PART III., STORIES 41-60
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## 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

## List of Illustrations

## DETAILED CONTENTS CONTENTS

> 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 FORTY-FIRST — LOVE IN ARMS.

### By Monseigneur De La Roche.

> 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.

A noble knight of Haynau, who was wise, cunning, and a great traveller, found such pleasure in matrimony, that after the death of his good and prudent wife, he could not exist long unmarried, and espoused a beautiful damsel of good condition, who was not one of the cleverest people in the world, for, to tell the truth, she was rather dull-witted, which much pleased her husband, because he thought he could more easily bend her to his will.

He devoted all his time and study to training her to obey him, and succeeded as well as he could possibly have wished. And, amongst other matters, whenever he would indulge in the battle of love with her—which was not as often as she would have wished—he made her put on a splendid hauberk, at which she was at first much astonished, and asked why she was armed, and he replied that she could not withstand his amorous assaults if she were not armed. So she was content to wear the hauberk; and her only regret was that her husband was not more fond of making these assaults, for they were more trouble than pleasure to him.

If you should ask why her lord made her wear this singular costume, I should reply that he hoped that the pain and inconvenience of the hauberk would prevent his wife from being too fond of these amorous assaults; but, wise as he was, he made a great mistake, for if in each love-battle the hauberk had broken her back and bruised her belly, she would not have refused to put it on, so sweet and pleasant did she find that which followed.

They thus lived together for a long time, till her husband was ordered to serve his prince in the war, in another sort of battle to that above-mentioned, so he took leave of his wife and went where he was ordered, and she remained at home in the charge of an old gentleman, and of certain damsels who served her.

Now you must know that there was in the house a good fellow, a clerk, who was treasurer of the household, and who sang and played the harp well. After dinner he would often play, which gave madame great pleasure, and she would often come to him when she heard the sound of his harp.

She came so often that the clerk at last made love to her, and she, being desirous to put on her hauberk again, listened to his petition, and replied;

"Come to me at a certain time, in such a chamber, and I will give you a reply that will please you."

She was greatly thanked, and at the hour named, the clerk did not fail to rap at the door of the chamber the lady had indicated, where she was quietly awaiting him with her fine hauberk on her back.

She opened the door, and the clerk saw her armed, and thinking that some one was concealed there to do him a mischief, was so scared that, in his fright, he tumbled down backwards I know not how many stairs, and might have broken his neck, but luckily he was not hurt, for, being in a good cause, God protected him.

Madame, who saw his danger, was much vexed and displeased; she ran down and helped him to rise, and asked why he was in such fear? He told her that truly he thought he had fallen into an ambush.

"You have nothing to fear," she said, "I am not armed with the intention of doing you any hurt," and so saying they mounted the stairs together, and entered the chamber.

"Madame," said the clerk, "I beg of you to tell me, if you please, why you have put on this hauberk?"

She blushed and replied, "You know very well."

"By my oath, madame, begging your pardon," said he, "if I had known I should not have asked."

"My husband," she replied, "whenever he would kiss me, and talk of love, makes me dress in this way; and as I know that you have come here for that purpose, I prepared myself accordingly."

"Madame," he said, "you are right, and I remember now that it is the manner of knights to arm their ladies in this way. But clerks have another method, which, in my opinion is much nicer and more comfortable."

"Please tell me what that is," said the lady.

"I will show you," he replied. Then he took off the hauberk, and the rest of her apparel down to her chemise, and he also undressed himself, and they got into the fair bed that was there, and—both being disarmed even of their chemises—passed two or three hours very pleasantly. And before leaving, the clerk showed her the method used by clerks, which she greatly praised, as being much better than that of knights. They often met afterwards, also in the same way, without its becoming known, although the lady was not over-cunning.

After a certain time, her husband returned from the war, at which she was not inwardly pleased, though outwardly she tried to pretend to be. His coming was known, and God knows how great a dinner was prepared. Dinner passed, and grace being said, the knight—to show he was a good fellow, and a loving husband—said to her,

"Go quickly to our chamber, and put on your hauberk." She, remembering the pleasant time she had had with her clerk, replied quickly,

"Ah, monsieur, the clerks' way is the best."

"The clerks' way!" he cried. "And how do you know their way?" and he began to fret and to change colour, and suspect something; but he never knew the truth, for his suspicions were quickly dissipated.

Madame was not such a fool but what she could see plainly that her husband was not pleased at what she had said, and quickly bethought herself of a way of getting out of the difficulty.

"I said that the clerks' way is the best; and I say it again."

"And what is that?" he asked.

"They drink after grace."

"Indeed, by St. John, you speak truly!" he cried. "Verily it is their custom, and it is not a bad one; and since you so much care for it, we will keep it in future."

So wine was brought and they drank it, and then Madame went to put on her hauberk, which she would willingly have done without, for the gentle clerk had showed her another way which pleased her better.

Thus, as you have heard, was Monsieur deceived by his wife's ready reply. No doubt her wits had been sharpened by her intercourse with the clerk, and after that he showed her plenty of other tricks, and in the end he and her husband became great friends.

## STORY THE FORTY-SECOND — THE MARRIED PRIEST. 42

### By Meriadech.

> 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.

In the year '50 (*) just passed, the clerk of a village in the diocese of Noyon, that he might gain the pardons, which as every one knows were then given at Rome (**), set out in company with many respectable people of Noyon, Compeigne, and the neighbouring places.

         (*) 1450

         (**) Special indulgences were granted that year on account
         of the Jubilee

But, before leaving, he carefully saw to his private affairs, arranged for the support of his wife and family, and entrusted the office of sacristan, which he held, to a young and worthy clerk to hold until his return.

In a fairly brief space of time, he and his companions arrived at Rome, and performed their devotions and their pilgrimage as well as they knew how. But you must know that our clerk met, by chance, at Rome, one of his old school-fellows, who was in the service of a great Cardinal, and occupied a high position, and who was very glad to meet his old friend, and asked him how he was. And the other told him everything—first of all that he was, alas! married, how many children he had, and how that he was a parish clerk.

"Ah!" said his friend, "by my oath! I am much grieved that you are married."

"Why?" asked the other.

"I will tell you," said he; "such and such a Cardinal has charged me to find him a secretary, a native of our province. This would have suited you, and you would have been largely remunerated, were it not that your marriage will cause you to return home, and, I fear, lose many benefits that you cannot now get."

"By my oath!" said the clerk, "my marriage is no great consequence, for—to tell you the truth—the pardon was but an excuse for getting out of the country, and was not the principal object of my journey; for I had determined to enjoy myself for two or three years in travelling about, and if, during that time, God should take my wife, I should only be too happy. So I beg and pray of you to think of me and to speak well for me to this Cardinal, that I may serve him; and, by my oath, I will so bear myself that you shall have no fault to find with me; and, moreover, you will do me the greatest service that ever one friend did another."

"Since that is your wish," said his friend, "I will oblige you at once, and will lodge you too if you wish."

"Thank you, friend," said the other.

To cut matters short, our clerk lodged with the Cardinal, and wrote and told his wife of his new position, and that he did not intend to return home as soon as he had intended when he left. She consoled herself, and wrote back that she would do the best she could.

Our worthy clerk conducted himself so well in the service of the Cardinal, and gained such esteem, that his master had no small regret that his secretary was incapable of holding a living, for which he was exceedingly well fitted.

Whilst our clerk was thus in favour, the curé of his village died, and thus left the living vacant during one of the Pope's months. (*) The Sacristan who held the place of his friend who had gone to Rome, determined that he would hurry to Rome as quickly as he could, and do all in his power to get the living for himself. He lost no time, and in a few days, after much trouble and fatigue, found himself at Rome, and rested not till he had discovered his friend—the clerk who served the Cardinal.

After mutual salutations, the clerk asked after his wife, and the other, expecting to give him much pleasure and further his own interests in the request he was about to make, replied that she was dead—in which he lied, for I know that at this present moment (**) she can still worry her husband.

         (*) During eight months of the year, the Pope had the right
         of bestowing all livings which became vacant.

         (**) That is when the story was written.

"Do you say that my wife is dead?" cried the clerk. "May God pardon her all her sins."

"Yes, truly," replied the other; "the plague carried her off last year, along with many others."

He told this lie, which cost him dear, because he knew that the clerk had only left home on account of his wife, who was of a quarrelsome disposition, and he thought the most pleasant news he could bring was to announce her death, and truly so it would have been, but the news was false.

"And what brings you to this country?" asked the clerk after many and various questions.

"I will tell you, my friend and companion. The curé of our town is dead; so I came to you to ask if by any means I could obtain the benefice. I would beg of you to help me in this matter. I know that it is in your power to procure me the living, with the help of monseigneur, your master."

The clerk, thinking that his wife was dead, and the cure of his native town vacant, thought to himself that he would snap up this living, and others too if he could get them. But, all the same, he said nothing to his friend, except that it would not be his fault if the other were not curé of their town,—for which he was much thanked.

It happened quite otherwise, for, on the morrow, our Holy Father, at the request of the Cardinal, the master of our clerk, gave the latter the living.

Thereupon this clerk, when he heard the news, came to his companion, and said to him,

"Ah, friend, by my oath, your hopes are dissipated, at which I am much vexed."

"How so?" asked the other.

"The cure of our town is given," he said, "but I know not to whom. Monseigneur, my master, tried to help you, but it was not in his power to accomplish it."

At which the other was vexed, after he had come so far and expended so much. So he sorrowfully took leave of his friend, and returned to his own country, without boasting about the lie he had told.

But let us return to our clerk, who was as merry as a grig at the news of the death of his wife, and to whom the benefice of his native town had been given, at the request of his master, by the Holy Father, as a reward for his services. And let us record how he became a priest at Rome, and chanted his first holy Mass, and took leave of his master for a time, in order to return and take possession of his living.

When he entered the town, by ill luck the first person that he chanced to meet was his wife, at which he was much astonished I can assure you, and still more vexed.

"What is the meaning of this, my dear?" he asked. "They told me you were dead!"

"Nothing of the kind," she said. "You say so, I suppose, because you wish it, as you have well proved, for you have left me for five years, with a number of young children to take care of."

"My dear," he said, "I am very glad to see you in good health, and I praise God for it with all my heart. Cursed be he who brought me false news."

"Amen!" she replied.

"But I must tell you, my dear, that I cannot stay now; I am obliged to go in haste to the Bishop of Noyon, on a matter which concerns him; but I will return to you as quickly as I can."

He left his wife, and took his way to Noyon; but God knows that all along the road he thought of his strange position.

"Alas!" he said, "I am undone and dishonoured. A priest! a clerk! and married! I suppose I am the first miserable wretch to whom that ever occurred!"

He went to the Bishop of Noyon, who was much surprised at hearing his case, and did not know what to advise him, so sent him back to Rome.

When he arrived there, he related his adventure at length to his master, who was bitterly annoyed, and on the morrow repeated it to our Holy Father, in the presence of the Sacred College and all the Cardinals.

So it was ordered that he should remain priest, and married, and curé also; and that he should live with his wife as a married man, honourably and without reproach, and that his children should be legitimate and not bastards, although their father was a priest. Moreover, that if it was found he lived apart from his wife, he should lose the living.

Thus, as you have heard, was this gallant punished for believing the false news of his friend, and was obliged to go and live in his own parish, and, which was worse, with his wife, with whose company he would have gladly dispensed if the Church had not ordered it otherwise.

## STORY THE FORTY-THIRD — A BARGAIN IN HORNS.

### By Monseigneur De Fiennes.

> 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.

There lived formerly, in the district of Lille, a worthy man who was a labourer and tradesman, and who managed, by the good offices of himself and his friends, to obtain for a wife a very pretty young girl, but who was not rich, neither was her husband, but he was very covetous, and diligent in business, and loved to gain money.

And she, for her part, attended to the household as her husband desired; who therefore had a good opinion of her, and often went about his business without any suspicion that she was other than good.

But whilst the poor man thus came and went, and left his wife alone, a good fellow came to her, and, to cut the story short, was in a short time the deputy for the trusting husband, who still believed that he had the best wife in the world, and the one who most thought about the increase of his honour and his worldly wealth.

It was not so, for she gave him not the love she owed him, and cared not whether he had profit or loss by her. The good merchant aforesaid, being out as usual, his wife soon informed her friend, who did not fail to come as he was desired, at once. And not to lose his time, he approached his mistress, and made divers amorous proposals to her, and in short the desired pleasure was not refused him any more than on the former occasions, which had not been few.

By bad luck, whilst the couple were thus engaged, the husband arrived, and found them at work, and was much astonished, for he did not know that his wife was a woman of that sort.

"What is this?" he said. "By God's death, scoundrel, I will kill you on the spot."

The other, who had been caught in the act, and was much scared, knew not what to say, but as he was aware that the husband was miserly and covetous, he said quickly:

"Ah, John, my friend, I beg your mercy; pardon me if I have done you any wrong, and on my word I will give you six bushels of wheat."

"By God!" said he, "I will do nothing of the kind. You shall die by my hands and I will have your life if I do not have twelve bushels."

The good wife, who heard this dispute, in order to restore peace, came forward, and said to her husband.

"John, dear, let him finish what he has begun, I beg, and you shall have eight bushels. Shall he not?" she added, turning to her lover.

"I am satisfied," he said, "though on my oath it is too much, seeing how dear corn is."

"It is too much?" said the good man. "Morbleu! I much regret that I did not say more, for you would have to pay a much heavier fine if you were brought to justice: however, make up your mind that I will have twelve bushels, or you shall die."

"Truly, John," said his wife, "you are wrong to contradict me. It seems to me that you ought to be satisfied with eight bushels, for you know that is a large quantity of wheat."

"Say no more," he replied, "I will have twelve bushels, or I will kill him and you too."

"The devil," quoth the lover; "you drive a bargain; but at least, if I must pay you, let me have time."

"That I agree to, but I will have my twelve bushels."

The dispute ended thus, and it was agreed that he was to pay in two instalments,—six bushels on the morrow, and the others on St. Remy's day, then near.

All this was arranged by the wife, who then said to her husband.

"You are satisfied, are you not, to receive your wheat in the manner I have said?"

"Certainly," he replied.

"Then go," she said, "whilst he finishes the work he had begun when you interrupted him; otherwise the contract will not be binding."

"By St. John! is it so?" said the lover.

"I always keep my word," said the good merchant. "By God, no man shall say I am a cheat or a liar. You will finish the job you have begun, and I am to have my twelve bushels of wheat on the terms agreed. That was our contract—was it not?"

"Yes, truly," said his wife.

"Good bye, then," said the husband, "but at any rate be sure that I have six bushels of wheat to-morrow."

    "Don't be afraid," said the other. "I will keep my word." So the good
    man left the house, quite joyful that he was to have twelve bushels of
    wheat, and his wife and her lover recommenced more heartily than ever. I
    have heard that the wheat was duly delivered on the dates agreed.

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

### By Monseigneur De La Roche.

> 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.

In the present day they are many priests and curés who are good fellows, and who can as easily commit follies and imprudences as laymen can.

In a pretty village of Picardy, there lived formerly a curé of a lecherous disposition. Amongst the other pretty girls and women of his parish, he cast eyes on a young and very pretty damsel of nubile age, and was bold enough to tell her what he wanted.

Won over by his fair words, and the hundred thousand empty promises he made, she was almost ready to listen to his requests, which would have been a great pity, for she was a nice and pretty girl with pleasant manners, and had but one fault,—which was that she was not the most quick-witted person in the world.

I do not know why it occurred to her to answer him in that manner, but one day she told the curé, when he was making hot love to her, that she was not inclined to do what he required until she was married, for if by chance, as happened every day, she had a baby, she would always be dishonoured and reproached by her father, mother, brothers, and all her family, which she could not bear, nor had she strength to sustain the grief and worry which such a misfortune would entail.

"Nevertheless, if some day I am married, speak to me again, and I will do what I can for you, but not otherwise; so give heed to what I say and believe me once for all."

The cure was not over-pleased at this definite reply, bold and sensible as it was, but he was so amorous that he would not abandon all hope, and said to the girl;

"Are you so firmly decided, my dear, not to do anything for me until you are married?"

"Certainly, I am," she replied.

"And if you are married, and I am the means and the cause, you will remember it afterwards, and honestly and loyally perform what you have promised?"

"By my oath, yes," she said, "I promise you."

"Thank you," he said, "make your mind easy, for I promise you faithfully that if you are not married soon it will not be for want of efforts or expense on my part, for I am sure that you cannot desire it more than I do; and in order to prove that I am devoted to you soul and body, you will see how I will manage this business."

"Very well, monsieur le curé," she said, "we shall see what you will do."

With that she took leave of him, and the good curé, who was madly in love with her, was not satisfied till he had seen her father. He talked over various matters with him, and at last the worthy priest spoke to the old man about his daughter, and said,

"Neighbour, I am much astonished, as also are many of your neighbours and friends, that you do not let your daughter marry. Why do you keep her at home when you know how dangerous it is? Not that—God forbid—I say, or wish to say, that she is not virtuous, but every day we see girls go wrong because they do not marry at the proper age. Forgive me for so openly stating my opinion, but the respect I have for you, and the duty I owe you as your unworthy pastor, require and compel me to tell you this."

"By the Lord, monsieur le curé," said the good man, "I know that your words are quite true, and I thank you for them, and do not think that I have kept her so long at home from any selfish motive, for if her welfare is concerned I will do all I can for her, as I ought. You would not wish, nor is it usual, that I should buy a husband for her, but if any respectable young man should come along, I will do everything that a good father should."

"Well said," replied the curé, "and on my word, you could not do better than marry her off quickly. It is a great thing to be able to see your grandchildren round you before you become too old. What do you say to so-and-so, the son of your neighbour?—He seems to me a good, hard-working man, who would make a good husband."

"By St. John!" said the old man, "I have nothing but good to say about him. For my own part, I know him to be a good young man and a good worker. His father and mother, and all his relatives, are respectable people, and if they do me the honour to ask my daughter's hand in marriage for him, I shall reply in a manner that will satisfy them."

"You could not say more," replied the curé, "and, if it please God, the matter shall be arranged as I wish, and as I know for a fact that this marriage would be to the benefit of both parties, I will do my best to farther it, and with this I will now say farewell to you."

If the curé had played his part well with the girl's father, he was quite as clever in regard to the father of the young man. He began with a preamble to the effect that his son was of an age to marry, and ought to settle down, and brought a hundred thousand reasons to show that the world would be lost if his son were not soon married.

"Monsieur le curé," replied also the second old man, "there is much truth in what you say, and if I were now as well off as I was, I know not how many years ago, he would not still be unmarried; for there is nothing in the world I desire more than to see him settled, but want of money has prevented it, and so he must have patience until the Lord sends us more wealth than we have at present."

"Then," said the curé, "if I understand you aright, it is only money that is wanting."

"Faith! that is so," said the old man. "If I had now as much as I had formerly, I should soon seek a wife for him."

"I have concerned myself," said the curé, "because I desire the welfare and prosperity of your son, and find that the daughter of such an one (that is to say his ladylove) would exactly suit him. She is pretty and virtuous, and her father is well off, and, as I know, would give some assistance, and—which is no small matter—is a wise man of good counsel, and a friend to whom you and your son could have recourse. What do you say?"

"Certainly," said the good man, "if it please God that my son should be fortunate enough to be allied to such a good family; and if I thought that he could anyhow succeed in that, I would get together what money I could, and would go round to all my friends, for I am sure that he could never find anyone more suitable."

"I have not chosen badly then," said the curé. "And what would you say if I spoke about this matter to her father, and conducted it to its desired end, and, moreover, lent you twenty francs for a certain period that we could arrange?"

"By my oath, monsieur le curé," said the good man, "you offer me more than I deserve. If you did this, you would render a great service to me and mine."

"Truly," answered the curé, "I have not said anything that I do not mean to perform; so be of good cheer, for I hope to see this matter at an end."

To shorten matters, the curé, hoping to have the woman when once she was married, arranged the matter so well that, with the twenty francs he lent, the marriage was settled, and the wedding day arrived.

Now it is the custom that the bride and bridegroom confess on that day. The bridegroom came first, and when he had finished, he withdrew to a little distance saying his orisons and his paternosters. Then came the bride, who knelt down before the curé and confessed. When she had said all she had to say, he spoke to her in turn, and so loudly, that the bridegroom, who was not far off, heard every word, and said,

"My dear, I beg you to remember now the promise you formerly made me. You promised me that when you were married that I should ride you; and now you are married, thank God, by my means and endeavours, and through the money that I have lent."

"Monsieur le curé," she said, "have no fear but what I will keep the promise I have made, if God so please."

"Thank you," he replied, and then gave her absolution after this devout confession, and suffered her to depart.

The bridegroom, who had heard these words, was not best pleased, but nevertheless thought it not the right moment to show his vexation.

After all the ceremonies at the church were over, the couple returned home, and bed-time drew near. The bridegroom whispered to a friend of his whom he dearly loved, to fetch a big handful of birch rods, and hide them secretly under the bed, and this the other did.

When the time came, the bride went to bed, as is the custom, and kept to the edge of the bed, and said not a word. The bridegroom came soon after, and lay on the other edge of the bed without approaching her, or saying a word and in the morning he rose without doing anything else, and hid his rods again under the bed.

When he had left the room, there came several worthy matrons who found the bride in bed, and asked her how the night had passed, and what she thought of her husband?

"Faith!" she said, "there was his place over there"—pointing to the edge of the bed—"and here was mine. He never came near me, and I never went near him."

They were all much astonished, and did not know what to think, but at last they agreed that if he had not touched her, it was from some religious motive, and they thought no more of it for that once.

The second night came, and the bride lay down in the place she had occupied the previous night, and the bridegroom, still furnished with his rods, did the same and nothing more; and this went on for two more nights, at which the bride was much displeased, and did not fail to tell the matrons the next day, who knew not what to think.

"It is to be feared he is not a man, for he has continued four nights in that manner. He must be told what he has to do; so if to-night he does not begin,"—they said to the bride—"draw close to him and cuddle and kiss him, and ask him if married people do not do something else besides? And if he should ask you what you want him to do? tell him that you want him to ride you, and you will hear what he will say."

"I will do so," she said.

She failed not, for that night she lay in her usual place, and her husband took up his old quarters, and made no further advances than he had on the previous nights. So she turned towards him, and throwing her arms round him, said;

"Come here husband! Is this the pleasant time I was to expect? This is the fifth night I have slept with you, and you have not deigned to come near me! On my word I should never have wished to be married if I had not thought married people did something else."

"And what did they tell you married people did?" he asked.

"They say," she replied, "that the one rides the other. I want you to ride me."

"Ride!" he said. "I would not like to do that.—I would not be so unkind."

"Oh, I beg of you to do it—for that is what married people do."

"You want me to do it?" he asked.

"I beg of you to do it," she said, and so saying she kissed him tenderly.

"By my oath!" he said, "I will do it, since you ask me to though much to my regret, for I am sure that you will not like it."

Without saying another word he took his stock of rods, and stripped his wife, and thrashed her soundly, back and belly, legs and thighs, till she was bathed in blood. She screamed, she cried, she struggled, and it was piteous to see her, and she cursed the moment that she had ever asked to be ridden.

"I told you so," said her husband, and then took her in his arms and "rode" her so nicely that she forgot the pain of the beating.

"What do you call that you have just done?" she asked.

"It is called," he said, "'to blow up the backside'."

"Blow up the backside!" she said. "The expression is not so pretty as 'to ride', but the operation is much nicer, and, now that I have learned the difference, I shall know what to ask for in future."

Now you must know that the curé was always on the look-out for when the newly married bride should come to church, to remind her of her promise. The first time she appeared, he sidled up to the font, and when she passed him, he gave her holy water, and said in a low voice,

"My dear! you promised me that I should ride you when you were married! You are married now, thank God, and it is time to think when and how you will keep your word."

"Ride?" she said. "By God, I would rather see you hanged or drowned! Don't talk to me about riding. But I will let you blow up my backside if you like!"

"And catch your quartain fever!" said the curé, "beastly dirty, ill-mannered whore that you are! Am I to be rewarded after all I have done for you, by being permitted to blow up your backside!"

So the curé went off in a huff, and the bride took her seat that she might hear the holy Mass, which the good curé was about to read.

And thus, in the manner which you have just heard, did the curé lose his chance of enjoying the girl, by his own fault and no other's, because he spoke too loudly to her the day when he confessed her, for her husband prevented him, in the way described above, by making his wife believe that the act of 'riding' was called 'to blow up the backside'.

## STORY THE FORTY-FIFTH — THE SCOTSMAN TURNED WASHERWOMAN

### By Monseigneur De La Roche.

> 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.

None of the preceding stories have related any incidents which happened in Italy, but only those which occurred in France, Germany, England, Flanders, and Brabant,—therefore I will relate, as something new, an incident which formerly happened in Rome, and was as follows.

At Rome was a Scotsman of the age of about 22, who for the space of fourteen years had disguised himself as a woman, without it being publicly known all that time that he was a man. He called himself Margaret, and there was hardly a good house in Rome where he was not known, and he was specially welcomed by all the women, such as waiting-women, and wenches of the lower orders, and also many of the greatest ladies in Rome.

This worthy Scotsman carried on the trade of laundress, and had learned to bleach sheets, and called himself the washerwoman, and under that pretence frequented, as has been said, all the best houses in Rome, for there was no woman who could bleach sheets as he did.

But you must know that he did much else beside, for when he found himself with some pretty girl, he showed her that he was a man. Often, in order to prepare the lye, he stopped one or two nights in the aforesaid houses, and they made him sleep with the maid, or sometimes with the daughter; and very often, if her husband were not there, the mistress would have his company. And God knows that he had a good time, and, thanks to the way he employed his body, was welcome everywhere, and many wenches and waiting maids would fight as to who was to have him for a bedfellow.

The citizens of Rome heard such a good account of him from their wives, that they willingly welcomed him to their houses, and if they went abroad, were glad to have Margaret to keep house along with their wives, and, what is more, made her sleep with them, so good and honest was she esteemed, as has been already said.

For the space of fourteen years did Margaret continue this way of living, but the mischief was at last brought to light by a young girl, who told her father that she had slept with Margaret and been assaulted by her, and that in reality she was a man. The father informed the officers of justice, and it was found that she had all the members and implements that men carry, and, in fact, was a man and not a woman.

So it was ordered that he should be put in a cart and led through all the city of Rome, and at every street corner his genitals should be exposed.

This was done, and God knows how ashamed and vexed poor Margaret was. But you must know that when the cart stopped at a certain corner, and all the belongings of Margaret were being exhibited, a Roman said out loud;

"Look at that scoundrel! he has slept more than twenty nights with my wife!"

Many others said the same, and many who did not say it knew it well, but, for their honours sake, held their tongue. Thus, in the manner you have heard, was the poor Scotsman punished for having pretended to be a woman, and after that punishment was banished from Rome; at which the women were much displeased, for never was there such a good laundress, and they were very sorry that they had so unfortunately lost her.

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

### By Monseigneur De Thianges (*).

> 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.

         (*) The name of the author of this story is spelled in four
         different ways in different editions of these tales—Viz,
         Thieurges, Thienges, Thieuges and Thianges.

It is no means unusual for monks to run after nuns. Thus it happened formerly that a Jacobin so haunted, visited, and frequented a nunnery in this kingdom, that his intention became known,—which was to sleep with one of the ladies there.

And God knows how anxious and diligent he was to see her whom he loved better than all the rest of the world, and continued to visit there so often, that the Abbess and many of the nuns perceived how matters stood, at which they were much displeased. Nevertheless, to avoid scandal, they said not a word to the monk, but gave a good scolding to the nun, who made many excuses, but the abbess, who was clear-sighted, knew by her replies and excuses that she was guilty.

So, on account of that nun, the Abbess restrained the liberty of all, and caused the doors of the cloisters and other places to be closed, so that the poor Jacobin could by no means come to his mistress. That greatly vexed him, and her also, I need not say, and you may guess that they schemed day and night by what means they could meet; but could devise no plan, such a strict watch did the Abbess keep on them.

It happened one day, that one of the nieces of the Abbess was married, and a great feast was made in the convent. There was a great assemblage of people from the country round, and the Abbess was very busy receiving the great people who had come to do honour to her niece.

The worthy Jacobin thought that he might get a glimpse of his mistress, and by chance be lucky enough to find an opportunity to speak to her. He came therefore, and found what he sought; for, because of the number of guests, the Abbess was prevented from keeping watch over the nun, and he had an opportunity to tell his mistress his griefs, and how much he regretted the good time that had passed; and she, who greatly loved him, gladly listened to him, and would have willingly made him happy. Amongst other speeches, he said;

"Alas! my dear, you know that it is long since we have had a quiet talk together such as we like; I beg of you therefore, if it is possible, whilst everyone is otherwise engaged than in watching us, to tell me where we can have a few words apart."

"So help me God, my friend," she replied, "I desire it no less than you do. But I do not know of any place where it can be done; for there are so many people in the house, and I cannot enter my chamber, there are so many strangers who have come to this wedding; but I will tell you what you can do. You know the way to the great garden; do you not?"

"By St. John! yes," he said.

"In the corner of the garden," she said, "there is a nice paddock enclosed with high and thick hedges, and in the middle is a large pear-tree, which makes the place cool and shady. Go there and wait for me, and as soon as I can get away, I will hurry to you."

The Jacobin greatly thanked her and went straight there. But you must know there was a young gallant who had come to the feast, who was standing not far from these lovers and had heard their conversation, and, as he knew the paddock, he determined that he would go and hide there, and see their love-making.

He slipped out of the crowd, and as fast as his feet could carry him, ran to this paddock, and arrived there before the Jacobin; and when he came there, he climbed into the great pear-tree—which had large branches, and was covered with leaves and pears,—and hid himself so well that he could not be easily seen.

He was hardly ensconced there when there came trotting along the worthy Jacobin, looking behind him to see if his mistress was following; and God knows that he was glad to find himself in that beautiful spot, and never lifted his eyes to the pear-tree, for he never suspected that there was anyone there, but kept his eyes on the road by which he had come.

He looked until he saw his mistress coming hastily, and she was soon with him, and they rejoiced greatly, and the good Jacobin took off his gown and his scapulary, and kissed and cuddled tightly the fair nun.

They wanted to do that for which they came thither, and prepared themselves accordingly, and in so doing the nun said;

"Pardieu, Brother Aubrey, I would have you know that you are about to enjoy one of the prettiest nuns in the Church. You can judge for yourself. Look what breasts Î what a belly! what thighs! and all the rest."

"By my oath," said Brother Aubrey, "Sister Jehanne, my darling, you also can say that you have for a lover one of the best-looking monks of our Order, and as well furnished as any man in this kingdom," and with these words, taking in his hand the weapon with which he was about to fight, he brandished it before his lady's eyes, and cried, "What do you say? What do you think of it? Is it not a handsome one? Is it not worthy of a pretty girl?"

"Certainly it is," she said.

"And you shall have it."

"And you shall have," said he who was up in the pear-tree, "all the best pears on the tree;" and with that he took and shook the branches with both hands, and the pears rattled down on them and on the ground, at which Brother Aubrey was so frightened that he hardly had the sense to pick up his gown, but ran away as fast as he could without waiting, and did not feel safe till he was well away from the spot.

The nun was as much, or more, frightened, but before she could set off, the gallant had come down out of the tree, and taking her by the hand, prevented her leaving, and said; "My dear, you must not go away thus: you must first pay the fruiterer."

She saw that a refusal would appear unseasonable, and was fain to let the fruiterer complete the work which Brother Aubrey had left undone.

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

### By Monseigneur De La Roche.

> 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.

In Provence there lived formerly a President of great and high renown, who was a most learned clerk and prudent man, valiant in arms, discreet in counsel, and, in short, had all the advantages which man could enjoy. (*)

         (*) Though not mentioned here by name, the principal
         character in this story has been identified with Chaffrey
         Carles, President of the Parliament of Grenoble. On the
         front of a house in the Rue de Cleres, in Grenoble is carved
         a coat of arms held by an angel who has her finger on her
         lips. The arms are those of the Carles family and the figure
         is supposed to refer to this story. At any rate the secret
         was very badly kept, for the story seems to have been widely
         known within a few years of its occurrence.

One thing only was wanting to him, and that was the one that vexed him most, and with good cause—and it was that he had a wife who was far from good. The good lord saw and knew that his wife was unfaithful, and inclined to play the whore, but the sense that God had given him, told him that there was no remedy except to hold his tongue or die, for he had often both seen and read that nothing would cure a woman of that complaint.

But, at any rate, you may imagine that a man of courage and virtue, as he was, was far from happy, and that his misfortune rankled in his sorrowing heart. Yet as he outwardly appeared to know or see nothing of his wife's misconduct, one of his servants came to him one day when he was alone in his chamber, and said,

"Monsieur, I want to inform you, as I ought, of something which particularly touches your honour. I have watched your wife's conduct, and I can assure you that she does not keep the faith she promised, for a certain person (whom he named) occupies your place very often."

The good President, who knew as well or better than the servant who made the report, how his wife behaved, replied angrily;

"Ha! scoundrel, I am sure that you lie in all you say! I know my wife too well, and she is not what you say—no! Do you think I keep you to utter lies about a wife who is good and faithful to me! I will have no more of you; tell me what I owe you and then go, and never enter my sight again if you value your life!"

The poor servant, who thought he was doing his master a great service, said how much was due to him, received his money and went, but the President, seeing that the unfaithfulness became more and more evident, was as vexed and troubled as he could be. He could not devise any plan by which he could honestly get rid of her, but it happened that God willed, or fortune permitted that his wife was going to a wedding shortly, and he thought it might be made to turn out lucky for him.

He went to the servant who had charge of the horses, and a fine mule that he had, and said,

"Take care that you give nothing to drink to my mule either night or day, until I give you further orders, and whenever you give it its hay, mix a good handful of salt with it—but do not say a word about it."

"I will say nothing," said the servant, "and I will do whatever you command me."

When the wedding day of the cousin of the President's wife drew near, she said to her husband,

"Monsieur, if it be your pleasure, I would willingly attend the wedding of my cousin, which will take place next Sunday, at such a place."

"Very well, my dear; I am satisfied: go, and God guide you."

"Thank you, monsieur," she replied, "but I know not exactly how to go. I do not wish to take my carriage; your nag is so skittish that I am afraid to undertake the journey on it."

"Well, my dear, take my mule—it looks well, goes nicely and quietly, and is more sure-footed than any animal I ever saw."

"Faith!" she said, "I thank you: you are a good husband."

The day of departure arrived, and all the servants of Madame were ready, and also the women who were to serve her and accompany her, and two or three cavaliers who were to escort Madame, and they asked if Madame were also ready, and she informed them that she would come at once.

When she was dressed, she came down, and they brought her the mule which had not drank for eight days, and was mad with thirst, so much salt had it eaten. When she was mounted, the cavaliers went first, making their horses caracole, and thus did all the company pass through the town into the country, and on till they came to a defile through which the great river Rhone rushes with marvellous swiftness. And when the mule which had drank nothing for eight days saw the river, it sought neither bridge nor ford, but made one leap into the river with its load, which was the precious body of Madame.

All the attendants saw the accident, but they could give no help; so was Madame drowned, which was a great misfortune. And the mule, when it had drunk its fill, swam across the Rhone till it reached the shore, and was saved.

All were much troubled and sorrowful that Madame was lost, and they returned to the town. One of the servants went to the President, who was in his room expecting the news; and with much sorrow told him of the death of his wife.

The good President, who in his heart was more glad than sorry, showed great contrition, and fell down, and displayed much sorrow and regret for his good wife. He cursed the mule, and the wedding to which his wife was going.

"And by God!" he said, "it is a great reproach to all you people that were there that you did not save my poor wife, who loved you all so much; you are all cowardly wretches, and you have clearly shown it."

The servant excused himself, as did the others also, as well as they could, and left the President, who praised God with uplifted hands that he was rid of his wife.

He gave his wife's body a handsome funeral, but—as you may imagine—although he was of a fit and proper age, he took care never to marry again, lest he should once more incur the same misfortune.

## STORY THE FORTY-EIGHTH — THE CHASTE MOUTH.

### By Monseigneur De La Roche.

> 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.

A noble youth fell in love with a young damsel who was married, and when he had made her acquaintance, told her, as plainly as he could, his case, and declared that he was ill for love of her,—and, to tell truth, he was much smitten.

She listened to him graciously enough, and after their first interview, he left well satisfied with the reply he had received. But if he had been love sick before he made the avowal, he was still more so afterwards. He could not sleep night or day for thinking of his mistress, and by what means he could gain her favour.

He returned to the charge when he saw his opportunity, and God knows, if he spoke well the first time, he played his part still better on the second occasion, and, by good luck, he found his mistress not disinclined to grant his request,—at which he was in no small degree pleased. And as he had not always the time or leisure to come and see her, he told her on that occasion of the desire he had to do her a service in any manner that he could, and she thanked him and was as kind as could be.

In short, he found in her so great courtesy, and kindness, and fair words, that he could not reasonably expect more, and thereupon wished to kiss, but she refused point-blank; nor could he even obtain a kiss when he said farewell, at which he was much astonished.

After he had left her, he doubted much whether he should ever gain her love, seeing that he could not obtain a single kiss, but he comforted himself by remembering the loving words she had said when they parted, and the hope she had given him.

He again laid siege to her; in short, came and went so often, that his mistress at last gave him a secret assignation, where they could say all that they had to say, in private. And when he took leave of her, he embraced her gently and would have kissed her, but she defended herself vigorously, and said to him, harshly;

"Go away, go away! and leave me alone! I do not want to be kissed!"

He excused his conduct as he best could, and left.

"What is this?" he said to himself. "I have never seen a woman like that! She gives me the best possible reception, and has already given me all that I have dared to ask—yet I cannot obtain one poor, little kiss."

At the appointed time, he went to the place his mistress had named, and did at his leisure that for which he came, for he lay in her arms all one happy night, and did whatsoever he wished, except kiss her, and that he could never manage.

"I do not understand these manners," he said to himself; "this woman lets me sleep with her, and do whatever I like to her; but I have no more chance of getting a single kiss than I have of finding the true Cross! Morbleu! I cannot make it out; there is some mystery about it, and I must find out what it is."

One day when they were enjoying themselves, and were both gay, he said,

"My dear, I beg of you to tell me the reason why you invariably refuse to give me a kiss? You have graciously allowed me to enjoy all your fair and sweet body—and yet you refuse me a little kiss!"

"Faith! my friend," she replied, "as you say, a kiss I have always refused you,—so never expect it, for you will never get it. There is a very good reason for that, as I will tell you. It is true that when I married my husband, I promised him—with the mouth only—many fine things. And since it is my mouth that swore and promised to be chaste, I will keep it for him, and would rather die than let anyone else touch it—it belongs to him and no other, and you must not expect to have anything to do with it. But my backside has never promised or sworn anything to him; do with that and the rest of me—my mouth excepted—whatever you please; I give it all to you."

Her lover laughed loudly, and said;

"I thank you, dearest! You say well, and I am greatly pleased that you are honest enough to keep your promise."

"God forbid," she answered, "that I should ever break it."

So, in the manner that you have heard, was this woman shared between them; the husband, had the mouth only, and her lover all the rest, and if, by chance, the husband ever used any other part of her, it was rather by way of a loan, for they belonged to the lover by gift of the said woman. But at all events the husband had this advantage, that his wife was content to let him have the use of that which she had given to her lover; but on no account would she permit the lover to enjoy that which she had bestowed upon her husband.

## STORY THE FORTY-NINTH — THE SCARLET BACKSIDE.

### By Pierre David.

> 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.

I am well aware that formerly there lived in the city of Arras, a worthy merchant, who had the misfortune to have married a wife who was not the best woman in the world, for, when she saw a chance, she would slip as easily as an old cross-bow.

The good merchant suspected his wife's misdeeds, and was also informed by several of his friends and neighbours. Thereupon he fell into a great frenzy and profound melancholy; which did not mend matters. Then he determined to try whether he could know for certain that which was hardly likely to please him—that is to see one or more of those who were his deputies come to his house to visit his wife.

So one day he pretended to go out, and hid himself in a chamber of his house of which he alone had the key. The said chamber looked upon the street and the courtyard, and by several secret openings and chinks upon several other chambers in the house.

As soon as the good woman thought her husband had gone, she let one of the lovers who used to come to her know of it, and he obeyed the summons as he should, for he followed close on the heels of the wench who was sent to fetch him.

The husband, who as has been said, was in his secret chamber, saw the man who was to take his place enter the house, but he said not a word, for he wished to know more if possible.

"When the lover was in the house, the lady led him by the hand into her chamber, conversing all the while. Then she locked the door, and they began to kiss and to cuddle, and enjoy themselves, and the good woman pulled off her gown and appeared in a plain petticoat, and her companion threw his arms round her, and did that for which he came. The poor husband, meanwhile, saw all this through a little grating, and you may imagine was not very comfortable; he was even so close to them that he could hear plainly all they said. When the battle between the good woman and her lover was over, they sat upon a couch that was in the chamber, and talked of various matters. And as the lover looked upon his mistress, who was marvellously fair, he began to kiss her again, and as he kissed her he said;

"Darling, to whom does this sweet mouth belong?"

"It is yours, sweet friend," she replied.

"I thank you. And these beautiful eyes?"

"Yours also," she said.

"And this fair rounded bosom-does that belong to me?" he asked.

"Yes, by my oath, to you and none other," she replied.

Afterwards he put his hand upon her belly, and upon her "front" and each time asked, "Whose is this, darling?"

"There is no need to ask; you know well enough that it is all yours."

Then he put his hand upon her big backside, and asked smiling,

"And whose is this?"

"It is my husband's," she said. "That is his share; but all the rest is yours."

"Truly," he said, "I thank you greatly. I cannot complain, for you have given me all the best parts. On the other hand, be assured that I am yours entirely."

"I well know it," she said, and with that the combat of love began again between them, and more vigorously than ever, and that being finished, the lover left the house.

The poor husband, who had seen and heard everything, could stand no more; he was in a terrible rage, nevertheless he suppressed his wrath, and the next day appeared, as though he had just come back from a journey.

At dinner that day, he said that he wished to give a great feast on the following Sunday to her father and mother, and such and such of her relations and cousins, and that she was to lay in great store of provisions that they might enjoy themselves that day. She promised to do this and to invite the guests.

Sunday came, the dinner was prepared, those who were bidden all appeared, and each took the place the host designated, but the merchant remained standing, and so did his wife, until the first course was served.

When the first course was placed on the table, the merchant who had secretly caused to be made for his wife a robe of thick duffle grey with a large patch of scarlet cloth on the backside, said to his wife, "Come with me to the bedroom."

He walked first, and she followed him. When they were there, he made her take off her gown, and showing her the aforesaid gown of duffle grey, said, "Put on this dress!"

She looked, and saw that it was made of coarse stuff, and was much surprised, and could not imagine why her husband wished her to dress in this manner.

"For what purpose do you wish me to put this on?" she asked. "Never mind," he replied, "I wish you to wear it." "Faith!" she replied, "I don't like it! I won't put it on! Are you mad? Do you want all your people and mine to laugh at us both?"

"Mad or sane," he said, "you will wear it." "At least," she answered, "let me know why." "You will know that in good time." In short, she was compelled to put on this gown, which had a very strange appearance, and in this apparel she was led to the table, where most of her relations and friends were seated.

But you imagine they were very astonished to see her thus dressed, and, as you may suppose, she was very much ashamed, and would not have come to the table if she had not been compelled.

Some of her relatives said they had the right to know the meaning of this strange apparel, but her husband replied that they were to enjoy their dinner, and afterwards they should know.

The poor woman who was dressed in this strange garb could eat but little; there was a mystery connected with the gown which oppressed her spirits. She would have been even more troubled if she had known the meaning of the scarlet patch, but she did not.

The dinner was at length over, the table was removed, grace was said, and everyone stood up. Then the husband came forward and began to speak, and said;

"All you who are here assembled, I will, if you wish, tell you briefly why I have called you together, and why I have dressed my wife in this apparel. It is true that I had been informed that your relative here kept but ill the vows she had made to me before the priest, nevertheless I would not lightly believe that which was told me, but wished to learn the truth for myself, and six days ago I pretended to go abroad, and hid myself in an upstairs chamber. I had scarcely come there before there arrived a certain man, whom my wife led into her chamber, where they did whatsoever best pleased them. And amongst other questions, the man demanded of her to whom belonged her mouth, her eyes, her hands, her belly, her 'front', and her thighs? And she replied, 'To you, dear'. And when he came to her backside, he asked, 'And whose is this, darling?' 'My husband's' she replied. Therefore I have dressed her thus. She said that only her backside was mine, and I have caused it it to be attired as becomes my condition. The rest of her have I clad in the garb which is befitting an unfaithful and dishonoured woman, for such she is, and as such I give her back to you."

The company was much astonished to hear this speech, and the poor woman overcome with shame. She never again occupied a position in her husband's house, but lived, dishonoured and ashamed, amongst her own people.

## STORY THE FIFTIETH — TIT FOR TAT. 50

### By Anthoine De La Sale.

> 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.

Young men like to travel and to seek after adventures; and thus it was with the son of a labourer, of Lannoys, who from the age of ten until he was twenty-six, was away from home; and from his departure until his return, his father and mother heard no news of him, so they often thought that he was dead.

He returned at last, and God knows what joy there was in the house, and how he was feasted to the best of such poor means as God had given them.

But the one who most rejoiced to see him was his grandmother, his father's mother. She was most joyful at his return, and kissed him more than fifty times, and ceased not to praise God for having restored her grandson in good health.

After the feasting was over, bed-time came. There were in the cottage but two beds—the one for the father and mother, and the other for the grandmother. So it was arranged that the son should sleep with his grandmother, at which she was very glad, but he grumbled, and only complied to oblige his parents, and as a makeshift for one night.

When he was in bed with his grandmother, it happened, I know not how, that he began to get on the top of her.

"What are you doing?" she cried.

"Never you mind," he replied, "and hold your tongue." When she saw that he really meant to ravish her, she began to cry out as loud as she could for her son, who slept in the next room, and then jumped out of bed and went and complained to him, weeping bitterly meanwhile.

When the other heard his mother's complaint, and the unfilial conduct of his son, he sprang out of bed in great wrath, and swore that he would kill the young man.

The son heard this threat, so he rose quickly, slipped out of the house, and made his escape. His father followed him, but not being so light of foot, found the pursuit hopeless, so returned home, where his mother was still grieving over the offence her grandson had committed.

"Never mind, mother!" he said. "I will avenge you."

I know not how many days after that, the father saw his son playing tennis in the town of Laon, and drawing his dagger, went towards him, and would have stabbed him, but the young man slipped away and his father was seized and disarmed.

There were many there who knew that the two were father and son; so one said to the son,

"How does this come about? What have you done to your father that he should seek to kill you?"

"Faith! nothing," he replied. "He is quite in the wrong. He wants to do me all the harm in the world, because, just for once, I would ride his mother—whereas he has mounted mine more than five hundred times, and I never said a word about it."

All those who heard this reply began to haugh heartily, and swore that he must be a good fellow. So they did their best to make peace for him with his father, and at last they succeeded, and all was forgiven and forgotten on both sides.

## STORY THE FIFTY-FIRST — THE REAL FATHERS.

### By The Editor.

> 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.

There formerly lived in Paris, a woman who was married to a good and simple man—he was one of our friends and it would have been impossible to have had a better. This woman was very beautiful and complaisant, and, when she was young, she never refused her favours to those who pleased her, so that she had as many children by her lovers as by her husband—about twelve or thirteen in all.

When at last she was very ill, and about to die, she thought she would confess her sins and ease her conscience. She had all her children brought to her, and it almost broke her heart to think of leaving them. She thought it would not be right to leave her husband the charge of so many children, of some of which he was not the father, though he believed he was, and thought her as good a woman as any in Paris.

By means of a woman who was nursing her, she sent for two men who in past times had been favoured lovers. They came to her at once, whilst her husband was gone away to fetch a doctor and an apothecary, as she had begged him to do.

When she saw these two men, she made all her children come to her, and then said;

"You, such an one, you know what passed between us two in former days. I now repent of it bitterly, and if Our Lord does not show me the mercy I ask of Him, it will cost me dear in the next world. I have committed faults, I know, but to add another to them would be to make matters worse. Here are such and such of my children;—they are yours, and my husband believes that they are his. You cannot have the conscience to make him keep them, so I beg that after my death, which will be very soon, that you will take them, and bring them up as a father should, for they are, in fact, your own."

She spoke in the same manner to the other man, showing him the other children:

"Such and such are, I assure you, yours. I leave them to your care, requesting you to perform your duty towards them. If you will promise me to care for them, I shall die in peace."

As she was thus distributing her children, her husband returned home, and was met by one of his little sons, who was only about four years old. The child ran downstairs to him in such haste that he nearly lost his breath, and when he came to his father, he said,

"Alas, father! come quickly, in God's name!"

"What has happened?" asked his father. "Is your mother dead?"

"No, no," said the child, "but make haste upstairs, or you will have no children left. Two men have come to see mother, and she is giving them most of my brothers and sisters. If you do not make haste, she will give them all away."

The good man could not understand what his son meant, so he hastened upstairs, and found his wife very ill, and with her the nurse, two of his neighbours, and his children.

He asked the meaning of the tale his son had told him about giving away his children.

"You will know later on," she said; so he did not trouble himself further, for he never doubted her in the least.

The neighbours went away, commending the dying woman to God, and promising to do all she had requested, for which she thanked them.

When the hour of her death drew near, she begged her husband to pardon her, and told him of the misdeeds she had committed during the years she had lived with him, and how such and such of the children belonged to a certain man, and such to another—that is to say those before-mentioned—and that after her death they would take charge of their own children.

He was much astonished to hear this news, nevertheless he pardoned her for all her misdeeds, and then she died, and he sent the children to the persons she had mentioned, who kept them.

And thus he was rid of his wife and his children, and felt much less regret for the loss of his wife than he did for the loss of the children.

## STORY THE FIFTY-SECOND — THE THREE REMINDERS. 52

### By Monseigneur De La Roche.

> 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.

Once upon a time there was a nobleman who was wise, prudent, and virtuous. When he was on his deathbed, he settled his affairs, eased his conscience as best he could, and then called his only son to whom he left his worldly wealth.

After asking his son to be sure and pray for the repose of his soul and that of his mother, to help them out of purgatory, he gave him three farewell counsels, saying; "My dear son, I advise you first of all never to stay in the house of a friend who gives you black bread to eat. Secondly, never gallop your horse in a valley. Thirdly, never choose a wife of a foreign nation. Always bear these three things in mind, and I have no doubt you will be fortunate,—but, if you act to the contrary, be sure you would have done better to follow your father's advice."

The good son thanked his father for his wise counsels, and promised that he would heed them, and never act contrary to them.

His father died soon after, and was buried with all befitting pomp and ceremony; for his son wished to do his duty to one to whom he owed everything.

Some time after this, the young nobleman, who was now an orphan and did not understand household affairs, made the acquaintance of a neighbour, whom he constantly visited, drinking and eating at his house.

This friend, who was married and had a beautiful wife, became very jealous, and suspected that our young nobleman came on purpose to see his wife, and that he was in reality her lover.

This made him very uncomfortable but he could think of no means of getting rid of his guest, for it would have been useless to have told him what he thought, so he determined that little by little he would behave in such a way that, if the young man were not too stupid, he would see that his frequent visits were far from welcome.

To put this project into execution, he caused black bread to be served at meals, instead of white. After a few of these repasts, the young nobleman remembered his father's advice. He knew that he done wrong, and secretly hid a piece of the black bread in his sleeve, and took it home with him, and to remind himself, he hung it by a piece of string from a nail in the wall of his best chamber, and did not visit his neighbour's house as formerly.

One day after that, he, being fond of amusement, was in the fields, and his dogs put up a hare. He spurred his horse after them, and came up with them in a valley, when his horse, which was galloping fast, slipped, and broke its neck.

He was very thankful to find that his life was safe, and that he had escaped without injury. He had the hare for his reward, and as he held it up, and then looked at the horse of which he had been so fond, he remembered the second piece of advice his father had given him, and which, if he had kept in mind, he would have been spared the loss of his horse, and also the risk of losing his life.

When he arrived home, he had the horse's skin hung by a cord next to the black bread; to remind him of the second counsel his father had given him.

Some time after this, he took it in his head to travel and see foreign countries, and having arranged all his affairs, he set out on his journey, and after seeing many strange lands, he at last took up his abode in the house of a great lord, where he became such a favourite that the lord was pleased to give him his daughter in marriage, on account of his pleasant manners and virtues.

In short, he was betrothed to the girl, and the wedding-day came. But when he supposed that he was to pass the night with her, he was told that it was not the custom of the country to sleep the first night with one's wife, and that he must have patience until the next night.

"Since it is the custom of the country," he said, "I do not wish it broken for me."

After the dancing was over, his bride was conducted to one room, and he to another. He saw that there was only a thin partition of plaster between the two rooms. He made a hole with his sword in the partition, and saw his bride jump into bed; he saw also the chaplain of the household jump in after her, to keep her company in case she was afraid, or else to try the merchandise, or take tithes as monks do.

Our young nobleman, when he saw these goings on, reflected that he still had some tow left on his distaff, and then there flashed across his mind the recollection of the counsel his good father had given him, and which he had so badly kept.

He comforted himself with the thought that the affair had not gone so far that he could not get out of it.

The next day, the good chaplain, who had been his substitute for the night, rose early in the morning, but unfortunately left his breeches under the bride's bed. The young nobleman, not pretending to know anything, came to her bedside, and politely saluted her, as he well knew how, and found means to surreptitiously take away the priest's breeches without anyone seeing him.

There were great rejoicings all that day, and when evening came, the bride's bed was prepared and decorated in a most marvellous manner, and she went to bed. The bridegroom was told that that night he could sleep with his wife. He was ready with a reply, and said to the father and mother, and other relations.

"You know not who I am, and yet you have given me your daughter, and bestowed on me the greatest honour ever done to a foreign gentleman, and for which I cannot sufficiently thank you. Nevertheless, I have determined never to lie with my wife until I have shown her, and you too, who I am, what I possess, and how I am housed."

The girl's father immediately replied,

"We are well aware that you are a nobleman, and in a high position, and that God has not given you so many good qualities without friends and riches to accompany them. We are satisfied, therefore do not leave your marriage unconsummated; we shall have time to see your state and condition whenever you like."

To shorten the story, he vowed and swore that he would never sleep with her if it were not in his own house, and he conducted thither the bride's father and mother, and many of her relations and friends. He put his house in order to receive them, and to do so arrived there a day before them. And as soon as he alighted, he took the priest's breeches, and hung them in the chamber, by the black bread and the horse's skin.

Most cordially received were the relations and friends of the fair bride, and they were much astonished to see the house of the young gentleman so well furnished with vessels, carpets, and all other kinds of furniture, and they thought themselves lucky to have procured such a husband for the girl.

As they were looking round, they came to the great chamber, which was all hung round with fair tapestry, and they perceived the brown bread, the horse's skin, and a pair of breeches hanging there; at which they were much astonished, and asked their host the meaning.

He replied that he would willingly, and for a very good reason, tell them the meaning,—but after they had eaten.

Dinner was prepared, and God knows that it was well served, They had no sooner dined, than they demanded the interpretation of the mystery of the black bread, the horse's skin etc., and the worthy young gentleman related the story at length, and told how his father,—being on his death-bed as has been already narrated,—gave him three counsels.

"The first was never to remain in a house where they gave me black bread. I paid no heed to this advice, for, after his death, I frequented the house of a neighbour, who became jealous of his wife, and in place of the white bread with which I was always served, gave me black; so in recollection and acknowledgment of the truth of that advice, I hung that piece of black bread there. The second counsel that my father gave me, was never to gallop my horse in a valley. I did not bear that in mind, and suffered for it, for one day, when riding in a valley after a hare pursued by my dogs, my horse fell and broke its neck, and it is a wonder I was not badly hurt. To remind me of my escape from death, the skin of the horse I then lost is hung there. The third counsel and advice that my father—whose soul is with God—gave me, was never to marry a woman of a strange nation. In this also I failed, and I will tell you what happened to me. The first night after I was married to your daughter, and you refused to let me sleep with her, I was lodged in a chamber close to hers, and as the partition between her and me was but thin, I pierced a hole with my sword, and I saw the chaplain of your household come and lie with her; but he left his breeches under the bed when he rose in the morning—which breeches I obtained possession of, and have hung them there as evidence of the everlasting truth of the third counsel that my late father gave me, and which I had not duly remembered and borne in mind; but in order that I may not again fall into the same errors, have placed here these three objects to render me prudent. And because—thank God—I am not so much committed to your daughter that she cannot now leave me, I would ask of you to take her back, and return to your own country, for as long as I live I will never come near her. But, because I have made you come a long way to show you that I am not the sort of man to take a priest's leavings, I am prepared to pay your expenses."

The others did not know what to say, but seeing that their misdeeds were discovered, and seeing also that being far from their own country, force would not be on their side, were content to take the money for their expenses, and return whence they came; for if they had staked more they would have lost more.

Such, as you have heard, were the three counsels which the good father gave his son, and which should not be forgotten; let everyone remember them, so far as they concern himself.

## STORY THE FIFTY-THIRD — THE MUDDLED MARRIAGES.

### By The Archivist Of Brussels.

> 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.

One morning there were assembled in the cathedral of Sainte Gudule at Brussels, many men and women who wished to be married at the first Mass, which is said between four and five o'clock; and amongst others who wished to enter this sweet and happy condition, and promise before the priest to live honestly and uprightly, were a young man and a young woman who were not rich, who were standing near each other, waiting for the priest to call them to marry them.

Near them were an old man and an old woman, who had great possessions and wealth, but who, out of covetousness and the desire to have more, had also promised troth to one another, and were also waiting to be married at this first Mass.

The priest came and recited this much-desired Mass, and at the end thereof, as is the custom, had ranged before him those who wished to be married, of whom there were many, without counting the four I have mentioned.

Now you must know that the good priest who was standing ready before the altar to accomplish the wedding rites, was blind of one eye, having lost an eye by some mischance a little time before. Also there was hardly any light in the chapel or on the altar, and, as it was winter, it was very dark. So he could not see the couples properly, and when he came to marry them, he took the rich old man and the poor, young girl, and joined them together with the wedding ring.

On the other hand, he also took the poor, young man and married him to the rich, old woman,—without any of those in the church noticing it, either men or women—which was very strange, especially on the part of the men, for they dare to raise their heads and their eyes when they are on their knees before the priest, whilst the women who are modest and shy, always look down on the ground.

It is the custom on leaving the church for the friends of the bride to meet her, and conduct her to her husband's house. So it was that the poor, young girl was taken to the house of the rich man, and also the rich, old woman was escorted to the cottage of the young man.

When the young bride found herself in the court, and then in the great hall of the house of the man she had married by mistake, she was much astonished, and knew well that was not the house she had left that morning. When she was in the dressing-room, which was hung round with rich tapestries, she saw a large fire, a table well covered, on which a good breakfast was all ready, and a handsome sideboard, well garnished with vessels of all sorts, and was more astonished than ever, and thought it strange she did not know a soul present to whom she could speak.

She was soon relieved of the cloak in which she was huddled-up, and when the bridegroom and the others who were there saw her uncovered, you may guess they were as much surprised as though horns had cropped up on their heads.

"What?" said the bridegroom. "Is that my wife? By Our Lady, I am very lucky. She is much changed since yesterday; I think she must have been to the fountain of youth."

"We do not know," replied those who had brought her, "whence she comes, or what she has done; but we are certain that is the woman you have married, for we took her at the altar, and since then she has never left our hands."

They were all much astonished, and remained long without saying a word, but the most foolish-looking and surprised of all was the poor bride; she was quite downcast and wept gently, for she would have much preferred to be with her lover, whom she had expected to marry that day.

The bridegroom, seeing her so miserable, had pity on her, and said,

"My dear, do not be downcast; you are in a good house, please God, and no one is going to do you any harm. But tell me, if you please, who you are, and what information you can as to how you came here."

When she heard herself spoken to so courteously, she regained a little courage, and gave the names of her father and mother, and said that she was of Brussels, and was betrothed to a certain young man, whom she named, and whom she had expected to have married.

The bridegroom, and all those who were there, began to laugh, and said that the priest had played them this trick.

"Well, God be praised for the change!" said the bridegroom at last. "I do not greatly regret that God sent you to me, and I promise you on my word to make you a good husband."

"No, no," she said, weeping. "You are not my husband. I wish to go back to him to whom my father gave me."

"That shall not be," said he. "I married you in the holy church, and you cannot deny it. You are, and you will remain, my wife; and be content, for you are very lucky. I have, thank God, riches enough, of which you shall be the lady and mistress, and you will be very comfortable."

He, and the others who were there, talked her over till at last she consented. So they had a light breakfast together, and then went to bed, and the old man did the best he knew how.

But let us return to the old woman, and the young man.

When she found herself in the house, she was in a great rage, and said;

"What am I doing here? Why do you not take me either to my own house, or to the house of my husband?"

The bridegroom, when he saw the old woman, and heard her speak, was much surprised, and so were his father and mother, and all who were there assembled. Then came out the father and mother, who knew the old woman, and the father spoke to his son, and said,

"My son, they have given you the wife of some one else, and it is to be supposed he has your wife. It is all the fault of our curé, who sees so badly, and—God help me—I was so far away from you when you were married that I never perceived the change."

"What must I do?" asked the bridegroom.

"Upon my word," said his father, "I do not well know, but I greatly doubt if you can have any other wife than this."

"St. John!" said the old woman, "I will not have him. I do not care for such a sorry fellow! I should be very happy, should I not? with a young fellow who did not care for me and would spend all my money, and if, I ventured to say a word would give me a crack on the head. Go away! go away! and fetch your wife, and let me go where I ought to be."

"By Our Lady!" said the bridegroom, "if I can get her back, I would rather have her than you, however poor she may be; but if I cannot obtain her, you will not go."

His father, and some of his relations, went to the house where the old woman wished to be, and found the company breakfasting well, and preparing the caudle for the bride and bridegroom.

The father stated the case, but the others replied,

"You come too late; each must keep what he has; the master of the house is content with the wife that God has given him; he wedded her, and he does not want any other. And do not complain, for you would never have been so fortunate as to get your daughter married so well; now you will all be rich."

The father returned home, and reported the answer he had, at which the old woman was in a great rage.

"Indeed!" she said, "am I to be deceived in this manner? By God, the matter shall not rest here; justice shall be done me!"

If the old woman was displeased, as much, or more, was the young man, who was deprived of his ladylove. Still, he might have looked over that if he could have had the old woman, and all her money, but it was no good, she made herself so disagreeable that he was obliged to let her return home.

So he was advised to summon her before the Bishop of Cambrai; and she also summoned the old man who had married the young woman, and a great lawsuit began, judgment in which is not given yet, so I can tell you no more about it.

## STORY THE FIFTY FOURTH — THE RIGHT MOMENT.

### By Mahiot D'auquesnes.

> 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.

A noble knight of Flanders—young, lusty, and a good jouster, dancer, and singer, was once living in the county of Hainault with another noble knight of the same rank then living there, though he had a fine residence in Flanders. Love—as often happens—was the cause that he remained there, for he was much smitten by a damsel of Maubeuge, and God knows what he did for her; often giving jousts, masquerades, banquets, and whatever else was possible, and that he thought would please his mistress.

He was to some extent in her good graces for a time, but not so much as he wished to be. His friend, the knight of Hainault, who knew of his love affair, did all he could to assist him, and it was not his fault that his friend did not succeed better. But why make a long story? The good knight of Flanders, do all he would, and his friend also, could never obtain from the lady the supreme favour, but found her still harsh and unkind.

At last he was compelled to return to Flanders; so he took leave of his mistress, and left his friend there, and promised that if he did not return shortly he would often write to her, and give news about himself; and she promised the same on her side.

Now it came to pass that a few days after the knight had returned to Flanders, that the lady wished to go on a pilgrimage, and made her arrangements accordingly.

And when the carriage was in front of her house, and the waggoner, who was a lusty fellow, strong and active, in it, preparing it for her, that she threw a cushion on his head, which caused him to fall on his hands and knees, at which she laughed loud and long.

"By God, mademoiselle, you made me fall, but I will have my revenge, and before night I will make you tumble."

"You would not be so unkind," she replied, and so saying she took another cushion, and when the waggoner was off his guard, she knocked him down again, and then laughed more heartily than ever.

"What is this, mademoiselle?" cried the waggoner. "Do you want to hurt me? I swear that if I were near you I would take my revenge at once."

"What would you do?" said she.

"If I were up there I would show you," he replied.

"You would do miracles—to hear you talk; but you would never dare to come."

"No?" said he. "You shall see."

He jumped out of the vehicle, entered the house, and ran upstairs, where he found the damsel in her petticoat, and as happy as she could be. He at once began to assail her, and—to cut matters short—she was not sorry to let him take what she could not in honour have given him.

At the end of the appointed time she brought forth a fine little waggoner. The matter was not so secret but what the knight of Hainault heard of it, and was much surprised.

He wrote in haste, and sent the letter by a messenger to his friend in Flanders, to say that his mistress had had a child with the help of a waggoner.

You may guess that the other was much surprised at the news, and he quickly came to Hainault to his friend, and begged of him to come and see his mistress and upbraid her with her misdeeds.

Although she was keeping herself concealed at the time, the two knights found means to come to her. She was much ashamed and vexed to see them, as she well knew she would hear nothing pleasant from them, but she plucked up her courage, and put on the best countenance she could.

They began by talking of various matters; and then the good knight of Flanders began his tirade, and called her all the names he could think of.

"You are," he said, "the most shameful and depraved woman in the world, and you have shown the wickedness of your heart by abandoning yourself to a low villain of a waggoner; although many noble persons offered you their services and you refused them all. For my own part, you know what I did to gain your love, and was I not more deserving of reward than a rascally waggoner who never did anything for you?"

"I beg of you, monsieur," she replied, "to say no more about it—what is done cannot be undone—but I tell you plainly that if you had come at the moment when the waggoner did, that I would have done for you what I did for him."

"Is that so?" he said. "By St. John! he came at a lucky moment! Devil take it! why was I not so fortunate as to know the right time to come."

"Truly," she said, "he came just at the moment when he ought to have come."

"Oh, go to the devil!" he cried, "your moments, and you, and your waggoner as well."

And with that he left, and his friend followed him, and they never had anything more to do with her,—and for a very good reason.

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

### By Monseigneur De Villiers.

> 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.

In the year of the pardons of Rome (*) just past, the plague was so great and terrible in Dauphiné, that the greater part of the better-class people left the country.

         (*) The great Jubilee of 1450.

At that time a fair, young damsel felt herself stricken with the malady, and at once repaired to a neighbour, a woman of good condition, and rather old, and related her piteous condition.

The neighbour, who was a wise and prudent woman, was not frightened at what the told her, and had even sufficient courage and assurance to comfort her with words, and what little she could do in the way of medicine. "Alas!" said the young girl who was sick, "my good neighbour, I greatly grieve that I must now leave the world and all the happinesses and amusements I have long enjoyed! But, by my oath! and between ourselves, my greatest sorrow is that I must die before I have known and tasted the good things of this world; such and such young men have often solicited me, and I bluntly refused them, for which I am now sorry; and if I die I shall never have another chance to let a man show me how to lose my maidenhead. They have told me that it is so pleasant and good, that I sorrow for my fair and tender body, which must rot without having had this much desired pleasure. And, to tell the truth, my good neighbour, it seems to me that if I once tasted this delight before my death, my end would be easier—I should die more easily, and with less regret. And, what is more, my heart is so set upon this that it might be medicine to me, and the cause of my cure."

"Would to God!" said the old woman, "that nothing else were needed; you would be soon cured it seems to me, for—thank God—our town is not yet so destitute of of men that we cannot find a good fellow to do this job for you."

"My good neighbour," said the young girl, "I would beg of you to go to such an one"—whom she named, who was a fine gentleman, and who had formerly been in love with her—"and tell him to come here and speak to me."

The old woman set out, and found the gentleman, whom she sent to the house. As soon as he came there, the young girl, who, on account of her disease had a high colour, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him twenty times. The young man, more joyful than ever to find her whom he had so much loved abandon herself to him, seized her without more ado, and showed her that which she so much desired to know.

She was not ashamed to beg and pray him to continue as he had commenced; and, in short, she made him begin again so often that he could do no more. When she saw that, as she had not yet had her fill, she was bold enough to say;

"My friend you have often beseeched for that which I ask you now. You have done all that in you is, I know well. Nevertheless, I know that I have not all I want, and I am sure that I cannot live unless some one else comes and does to me what you have done, and therefore I beg of you, if you value my life, to go to such an one and bring him hither."

"It is true, my dear, that I know well he will do what you want."

The gentleman was much astonished at the request; nevertheless, though he had worked till he could do no more, he went off and found his companion, and brought him to her, and he soon set to work as the other had done.

When he was played out as his friend had been, she was not ashamed to ask him, as she had done the first, to bring to her another gentleman, and he did so.

This made three with whom she had fought a love battle and defeated them all; but you must know that the first gentleman felt ill, and stricken with the plague, as soon as he had sent his friend to take his place; so he hastened to the priest, and confessed as best he could, and then died in the priest's arms.

His friend also, the second comer, as soon as he had given up his place to the third, felt very ill, and asked everywhere after the one who was already dead. He met the priest, weeping and exhibiting great grief, who told him of the death of his friend.

"Ah, monsieur le curé, I am stricken as he was; hear my confession."

The curé, in a great fright, made haste to hear his confession, and, when that was finished, the gentleman, though within two hours of his end, went to her from whom he and his friend had taken the contagion, and found with her the man he had fetched, and said to her;

"Cursed woman! you have killed me and my friend also. You ought to be burned to death! Nevertheless I pardon you, and may God pardon you! You have the plague, and have given it to my friend, who died in the priest's arms, and I shall soon follow him." With that he left, and died an hour later in his own house.

The third gentleman, who had run the same risks as his companions, who were both dead, did not feel very safe. Nevertheless, he took courage, and cast aside all fear, and bethought him that he had often been in perils and dangerous battles before, and went to the father and mother of the girl who had killed his two companions, and told them that their daughter was ill, and that they must take care of her. That being done, he so conducted himself that he escaped the danger of which his two friends had died.

Now you must know that when this slayer of men was brought back to her father's house, whilst they were making a bed ready in which she could repose and sweat, she sent secretly for the son of a shoe-maker, a neighbour, and had him brought to her father's stable, where she made him work as she had done the others, but he did not live four hours after.

She was put to bed, and they made her sweat greatly. And soon there appeared upon her body four buboes, of which she was afterwards cured. And I believe that you will find her now amongst the prostitutes at Avignon, Vienne, Valence, or some other place in Dauphiné.

And the doctors said that she had escaped death because she had tasted the joys of this life; which is a notable and true example to many young girls to never refuse a good thing when it comes in their way.

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

WOLF.

By Monseigneur De Villiers.

> 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.

In a town in this kingdom, in the duchy of Auvergne, there formerly lived a gentleman, who, to his misfortune, had a very pretty young wife.

This damsel was acquainted with a priest, a neighbour, who lived half a league off, and they were so neighbourly together that the good priest took the gentleman's place whenever he was absent.

And this damsel had a waiting-maid who was acquainted with all their doings, and often carried messages to the priest, and advised him of the place and hour when he could safely come to her mistress.

The matter was not so well hid as the lovers would have liked, for a gentleman, who was a near relative of him to whom this dishonour was done, was informed of the affair, and told the person most concerned all that he knew.

You may fancy that the good gentleman, when he heard that in his absence his wife was helped by the priest, was not overpleaaed, and if it had not been for his cousin would have taken terrible vengeance as soon as he heard the news; but consented to put it off until he had taken them both in the act.

He and his cousin arranged to go on a pilgrimage, four or six leagues from home, and take his wife and the priest, in order to take note how they behaved towards each other.

As they were returning from this pilgrimage, during which the curé had made love as he best could,—that is to say by glances and other little devices—the husband caused himself to be sent for by a messenger he had instructed, to come at once to a lord of that country.

He pretended to be very vexed, and to leave with much regret, —nevertheless, since the lord had sent for him he could not disobey. So he went his way, and his cousin, the other gentleman, said that he would keep him company, as that was his way to return home.

The priest and the lady much rejoiced to hear this news; they consulted together and decided that the priest should take leave and quit the house, in order that none of the people there might suspect him, and about midnight he would return to the lady, as he was accustomed. No sooner was this determined on than the priest said farewell, and left the house.

Now you must know that the husband and his relative were hidden in a gorge through which the priest would have to pass, and could neither go or return any other way, without going out of the right road.

They saw the priest pass, and judged that he would return that night—as indeed was his intention. They let him pass without saying a word, and then prepared a large pitfall, with the help of some peasants who aided them in the task. The trap was quickly and well made, and it was not long before a wolf, passing that way, fell into the pit.

Soon after came the priest, clad in a short gown, and with a curtle axe hung round his neck; and when he came to where the pitfall had been dug, he fell into it on the wolf, at which he was much alarmed, and the wolf, who was down there first, was as much afraid of the priest as the priest was of it.

When the two gentlemen saw the priest lodged along with the wolf, they were much delighted, and he who was most concerned, declared that the priest should never come out alive, for he would kill him there. The other blamed him for this, and did not wish the priest killed, and was of opinion they should rather cut off his genitals; but the husband wanted him killed, and this discussion lasted for a long time, while they were awaiting the dawn, when they could see clearly.

Whilst they were thus waiting, the lady, who expected the priest, and did not know why he tarried so long, sent her servant-maid in order to make him hurry.

The maid, whilst on her road to the cure's house, fell into the trap with the wolf and the curé. She was much astonished to find herself in such company.

"Alas!" said the priest, "I am lost. We have been found out, and someone has laid this trap for us."

The husband and his cousin, who heard and saw all, were both as pleased as they could be; and they felt as sure as though the Holy Spirit had revealed it to them, that the mistress would fellow the maid, for they had heard the maid say that her mistress had sent her to the priest to know why he had failed to come at the hour agreed upon between them.

The mistress, finding that neither the curé or the maid came, and that dawn was approaching, suspected that there was something, and that she should find them in a little wood there was on the road—which was where the trap was laid—and determined to go there and try and find out if there was any news.

She walked along towards the priest's house, and when she came to the spot where the trap was laid, she tumbled in along with the others.

When they found themselves all assembled, it need not be said that they were much astonished, and each did his or her utmost to get out of the pit, but it was no good, and they looked upon themselves as being as good as dead, as well as dishonoured.

Then the two prime movers in the affair—that is to say the husband of the lady, and his cousin—came to the edge of the pit, and saluted the company, and told them to be comfortable, and asked them if they were ready for breakfast.

The husband, who was anxious for his revenge, managed to send his cousin to look after their horses, which were at a house near by, and when he had got rid of him, he made all the haste he could, and threw a quantity of brushwood into the pit, and set it on fire, and burned them all—wife, priest, waiting-woman and wolf.

After that he left that part of the country, and went to the King to ask his pardon, which he easily obtained.

And some say that the King remarked that it was a pity the poor wolf should have been burned alive for the faults of the others.

## STORY THE FIFTY-SEVENTH — THE OBLIGING BROTHER.

### By Monsieur De Villiers.

> Of a damsel who married a shepherd, and how the marriage was arranged, and what a gentleman, the brother of the damsel, said.

As you are all ready to listen to me, and no one comes forward at the present moment to continue this glorious and edifying book of a Hundred Stories, I will relate an instance which happened formerly in Dauphiné, fit to be included in the number of the said novels.

A gentleman who lived in Dauphiné, had in his house a sister, aged about eighteen or twenty, who was a companion to his wife, who loved her dearly, so that they agreed together like two sisters.

It happened that this gentleman was bidden to the house of a neighbour, who lived a couple of short leagues away, to visit him, and took with him his wife and sister. They went, and God knows how cordially they were received.

The wife of the neighbour who invited them, took the wife and sister of the said gentleman for a walk after supper, talking of various matters, and they came to the hut of the shepherd, which was near a large and fine park in which the sheep were kept, and found there the chief shepherd looking after his flock. And—as women will—they enquired about many and various things, and amongst others they asked if he was not cold in his cottage? He replied he was not, and that he was more comfortable in his hut than they were in their glazed, matted, and well-floored chambers.

They talked also of other matters, and some of their phrases had a bawdy meaning; and the worthy shepherd, who was neither a fool nor a blockhead, swore to them that he was prepared to undertake to do the job eight or nine times in one night.

The sister of our gentleman cast amorous glances at the shepherd when she heard this, and did not fail to tell him, when she found a fitting opportunity, that he had made an impression on her, and that he was to come to see her at her brother's house, and that she would make him welcome.

The shepherd, who saw she was a pretty girl, was not a little pleased at this news, and promised to come and see her. And, in short, he did as he had promised, and at the hour arranged between his lady-love and him was in front of her window; and though it was a high and dangerous ascent, nevertheless he accomplished it by means of a cord which she let down, and a vine there was there, and was soon in her chamber, where, it need not be said, he was heartily welcomed.

He showed that it was no empty boast he had made, for before daylight, the stag had eight horns, at which the lady was greatly pleased. And you must know that before the shepherd could come to the lady, he had to walk two leagues, and swim the broad river, Rhone, which was close to the house where his mistress lived; and when day came he had to recross the Rhone, and return to his sheepfold; and he continued to do this for a long time without being discovered.

During this time many gentlemen of that country demanded the hand of this damsel turned shepherdess, in marriage, but not one of them was to her taste; at which her brother was not best pleased, and said so many times, but she was always well provided with answers and excuses. She informed her lover, the shepherd, of all this, and one night she promised him that, if he wished, she would never have any other husband but him. He replied that he desired nothing better;

"But it can never be," he said; "on account of your brother and your other friends."

"Do not trouble yourself about that," she said, "let me manage as I like and it will be all right."

So they plighted troth to one another. But soon after that there came a gentleman to make a last request for the hand of the lady shepherdess, and who said he would marry her if she were only dressed in the manner becoming her station without any other portion. Her brother would have willingly listened to this demand, and tried to persuade his sister to give her consent, pointing out to her what her duty was in such a case; but he could not succeed, at which he was much displeased.

When she saw that he was angry with her, she took him on one side, and said;

"Brother, you have long lectured me, and pressed me to marry such and such a man, and I would never consent. Now I beg of you not to be angry with or bear any resentment towards me, and I will tell you what has prevented my acceding to any of these requests, if you will promise not to be still more enraged against me."

Her brother willingly promised. When she had obtained this assurance, she told him that she was as good as married already, and that as long as she lived she would never have for husband any other man than the one she would show him that night if he wished.

"I should much like to see him," replied her brother, "but who is he?"

"You will see in good time," she said.

At the accustomed hour the shepherd came, and climbed to the lady's chamber, God knows how wet from having crossed the river. The brother looked at him, and saw it was his neighbour's shepherd, and was in no small degree astonished; and still more so was the shepherd, who would have fled when he saw him.

"Stay! Stay!" said the gentleman, "there is nothing to fear."

"Is this," he added turning to his sister, "the man of whom you spoke to me?"

"Yes, truly, brother," said she.

"Then make a good fire for him to warm himself," said the gentleman, "for he much needs it. And do you regard him as your husband; and truly you are not wrong to like him, for he has run great dangers for love of you. And since the matter has gone so far, and you have the courage to take him for a husband, never mind me, and cursed be he who does not hurry on the marriage."

"Amen!" she said. "It shall be to-morrow, if you wish."

"I do wish," he replied; then turning to the shepherd.

"What do you say?"

"Whatever you wish."

"There is nothing else for it then," said the gentleman. "You are, and shall be, my brother-in-law. Not so long ago our family was not noble; so I may well have a shepherd for a brother-in-law."

To cut the story short, the gentleman consented to the marriage of his sister to the shepherd; and it was performed, and they both continued to live in his house, though it was much talked about throughout the country.

And when he was in some place where the affair was being talked about, and surprise was expressed that he had not killed or beaten the shepherd, the gentleman replied that he would never harm one whom his sister loved; and that he would rather have for a brother-in-law, a shepherd his sister liked, than some great man she did not like.

All this was said as a joke, and sportingly; for he was, and has always been, a courteous and pleasant gentleman, and liked not to hear his sister's name bandied about, even amongst his friends and boon companions.

## STORY THE FIFTY-EIGHTH — SCORN FOR SCORN.

### By Monseigneur.

> 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.

I knew, in the time of my green and virtuous youth, two gentlemen, good comrades, accomplished, and provided with every quality to be praised in a virtuous gentleman. They were friends, and were alike each other in every respect, not only bodily, but as regarded their clothes, their servants, and their horses.

It happened that they fell in love with two fair young damsels of good family and gracious, and they did for these fair ladies' sake a hundred thousand little courtesies. Their vows were listened to—but nothing more. Perhaps the damsels had lovers already, or did not wish to have a love affair on their hands, for in truth the youths were both good fellows, such as many a noble lady would have liked for a lover.

Be that as it may, they could not win their ladies' love, which caused them to pass many nights in God knows what sorrow, now cursing fortune, now love, and most often their mistresses for being so unkind. Whilst they were suffering this rage and grief, one of them said one day to his friend,

"We can see with half an eye that our mistresses do not care for us, and yet we more madly desire them than ever, and the more scorn and harshness they show us the more we desire to please, serve, and obey them! Upon my word this seems to me the height of folly. Let us, I pray you, think no more of them than they do of us, and you will see that when they know that, it will be their turn to seek and importune us."

"Ah!" said the other, "very good advice, no doubt, but how can it be carried out?"

"I have found the means," said the first. "I have always heard it said, and Ovid puts it in his book, The Remedy of Love, that to do—you know what—much and often, makes you forget or think little of the person with whom you are in love. I will tell you what we will do. We will take home with us a couple of nice young 'cousins' (*), and we will sleep with them, and commit every folly with them that our strength will permit, and then we will go and see our ladies, and the devil is in it if they do not then care for us."

         (*) Prostitutes.   The word is doubtless derived from
         coussin.

The other agreed, and the proposal was carried out, and each took home a nice wench. And after that they went to a great feast where their ladies were, and they flaunted in front of the damsels, chattering carelessly here and there, and seeming to say in a hundred thousand ways, "We do not care for you", believing that, as they had devised, their mistresses would be displeased, and would try to make their lovers return to their allegiance.

But it happened quite otherwise, for if the youths appeared to think but little of the ladies, they on the other hand, showed openly that they cared nothing for the young men, which the latter perceived, and were much amazed at. The one said to his friend;

"Do you know what is the matter? Morbleu! our mistresses have done exactly what we have done. Do you not see how scornful they are? They carry themselves exactly as we do—and, believe me, for the very same reason. They have each chosen a paramour and indulged in folly to the utmost. Devil take the bitches! Let us leave them alone!"

"By my oath!" replied the other, "I believe it is as you say. I never expected to find them like this."

So the two friends thought that their mistresses had done the same as they had done themselves, because the damsels took no more heed of them than they did of the damsels—which may not have been true, but was not difficult to believe.

## STORY THE FIFTY-NINTH — THE SICK LOVER. 59

### By Poncelet.

> Of a lord who pretended to be sick in order that he might lie with the servant maid, with whom his wife found him.

In the town of St. Omer there lived formerly a a good fellow, sergeant to the king, who was married to a good and chaste woman, who had, by a former marriage, a son grown up and married.

This good fellow, notwithstanding that he had a virtuous and prudent wife, made love day and night with whomsoever he had a chance, and as often as possible. And as in winter it was often inconvenient to go far to seek for his love affairs, he bethought himself and reflected that he need not leave home for a mistress, for that his wife's maid was a very pretty, young, and well-mannered girl, and he might manage to become her lover.

In short, by gifts and promises, he obtained the girl's permission to do whatever he wished, but there were difficulties in the way, for his wife, knowing her husband's character, always kept an eye upon him.

Nevertheless, Cupid, who always comes to the help of his true followers, inspired his good and loyal worshipper with an idea by which he could accomplish his ends; for he pretended to be very sick of a chill, and said to his wife;

"My dear helpmate, come here! I am as ill as I can be; I must go to bed, and I beg of you to make all the servants go to bed too, in order that there may be no noise or disturbance, and then come to our chamber."

The worthy woman, who was much vexed at her husband's illness, did as she was ordered, and took fair sheets and warmed them, and put them over her husband after he was in bed. And when he had been well warmed for a long time, he said.

"My dear, that will suffice. I am well enough now, thanks be to God and to you for the trouble you have taken; and I beg of you to come and lie down by my side."

She only desired her husband's health and repose, and did as she was desired, and went to sleep as quickly as possible. As soon as he perceived she was asleep, he slipped quietly out of bed, and went to the servant's bed, where he was well received, and broke so many lances that he was tired and worn out, and dropped off to sleep in her fair arms.

It often happens that when we go to bed vexed or melancholy we are easily awakened,—indeed that may be the cause of our waking, and so it happened to the wife. And as she took great care of her husband, she put out her hand to touch him, and discovered that he was not in the bed; and on feeling the pillow and the place where he had been lying, she found that they were cold, and that he had been out of bed a long time.

Then, in despair, she jumped out of bed and put on a chemise and a petticoat, and said to herself;

"Idle and worthless wretch that you are, you have much to reproach yourself with, for by your neglect you have let your husband die. Alas! why did I come to bed to-night and fall asleep; O Virgin Mary! I pray that nothing has happened to him through my fault, or I shall deem myself guilty of his death."

After these regrets and lamentations, she went off to seek a light, and in order that the servant-maid might help her to find her lost husband, she went to her room to arouse her, and there found the happy pair, asleep locked in each other's arms, and it seemed that they must have worked well that night, for they were not awakened by her coming into the room or by the light she carried.

She was glad that her husband was not as ill as she had feared or expected; and went to seek her children and all the servants of the household, and brought them to see the couple, and asked them in a low voice, who that was in the maid's bed, sleeping with her? And the children replied that it was their father, and the servants that it was their master. Then she led them out, and made them go to bed again, for it was too early to get up, and she also went back to bed, but did not sleep again till it was time to rise.

Soon after she had left the lovers, they woke up, and took leave of each other amorously. The master returned to bed, to his wife's side, without saying a word, nor did she, but pretended to be asleep, at which he was very glad, thinking that she knew nothing of his adventure, for he greatly feared her, both for his peace and that of the girl. So he slept soundly, and his wife, as soon as it was time to get up, rose, and to please her husband, and give him something comforting after the laxative medicine that he had taken that night, woke up her servants, and called her maid, and told her to kill the two fattest capons in the fowl-house, and prepare them nicely, and then go to the butcher and buy the best bit of beef she could procure, and put it in water to make a good soup, as she well knew how, for she was a capital cook.

The girl, who heartily desired to please her mistress and her master, the one for love and the other from fear, said that she would willingly do all that was commanded.

Then the wife went to Mass, and on her return passed by the house of her son, of whom I have spoken, and asked him to come and dine with her husband, and to bring with him three or four good fellows whom she named, and whom she and her husband wished invited.

Then she returned home to see after the dinner, and found that her husband had gone to church. Meanwhile, her son had gone round to invite the guests his mother had named, and who were the greatest jokers in St. Omer.

The good man came back from Mass, and embraced his wife, and she did the same to him, and, in order that he should not suspect anything, she said that she rejoiced at his recovery, for which he thanked her, and said;

"Indeed I am in fairly good health, my dear, after last night, and I think I have a very good appetite, so we will have dinner at once if you like."

She replied, "I am very glad to hear, it but you must wait a little till the dinner is ready; and until such and such people, whom I have invited to dine with you, have arrived."

"Invited!" said he, "and for what reason? I do not care about them and would rather they stayed where they are; for they jest at everything, and if they know I have been ill, they will tease me about it. At least, my dear, let me beg of you to say nothing about it. And there is another thing—what will they eat?"

She said he need not trouble about that; they would have enough to eat, for she had dressed the two best capons, as well as a fine piece of beef, and all in his honour, at which he was very glad, and said it was well done.

Soon after came those who had been invited, and the woman's son. And when all was ready, they sat at the table and made good cheer, especially the host, and they drank often one to another.

The host said to his stepson;

"John, my friend, drink with your mother, and enjoy yourself."

And he replied that he would willingly do so; and when he drank to his mother, the maid, who was waiting at table came into the room.

Then the wife called her, and said,

"Come here, my dear friend and companion! drink to me, and I will pledge thee."

"Friend and companion!" said the host. "What is the meaning of all this affection? What mischief is brewing now? This is something new!"

"Indeed, she is truly my honest and trusted companion! Why do you wonder at that?"

"Oh, the devil, Joan! take care what you say! Any one would think there was something between her and me."

"And why should they not?" she said. "Did I not find you last night lying in her bed, and sleeping in her arms?"

"In her bed?" he said.

"Truly, yes," she replied.

"On my honour, gentlemen, it is not true, and she only says so to spite me, and bring shame on the poor girl, for she never saw me there."

"The devil I did not!" she replied. "You shall hear the statement again from those of your own household."

With that she called the children, and the servants who were standing there, and asked them if they had not seen their father lying with the maid, and they answered, yes.

"You lie, you naughty boys," replied their father. "Your mother told you to say it."

"Begging your pardon, father, we saw you there; and so did the servants."

"Is that so?" asked the lady of the servants.

"That is quite true," they replied.

Then all who were present laughed loudly, and teased him terribly, for his wife related all about his pretended illness, and what he had done, and how she had prepared the dinner and invited his friends in order to make the story known, at which he was so ashamed that he hardly dared hold up his head, and did not know what to reply except to say,

"Go on! you are all against me, so I will hold my tongue and let you have your own way, for I can't contend against the lot of you."

Afterwards he ordered the table to be removed, and when grace was said, he called his stepson and whispered to him;

"John, my friend, although the others accuse me, I know that you believe me. See how much is owing to that poor girl, and pay her so liberally that she will have no cause to complain, and send her away; for I know well that your mother will never permit her to stay in the house."

The stepson went and did as he was ordered, then he returned to the friends whom he had brought, whom he found talking to his mother, then they thanked her for their entertainment, and took leave and went.

The husband and wife remained at home, and it is to be supposed that he did not hear the last of it for some time. For the poor husband did not drain his cup of bitterness at the dinner-table, but found that the proverb about dogs, hawks, war, and love, which says, "Every pleasure has a thousand sorrows," is true. But none should run the risk if they are not prepared to pay the penalty. Thus did it happen that the adventure of this worthy fellow ended in the manner related.

## STORY THE SIXTIETH — THREE VERY MINOR BROTHERS. 60

### By Poncelet.

> 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.

Formerly there were in the town of Malines three damsels, the wives of three burghers of the town,—rich, powerful, and of good position, who were in love with three Minor Friars; and to more secretly and covertly manage their amours under the cloak of religion, they rose every day an hour or two before dawn, and when it appeared a fit time to go and see their lovers, they told their husbands they were going to matins to the first Mass.

Owing to the great pleasure that they took in these exercises and the monks also, it often happened that it was broad daylight, and they could not leave the convent without being perceived by the other monks. Therefore, fearing the great perils and inconveniences which might arise, they arranged between them that each should wear a monk's gown, and have a tonsure made on her head, as though they belonged to the convent. So finally one day that they were in the convent, and whilst their husbands suspected nothing of it, a barber,—that is to say a monk belonging to the convent—was sent for secretly to the cells of the three brothers, and he cut a tonsure on the head of each.

And when the time came to leave, they put on the friars' gowns with which they were provided, and in that state returned to their respective homes, and undressed, and left their disguise with certain discreet matrons, and then returned to their husbands; and this continued for a long while, without any person being aware of it.

But since it would have been a great pity that such excessive devotion should not be known, fortune so willed that as on a certain day one of these ladies was on her road to the accustomed haunt, her trick was discovered, and she was caught in her disguise by her husband, who had followed her, and who said:

"Good brother, I am glad to have met you! I would beg of you to return to my house, for I have many things to say to you," and with that he took her back, at which she hardly felt joyful.

When they were in the house, the husband said, in a joking manner;

"My dear helpmate, can you swear on your honour that it is true piety, which in the middle of winter, causes you to don the habit of St. Francis, and have your head shaved like the good monks? Tell me the name of your confessor, or by St. Francis you shall suffer for it,"—and he pretended to draw his dagger.

The poor woman threw herself on her knees, and cried;

"Have mercy upon me, husband! for I have been led astray by bad companions! I know that you could kill me if you liked, and that I have not behaved as I should, but I am not the only one the monks have led astray, and, if you promise that you will do nothing to me, I will tell you all."

To this her husband agreed; and then she told him how she often went to the monastery with two of her cronies who were in love with two of the monks, and they often breakfasted together in the monks' cells. "A third monk was in love with me," she continued, "and made such humble and impassioned requests to me that I could not excuse myself, and by the instigation and example of my companions, I did as they did, they all saying that we should have a good time together, and no one would know about it."

Then the husband demanded the names of her female friends, and she told him. He was acquainted with their husbands, and they had often eaten and drunk together. Finally, he asked who was the barber, and the names of the three monks.

The good husband, after considering all things, and moved by the piteous groans and sad regrets of his wife, said;

"Take care that you tell no one that you have spoken to me on this matter, and I promise you that I will do you no harm."

She promised that she would do whatever he wished. With that he went away at once, and invited to dinner the two husbands and their wives, the three Cordeliers, and the barber, and they all promised to come.

The next day they all came, and sat at table, and enjoyed themselves without expecting any bad news. After the table was removed, they had many joyous jests and devices to discover who should pay scot for all, and as they could not agree, the host said;

"Since we cannot agree as to who is to pay the reckoning, I will tell you what we will do. The one who has the baldest crown to his head shall pay—of course excluding these good monks, who pay nothing—at present."

To which they all agreed, and were content that it should be thus, and that the barber should be the judge. And when all the men had shown their heads, the host said that they ought to look at their wives' heads.

It need not be asked if there were not some there present who felt their hearts sink within them. Without an instant's delay, the host uncovered his wife's head, and when he saw the tonsure he pretended to admire it greatly, pretending that he knew nothing about it, and said,

"We must see if the others are the same."

Then their husbands made them remove their head-dresses, and they were found to be tonsured like the first one, at which the men were not best pleased, notwithstanding that they laughed loudly, and declared that the question had been settled, and that it was for their wives to pay the reckoning.

But they wished to know how these tonsures came there, and the host, rejoicing to be able to divulge such a secret, related the whole affair, on condition that they would pardon their wives this time, after they had been witnesses of the penance the good monks were to undergo in their presence,—and to this both husbands agreed.

Then the host caused four or five sturdy varlets to come out of a chamber near by, and they, knowing what they had to do, seized the worthy monks and gave them as many blows as they could find room for on their shoulders, and then turned them out of the house. The others remained for a certain space, and it is to be supposed that a good deal of conversation passed between them, but as it would take too long to recount, I pass it over here, for the sake of brevity.

## NOTES.

42 (return)
[ Hervé Meriadech, a Breton squire and gallant soldier, who performed several gallant feats of arms. Louis XI named him Governor of Tournay in 1461.]

46 (return)
[ Much resembles No. XII. The author is believed to be Chrestien de Dygoigne, whose name appears at the head of story No. 68.]

47 (return)
[ This is believed to be a true story. The person who got rid of his wife in this cunning way was Caffrey Carles, President of the Parliament of Grenoble. He was skilled in Latin and "the humanities"—in the plural only it would appear—and was chosen by Anne of Brittany, the wife of Louis XII, to teach her daughter, Renée, afterwards Duchess of Perrara.

The story is so dramatic that it has been often imitated.]

50 (return)
[ By Antoine de la Sale, a short appreciation of whose literary merits appears in the Introduction. He has appended his own name to this story; in other cases he appears as "L'Acteur" that is to say the "Editor." (See No. 51). The story is taken from Sacchetti or Poggio. The idea has suggested itself to many writers, including Lawrence Sterne, in Tristram Shandy.]

52 (return)
[ Taken from Sacchetti.]

59 (return)
[ by Poncelet, or Pourcelet, one of the Council of the Duke of Burgundy.]

60 (return)
[ by Poncelet, or Pourcelet, one of the Council of the Duke of Burgundy. No. 60 is from an old fabliau, (Frère Denise, cordelier) and is to be found in the Heptameron, the Apologie pour Hérodote etc.]