Chapter 27

The good man paid little heed to these words, but said that he wished to allay his suspicions, and to at once inspect every corner of the chamber as well as possible,--but he did not find what he sought.

Then he caught sight of the _casier_, and he guessed that the man he wanted was inside, but he made no sign, and calling his wife said;

“My dear, I was wrong to presume that you were untrue to me, and such as my false suspicions imagined. Nevertheless, I am so obstinate in my opinions, that it would be impossible for me to live comfortably with you henceforth. And therefore I hope you will agree that a separation should be made between us, and that we divide our goods equally in a friendly manner.”

The wench, who was pleased with this arrangement, in order that she might more easily see her curé, agreed with scarcely any difficulty to her husband’s request, but she made it a condition that in the division of the furniture she should have first choice.

“And why,” said the husband, “should you have first choice? It is against all right and justice.”

They were a long time squabbling about first choice, but in the end the husband won, and took the _casier_ in which there was nothing but custards, tarts, cheeses, and other light provisions, amongst which was the good curé buried, and he heard all the discussion that went on.

When the husband chose the _casier_, his wife chose the copper; then the husband chose another article then she chose; and so on until all the articles were apportioned out.

After the division was made, the husband said;

“I will allow you to live in my house until you have found another lodging, but I am going now to take my share of the furniture, and put it in the house of one of my neighbours.”

“Do so,” she said, “when you like.”

He took a good cord and tightly tied up the _casier_; then sent for his waggoner and told him to put the _casier_ on a horse’s back and take it to the house of a certain neighbour.

The good woman heard these orders, but did not dare to interfere, for she feared that if she did it would not advance matters, but perhaps cause the _casier_ to be opened, so she trusted to luck.

The _casier_ was placed on the horse, and taken through the streets to the house the good man had mentioned. But they had not gone far before the curé, who was choked and blinded with eggs and butter, cried,

“For God’s sake! mercy!”

The waggoner hearing this piteous appeal come out of the _casier_, jumped off the horse much frightened, and called the servants and his master, and they opened the _casier_, and found the poor prisoner all smeared and be-yellowed with eggs, cheese, milk, and more than a hundred other things, indeed it would have been hard to say which there was most of,--in such a pitiable condition was the poor lover.

When the husband saw him in that state, he could not help laughing, although he felt angry; He let him go, and then went back to his wife to tell her that he had not been wrong in suspecting her of unchastity. She seeing herself fairly caught, begged for mercy, and was pardoned on this condition, that if ever the case occurred again, she should be better advised than to put her lover in the _casier_, for the curé had stood a good chance of being killed.

After that they lived together for a long time, and the husband brought back his _casier_, but I do not think that the curé was ever found in it again, but ever after that adventure he was known, and still is, as “Sire Vadin Casier”.

*****

STORY THE SEVENTY-FOURTH -- THE OBSEQUIOUS PRIEST.

By Philippe De Laon.

_Of a priest of Boulogne who twice raised the body of Our Lord whilst chanting a Mass, because he believed that the Seneschal of Boulogne had come late to the Mass, and how he refused to take the Pax until the Seneschal had done so, as you will hear hereafter._

Once when the Seneschal of the County of Boulogne was travelling through the district visiting each town, he passed through a hamlet where the bell was ringing for Mass, and as he expected that he should not reach the town to which he was going in time to hear Mass, for the hour was then nearly noon, he thought that he would dismount at this hamlet to see God in passing.

He left his horse at the door of the church, and took a seat near the altar, where high Mass was being celebrated, and placed himself so near the priest, that the latter could see his profile whilst he was celebrating the Mass.

When he raised the cup, and other things that he should, he thought to himself that he had noticed the Seneschal behind him, and not knowing whether he had come early enough to see the elevation, but believing that he had come too late, the priest called his clerk, and made him light the candles, and, performing all the ceremonies that he should, he again raised the Host, saying that that was for Monseigneur le Seneschal.

And after that he proceeded until he came to the _Agnus Dei_ which, when he had said three times, and his clerk gave him the Pax to kiss, he refused, approaching his clerk and saying that he should first present it to the Seneschal, who refused it two or three times.

When the priest saw that the Seneschal would not take the Pax before him, he put down the Host which he had in his hands, and took the Pax, which he carried to my lord the Seneschal, and told him that if my lord did not take it first, he would not take it himself.

“For it is not right,” said the priest, “that I should take the Pax before you.”

Then the Seneschal, seeing that wisdom was not to be found in that place, gave in to the curé and took the Pax first, and the curé followed him; and that being done he returned to perform the rest of the Mass.

And this is all that was related to me.

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

By Monseigneur De Thalemas.

_Of a hare-brained half-mad fellow who ran a great risk of being put to death by being hanged on a gibbet in order to injure and annoy the Bailly, justices, and other notables of the city of Troyes in Champagne by whom he was mortally hated, as will appear more plainly hereafter._

In the time of the war between the Burgundians; and the Armagnacs, (*) there happened at Troyes in Champagne, a rather curious incident which is well worth being recorded, and which was as follows. The people of Troyes, though they had been Burgundians, had joined the Armagnacs, and amongst them there had formerly lived a fellow who was half mad, for he had not entirely lost his senses, though his words and actions showed more folly than good sense--nevertheless he would sometimes say and do things which a wiser than he could not have bettered.

(*) The reign of Charles VI, after the assassination of the Duc d’Orléans by Jean-sans-Peur, was marked by along civil war between the factions here named, and who each in turn called in the aid of the English.

To begin the story, however; this fellow who was in garrison with the Burgundians at Sainte Menehould, one day told his companions that if they would listen to him, he would teach them how to catch a batch of the yokels of Troyes, whom, in truth, he hated mortally, and they hardly loved him, for they had always threatened to hang him if they caught him. This is what he said:

“I will go to Troyes and will approach the fortifications, and will pretend to be spying round the town, and will measure the moat with my lance, and will get so near the town that I shall be taken prisoner. I am sure that as soon as the good _bailli_ gets hold of me, he will condemn me to be hanged, and there is no one in the town who will take my part for they all hate me. So, early the next morning, I shall be taken out to the gibbet, (*) and you will all be hidden in the thicket which is near the gibbet. And as soon as you see me arrive with the procession, you will spring out upon them, and take whom you like, and deliver me out of their hands.” All his companions in garrison with him agreed to this willingly, and told him that if he would dare this adventure, they would assist him to the best of their power.

(*) The gibbet was usually outside the town, often at some considerable distance from the walls.

To shorten the story, the simpleton went to Troyes as he had said, and, as he desired, he was taken prisoner. The report soon spread through the town, and there was no one who did not say he ought to be hanged; even the Bailli, as soon as he saw him, swore by all his gods that he should be hanged by the neck.

“Alas! monseigneur,” said the poor fool, “I pray for mercy. I have done nothing wrong.”

“You lie, scoundrel,” said the Bailly. “You have guided the Burgundians into this district, and you have accused the citizens and merchants of this city. You shall have your reward, for you shall be hanged on a gibbet.”

“For God’s sake then, monseigneur,” said the poor fellow; “since I must die, at least let it please you that it be in the early morning; so that, as I have many acquaintances in the town, I may not be held up to public opprobrium.”

“Very well,” said the Bailly, “I will think about it.”

The next morning at day-break, the hangman with his cart came to the prison, and hardly had he arrived than there came the Bailly with his sergeants, and a great crowd of people to accompany them, and the poor fellow was laid, bound, on the cart, and still holding the bagpipe he was accustomed to play. Thus he was led to the gibbet, accompanied by a larger crowd than most have at their hanging, so much was he hated in the town.

Now you must know that his comrades of the garrison of Sainte Menehould had not forgotten their ambuscade, and ever since midnight had been collected near the gibbet, to save their friend, although he was not overwise, and also to capture prisoners and whatever else they could. When they arrived they took up their position, and put a sentinel in a tree to watch when the Troyes folk should be gathered round the gibbet. The sentinel was placed in his position, and promised that he would keep a good watch.

Then all the crowd came to the gibbet, and the Bailli gave order to despatch the poor fool, who for his part wondered where his comrades were, and why they did not rush out on these rascally Armagnacs.

He did not feel at all comfortable, and he looked all round, but chiefly towards the wood, but he heard nothing. He made his confession last as long as he could, but at last the priest went away, and the poor fellow had to mount the ladder, and from this elevated position, God knows that he looked often towards the wood; but it was of no avail, for the sentinel, who was to give the signal when the men were to rush out, had gone to sleep in the tree.

The poor fellow did not know what to say or do, and verily believed that his last hour had come. The hangman began to make preparations to put the noose round the victim’s neck, who, when he saw that, bethought him of a trick, which turned out well for him, and said;

“Monseigneur le Bailli, I beg you for God’s sake, that before the hangman lays hands on me, I may be allowed to play a tune on my bagpipe. That is all I ask; after that I shall be ready to die, and I pardon you and all the others for having caused my death.”

His request was granted, and the bagpipe was handed up to him. As soon as he had it, he began, as leisurely as he could, to play an air which all his comrades knew very well, and which was called. “You stay too long, Robin; you stay too long.”

At the sound of the bagpipe the sentinel woke, and was so startled that he tumbled out of the tree to the ground, and cried,

“They are hanging our comrade! Forward! Forward! make haste!”

His comrades were ready, and at the sound of the trumpet they sallied out of the wood, and rushed upon the Bailly and all the others who were round the gibbet.

The hangman was too frightened to put the rope round the man’s neck and push him off the ladder, but begged for his own life, which the other would willingly have granted but it was not in his power. The victim, however, did something better, for from his place on the ladder he called out to his comrades, “Capture that man, he is rich; and that one, he is dangerous.”

In short, the Burgundians killed a great number of those who had come out of Troyes, and captured many others, and saved their man, as you have heard, but he said that never in all his life had he had such a narrow escape as on that occasion.

*****

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

By Philippe De Laon.

_Of the chaplain to a knight of Burgundy who was enamoured of the wench of the said knight, and of the adventure which happened on account of his amour, as you will hear below._

I have often heard related, by people worthy of credit, a curious history, which will furnish me a tale without my adding or suppressing one word that is not needed.

Amongst the knights of Burgundy was formerly one, who, contrary to the custom of the country, kept in his castle--which I will not name--a fair wench to serve as his mistress.

His chaplain, who was young and frisky, seeing this nice wench, was not so virtuous but that he felt tempted, and fell in love with her, and when he saw his opportunity, told her of his love. The damsel, who was as sharp as mustard, for she had knocked about so much that no one in the world knew more than she did, thought to herself that if she granted the priest’s request her master would hear of it, however much she tried to conceal it, and thus she would lose the greater for the less.

So she determined to relate the affair to her master, who when he heard of it did nothing but laugh, for he had partly suspected it, having noticed the looks, conversation and little love-tricks that passed between the two. Nevertheless, he ordered the wench to lead the priest on, without, however, granting him her favours; and she did it so well that the priest fell into the trap. The knight used often to say him;

“By God, sir, you are too friendly with my chamber-wench. I do not know what there is between you two, but if it is anything to my prejudice, by Our Lady, I will punish the two of you.”

“In truth, monseigneur,” replied the Dominie. “I do not pretend to expect anything from her. I talk to her to pass the time, as everyone else in the house does, but never in my life would I seek her love, or anything of the kind.”

“Very well,” said the lord, “if it were otherwise I should not be best pleased.”

If the Dominie had importuned her before, he now pursued her more than ever, and wherever he met the wench he pressed her so closely that she was obliged, whether she would or not, to listen to his requests, and, being cunning and deceitful, she so played with the priest and encouraged his love, that for her sake he would have fought Ogier the Dane himself.

As soon as she had left him, the whole conversation that had passed between them was related to her master.

To make the farce more amusing, and to deceive his chaplain, he ordered the girl to appoint a night for him to be in the _ruelle_ of the bed where they slept. She was to say to him. “As soon as monseigneur is asleep, I will do what you want; come quietly into the _ruelle_ of the bed.”

“And you must,” he said, “let him do what he likes, and so will I; and I am sure that when he believes I am asleep, that he will soon have his arms round you, and I will have ready, near your ----, a noose in which he will be nicely caught.”

The wench was very joyful and satisfied with this arrangement, and gave the message to the Dominie, who never in his life had been more delighted, and, without thinking of or imagining peril or danger, entered his master’s chamber, where the wench and his master slept. He cast all sense and decency to the winds, and only thought of satisfying his foolish lust,--albeit it was quite natural.

To cut the story short, Master Priest came at the hour appointed, and crept quietly enough, God knows, into the _ruelle_ of the bed, and his mistress whispered to him;

“Don’t say a word: when monsieur is fast asleep I will touch you, and then come to me.”

“Very good,” he replied.

The good knight, who was not asleep, had a great inclination to laugh, but checked himself, in order not to spoil the joke. As he had proposed and arranged, he spread his noose where he wished, that is to say round the spot where the priest wanted to get.

All being ready, the Dominie was called, and as gently as he could, slipped into the bed, and without more ado, mounted on the heap in order to see the further. (*)

(*) A proverbial expression founded perhaps on some old story which may be alluded to also in the 12th and 82nd stories.

As soon as he was lodged there, the good knight drew the cord tightly, and said aloud,

“Ha! scoundrelly priest, is that the sort of man you are?” The priest tried to run away, but he could not go far, for the instrument he had tried to tune to the girl’s fiddle was caught in the noose, at which he was much frightened, and did not know what had happened to him. His master pulled the cord more tightly, which would have given him great pain if his fear and alarm had not conquered all other sentiments.

In a few moments he came to himself, and felt the pain and cried piteously for mercy to his master, who had such a strong desire to laugh that he could scarcely speak. He pulled the priest into the room and said;

“Get out, and never come here again! I pardon you in this occasion, but the second time I shall be inexorable.”

“Oh, monsieur,” he replied, “I will never do it again. It is all her fault,” and with that he ran away and the knight went to bed again, and finished what the other had begun.

But you must know that never again was the priest found trespassing on his master’s preserves. Perhaps, as a recompense for his misfortunes the girl afterwards took pity on him, and to ease her conscience lent him her fiddle, and he tuned it so well that the master suffered both in goods and honour. But now I will say no more, and end my story.

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STORY THE SEVENTY-SEVENTH -- THE SLEEVELESS ROBE.

By Alardin.

_Of a gentleman of Flanders, who went to reside in France, but whilst he was there his mother was very ill in Flanders; and how he often went to visit her believing that she would die, and what he said and how he behaved, as you will hear later._

A gentleman of Flanders had a mother who was very old and much weakened by disease, and more sick and infirm than any woman of her age. Hoping that she would get better, and be cured, he often came to see her, although he resided in France, and each time that he came he found her suffering so much that he thought her soul was about to leave her body.

On one occasion that he came to see her, she said to him at his departure.

“Adieu, my son; I am sure that you will never see me again for I am about to die.”

“Devil take it, mother, you have said that so often that I am sick of it. For three years past you have been repeating that, but you have done nothing of the kind. Choose a day, I beg, and keep to it.”

The good woman, when she heard her son’s reply, smiled, though she was so sick and old, and said farewell.

One year, then two years, passed, and still she lingered on. She was again visited by her son, and one night when he was in bed in her house, and she was so ill that all believed she was about to go to Mortaigne, (*) those who watched her called her son, and told him to come to his mother quickly, for that certainly she was about to die.

(*) Mild puns on the names of places were very common in the Middle Ages.

“Do you say that she is about to die?” he replied. “By my soul, I will not believe it; she always says that, but she never does it.”

“No, no,” said the nurses; “this time it is certain. Come quickly for it is sure that she is dying.”

“Very well, you go first and I will follow you; and tell my mother that if she must go, not to go by Douai, for the road is so bad that I and my horses were nearly swallowed up yesterday.”

Nevertheless he rose, and put on his dressing-gown, and went off to see his mother give her last grin. When he came he found her very ill, for she had been in a swoon which all thought would carry her off, but, thank God, she was now a little better.

“Did I not tell you so?” said this good son. “Every body in this house declares, and she does herself, that she is dying--but nothing comes of it. For God’s sake choose a day--as I have often told you--and see that you keep to it! I am going to return whence I came, and I recommend you not to call me again. If she does die she must die alone, for I will not keep her company.”

Now I must tell you the end of this history. The lady, ill as she was, recovered from this extreme sickness, and lived and languished as before for the space of three years, during which time her good son visited her once, and that was just as she was about to give up the ghost. But when they came to seek him to come to her deathbed, he was trying on a new habit and would not come. Message after message was sent to him, for his good mother, who was nearing her end, wished to recommend her soul to her son’s care,--but to all the messages he replied;

“I am sure there is no hurry: she will wait till my habit is finished.”

At last so many remonstrances were made to him that he went to his mother, wearing a doublet with no sleeves to it, which, when she saw, she asked him where were the sleeves.

“They are within there,--waiting to be finished as soon as you clear out of the place.”

“Then they will be soon finished,” she replied; “for I go to God, to whom I humbly recommend my soul; and to you also, my son.”

Without another word she rendered her soul to God, with the Cross between her arms; on seeing which her good son began to weep so loudly that no one had ever heard the like; he could not be comforted, and at the end of a fortnight he died of grief.

*****

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

By Jehan Martin.

_Of a married gentleman who made many long voyages, during which time his good and virtuous wife made the acquaintance of three good fellows, as you will hear; and how she confessed her amours to her husband when he returned from his travels, thinking she was confessing to the curé, and how she excused herself, as will appear._

The province of Brabant is a fair and pleasant land, well provided with pretty girls, who are generally clever and good; but as for the men, it is said of them, with a good deal of truth, that the longer they live the greater fools they become.

There was formerly a gentleman of this land who--being thereunto born and destined--travelled much beyond seas to various places, as Cyprus, Rhodes, and the adjacent parts, and at last came to Jerusalem, where he received the order of knighthood.

During the time that he was away, his good wife was not idle, but took her _quoniam_ with three lovers, who like courtiers, each had audience in turn and for a certain time.

First came a gentle squire, fresh and frisky, and in good health, who spent so much upon her, physically and pecuniarily (for in truth she plucked him well) that at last he was sick of it, and left her altogether.

The one who came after him was a knight, and a man of a great reputation, who was very glad to have acquired the succession, and worked her as well as he could, paying his _quibus_ (*), which no one knew better than this lusty wench how to get out of a man. In short, if the squire, who had previously held the position, had been plucked, the knight was not less so, until at last he turned tail, took leave of her, and left the place open to the next comer.

(*) Property or wealth; the expression is still used in familiar conversation.