Part 15

“And I declare by my oath,” cried one of the men, “that you dream, and that you are drunken with sleep. As for me I slept alone, and did not leave my bed all night.”

“Nor did I,” said another.

“Nor I, by St. John!” said the third. “I would not on any account break my oath. And I feel sure that my friend here, and my neighbour there, who also promised, have not so quickly forgotten.”

The women began to change colour and to suspect some trickery, when one of the husbands began to fear the truth. Without giving the women time to reply, he made a sign to his companions, and said, laughing;

“By my oath, madam, the good wine here, and the excellent cheer last night made us forget our promise; but be not displeased at the adventure; if it please God we each last night, with your help, made a fine baby, which is a work of great merit, and will be sufficient to wipe out the fault of breaking our vow!”

“May God will it so!” said the women. “But you so strongly declared that you had not been near us that we began to doubt a little.”

“We did it on purpose,” said he, “in order to hear what you would say.”

“And so you committed a double sin; first to break your oath, then to knowingly lie about it; and also you have much troubled us.”

“Do not worry yourselves about that,” said he; “it is no great matter; but go to Mass, and we will follow you.”

The women set out towards the church, and their husbands remained behind, without following them too closely; then they all said together, without picking their words;

“We are deceived! Those devils of Cordeliers have cuckolded us; they have taken our places, and shown us the folly of not sleeping with our wives. They should never have slept out of our rooms, and if it was dangerous to be in bed with them, is there not plenty of good straw to be had?”

“Marry!” said one of them, “we are well punished this time; but at any rate it is better that the trick should only be known to us than to us and our wives, for there would be much danger if it came to their knowledge. You hear by their confession that these ribald monks have done marvels--both more and better than we could do. And, if our wives knew that, they would not be satisfied with this experience only. My advice is that we swallow the business without chewing it.”

“So help me God!” cried the third, “my friend speaks well. As for me, I revoke my vow, for it is not my intention to run any more risks.”

“As you will,” said the other two; “and we will follow your example.”

So all the rest of the journey the wives slept with their husbands, though the latter took care not to explain the cause. And when the women saw that, they demanded the cause of this sudden change. And they answered deceitfully, that as they had begun to break their vow they had better go on.

Thus were the three worthy merchants deceived by the three good Cordeliers, without it ever coming to the knowledge of their wives, who would have died of grief had they known the truth; for every day we see women die for less cause and occasion.

*****

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

By Monseigneur De La Barde.

_Of a squire who found the mule of his companion, and mounted thereon and it took him to the house of his master’s mistress; and the squire slept there, where his friend found him; also of the words which passed between them--as is more clearly set out below._

A gentleman of this kingdom--a squire of great renown and reputation--fell in love with a beautiful damsel of Rouen, and did all in his power to gain her good graces. But fortune was contrary to him, and his lady so unkind, that finally he abandoned the pursuit in despair.

He was not very wrong to do so, for she was provided with a lover--not that the squire knew of that, however much he might suspect it.

He who enjoyed her love was a knight, and a man of great authority, and was so familiar with the squire as to tell him much concerning his love-affair. Often the knight said; “By my faith, friend, I would have you know that I have a mistress in this town to whom I am devoted; for, however tired I may be, I would willingly go three or four leagues to see her--a mere couple of leagues I would run over without stopping to take breath.”

“Is there no request or prayer that I can make” said the squire, “that will cause you to tell me her name?”

“No, no!” said the other, “you shall not know that.”

“Well!” said the squire, “when I am so fortunate as to have something good, I will be as reticent as you are.”

It happened some time after this that the good knight asked the squire to supper at the castle of Rouen, where he was then lodged. He came, and they had some talk; the gentle knight, who had an appointment to see his lady at a certain hour, said farewell to the squire, and added,

“You know that we have various things to see to to-morrow, and that we must rise early in order to arrange various matters. It is advisable therefore to go to bed early, and for that reason I bid you goodnight.”

The squire, who was cunning enough, suspected that the good knight wished to go somewhere, and that he was making the duties of the morrow an excuse to get rid of him, but he took no notice, and on taking leave and wishing good-night to his host, said;

“Monseigneur you say well; rise early to-morrow morning, and I will do the same.”

When the good squire went down, he found a little mule at the foot of the staircase of the castle, with no one minding it. He soon guessed that the page he had met as he came down had gone to seek for a saddle-cloth for his master.

“Ah, ah” he said to himself, “my host did not get rid of me at this early hour for nothing. Here is his mule, which only waits till I am gone to carry his master to some place he does not wish me to know. Ah, mule!” said he, “if you could speak, you could tell me some news. Let me beg of you to lead me where your master wishes to be.”

With that he made his page hold the stirrup, and mounted the mule, and laid the reins on the mule’s neck, and let it amble on wherever it liked.

And the little mule led him by streets and alleys here and there, till at last it stopped before a little wicket, which was in a side street where its master was accustomed to come, and which was the garden gate of the house of the very damsel the squire had so loved and had abandoned in despair.

He dismounted, and tapped gently at the wicket, and a damsel, who was watching through a hidden lattice, believing it to be the knight, came down and opened the door, and said;

“Monseigneur you are welcome; mademoiselle is in her chamber, and awaits you.”

She did not recognise him, because it was late, and he had a velvet cap drawn down over his face. And the good squire replied, “I will go to her.”

The he whispered to his page, “Go quickly and put the mule where we found it; then go to bed.”

“It shall be done, sir,” he said.

The woman closed the gate, and led the way to the chamber. Our good squire, much occupied with the business in hand, walked boldly to the room where the lady was, and he found her simply dressed in a plain petticoat, and with a gold chain round her neck.

He saluted her politely, for he was kind, courteous and well-spoken, but she, who was as much astonished as though horns had sprouted out of her head, did not for the moment know how to reply, but at last she asked him what he sought there, why he came at that hour, and who had sent him?

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you may well imagine that if I had had to rely on myself alone I should not be here; but, thank God, one who has more pity for me than you ever had, has done this kindness to me.”

“Who brought you here, sir?” she asked.

“By my oath, mademoiselle, I will not conceal that from you; it was such and such a lord (and he named the knight who had invited him to supper), who sent me here.”

“Ah!” she cried. “Traitor and disloyal knight that he is, has he betrayed my confidence? Well, well! I will be revenged on him some day.”

“Oh, mademoiselle! it is not right of you to say that, for it is no treason to give pleasure to one’s friend, or to render him aid and service when one can. You know what a great friendship exists between him and me, and that neither hides from the other what is in his heart. It happened that not long ago I related and confessed to him the great love I bore you, and that because of you I had no happiness left in the world, for that by no means could I ever win your affection, and that it was not possible for me to long endure this horrible martyrdom. When the good knight knew that my words were really true, and was aware of the sorrow I endured, he was fain to tell me how he stood with regard to you, and preferred to lose you, and so save my life, than to see me die miserably and retain your affection. And if you are such a woman as you should be, you would not hesitate to give comfort and consolation to me, your obedient servant, who has always loyally served and obeyed you.”

“I beg of you,” she said, “not to speak of that, and to leave here at once. Cursed be he who made you come!”

“Do you know, mademoiselle,” he replied, “that it is not my intention to leave here before to-morrow morning?”

“By my oath,” she cried, “you will go now, at once!”

“Morbleu! I will not--for I will sleep with you.”

When she saw that he was not to be got rid of by hard words, she resolved to try kindness, and said;

“I beg of you with all my heart to leave my house now, and by my oath, another time I will do whatever you wish.”

“Bah!” said he; “Waste no more words, for I shall sleep here,” and with that he removed his cloak, and led the damsel to the table, and finally--to cut the tale short--she went to bed with him by her side.

They had not been in bed long, and he had but broken one lance, when the good knight arrived on his mule, and knocked at the wicket. When the squire heard that and knew who it was, he began to growl, imitating a dog very well.

The knight, hearing this, was both astonished and angry. He knocked at the door more loudly than before, and the other growled louder than ever.

“Who is that growling?” said he outside. “Morbleu! but I will soon find out! Open the door, or I will carry it away!”

The fair damsel, who was in a great rage, went to the window in her chemise, and said;

“Are you there, false and disloyal knight? You may knock as much as you like, but you will not come in!”

“Why shall I not come in?” said he.

“Because,” said she, “you are the falsest man that ever woman met, and are not worthy to be with respectable people.”

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you blason my arms very well, but I do not know what excites you, for I have never been false to you that I am aware of.”

“Yes, you have,” she cried, “done me the greatest wrong that ever man did to woman.”

“I have not, I swear. But tell me who is in there?”

“You know very well, wretched traitor that you are,” she replied.

Thereupon the squire, who was in bed, began to growl like a dog as before.

“Marry!” said he outside, “I do not understand this. Who is this growler?”

“By St. John! you shall know,” cried the other, and jumped out of bed and came to the window, and said;

“And please you, sir, you have no right to wake us up.”

The good knight, when he knew who spoke to him, was marvellously astonished, and when at last he spoke, he said.

“How did you come here?”

“I supped at your house and slept here.”

“The fault is mine,” said he. Then addressing the damsel, he added, “Mademoiselle, do you harbour such guests in your house?”

“Yes, monseigneur,” she replied, “and thank you for having sent him.”

“I?” said he. “By St. John I have nothing to do with it. I came to occupy my usual place, but it seems I am too late. At least I beg, since I cannot have anything else, that you open the door and let me drink a cup of wine.”

“By God, you shall not enter here!” she cried.

“By St. John! he shall,” cried the squire, and ran down and opened the door, and then went back to bed, and she did also, though, God knows, much ashamed and dissatisfied.

When the good knight entered the chamber, he lighted a candle, and looked at the couple in bed and said;

“Good luck to you, mademoiselle, and to you also squire.”

“Many thanks, monseigneur,” said he.

But the damsel could not say a word, her heart was so full, for she felt certain that the knight had connived at the squire’s coming, and she felt so angry that she would not speak to him.

“Who showed you the way here, squire?” asked the knight.

“Your little mule, monseigneur,” said he. “I found it at the foot of the stairs, when I supped with you at the castle. It was there alone, and seemingly lost, so I asked it what it was waiting for, and it replied that it was waiting for its saddle-cloth and you. ‘To go where?’ I asked. ‘Where we usually go,’ replied the mule. ‘I am sure,’ said I, ‘that your master will not leave the house to-night, for he is going to bed, so take me where you usually go, I beg.’ It was content, so I mounted on it, and it brought me here, for which I give it thanks.”

“God reward the little beast that betrayed me,” said the good knight.

“Ah, you have fully deserved it, monseigneur,” said the damsel, when at last she was able to speak. “I know well that you have deceived me, but I wish you to know that it is not much to your honour. There was no need, if you would not come yourself, to send some one else surreptitiously. It was an evil day for me when first I saw you.”

“Morbleu! I never sent him,” he said; “but since he is here I will not drive him away. Besides there is enough for the two of us; is there not my friend?”

“Oh, yes, monseigneur, plenty of spoil to divide. Let us celebrate the arrangement by a drink.”

He went to the side-board and filled a large cup with wine, and said, “I drink to you, friend.”

“And I pledge you, friend,” said the other, and poured out another cup for the damsel, who refused to drink, but at last, unwillingly, kissed the cup.

“Well, friend,” said the knight, “I will leave you here. Ruffle her well; it is your turn to-day and will be mine to morrow, please God, and I hope you will be as obliging to me, if ever you find me here, as I am to you now.”

“By Our Lady, friend, doubt not but I shall be.”

Then the knight went away and left the squire, who did as well as he could on the first night. And he told the damsel the whole truth of his adventure, at which she was somewhat relieved to find that he had not been sent.

Thus was the fair damsel deceived by the mule, and obliged to obey the knight and the squire, each in his turn--an arrangement to which she finally became accustomed. The knight and squire grew more attached to each other than before this adventure; their affection increased, and no evil counsels engendered discord and hate between them.

*****

[Illustration: 32.jpg THE WOMEN WHO PAID TITHE.]

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

By Monseigneur De Villiers.

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

In order that I may not be excluded from the number of fortunate and meritorious writers who have worked to increase the number of stories in this book, I will briefly relate a new story, which will serve as a substitute for the tale previously required of me.

It is a well-known fact that in the town of Hostelleria, in Catalonia, (*) there arrived some minor friars of the order of Observance, (**) who had been driven out of the kingdom of Spain.

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

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

They managed to worm themselves into the good graces of the Lord of that town, who was an old man, so that he built for them a fair church and a large convent, and maintained and supported them all his life as best he could. And after him came his eldest son, who did quite as much for them as his worthy father had done.

In fact they prospered so, that, in a few years they had everything that a convent of mendicant friars could desire. Nor were they idle during all the time they were acquiring these riches; they preached both in the town and in the neighbouring villages, and had such influence over the people that there was not a good christian who did not confess to them, they had such great renown for pointing out faults to sinners.

But of all who praised them and held them in esteem, the women were foremost, such saints did they deem them on account of their charity and devotion.

Now listen to the wickedness, deception, and horrible treason which these false hypocrites practised on the men and women who every day gave them so many good gifts. They made it known to all the women in the town that they were to give to God a tenth of all their goods.

“You render to your Lord such and such a thing; to your parish and priest such and such a thing; and to us you must render and deliver the tithe of the number of times that you have carnal connection with your husband. We will take no other tithe from you, for, as you know, we carry no money--for the temporal and transitory things of this world are nothing to us. We ask and demand only spiritual goods. The tithes which we ask and which you owe us are not temporal goods; as the Holy Sacrament, which you receive, is a divine and holy thing, so no one may receive the tithe but us, who are monks of the order of the Observance.”

The poor simple women, who believed the good friars were more like angels than terrestrial beings, did not refuse to pay the tithe. There was not one who did not pay in her turn, from the highest to the lowest, even the wife of the Lord was not excused.

Thus were all the women of the town parcelled out amongst these rascally monks, and there was not a monk who did not have fifteen or sixteen women to pay tithes to him, and God knows what other presents they had from the women, and all under cover of devotion.

This state of affairs lasted long without its ever coming to the knowledge of those who were most concerned in the payment of the new tithe; but at last it was discovered in the following manner.

A young man who was newly married, was invited to supper at the house of one of his relations--he and his wife--and as they were returning home, and passing the church of the above-mentioned good Cordeliers, suddenly the bell rang out the _Ave Maria_, and the young man bowed to the ground to say his prayers.

His wife said, “I would willingly enter this church.”

“What would you do in there at this hour?” asked her husband. “You can easily come again when it is daylight; to-morrow, or some other time.”

“I beg of you,” she said, “to let me go: I will soon return.”

“By Our Lady!” said he, “you shall not go in now.”

“By my oath!” she replied, “it is compulsory. I must go in, but I will not stay. If you are in a hurry to get home, go on, and I will follow you directly.”

“Get on! get forward!” he said, “you have nothing to do here. If you want to say a _Pater noster_, or an _Ave Maria_, there is plenty of room at home, and it is quite as good to say it there as in this monastery, which is now as dark as pitch.”

“Marry!” said she, “you may say what you like, but by my oath, it is necessary that I should enter here for a little while.”

“Why?” said he. “Do you want to sleep with any of the brothers.”

She imagined that her husband knew that she paid the tithe, and replied;

“No, I do not want to sleep with him; I only want to pay.”

“Pay what?” said he.

“You know very well,” she answered; “Why do you ask?”

“What do I know well?” he asked, “I never meddle with your debts.”

“At least,” she said, “you know very well that I must pay the tithe.”

“What tithe?”

“Marry!” she replied. “It always has to be paid;--the tithe for our nights together. You are lucky--I have to pay for us both.”

“And to whom do you pay?” he asked.

“To brother Eustace,” she replied. “You go on home, and let me go in and discharge my debt. It is a great sin not to pay, and I am never at ease in my mind when I owe him anything.”

“It is too late to-night,” said he, “he has gone to bed an hour ago.”

“By my oath,” said she, “I have been this year later than this. If one wants to pay one can go in at any hour.”

“Come along! come along!” he said. “One night makes no such great matter.”

So they returned home; both husband and wife vexed and displeased--the wife because she was not allowed to pay her tithe, and the husband because he had learned how he had been deceived, and was filled with anger and thoughts of vengeance, rendered doubly bitter by the fact that he did not dare to show his anger.