dagoucin,” said Hircan, “that your philosophy is too deep for any man here to understand or believe. You would have us think that men are angels, or stones, or devils.”
“I am well aware,” said Dagoucin, “that men are men and subject to every passion, but there are some, nevertheless, who would rather die than that their mistresses should, for their delight, do aught against their consciences.”
“To die means a great deal,” said Geburon. “I would not believe that of them were it uttered by the lips of the austerest monk alive.”
“Nay, I believe,” said Hircan, “that there is none but desires the very opposite. But they make pretence of disliking the grapes when these hang too high to be gathered.”
“Still,” said Nomcrfide, “I am sure that the Prince’s wife was very glad to find that her husband was learning to know women.”
“I assure you it was not so,” said Ennasuite. “She was very sorry on account of the love that she bore the lady.”
“I would as soon,” said Saffredent, “have the lady who laughed when her husband kissed her maid.”
“In sooth,” said Ennasuite, “you shall tell us the story. I give place to you.”
“Although the story is very short,” said Saffredent, “I will still relate it, for I would rather make you laugh than speak myself at length.”
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037a.jpg the Lady Watching The Shadow Faces Kissing
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Thogas’s wife, believing that her husband loved none butherself, was pleased that her serving-woman should amusehim, and laughed when in her presence he kissed the girlbefore her eyes, and with her knowledge.
Between the Pyrenees Mountains and the Alps, there dwelt a gentleman named Thogas, (1) who had a wife and children, with a very beautiful house, and so much wealth and pleasure at his hand, that there was reason he should live in contentment, had it not been that he was subject to great pain beneath the roots of the hair, in such wise that the doctors advised him to sleep no longer with his wife. She, whose chief thought was for her husband’s life and health, readily consented, and caused her bed to be set in another corner of the room directly opposite her husband’s, so that they could neither of them put out their heads without seeing each other.
1 We are unable to trace any family named Thogas, which isprobably a fictitious appellation. Read backwards with theletter h omitted it forms Sagot, whilst if the syllables betransposed it suggests Guasto, a well-known Basque orNavarrese name.—Ed.
This lady had two serving-women, and often when the lord and his lady were in bed, they would each take some diverting book to read, whilst the serving-women held candles, the younger, that is, for the gentleman, and the other for his wife.
The gentleman, finding that the maid was younger and handsomer than her mistress, took such great pleasure in observing her that he would break off his reading in order to converse with her. His wife could hear this very plainly, but believing that her husband loved none but herself, she was well pleased that her servants should amuse him.
It happened one evening, however, when they had read longer than was their wont, that the lady looked towards her husband’s bed where was the young serving-maid holding the candle. Of her she could see nothing but her back, and of her husband nothing at all excepting on the side of the chimney, which jutted out in front of his bed, and the white wall of which was bright with the light from the candle. And upon this wall she could plainly see the shadows both of her husband and of her maid; whether they drew apart, or came near together or laughed, it was all as clear to her as though she had veritably beheld them.
The gentleman, using no precaution since he felt sure that his wife could not see them, kissed her maid, and on the first occasion his wife suffered this to pass without uttering a word. But when she saw that the shadows frequently returned to this fellowship, she feared that there might be some reality beneath it all, and burst into a loud laugh, whereat the shadows were alarmed and separated.
The gentleman then asked his wife why she was laughing so heartily, so that he might have a share in her merriment.
“Husband,” she replied, “I am so foolish that I laugh at my own shadow.”
Inquire as he might, she would never acknowledge any other reason, but, nevertheless, he thenceforward refrained from kissing such shadow-faces.
“That is the story of which I was reminded when I spoke of the lady who loved her husband’s sweetheart.”
“By my faith,” said Ennasuite, “if my maid had treated me in that fashion, I should have risen and extinguished the candle upon her nose.”
“You are indeed terrible,” said Hircan, “but it had been well done if your husband and the maid had both turned upon you and beaten you soundly. There should not be so much ado for a kiss; and ‘twould have been better if his wife had said nothing about it, and had suffered him to take his pastime, which might perchance have cured his complaint.”
“Nay,” said Parlamente, “she was afraid that the end of the pastime would make him worse.”
“She was not one of those,” said Oisille, “against whom our Lord says, ‘We have mourned to you and ye have not lamented, we have sung to you and ye have not danced,’ (2) for when her husband was ill, she wept, and when he was merry, she laughed. In the same fashion every virtuous woman ought to share the good and evil, the joy and the sadness of her husband, and serve and obey him as the Church does Jesus Christ.”
2 “They are like unto children sitting in the market-place,and calling one to another, and saying, We have piped untoyou, and ye have not danced; we have mourned to you, and yehave not wept.”—St. Lukevii. 32.—M.
“Then, ladies,” said Parlamente, “our husbands should be to us what Christ is to the Church.”
“So are we,” said Saffredent, “and, if it were possible, something more; for Christ died but once for His Church, whereas we die daily for our wives.”
“Die!” said Longarine. “Methinks that you and the others here present are now worth more crowns than you were worth pence before you were wed.”
“And I know why,” said Saffredent; “it is because our worth is often tried. Still our shoulders are sensible of having worn the cuirass so long.”
“If,” said Ennasuite, “you had been obliged to wear harness for a month and lie on the hard ground, you would greatly long to regain the bed of your excellent wife, and wear the cuirass of which you now complain. But it is said that everything can be endured except ease, and that none know what rest is until they have lost it. This foolish woman, who laughed when her husband was merry, was fond of taking her rest under any circumstances.”
“I am sure,” said Longarine, “that she loved her rest better than her husband, since she took nothing that he did to heart.”
“She did take to heart,” said Parlamente, “those things which might have been hurtful to his conscience and his health, but she would not dwell upon trifles.”
“When you speak of conscience,” said Simontault “you make me laugh. ‘Tis a thing to which I would have no woman give heed.”
“It would be a good thing,” said Nomerfide, “if you had a wife like one who, after her husband’s death, proved that she loved her money better than her conscience.”
“I pray you,” said Saffredent, “tell us that tale. I give you my vote.”
“I had not intended,” said Nomcrfide, “to relate so short a story, but, since it is suited to the occasion, I will do so.”
042.jpg Tailpiece
043a.jpg the Servant Selling The Horse With The Cat
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A merchant’s widow, whilst carrying out her husband’s will,interpreted its purport to the advantage of herself and herchildren. (1)
In the town of Safagossa there lived a rich merchant, who, finding his death draw nigh, and himself no longer able to retain possession of his goods—-which he had perchance gathered together by evil means—thought that if he made a little present to God, he might thus after his death make part atonement for his sins, just as though God sold His pardon for money. Accordingly, when he had settled matters in respect of his house, he declared it to be his desire that a fine Spanish horse which he possessed should be sold for as much as it would bring, and the money obtained for it be distributed among the poor. And he begged his wife that she would in no wise fail to sell the horse as soon as he was dead, and distribute the money in the manner he had commanded.
1 Whether the incidents here related be true or not, it isprobable that this was a story told to Queen Margaret at thetime of her journey to Spain in 1525. It will have beenobserved (ante, pp. 36 and 42) that both the previous taleand this one are introduced into theHeptameronin a semi-apologetic fashion, as though the Queen had not originallyintended that her work should include such short, slightanecdotes. However, already at this stage—the fifty-fifthonly of the hundred tales which she proposed writing—sheprobably found fewer materials at her disposal than she hadanticipated, and harked back to incidents of her earlieryears, which she had at first thought too trifling torecord. Still, slight as this story may be, it is notwithout point. The example set by the wife of the Saragossamerchant has been followed in modern times in more ways thanone.—Ed.
When the burial was over and the first tears were shed, the wife, who was no more of a fool than Spanish women are used to be, went to the servant who with herself had heard his master declare his desire, and said to him—
“Methinks I have lost enough in the person of a husband I loved so dearly, without afterwards losing his possessions. Yet would I not disobey his word, but rather better his intention; for the poor man, led astray by the greed of the priests, thought to make a great sacrifice to God in bestowing after his death a sum of money, not a crown of which, as you well know, he would have given in his lifetime to relieve even the sorest need. I have therefore bethought me that we will do what he commanded at his death, and in still better fashion than he himself would have done if had he lived a fortnight longer. But no living person must know aught of the matter.”
When she had received the servant’s promise to keep it secret, she said to him—
“You will go and sell the horse, and when you are asked, ‘How much?’ you will reply, ‘A ducat.’ I have, however, a very fine cat which I also wish to dispose of, and you will sell it with the horse for ninety-nine ducats, so that cat and horse together will bring in the hundred ducats for which my husband wished to sell the horse alone.”
The servant readily fulfilled his mistress’s command. While he was walking the horse about the market-place, and holding the cat in his arms, a gentleman, who had seen the horse before, and was desirous of possessing it, asked the servant what price he sought.
“A ducat,” replied the man.
“I pray you,” said the gentleman, “do not mock me.”
“I assure you, sir,” said the servant, “that it will cost you only a ducat. It is true that the cat must be bought at the same time, and for the cat I must have nine and ninety ducats.”
Forthwith, the gentleman, thinking the bargain a reasonable one, paid him one ducat for the horse, and the remainder as was desired of him, and took his goods away.
The servant, on his part, went off with the money, with which his mistress was right well pleased, and she failed not to give the ducat that the horse had brought to the poor Mendicants, (2) as her husband had commanded, and the remainder she kept for the needs of herself and her children. (3)