Chapter 13

After much good cheer and the usual amusements, the bride was put to bed, and a short time afterwards her husband followed, and lay close to her, and without delay duly began the assault on her fortress. With some trouble he entered in and gained the stronghold, but you must understand that he did not complete the conquest without accomplishing many feats of arms which it would take long to enumerate; for before he came to the donjon of the castle he had other outworks, with which it was provided, to carry, like a place that had never been taken or was still quite new, and which nature had provided with many defences.

When he was master of the place, he broke his lance, and ceased the assault. But the fair damsel when she saw herself at the mercy of her husband, and how he had foraged the greater part of her manor, wished to show him a prisoner whom she held confined in a secret place,--or to speak plainly she was delivered on the spot, after this first encounter, of a fine boy; at which her husband was so ashamed and so astonished that he did not know what to do except to hold his tongue.

Out of kindness and pity, he did all that he possibly could for both mother and child, but, as you may believe, the poor woman could not restrain from uttering a loud cry when the child was born. Many persons heard this cry, and believed that it was “the cry of the maidenhead,” (*) which is a custom of this country.

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

Immediately all the gentlemen in the house where the bridegroom resided, came and knocked at the door of the chamber, and brought the caudle; but though they knocked loudly they received no reply, for the bride was in a condition in which silence is excusable, and the bridegroom had not much to chatter about.

“What is the matter?” cried the guests. “Why do you not open the door? If you do not make haste we will break it open; the caudle we have brought you will be quite cold;” and they began to knock louder than ever.

But the bridegroom would not have uttered a word for a hundred francs; at which those outside did not know what to think, for he was not ordinarily a silent man. At last he rose, and put on a dressing-gown he had, and let in his friends, who soon asked him whether the caudle had been earned, and what sort of a time he had had? Then one of them laid the table-cloth, and spread the banquet, for they had everything prepared, and spared nothing in such cases. They all sat round to eat, and the bridegroom took his seat in a high-backed chair placed near his bed, looking very stupid and pitiful as you may imagine. And whatever the others said, he did not answer a word, but sat there like a statue or a carved idol.

“What is the matter?” cried one. “You take no notice of the excellent repast that our host has provided. You have not said a single word yet.”

“Marry!” said another, “he has no jokes ready.”

“By my soul!” said another, “marriage has wondrous properties. He has but been married an hour and he has lost his tongue. If he goes on at that rate there will soon be nothing left of him.”

To tell the truth, he had formerly been known as a merry fellow, fond of a joke, and never uttered a word but a jest; but now he was utterly cast down.

The gentlemen drank to the bride and bridegroom, but devil a drop would either of them quaff in return; the one was in a violent rage, and the other was far from being at ease.

“I am not experienced in these affairs,” said a gentleman, “but it seems we must feast by ourselves. I never saw a man with such a grim-looking face, and so soon sobered by a woman. You might hear a pin drop in his company. Marry! his loud jests are small enough now!”

“I drink to the bridegroom,” said another, but the bridegroom neither drank, eat, laughed, or spoke. Nevertheless, after some time that he had been both scolded and teased by his friends, like a wild boar at bay, he retorted;

“Gentlemen, I have listened for some time to your jokes and reproofs. I would like you to understand that I have good reason to reflect and keep silent, and I am sure that there is no one here but would do the same if he had the same reasons that I have. By heavens! if I were as rich as the King of France, or the Duke of Burgundy, or all the princes of Christendom, I should not be able to provide that which, apparently, I shall _have_ to provide. I have but touched my wife once, and she has brought forth a child! Now if each time that I begin again she does the same, how shall I be able to keep my family?”

“What? a child?” said his friends.

“Yes, yes! Really a child! Look here!” and he turned towards the bed and lifted up the clothes and showed them.

“There!” said he. “There is the cow and the calf! Am I not well swindled?”

Many of his friends were much astonished, and quite excused their host’s conduct, and went away each to his own home. And the poor bridegroom abandoned his newly-delivered bride the first night, fearing that she would do the same another time, and not knowing what would become of him if so.

*****

STORY THE THIRTIETH -- THE THREE CORDELIERS.

By Monsigneur De Beauvoir

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

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

It is as true as the Gospel, that three worthy merchants of Savoy set out with their wives to go on a pilgrimage to St. Anthony of Vienne. And in order to render their journey more devout and more agreeable to God and St. Anthony, they determined that from the time they left their houses, and all through the journey, they would not sleep with their wives, but live in continence, both going and returning.

They arrived one night in the town, where they found good lodgings, and had excellent cheer at supper, like those who have plenty of money and know well what to do with it, and enjoyed themselves so much that each determined to break his oath, and sleep with his wife.

However, it happened otherwise, for when it was time to retire to rest, the women said good night to their husbands and left them, and shut themselves up in a chamber near, where each had ordered her bed to be made.

Now you must know that that same evening there arrived in the house three Cordeliers, who were going to Geneva, and who ordered a chamber not very far from that of the merchant’s wives.

The women, when they were alone, began to talk about a hundred thousand things, and though there were only three of them they made enough noise for forty.

The good Cordeliers, hearing all this womens’ chatter, came out of their chamber, without making any noise, and approached the door without being heard. They saw three pretty women, each lying by herself in a fair bed, big enough to accommodate a second bed-fellow; then they saw and heard also the three husbands go to bed in another chamber, and they said to themselves that fortune had done them a good turn, and that they would be unworthy to meet with any other good luck if they were cowardly enough to allow this opportunity to escape them.

“So,” said one of them, “there needs no further deliberation as to what we are to do; we are three and they are three--let each take his place when they are asleep.”

As it was said, so it was done, and such good luck had the good brothers that they found the key of the room in which the women were, and opened the door so gently that they were not heard by a soul, and they were not such fools when they had gained the outworks as not to close the door after them and take out the key, and then, without more ado, each picked out a bed-fellow, and began to ruffle her as well as he could.

One of the women, believing it was her husband, spoke, and said;

“What are you doing? Do you not remember your vow?” But the good Cordelier answered not a word, but did that for which he came, and did it so energetically that she could not help assisting in the performance.

The other two also were not idle, and the good women did not know what had caused their husbands thus to break their vow. Nevertheless, they thought they ought to obey, and bear it all patiently without speaking, each being afraid of being heard by her companions, for really each thought that she alone was getting the benefit.

When the good Cordeliers had done all they could, they left without saying a word, and returned to their chamber, each recounting his adventures. One had broken three lances; another, four; and the other, six. They rose early in the morning, and left the town.

The good ladies, who had not slept all night, did not rise very early in the morning, for they fell asleep at daybreak, which caused them to get up late.

On the other hand, their husbands, who had supped well the previous night, and who expected to be called by their wives, slept heavily till an hour so late that on other days they had generally travelled two leagues by that time.

At last the women got up, and dressed themselves as quickly as they could, and not without talking. And, amongst other things, the one who had the longest tongue, said;

“Between ourselves, mesdames--how have you passed the night? Have your husbands worked like mine did? He has not ceased to ruffle me all night.”

“By St. John!” said they, “if your husband ruffled you well last night, ours have not been idle. They have soon forgotten what they promised at parting; though believe us we did not forget to remind them.”

“I warned mine also,” said the first speaker, “when he began, but he did not leave off working, and hurried on like a hungry man who had been deprived of my company for two nights.”

When they were attired, they went to find their husbands, who were already dressed;

“Good morning, good morning! you sleepers!” cried the ladies.

“Thank you,” said the men, “for having called us.”

“By my oath!” said one lady. “We have no more qualms of conscience for not calling you than you have for breaking your vow.”

“What vow?” said one of the men.

“The vow,” said she, “that you made on leaving, not to sleep with your wife.”

“And who has slept with his wife?” asked he. “You know well enough,” said she, “and so do I.”

“And I also,” said her companion. “Here is my husband who never gave me such a tumbling as he did last night--indeed if he had not done his duty so well I should not be so pleased that he had broken his vow, but I pass over that, for I suppose he is like young children, who when they know they deserve punishment, think they may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

“By St. John! so did mine!” cried the third. “But I am not going to scold him for it. If there was any harm done there was good reason for it.”

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

“Nor did I,” said another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

By Monseigneur De La Barde.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It shall be done, sir,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why shall I not come in?” said he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you come here?”

“I supped at your house and slept here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Many thanks, monseigneur,” said he.

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