 Day 2, the 7th story of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eugene Smith. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg. Day 2, the 7th story. The sold-on of Babylon sends one of his daughters overseas, designing to marry her to the king of Algarve. By diverse adventures, she comes in the space of four years into the hands of nine men in diverse places. And last, she is restored to her father, whom she quits again in the guise of a virgin. And as was at first intended, is married to the king of Algarve. Had Emilia's story but lasted a little longer, the young ladies would perhaps have been moved to tears. So great was the sympathy which they felt for Madame Bertola in her various fortunes. But now that it was ended, the queen bade Pamphila full of suit, and he then, whom none was more obedient, thus began. Really gracious ladies, is it given to us to know that which makes for our good? In so much that, as has been observable in a multitude of instances, many, deeming that the acquisition of great riches would ensure them an easy and tranquil existence, have not only besought them of God in prayer, but have sought them with such ardour that they have spared no pains and shrunk from no danger in the quest, and have attained their end only to lose, at the hands of someone covetous of their vast inheritance, a life with which before the days of their prosperity they were well content. Others whose course, perilous with a thousand battles, stained with the blood of their brothers and their friends, has raised them from base to regal estate, have found in place of the felicity they expected, an infinity of cares and fears, and have proved by experience that a chalice may be poisoned, though it be of gold, and set on the table of a king. Many have most ardently desired beauty and strength and other advantages of person, and have only been taught their error by the death or dolerous life which these very advantages entailed upon them. And so, not to instance each particular human desire, I say in sum that there is none of them that men may indulge in full confidence as exempt from the chances and changes of fortune. Wherefore, if we would act rightly, we ought to school ourselves to take and be content with that which he gives us, who alone knows and can afford us that of which we have need. But diverse as are the aberrations of desire to which men are prone, so, gracious ladies, there is one to which you are especially liable, in that you are unduly solicitors of beauty, in so much that, not content with the charms which nature has allotted you, you endeavor to enhance them with wondrous ingenuity of art. For I am minded to make you equated with the coil of misadventures in which her beauty involved a fair Saracen, who in the course of perhaps four years, was wedded nine several times. There was of your a sold-on of Babylon by the name of Beminadab, who in his day had cause enough to be well content with his luck. Many children, male and female, had he, and among them a daughter, Alatiel by name, who by common consent of all that saw her, was the most beautiful woman then to be found in the world. Now the sold-on, having been signally aided by the king of Algarve and inflicting a great defeat upon a host of Arabs that had attacked him, had at his instance, and by way of special favor, given Alatiel to the king, to wife. Wherefore, with an honorable escort of gentlemen and ladies most nobly and richly equipped, he placed her aboard a well-armed, well-furnished ship, and commending her to God, sped her on her journey. The mariners, as soon as the weather was favorable, hoisted sail, and for some days after their departure from Alexandria, had a prosperous voyage. But when they had passed Sardinia, and were beginning to think that they were nearing their journey's end, they were caught one day between divers cross winds, each blowing with extreme fury, whereby the ship labored so sorely that not only the lady, but the seamen, from time to time, gave themselves up for lost. But still, most manfully and skillfully, they struggled might and main with the tempest, which, ever waxing rather than waning, buffeted them for two days with immense, unremittant surges. And being not far from the island of Mallorca, as the third night began to close in, wrapped in clouds and mist and thick darkness, so that they saw neither the sky nor ought else, nor by any nautical skill might conjecture where they were, they felt the ship's timbers part. Wherefore, seeing no way to save the ship, each thought only how best to save himself, and a boat being thrown out, the masters first, and then the men one by one, though the first comers sought with knives in their hands to bar the passage of the rest, all, rather than remain in the leaky ship, crowded into it, and there found the death which they hoped to escape. For the boat, being in such stress of weather and with such a burden quite unmanageable, went under, and all aboard her perished. Whereas the ship, leaky though she was, and all but full of water, yet driven by the fury of the tempest, was hurled with prodigious velocity upon the shore of the island of Mallorca, and struck it with such force as to embed itself in the sand, perhaps a stone's throw from Tiraferma, where she remained all night, beaten and washed by the sea, but no more to be moved by the utmost violence of the gale. None had remained aborder but the lady and her women, whom the malice of the elements and their fears had brought to the verge of death. When it was broad day, and the storm was somewhat abated, the lady, half dead, raised her head, and in faltering accents began to call first one and then another of her servants. She called in vain, however, for those whom she called were too far off to hear. Great indeed was her wonder and fear to find herself thus without sight of human face or sound of other voice than her own. But, struggling to her feet as best she might, she looked about her and saw the ladies that were of her escort and the other women all prostrate on the deck. So, after calling them one by one, she began at length to touch them, and finding few that showed sign of life, for indeed, between grievous seasickness and fear they had little life left, she grew more terrified than before. However, being in sore need of counsel, all alone as she was, and without knowledge or means of learning where she was, she at last induced, such as had life in them, to get upon their feet. With whom, as none knew where the men were gone, and the ship was now full of water and visibly breaking up, she abandoned herself to piteous lamentations. It was already noon before they described anyone on the shore or elsewhere to whom they could make appeal for help, but shortly after noon it so chanced that a gentleman, Perricone da Vizalgo by name, being on his return from one of his estates, passed that way with some mounted servants. Catching sight of the ship, he apprehended the circumstances at a glance, and bad one of his servants tried to get aboard her and let him know the result. The servant with some difficulty succeeded in boarding the vessel and found the gentle lady with her few companions and sconce under shelter of the prowl and shrinking timidly from observation. At the first sight of him they wept, and again and again implored him to have pity on them. But finding that he did not understand them, nor they him, they sought by gestures to make him apprehend their forlorn condition. With these tidings, the servant, after making such survey of the ship as he could, returned to Perricone, who forthwith caused the ladies and all articles of value which were in the ship and could be removed, to be brought off her, and took them with him to one of his castles. The ladies' powers were soon in a measure restored by food and rest, and by the honour which was paid to Alatiel, and Alatiel alone by all the rest, as well as by the richness of her dress, Perricone perceived that she must be some great lady. Nor, though she was still pale, and her person bore evident marks of the sea's rough usage, did he fail to note that it was cast in a mode of extraordinary beauty, wherefore his mind was soon made up that if she lacked a husband, he would take her to wife, and that if he could not have her to wife, then he would make her his mistress. So this ardent lover, who was a man of powerful frame and haughty meme, devoted himself for several days to the service of the lady with excellent effect, for the lady completely recovered her strength and spirits, so that her beauty far exceeded Perricone's most sanguine conjectures. Great, therefore, beyond measure was his sorrow, that he understood not her speech, nor she his, so that neither could know who the other was. But being inordinately enamoured of her beauty, he sought by such mute blandishments as he could devise to declare his love and bring her of her own accord to gratify his desire. All in vain, however, she repulsed his advances point blank, whereby his passion only grew the stronger. So some days passed, and the lady perceiving Perricone's constancy and be thinking her that sooner or later she must yield either to force or to love and gratify his passion, and judging by what she observed of the customs of the people that she was amongst Christians, and in a part where were she able to speak their language she would gain little by making herself known, determined with a lofty courage to stand firm and immovable in this extremity of her misfortunes. Wherefore she bade the three women who were all that were left to her on no account to let any know who they were unless they were so circumstance that they might safely count on assistance in affecting their escape. She also exhorted them most earnestly to preserve their chastity, avering that she was firmly resolved that none but her husband should enjoy her. The women heartily assented and promised that her injunction should be obeyed to the utmost of their power. Day by day, Perricone's passion waxed more ardent, being fomented by the proximity and contrariety of its subject. Wherefore, seeing that blandishment availed nothing, he was minded to have recourse to wiles and stratagems, and in the last resort to force. The lady, debarred by her law from the use of wine, found it, perhaps on that account, all the more palatable, which Perricone observing determined to enlist Bacchus in the service of Venus. So, ignoring her coiness, he provided one evening a supper which was ordered with all possible pomp and beauty, and graced by the presence of the lady. No lack was there of incentives to hilarity, and Perricone directed the servant who waited on a Latio to ply her with diverse sorts of blended wines, which command the man faithfully executed. She, suspecting nothing, and seduced by the delicious flavor of the liquor, drank somewhat more freely than was seemly, and forgetting her past woes became frolicsome, and incited by some women who trod some measures in the New Yorken style, she showed the company how they footed it in Alexandria. This novel demeanor was by no means lost on Perricone, who saw in it a good omen of his speedy success. So, with profuse relays of food and wine, he prolonged the supper far into the night. When the guests were at length gone, he attended the lady alone to her chamber, where, the heat of the wine overpowering the cold councils of modesty, she made no more account of Perricone's presence than if he had been one of her women, and forthwith undressed and went to bed. Perricone was not slow to follow her, and as soon as the light was out, lay down by her side, and taking her in his arms, without the least a mirror on her part, began to solace himself with her after the manners of lovers, which experience, she knew not till then with what horn men but, caused her to repent that she had not yielded to his blundishments, nor did she thereafter wait to be invited to such nights of delight. But many a time declared her readiness, not by words, for she had none to convey her meaning, but by gestures. But this great felicity, which she now shared with Perricone, was not to last, for not content with making her, instead of the consort of a king, the mistress of a castellan, fortune had now in store for her a harsher experience, though of an amorous character. Perricone had a brother, 25 years of age, fair and fresh as a rose, his name Maratto. On sight of a Latiel, Maratto had been mightily taken with her. He inferred from her bearing that he stood high in her good graces. He believed that nothing stood between him and the gratification of his passion, but the jealous vigilance with which Perricone guarded her. So amusing, he hit upon a ruthless expedient, which had effect in action as hasty as heinous. It so chanced that there then lay in the port of the city a ship commanded by two Genoese, bound with a cargo of merchandise for clarenza in the Morea. Her sails were already hoist, and she tarried only for a favorable breeze. Maratto approached the masters and arranged with them to take himself and the lady aboard on the following night. This done, he concerted further action with some of his most trusty friends, who readily lent him their aid to carry his design into execution. So on the following evening, towards nightfall, the conspirators stole unobserved into Perricone's house, which was entirely unguarded, and there hid themselves, as pre-arranged. Then as the night wore on, Maratto showed them where Perricone and the lady slept. Then they entered the room and slew Perricone. The lady, thus rudely roused, wept. But silencing her by menaces of death, they carried her off with the best part of Perricone's treasure and hide them unobserved to the coast, where Maratto parted from his companions, and forthwith took the lady aboard the ship. The wind was now fair and fresh, the mariners spread the canvas, and the vessels sped on her course. This new misadventure, following so hard upon the former, caused the lady no small chagrin, but Maratto, with the aid of the good Saint Crescent in hand that God has given us, found means to afford her such consolation that she was already grown so familiar with him as entirely to forget Perricone. When fortune, not content with her former caprices, added a new dispensation of woe. For what with the beauty of her person, which, as we have often said, was extraordinary, and the exquisite charm of her manners, the two young men who commanded the ship fell so desperate in their love with her that they thought of nothing but how they might best serve and please her. So only that Maratto should not discover the reason of their assiduous attentions, and neither being ignorant of the other's love, they held secret counsel together and resolved to make conquest of the lady on joint account. As if love admitted of being held in partnership, like merchandise or money, which design being thwarted by the jealousy with which Latiel was guarded by Maratto, they chose a day and hour when the ship was speeding amamed under canvas, and Maratto was on the poop looking out over the sea and quite off his guard. And going stealthily up behind him, they suddenly laid hands on him and threw him into the sea, and were already more than a mile on their course before any perceived that Maratto was overboard. Which, when the lady learned and knew that he was irretrievably lost, she relapsed into her former plaintive mood. But the twain were forthwith by her side with soft speeches and profuse promises, which, however ill she understood them, were not altogether inapt to allay a grief which had in it more of concern for her own hapless self than of sorrow for her lost lover. So in course of time, the lady beginning visibly to recover heart, they began privily to debate which of them should first take her to bed with him. And neither being willing to give way to the other, and no compromise being discoverable, high words passed between them and the dispute grew so hot that they both waxed very wroth, drew their knives, and rushed madly at one another, and before they could be parted by their men several stabs had been given and recede on either side, whereby the one fell dead on the spot, and the other was severely wounded in diverse parts of the body. The lady was much disconcerted to find herself thus alone with none to afford her either sucker or counsel, and was mightily afraid lest the wrath of the kinsfolk and friends of the twain should vent itself upon her. From this mortal peril she was, however, delivered by the intercessions of the wounded man and their speedy arrival at Clarenza. As there she tarried at the same inn with her wounded lover, the fame of her great beauty was speedily brooded abroad and reached the ears of the prince of the Morea, who was then staying there. The prince was curious to see her, and having so done, pronounced her even more beautiful than rumor had reported her. Nay, he fell in love with her in such a degree that he could think of naught else, and having heard in what guys she had come thither, he deemed that he might have her. While he was casting about how to compass his end, the kinsfolk of the wounded man, being apprised of the fact, forthwith sent her to him to the boundless delight, as well of the lady, who saw therein her deliverance from great peril as of the prince. The royal bearing, which enhanced the lady's charms, did not escape the prince, who, being unable to discover her true rank, set her down as, at any rate, of noble lineage. Therefore he loved her as much again as before, and showed her no small honor, treating her not as his mistress, but as his wife. So the lady, contrasting her present happy estate with her past woes, was comforted. And as her gaiety revived, her beauty waxed in such a degree that all the Morea talked of it and of little else. In so much that the prince's friend and kinsman, young, handsome and gallant Duke of Athens, was smitten with the desire to see her, and taking occasion to pay the prince a visit, as he was now and again want to do, came to Clarenza with a goodly company of honorable gentlemen. The prince received him with all distinction and made him heartily welcome, but did not at first show him the lady. By and by, however, their conversation began to turn upon her and her charms, and the Duke asked if she were really so marvelous a creature, as folks said. The prince replied, Nay, but even more so, and thereof thou shalt have better assurance than my words to wit the witness of thine own eyes. So without delay, for the Duke was now all impatient, they waited on the lady, who was prepared for their visit, and received them very courteously and graciously. They seated her between them, and being debarred from the pleasure of conversing with her, for of their speech she understood little or nothing, they both, and especially the Duke, who was scarce able to believe that she was of mortal mold, gazed upon her in mute admiration. Whereby the Duke, cheating himself with the idea that he was but gratifying his curiosity, drank with his eyes, unawares, deep drafts of the poisoned chalice of love, and to his own lamentable hurt, fell a prey to a most ardent passion. His first thought, when they had left her, and he had time for reflection, was that the prince was the luckiest man in the world to have a creature so fair to solace him. And swayed by his passion, his mind soon inclined to diverse other and less honorable meditations, whereof the issue was that, come what might, he would despoil the prince of his felicity, and if possible, make it his own. This resolution was no sooner taken than, being of a hasty temperament, he cast to the winds all considerations of honor and justice, and studied only how to compass his end by craft. So one day, as the first step towards the accomplishment of his evil purpose, he arranged with the prince's most trusted chamberlain, one Churiachi, that his horses and all other his personal effects should, with the utmost secrecy, be got ready against a possible sudden departure. And then at nightfall, attended by a single comrade, both carrying arms, he was privately admitted by Churiachi into the prince's chamber. It was a hot night, and the prince had risen without disturbing the lady and was standing bare to the skin at an open window, fronting the sea, to enjoy a light breeze that blew thence. So by pre-concert with his comrade, the duke stole up to the window, and in a trice ran the prince through the body, and caught him up and threw him out of the window. The palace was close by the sea, but at a considerable altitude above it, and the window through which the prince's body was thrown, looked over some houses, which, being sapped by the sea, had become ruinous, and were rarely or never visited by a soul. Whereby, as the duke had foreseen, the fall of the prince's body passed, as indeed it could not but pass, unobserved. Thereupon the duke's accomplice whipped out a halter, which he had brought with him for the purpose, and making as if he were but in play, threw it around Churiachi's neck, drew it so tight that he could not utter a sound, and then, with the duke's aid, strangled him, and sent him after his master. All this was accomplished, as the duke knew full well, without awakening any in the palace, not even the lady, whom he now approached with a light, and holding it over the bed, gently uncovered her person, as she lay fast asleep, and surveyed her from head to foot, to his no small satisfaction. For fair as she had seen to him dressed, he found her unadorned charms incomparably greater. As he gazed, his passion waxed beyond a measure, and reckless of his recent crime, and of the blood which still stained his hands, he got forthwith into the bed. And she, being too sound asleep to distinguish between him and the prince, suffered him to lie with her. But boundless as was his delight, it broke no long continuance. So, rising, he called to him some of his comrades, by whom he had the lady secured in such manner that she could utter no sound, and borne out of the palace by the same secret door by which he had gained entrance. He then set her on horseback, and in dead silence put his troop in motion, taking the road to Athens. He did not, however, venture to take the lady to Athens, where she would have encountered his duchess, for he was married. But lodged her in a very beautiful villa, which he had, hard by the city, overlooking the sea, where, most forlorn of ladies, she lived secluded, but with no lack of meat and respectful service. On the following morning, the prince's courtiers awaited his rising until noon, but, perceiving no sign of it, opened the doors, which had not been secured, and entered his bedroom. Finding it vacant, they suppose that the prince was gone off privately somewhere to have a few days of unbroken delight with his fair lady, and so they gave themselves no further trouble. But the next day, it so chanced, that an idiot, roaming about the ruins where lay the corpses of the prince and Judiachi, drew the latter out by the halter, and went off dragging it after him. The corpse was soon recognized by not a few, who, at first struck dumb with amazement, soon recovered sense enough to cajole the idiot into retracing his steps and showing them the spot where he had found it. And having thus, to the immeasurable grief of all the citizens, discovered the prince's body, they buried it with all honor. Needless to say, that no pains were spared to trace the perpetrators of so heinous a crime, and that the absence and evidently furtive departure of the Duke of Athens caused him to be suspected both of the murder and of the abduction of the lady. So the citizen were instant with one accord, that the prince's brother, whom they chose as his successor, should exact the debt of vengeance. And he, having satisfied himself by further investigation that their suspicion was well founded, summoned to his aid his kinsfolk, friends, and divers vassals, and speedily gathered a large, powerful, and well-equipped army with intent to make war upon the Duke of Athens. The Duke, being informed of his movements, made ready likewise to defend himself with all his power. Nor had he any lack of allies, among whom the Emperor of Constantinople sent his son Constantine and his nephew Manuel with a great and goodly force. The two young men were honorably received by the Duke, and still more so by the Duchess, who was Constantine's sister. Day by day war grew more imminent, and at last the Duchess took occasion to call Constantine and Manuel into her private chamber, and with many tears told them the whole story at large, explaining the cause of belly, dilating on any dignity which she suffered at the hands of the Duke, if, as was believed, he really kept a mistress in secret, and beseeching them in most piteous accents to do the best they could to devise some expedient whereby the Duke's honor might be cleared, and her own peace of mind assured. The young men knew exactly how matters stood, and so without worrying the Duchess with many questions, they did their best to console her and succeeded in raising her hopes. Before taking their leave, they learned from her where the lady was, whose marvelous beauty they had heard lauded so often, and being eager to see her, they besought the Duke to afford them an opportunity. Forgetful of what a light complacence had cost the Prince, he consented, and next morning brought them to the villa where the lady lived, and with her, and a few of his moon companions, regaled them with a lordly breakfast, which was served in a most lovely garden. Constantine had no sooner seated himself and surveyed the lady than he was lost in admiration, inly affirming that he had never seen so beautiful a creature, and that for such a prize the Duke, or any other man, might well be pardoned treachery, or any other crime. He scanned her again and again, and ever with more and more admiration, whereby it fared with him, even as it had fared with the Duke. He went away hotly in love with her, and dismissing all thought of the war, cast about for some method by which, without betraying his passion to any, he might devise some means of resting the lady from the Duke. As he thus burned and brooded, the Prince drew dangerously nearer the Duke's dominions, wherefore order was given for an advance, and the Duke, with Constantine and the rest, marshaled his forces and led them forth from Athens to bar the Prince's passage of the frontier at certain points. Some days thus past, during which Constantine, whose mind and soul were entirely absorbed by his passion for the lady, bethought him that as the Duke was no longer in her neighborhood, he might readily compass his end. He therefore feigned to be seriously unwell, and having by this pretext obtained the Duke's leave, he seated his command to Manuel, and returned to his sister at Athens. He had not been there many days before the Duchess recurred to the dishonor which the Duke did her by keeping the lady. Whereupon he said that of that, if she approved, he would certainly relieve her by seeing that the lady was removed from the villa to some distant place. The Duchess, supposing that Constantine was prompted not by jealousy of the Duke, but by jealousy for her honor, gave her hearty consent to his plan, provided he so contrived that the Duke should never know that she had been privy to it, on which point Constantine gave her ample assurance. So, being authorized by the Duchess to act as he might deem best, he secretly equipped a light bark and man-term with some of his men, to whom he confided his plan, bidding them lie to off the garden of the lady's villa. And so, having sent the bark forward, he hide him with other of his men to the villa. He gained ready admission of the servants and was made heartily welcomed by the lady who, at his desire, attended by some of her servants, walked with him and some of his comrades in the garden. By and by, feigning that he had a message for her from the Duke, he drew her side towards the gate that led down to the sea in which one of his confederates had already opened. A concerted signal brought the bark alongside, and to seize the lady and set her aboard the bark was but the work of an instant. Her retinue hung back, as they heard Constantine menace with death, whoso but stirred or spoke, and suffered him, protesting that what he did was done not to wrong the Duke, but solely to vindicate his sister's honor, to embark with his men. The lady wept, of course, but Constantine was at her side, the roars gave way, and the bark, speeding like a thing of life over the waves, made a gyna shortly after dawn. There Constantine and the lady landed, she still lamenting her fatal beauty, and took a little rest and pleasure. Then, reembarking, they continued their voyage, and in the course of a few days reached Chios, which Constantine, fearing paternal censure, and that he might be deprived of his fair booty, deemed a safe place of sojourn. So, after some days of repose, the lady ceased to bewail her harsh destiny, and suffering Constantine to console her as his predecessors had done, began once more to enjoy the good gifts which fortune sent her. Now, while they thus dallied, Osback, king of the Turks, who was perennially at war with the Emperor, came by chance to Smyrna, and there learning that Constantine was wantoning in careless ease at Chios, with a lady of whom he had made prize, he made a descent by night upon the island with an armed flotilla. Landing his men in dead silence, he made captives of not a few of the Cayans, who meet surprised in their beds. Others, who took the alarm and rushed to arms, he slew, and having wasted the whole island with fire, he shipped the booty and the prisoners and sailed back to Smyrna. As there, he overhauled the booty, he lit upon the fair lady, and knew her for the same that had been taken in bed and fast asleep with Constantine. Where at, being a young man, he was delighted beyond measure, and made her his wife out of hand with all due form and ceremony. And so for several months, he enjoyed her. Now there had been for some time, and still was, a treaty pending between the Emperor and Bassano, king of Cappadocia, whereby Bassano with his forces was to fall on Osback on one side, while the Emperor attacked him on the other. Some demands made by Bassano, which the Emperor deemed unreasonable, had so far retarded the conclusion of the treaty, but no sooner had the Emperor learned the fate of his son than, distraught with grief, he forthwith conceded the king of Cappadocia's demands, and was instant with him to fall at once upon Osback while he made ready to attack him on the other side. Getting wind of the Emperor's design, Osback collected his forces, unless he should be caught and crushed between the convergent armies of two most mighty potentates advanced against the king of Cappadocia. The fair lady he left at Smyrna in the care of a faithful dependent and friend, and after a while joined battle with the king of Cappadocia, in which battle he was slain, and his army defeated and dispersed, wherefore Bassano with his victorious host advanced, carrying everything before him upon Smyrna, and receiving everywhere the submission due to a conqueror. Meanwhile, Osback's dependent, by name Antiocho, who had charge of the fair lady, was so smitten with her charms that, albeit he was somewhat advanced in years, he broke faith with his friend and lord, and allowed himself to become enamored of her. He had the advantage of knowing her language, which counted for much with one who for some years had been, as it were, compelled to live the life of a deaf mute, finding none whom she could understand, or by whom she might be understood. And goaded by passion, he, in the course of a few days, established such a degree of intimacy with her that in no long time it passed from friendship into love, so that their lord, far away, amid the clash of arms and the tumult of the battle, was forgotten. And marvelous pleasure had they of one another between the sheets. However, news came at last of Osback's defeat and death, and the victorious and unchecked advance of Bassano, whose advent they were by no means minded to await. Wherefore, ticking with them the best part of the treasure that Osback had left there, they hide them with all possible secrecy to Rhodes. There they had not long abode before Antiocho fell ill of a mortal disease. He had then with him a Cypriot merchant, an intimate and very dear friend, to whom, as he felt his end approach, he resolved to leave all that he possessed, including his dear lady. So, when he felt death imminent, he called them to him and said, "'Tis now quite evident to me that my life is fast ebbing away, and surely do I regret it, for never had I so much pleasure of life as now. Well content indeed I am, in one respect, in that, as die I must, I at least die in the arms of the two persons whom I love more than any other in the world, to wit in thine arms, dearest friend, and those of this lady, whom, since I have known her, I have loved more than myself. But yet, it is grievous to me to know that I must leave her here in a strange land, with none to afford her either protection or counsel, and but that I leave her with thee, who I doubt not, wilt have for my sake no less care of her than thou wouldst have had, or me, to aggrieve me still more. Wherefore, with all my heart and soul, I pray thee that, if I die, thou take her with all else that belongs to me into thy charge, and so acquit thyself of thy trust, as thou mayest deem conducive to the peace of my soul. And of thee, dearest lady, I entreat one favor, that I be not forgotten of thee after my death, so that there with her I go, it may still be my boast to be beloved here of the most beautiful lady that nature ever formed. Let me but die with these two hopes assured, and without doubt, I shall depart in peace. Both the merchant and the lady wept to hear him thus speak, and when he had done, comforted him, and promised faithfully, in the event of his death, to do even as he besought them. He died almost immediately afterwards, and was honorably buried by them. A few days suffice the merchant to wind up all his affairs and roads, and being minded to return to Cyprus aboard a Catalan boat that was there, he asked the fair lady what she purposed to do if he went back to Cyprus. The lady answered that, if it were agreeable to him, she would gladly accompany him, hoping that for love of Antioch, he would treat and regard her as his sister. The merchant replied that it would afford him all the pleasure in the world, and to protect her from insult until their arrival in Cyprus, he gave her out as his wife, and, suiting action to word, slept with her on the boat in an alcove in a little cabin in the poop. Whereby that happened, which on neither side was intended when they left rose, to wit, that the darkness and the comfort and the warmth of the bed, forces of no mean efficacy, did so prevail with them, that dead Antioch was forgotten alike as a lover and as friend. And by a common impulse, they began to wanton together, in so much that before they arrived at Bafa, where the Cypriot resided, they were indeed man and wife. At Bafa, the lady tarried with the merchant a good while, during which it so befell that a gentleman, Antigono by name, a man of ripe age and ripe wisdom, but no great wealth, being one that had vast and various experience of affairs in the service of the king of Cyprus, but had found fortune adverse to him, came to Bafa on business. And passing one day by the house, where the fair lady was then living by herself, for the Cypriot merchant was gone to Armenia with some of his wares, he chanced to catch sight of the lady at one of the windows. And being struck by her extraordinary beauty, regarded her attentively, and began to have some vague recollection of having seen her before, but could by no means remember where. The fair lady, however, so long the sport of fortune, but now nearing the term of her woes, no sooner saw Antigono than she remembered to have seen him in her father's service, and in no mean capacity, at Alexandria. Wherefore, she forthwith sent for him, hoping that by his counsel she might elude her merchant, and be reinstated in her true character and dignity of princess. When he presented himself, she asked him with some embarrassment whether he were, as she took him to be, Antigono of Amagosta. He answered in the affirmative, adding, And of you, Madam, I have a sort of recollection, though I cannot say where I have seen you. Wherefore, so it irk you not, bring I pray you yourself to my remembrance. Satisfied that it was Antigono himself, a lady in a flood of tears threw herself upon him to his no small amazement and embraced his neck. Then, after a little while, she asked him whether he had never seen her in Alexandria. The question awakened Antigono's memory. He had once recognized Latiel, the sold-on's daughter, whom he had thought to have been drowned at sea and would have paid her due homage, but she would not suffer it, and bade him be seated with her for a while. Being seated, he respectfully asked her how and when and whence she had come with her, seeing that all Egypt believed for certain that she had been drowned at sea some years before. And would that so it had been, said the lady, rather than I should have led the life that I have led? And so doubtless will my father say if he shall ever come to know of it. And so saying, she burst into such a flood of tears that was a wonder to see. Wherefore, Antigono said to her, Nay, but madam, be not distressed before the occasion arises. I pray you, tell me the story of your adventures and what has been the tenor of your life. Perchance to approve to be no such matter, but God helping us, we may set it all straight. Antigono, said the fair lady, When I saw thee, it was as if I saw my father, and it was the tender love by which I am holding to him that prompted me to make myself known to thee, though I might have kept my secret. And few indeed there are, whom to have met, would have afforded me such pleasure as this, which I have in meeting and recognizing thee before all others. Wherefore I will now make known to thee as to a father, that which in my evil fortune I have ever kept close. If, when thou hast heard my story, thou seeest any means whereby I may be reinstated in my former honor, I pray thee, use it. If not, disclose to none that thou hast seen me or heard ought of me. Then, weeping between every word, she told him or her whole story from the day of the shipwreck at Mallorca to that hour. Antigono wept in sympathy and then said, Madam, as throughout this train of misfortunes you have happily escaped recognition, I undertake to restore you to your father in such sort that you shall be dearer to him than ever before and be afterwards married to the king of Algarve. How, she asked, whereupon he explained to her in detail how he meant to proceed, and lest delay should give occasion to another to interfere, he went back at once to Famagosta, and having obtained audience of the king, thus he spoke. Sire, so please you, you have it in your power at little cost to yourself to do a thing which will at once redound most signally to your honor and confer a great boon on me, who have grown poor in your service. How, asked the king, then said Antigono, at Bapha is of late arrived a fair damsel, daughter of the sold-on, long thought to be drowned, who to preserve her chastity has suffered long and severe hardship. She is now reduced to poverty and is desirous of returning to her father. If you should be pleased to send her back to him under my escort, your honor and my interest would be served in high and equal measure, nor do I think that such a service would ever be forgotten by the sold-on. With true royal generosity the king forthwith signified his approval and had Alatiel brought under honorable escort to Famagosta, where, attended by his queen, he received her with every circumstance of festal pomp and courtly magnificence. Schooled by Antigono, she gave the king and queen such a version of her adventures as satisfied their inquiries in every particular. So, after a few days, the king sent her back to the sold-on under escort of Antigono, attended by a goodly company of honorable men and women, and of the cheer which the sold-on made her, and not her only, but Antigono and all his company, it boots not to ask. When she was somewhat rested, the sold-on inquired how it was that she was yet alive, and where she had been so long without letting him know how it fared with her, whereupon the lady, who had got Antigono's lesson by heart, answered thus, My father, it was perhaps the twentieth night after my departure from you, when our ship parted her timbers in a terrible storm, and went ashore nigh a place called Aguamorta, away there in the west. What was the fate of the men that were aboard our ship, I know not, nor knew I ever? I remember only that when they came, and I returned, as it were, from death to life, the wreck, having been sited, was boarded by folk from all the countryside in Teton Plunder, and I and two of my women were taken ashore, where the women were forthwith parted from me by the young men, nor did I ever learn their fate. Now hear my own. Struggling might and mean, I was seized by two young men, who dragged me, weeping bitterly, by the hair of the head, towards a great forest. But on sight of four men, who were then passing that way on horseback, they forthwith loosed me and took to flight, whereupon the four men, who struck me as persons of great authority, ran up to me, and much they questioned me, and much I said to them, but neither did they understand me, nor I them. So, after long time conferring together, they set me on one side of their horses and brought me to a house, where dwelt a community of ladies, religious according to their law. And what the men may have said, I know not, but there I was, kindly received, and ever honorably entreated by all. And with them I did afterwards most reverentially pay my devotion as to St. Crescent and Hollow, who was held in great honor by the women of that country. When I had been some time with them, and had learned something of their language, they asked me who and whence I was, where to I, knowing that I was in a convent, and fearing to be cast out as a foe to their law, if I told the truth, answered that I was the daughter of a great gentleman of Cyprus, who had intended to marry me to a gentleman of Crete. But that on the voyage we had been driven out of our course and wrecked at Aguamorta. And so I continued, as occasion required, observing their usages with much assiduity, lest worse should befall me. But being one day asked by their superior, whom they call Abbas, whether I was minded to go back to Cyprus, I answered that there was not that I desired so much. However, so solicitous for my honor was the Abbas, that there was none going to Cyprus to whom she would entrust me. Until two months or so ago, there arrived some worthy men from France, of whom one was a kinsman of the Abbas, with their wives. They were on their way to visit the sepulcher, where he whom they hold to be God was buried after he had suffered death at the hands of the Jews. And the Abbas, learning their destination, prayed them to take charge of me and restore me to my father in Cyprus, with what cheer, with what honor these gentlemen and their wives entertained me for long to tell. But in brief we embarked and in the course of a few days arrived at Bafa, where it was so ordered by the providence of God, who perchance took pity on me, that in the very hour of our disembarkation, I, not knowing a soul, in being at a loss, how to answer the gentlemen, who would fain have discharged the trust laid upon them by the Reverend Abbas, and restored me to my father, fell in on the shore with Antigonod, whom I forthwith called, and in our language, that I might be understood neither of the gentlemen nor of their wives, but had him acknowledge me as his daughter. He understood my case at once, made much of me, and to the utmost of his slender power honorably requited the gentleman. He then brought me to the king of Cyprus, who accorded me welcome there and conduct hither so honorable as words of mind can never describe. It ought remains to tell, you may best learn it from the lips of Antigono, who has often heard my story. Then Antigono, addressing the sold-on, said, Sire, what she has told you, accords with what she has often told me, and with what I have learned from the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied her. One thing, however, she has omitted, because I suppose it hardly becomes her to tell it. To wit, all the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied her said of the virtuous and gracious and noble life which she led with the devout ladies, and of the tears and wailings of both the ladies and the gentlemen when they parted with her to me. But were I to essay to repeat all that they said to me, the day that now is, and the night that is to follow, were all too short? Suffice it to say so much as this, that by what I gathered from their words and have been able to see for myself, you may make it your boast that among all the daughters of all your peers that wear the crown, none can be matched with yours for virtue and true work, by all which the sold-on was so overjoyed that was a wonder to see. Again and again he made supplication to God that of his grace power might devout, saved him adequately to recompense all who had done honor to his daughter, and most especially the king of Cyprus, for the honorable escort under which he had set her thither. For onto Godot, he provided a magnificent girdon, and some days later gave him his conge to return to Cyprus, at the same time by a special assemblage conveying to the king his grateful acknowledgments of the matter in which he had treated his daughter. Then being minded that his first intent to wit that his daughter should be the bride of the king of Algarve should not be frustrated, he wrote to the king telling him all and adding that if he were still minded to have her he might send for her. The king was overjoyed by these tidings and having sent for her with great pomp gave her on her arrival a hearty welcome. So she who had lain with eight men in all perhaps ten thousand times was bedded with him as a virgin and made him believe that a virgin she was and lived long and happily with him as his queen. Wherefore, twas said, mouth for kisses was never the worse like as the moon reneweth her course. End of day two, story number seven. Day two, the eighth story of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg. Day two, the eighth story. The count of Antwerp, laboring under a false accusation, goes into exile. He leaves his two children in different places in England and takes service in Ireland. Returning to England, an unknown man, he finds his son's prosperous. He serves as a groom in the army of the king of France. His innocence is established and he is restored to his former honors. The ladies heaved many sighs over the various fortunes of the fair lady. But what prompted those sighs, who shall say? With some perchance it was as much envy as pity of one to whose lot fell so many nights of delight. But, however this may be, when Panfilo's story was ended and the laughter which greeted his lost words had subsided, the queen turned to Elisa and bade her full of suit with one of her stories. So Elisa with a cheerful courage thus began. Vast indeed is the field that lies before us. We're into Rome at large. To it readily afford each of us not one course, but ten, so richly has fortune diversified it with episodes both strange and somber. We're for selecting one such from this infinite store, I say. That, after the transference of the Roman Empire from the Franks to the Germans, the greatest enmity prevailed between the two nations with warfare perpetual and relentless. Wherefore, deeming that the offensive would be their best defense, the king of France and his son mustered all the forces they could raise from their own dominions and those of their kingsmen and allies and arrayed a grand army for the subjugation of their enemies. Before they took the field as they could not leave the realm without a governor, they chose for that office Gautier, count of Antwerp, a true knight and sage-counselor, and their very loyal ally and vassal, choosing him the rather because, albeit he was a thorough master of the art of war, yet they deemed him less apt to support its hardships than for the conduct of affairs of a delicate nature. Him, therefore, they set in their place as their vicar-general and regent of the whole realm of France, and having so done, they took the field. Count Gautier ordered his administration wisely and in a regular course, discussing all matters with the queen and her daughter-in-law, whom, albeit they were left under his charge and jurisdiction, he nevertheless treated as his lady's paramount. The count was about forty years of age and the very mold of manly beauty, in bearing as courteous and chivalrous as ever a gentleman might be, and with all so debonair and dainty, so feet and trim of person that he had not his peer among the gallants of that day. His wife was dead, leaving him two children and no more, to wit a boy and a girl still quite young. Now the king and his son, being thus away at the war, and the count frequenting the court of two said ladies, and consulting with them upon affairs of state, it so befell that the prince's lady regarded him with no small favor, being very sensible alike of the advantages of his person and the nobility of his bearing, whereby she conceived for him a passion which was all the more ardent because it was secret. And as he was without a wife, and she was still in the freshness of her youth, she saw not why she would not readily be gratified, but supposing that nothing stood in the way but her own shamefastness, she resolved to be rid of that and disclose her mind to him without any reserve. So one day, when she was alone, she seized her opportunity and sent for him, as if she were desirous to converse with him on indifferent topics. The count, his mind entirely aloof from the lady's purpose, presented himself forthwith, and at her invitation sat down by her side on a set tea. They were quite alone in the room, but the count had twice asked her the reason why she had so honoured him. Before overcome by passion, she broke silence and crimson from brow to neck with shame, half sobbing, trembling in every limb and faltering at every word she thus spoke. Dearest friend and sweet my lord, sagacity such as yours cannot but be apt to perceive how great is the frailty of men and women, and how, for diverse reasons, it varies in different persons in such a degree that no just the judge would meet out the same measure to each indifferently, though the fault were apparently the same. Who would not acknowledge that a poor man or woman feigned to earn daily bread by the sweat of the brow is far more reprehensible in yielding to the solicitations of love than a rich lady whose life is lapped in ease and unrestricted luxury? Not a soul, I am persuaded, but would so acknowledge. Wherefore I deem that the possession of these boons of fortune should go far indeed to acquit the possessor, if she perchance indulge in errant love, and for the rest that if she have chosen a wise and worthy lover, she should be entirely exonerated. And as I think I may fairly claim the benefit of both these pleas and of others beside to wit my youth and my husband's absence, which naturally incline me to love, to meet that I now urge them in your presence in defense of my passion, and if they have the weight with you which they should have with the wise, I praise you to afford me your help and counsel in the matter wherein I shall demand it. I avow that in the absence of my husband I have been unable to withstand the promptings of the flesh and the power of love, forces of such potency that even the strongest men, not to speak of delicate women, have not seldom been, nay, daily are, overcome by them, and so living thus, as you see me, in ease and luxury, I have allowed the allurements of love to draw me on, until at last I find myself a prey to passion. Wherein, where I discovered, I were, I confess, dishonored, but discovery being avoided, I count the dishonor all but not. Moreover, love has been so gracious to me that not only has he spared to blind me in the choice of my lover, but he has even lent me his most effective aid, pointing me to one well worthy of the love of a lady such as I, even to yourself, whom, if I misread not my mind, I deem the most handsome and courteous and debonair, and therewithal the sage's cavalier that the realm of France may show. And as you are without a wife, so may I say that I find myself without a husband. Wherefore, in return for this great love I bear you, deny me not, I pray you yours, but have pity on my youth, which wastes away for you like ice before the fire. These words were followed by such a flood of tears that, albeit she had intended yet further to press her suit, speech failed her, her eyes drooped, and almost swooning with emotion, she let her head fall upon the count's breast. The count, who was the most loyal of knights, began with all severity to chide her mad passion and to thrust her from him. But she was now making, as if she would throw her arms around his neck, and to a-severate with oaths that he would rather be hewn in pieces than either commit or abet another in committing such an offense against the honour of his lord, when the lady, catching his drift, and forgetting all her love in a sudden frenzy of rage, cried out, So, un-nightly knight, is it thus you flout my love? Now, heaven forbid, but, as you would be the death of me, I either do you to death or drive you from the world. So saying, she disheveled and tore her hair and rent her garments to shreds about her bosom, which done she began shrieking at the top of her voice. Help, help! The count of Antwerp threatens to violate me. Whereupon the count, who knew that a clear conscience was no protection against the envy of courtiers, and doubted that his innocence would prove scarce a match for the cunning of the lady, started to his feet, and hide him well, and heed him with all speed out of the room, out of the palace, and back to his own house. Council of none he sought, but forthwith set his children on horseback, and, taking horse himself, departed post-haste for Calais. The lady's cries brought not a few to her aid, who, observing her plight, not only gave entire credence to her story, but improved upon it, alleging that the debonair and accomplished count had long employed all the arts of seduction to compass his end. So they rushed in, hot-haste to the count's house, with intent to arrest him, and not finding him, sacked it and raised it to the ground. The news, as glossed and garbled, being carried to the king and prince in the field, they were mightily incensed, and offered a great reward for the count, dead or alive, and condemned his prosperity to perpetual banishment. Meanwhile the count sorely troubled that, by his flight his innocence showed his guilt, pursued his journey and concealing his identity, and being recognized by none, arrived with his two children at Calais. Hence he forthwith crossed to England, and manly clad, fared on for London, taking care as he went to school, his children, and all that belonged to their new way of life, and especially in two main articles, to wit, that they should bear with resignation the poverty to which, by no fault of theirs, but solely by one of fortune's caprices, they and he were reduced, and that they should be most sedulously on their guard to betray to none, as they valued their lives, whence they were, or who their father was. The son, Louis by name, was perhaps nine, and the daughter, Violante, perhaps seven years of age. For years so tender they proved apt pupils, and afterwards showed by their conduct that they had well learned their father's lesson. He deemed it expedient to change their names, and accordingly called the boy Perot and the girl Jeanette. So, meanly clad, the count and his two children arrived in London, and there made shift to get a living by going about listening alms in the guise of French mendicans. Now, as for this purpose, they waited one morning outside a church. It so befell that a great lady, the wife of one of the marshals of the King of England, observed them as she left the church, asking alms, and demanded of the count, whence he was, and whether the children were his. He answered that he was from Picardy, that the children were his, and that he had been feigned to leave Picardy by reason of the misconduct of their reprobate elder brother. The lady looked at the girl who, being fair and of gentle and winning mean and manners, found much favour in her eyes. So the kind-hearted lady said to the count, My good man, if thou art willing to leave thy little daughter with me, I like her looks so well that I will gladly take her, and if she grow up a good woman, I will see that she suitably married when the right time comes. The count was much gratified by the proposal, which he forthwith accepted and parted with the girl, charging the lady with tears to take every care of her. Having thus placed the girl with one in whom he felt sure that he might trust, he determined to tarry no longer in London, wherefore taking Perot with him and begging as he went, he made his way to Wales, not without great suffering, being unused to go afoot. Now in Wales another of the king's marshals had his court, maintaining great state and a large number of retainers, to which court the count and his son frequently repaired, there to get food. And there Perot fined the marshals' son and other gentlemen's son vying with one another in boyish exercises, as running and leaping, little by little joined their company, and showed himself a match, or more, for them all and all their contests. The marshals' attention being thus drawn to him, he was well pleased with the boy's mean and bearing, and asked who he was. He was told that he was the son of a poor man who sometimes came there to solicit alms, whereupon he asked the count to let him have the boy, and the count, to whom God could have granted no greater boon, readily consented, albeit he was very loath to part with Perot. Having thus provided for his son and daughter, the count resolved to quit the island and did so, making his way, as best he could, to Stamford in Ireland, where he obtained a menial's place in the service of a knight, retainer to one of the earls of that country, and so abode there a long while, doing all the irksome and wearsome drudgery of a lackey or groom. Meanwhile, under the care of the gentle lady at London, Violante or Jeanette increased as in years and stature so also in beauty, and in such favor with the lady and her husband, and every other member of the household, and all who knew her, that was a wonder to see. Nor was there any that observing her bearing in manners would not have said that at state or dignity there was none so high or honourable, but she was worthy of it. So the lady, who since she had received her from her father, had been unable to learn ought else about him than what he had himself told, was minded to marry her honourably, according to what she deemed to be her rank. But God, who justly apportions reward according to merit, having regard to her noble birth, her innocence, and the load of suffering which the sin of another had laid upon her, ordered otherwise, and in his good providence, lest the young gentle woman should be mated with a churl, permitted, we must believe, events to take the course they did. The gentle lady with whom Jeanette lived had only one son, whom she and her husband loved most dearly, as well because he was a son as for his rare and noble qualities, for in truth there were few that compare with him in courtesy and courage and personal beauty. Now the young man marked the extraordinary beauty and grace of Jeanette, who was about six years his junior, and fell so desperately in love with her that he had no eyes for any other maiden. But, deeming her to be of low degree, he not only hesitated to ask her of his parents in marriage, but, fearing to incur reproof for indulging a passion for an inferior, he did his utmost to conceal his love, whereby it gave him far more disquietude than if he had avowed it, in so much that, so extreme, waxed the suffering, he fell ill, and that seriously. Diverse physicians were called in, but, for all their scrutiny of his symptoms, they could not determine the nature of his malady, and one and all gave him up for lost. Nothing could exceed the sorrow and dejection of his father and mother, who again and again pietously implored him to discover to them the cause of his malady, and received no other answer than sighs or complaints that he seemed to be wasting away. Now, it so happened that one day Jeanette, who from regard for his mother, was siegesly in waiting upon him, for some reason or another, came into the room where he lay, while a very young, but very skillful physician sate by him, and held his pulse. The young man gave her not a word or other sign of recognition, but his passion waxed, his heart smote him, and the acceleration of his pulse at once betrayed his inward commotion to the physician, who, albeit surprised, remained quietly attentive to see how long it would last. And observing that it seized when Jeanette left the room, conjectured that he was on the way to explain the young man's malady. So, after a while, still holding a young man's pulse, he sent for Jeanette, as if he had something to ask of her. She returned forthwith. The young man's pulse mounted as soon as she entered the room, and fell again as soon as she left it. Wherefore, the physician no longer hesitated, but rose, and taken the young man's father and mother aside, set to them. The restoration of your son's health rests not with medical skill, but solely with Jeanette, whom, as by unmistakable signs I have discovered, he ardently loves, though so far I can see, she is not aware of it. So you know what you have to do if you value his life. The prospect, thus afforded of their son's deliverance from death, reassured the gentleman and his lady, albeit they were troubled, misdoubting it must be by his marriage with Jeanette. So when the physician was gone, they went to the sick lad and the lady, thus spoke. My son, never would I have believed that thou wouldst have concealed from me any desire of thine, least of all, if such it were that privation, should cause thee to languish. For well assured thou should have been, and should be, that I hold thee dear as my very self, and that whatever may be for thy contentment, even though it were scarseemly, I would do it for thee. But for all thou hast so done, God has shown himself more merciful to thee more than thyself, and lest thou die of this malady, has given me to know its cause, which is nothing else than the excessive love, which thou bearest to a young woman, be she who she may. Which love and good sooth thou needest, not have been ashamed to declare, for it is but natural at thy age, and hath thou now loved, I should have deemed thee a very little worth. So my son, be not shy of me, but frankly discover to me thy whole heart, and away with this gloom and melancholy, whereof thy sickness is engendered, and be comforted and assured thyself that there is not that thou mayest require of me, which I will not do, to give thee ease, so far as my powers may reach, seeing that thou are dear to me than my own life. Away with thy shame, fastness, and fears, and tell me if there is ought wherein I may be helpful to thee in the matter of thy love. And if I bestow not myself and bring it to pass, account me the most harsh mother that ever bore son. The young man was at first somewhat shame-fast to hear his mother thus speak, but reflecting that none could do more for his happiness than she, he took courage and thus spoke. Madam, my sole reason for concealing my love from you was that I have observed that old people for the most part forget that they once were young. But as I see that no such unreasonableness is to be apprehended in you, I not only acknowledge the truth of what you say that you have discerned, but I will also disclose to you the object of my passion, on the understanding that your promise shall to the best of your power be performed, as it must be, if I am to be restored to you in sound health. Whereupon the lady, making too sure of that which was destined to fall out otherwise, then she expected, gave him every encouragement to discover all his heart, and promised to lose no time and spare no pains in endeavouring to compass his gratification. Madam, said then the young man, the rare beauty and exquisite manners of the hour chanette, my powerlessness to make her understand, I do not say commiserate, my love, and my reluctance to disclose it to any have brought me to the condition in which you see me, and if your promise be not in one way or another performed, be sure that my life will be brief. The lady, deeming that the occasion called rather for comfort than for admonition, replied with a smile, Ah, my son, was this then off all things the secret of thy suffering? Be of good cheer, and leave me to arrange the affair when you are recovered. So, animated by a cheerful hope, the young man speedily gave sign of most market improvement, which the lady observed with great satisfaction, and then began to cast about how she might keep her promise. So one day she sent for Jeanette, and in a tone of gentle railery, asked Kerr if she had a lover. Jeanette turned very red as she answered, Madam, towards Scarce, Nate, would ill become a damsel such as I, poor, outcast from home and in the service of another, to occupy herself with thoughts of love, were to the lady answered, So you have none, we will give you one, who will brighten all your life, and give you more joy of your beauty, for it is not right that so fare a damsel as you remain without a lover. Madam, rejoined Jeanette, you found me living in poverty with my father, you adopted me, you have brought me up as your daughter, wherefore I should, if possible, comply with your every wish. But in this matter, I will render you no compliance, nor do I doubt that I do well. So you will give me a husband, I will love him, but no other will I love, for as patrimony I now have none save my honour that I am minded to guard and preserve while my life shall last. Serious though the obstacle was which these words opposed to the plan by which the lady had intended to keep her promise to her son, her sound judgment could not but secretly acknowledge that the spirit which they evinced was much to be commended in the damsel. Wherefore, she said, Ne but Jeanette, suppose that our Lord the King, who is a young knight as thou art at most fair damsel, craved some indulgence of thy love. Wouldst thou deny him? The King, returned Jeanette without the least hesitation, might constrain me, but with my consent he should never have ought of me, that was not honourable. Where to the lady made no answer, for she now understood the girl's temper. But being minded to put her to the proof, she told her son that, as soon as he was recovered, she would arrange that he should be closeted with her in the same room, and be thus able to use all his arts to bring her to his will, saying that it ill became her to play the part of procurus and urge her son's suit upon her own maid. But as the young man by no means approving this idea suddenly grew worse, the lady at length opened her mind to Jeanette, whom she found in the same frame as before, and indeed even more resolute. Wherefore, she told her husband all that she had done, and as both preferred that their son should marry beneath him and live, then he should remain single and die, they resolved, albeit much disconcerted, to give Jeanette to him to wife. And so after long debate they did, whereat Jeanette was overjoyed and with devout heart gave thanks to God that he had not forgotten her. Nevertheless, she still gave no other account of herself than that that she was the daughter of a Picard. So the young man recovered, and blithe at heart as never another was married, and began to speed the time gaily with his bride. Meanwhile, Perot, left in Wales with the Marshal of the King of England, had likewise, with increase of years, increase of favour with his master, and grew up most shapely and well-favoured, and of such prowess that in all the island at tourney, or joust, or any other passage of arms, he had not his peer. Being everywhere known and renowned as Perot the Picard, and as God had not forgotten Jeanette, so likewise he made manifest by what follows, that he had not forgotten Perot. While nigh half the population of those parts being swept off by a sudden visitation of deadly pestilence, most of the survivors fled therefrom in a panic, so that the country was to all appearance entirely deserted. Among those that died of the pest were the Marshal, his lady, and his son, besides brothers and nephews, and king's folk in great number, whereby of his entire household there were left only one of his daughters, now marriageable, and a few servants among them Perot. Now Perot, being a man of such notable prowess, the damsel soon after the pestilence had spent itself, took him with the approval and by the advice of the few folk that survived to be her husband, and made him lord of all that fell to her by inheritance. Nor was it long before the king of England learning that the Marshal was dead, made Perot the Picard to those married he was no stranger, Marshal in the dead man's room. Such in brief was the history of two innocent children with whom the Count of Antwerp had parted, never expecting to see them again. It was now the eighteenth year since the Count of Antwerp had taken flight from Paris, when being still in Ireland where he had led a very sorry and suffering sort of life, and feeling that age was now come upon him, he felt the longing to learn, if possible, what was become of his children. The fashion of his outward man was now completely changed, for long hardship had, as he well knew, given to his age a vigor which his youth, lapped in ease, had lacked. So he hesitated not to take his leave of the night with whom he had so long resided, and poor and in sorry trim he crossed to England and made his way to the place we had left Perot, to find him a great lord and Marshal of the king, and in good health and with all a hardy man and very handsome, all which was very grateful to the old man, but he would not make himself known to his son until he had learned the fate of Jeanette. So forth he fared again, nor did he fault until he was come to London, where cautiously questing about for news of the lady with whom he had left his daughter, and how it fared with her, he learned that Jeanette was married to the lady's son, whereat in the great gladness of his heart he counted all his past adversity but a light matter, since he had found his children alive and prosperous. But sore he yearned to see Jeanette, wherefore he took to loitering, as poor folk were wont, in the neighbourhood of the house. And so one day Jacques Le Mien, such was the name of Jeanette's husband, saw him and had pity on him, observing that he was poor and aged, and bade one of his servants took him indoors, and for God's sake give him something to eat. And nothing loath the servant did so. Now Jeanette had borne Jacques several children, the finest and the most winsome children in the world, the eldest no more than eight years old, who gathered about the count as he ate, and as if by instinct, divining that he was their grandfather, began to make friends with him. He, knowing them for his grandchildren, could not conceal his love, and repaid them with caresses, in so much that they would not hearken to their governor, when he called them, but remained with the count. Which being reported to Jeanette, she came out of her room, crossed to where the count was sitting with the children, and bade them do as their master told them, or she would certainly have them whipped. The children began to cry, and to say that they would rather stay with the worthy man, whom they liked much better than their master, were at both the lady and the count laughed in sympathy. The count had risen, with no other intention, for he was not minded to disclose this paternity, than to pay his daughter the respect due from his poverty to her rank, and the sight of her had thrilled his soul with such a wondrous delight. By her he was, and remained unrecognized, utterly changed as he was from his former self, aged, grey-haired, bearded, lean, and tanned, and short, to all appearance another man than the count. However, seeing that the children were unwilling to leave him, but wept when she made as if she would constrain them, she bade the master let them be for a time. So the children remained with the worthy man, until the chance Jacques's father came home, and learned from the master what had happened. Whereupon having a grudge against Jeanette, he said, Let them be, and God give them the ill luck which he owes them. Once they sprang, thither they must needs return. They descend from a vagabond on a mother's side, and so it is no wonder that they consort readily with vagabonds. The count caught these words and was sorely pained, but, dragging his shoulders, bore the affront silently as he had borne many other. Jacques, who had noted his children's fondness for the worthy man, to wit, the count, was displeased. But nevertheless such was the love he bore them, that rather than see them weep, he gave order that if the worthy man cared to stay there in his service, he should be received. The count answered that he would gladly do so, but that he was fit for nothing except to look after horses, to which he had been used all his life. So a horse was assigned him, and when he had groomed him, he occupied himself in playing with the children. While fortune thus shaped the destinies of the count of Antwerp and his children, it so befell that after a long series of truces made with the Germans, the king of France died, and his crown passed to his son, whose wife had been the occasion of the count's banishment. The new king, as soon as the last truce with the Germans was run out, renewed hostilities with extraordinary vigor, being aided by his brother of England, with a large army under the command of his marshal, Perot, and his other marshal's sons, Jacques-Lamié, with them went the worthy man, that is to say the count, who, unrecognized by any, served for a long while in the army in the capacity of groom, and acquitted himself both in counsel and in arms with a wisdom and valor unwanted in one of his supposed rank. The war was still raging when the queen of France fell seriously ill, and as she felt her end approach made a humble and contrite confession of all her sins to the Archbishop of Rouen, who was universally reputed a good and most holy man. Among her other sins, she confessed the great wrong that she had done to the count of Antwerp, nor was she satisfied to confide it to the Archbishop, but recounted the whole affair as if it had passed to not a few other worthy men whom she best sought to use their influence with the king to procure their restitution of the count, if he were still alive, and if not, of his children to honor an estate. And so, dying shortly afterwards, she was honorably buried. The queen's confession wrung from the king a sigh or two of compunction for a brave man cruelly wronged, after which he caused proclamation to be made throughout the army, and in many other parts, that whoso should bring him tidings of the count of Antwerp or his children should receive from him such a girdon for each of them as should justly be matter of marvel, seeing that he held him acquitted by confession of the queen of the crime for which he had been banished, and was therefore now minded to grant him not only restitution, but increase of honor and estate. Now the count, being still with the army in his character of groom, heard the proclamation, which he did not doubt was made in good faith, wherefore he heed from forthwith to shock, and begged a private interview with him and Perot that he might discover to them that whereof the king was in quest. So the meeting was had, and Perot was on the point of declaring himself when the count anticipated him. Perot, he said, Shock has thy sister to wife, but never at dowry had he with her. Wherefore that thy sister be not dourless, tis my will that he and no other have this great reward which the king offers for the son as he shall certify of the count of Antwerp, and for his wife and thy sister violant and for me, count of Antwerp thy father. So hearing Perot scanned the court closely and forthwith, recognizing him, burst into tears and throw himself at his feet, embraced him, saying, my father, welcome, welcome indeed art thou. Whereupon between what he had heard from the count and what he had witnessed on the part of Perot, Shock was so overcome with wonder and delight, that at first he was at a loss to know how to act. However, giving entire credence to what he had heard, and recalling insulting language which he had used towards the quantum groom, the count, he was sore stricken with shame, and wept, and fell at the count's feet, and humbly craved as pardon for all past offenses, which the count, raising him to his feet, most graciously granted him. So with many a tear and many a hardy laugh for three men, compared to several fortunes, which done Perot and Shock would have arrayed the count in manner befitting his rank. But he would by no means suffer it, being minded that Shock, so soon as he was well assured that the girdon was forthcoming, should present him to the king in his garb of groom, that thereby the king might be more ashamed. So Shock, with the count and Perot when presently to the king, and offered to present to him the count, and his children, provided the girdon were forthcoming according to the proclamation. Shock wondered not a little as forthwith, at a word from the king a girdon was produced, ample for all three, and he was been taken away with him, so only that he should, in very truth, produce, as he had promised, the count and his children in the royal presence. Then, withdrawing a little and causing his quantum groom, now count, to come forward with Perot, he said, Sire, Father and Son are before you, the daughter my wife is not here, but, God willing, you shall soon see her. So hearing the king surveyed the count, whom, notwithstanding his greatly changed appearance, he at length recognized, and well nigh moved to tears, he raised him from his knees to his feet, and kissed and embraced him. He also gave a kindly welcome to Perot, and bade forthwith, furnished the count with apparel, servants and horses suited to his rank, all which was no sooner said than done. Moreover, the king showed Shock no little honor, and particularly questioned him of all his past adventures. As Shock was about to take the noble girdons assigned him for the discovery of the count and his children, the count said to him, Take these tokens of the magnificence of our lord the king, and forget not to tell thy father that, this from no vagabond that thy children, his and my grandchildren, descend on the mother's side. So Shock took the girdons and sent for his wife and mother to join him at Paris. Thither also came Perot's wife, and there, with all magnificence, they were entertained by the count, to whom the king had not only restored all his former estates and honors, but added there to others, whereby he was now become a greater man that he had ever been before. Then, with the count's leave, they all returned to their several houses. The count himself spent the rest of his days at Paris in greater glory than ever. End of day two, The Eighth Story