7-5, jealous man confesses his wife

NOVEL V. 

A jealous man confesses his wife under a priest's habit, who tells him that she is visited every night by a friar; and, whilst he is watching the door, she lets her lover in at the house-top. 

Lauretta having made an end, the king, without loss of time, pointed to Fiammetta, who began in this manner: - The preceding novel brings to my mind the story of another jealous person, which I will relate, being of opinion that those husbands are justly served in that manner, who are jealous without reason. And if legislators, when they make their laws, could be supposed to think of everything, I imagine they would decree no other punishment than what is ordered in cases of self-defence: for those jealous people are frequently the death of their wives. All the week long are they kept mewed up in their houses, and when holidays come, that they should have some ease and diversion, as all other people according to the laws both of God and man have then rest, yet on those days are they more confined than at any other time; so that none are so wretchedly enslaved as themselves. Therefore I conclude that a trick put upon a husband, who was jealous without any reason, will by you be rather commended than blamed. 

There lived in Arimino a certain rich merchant, who had an agreeable woman for his wife, of whom he was immoderately jealous, and for no other reason in the world, but that as he was very fond of her himself, and knew that it was her whole study to please him; so he imagined every one else would like her as well, and that she would be as desirous to oblige them; which showed him to be one of a wicked disposition, as well as of little understanding. He consequently kept so strict an eye over her always, that no felon under sentence of death could be more narrowly watched. So far from going out to feasts at any time, or to church, or out of doors, under any pretence whatever, she was not suffered to look out of the window; so that she led a most wretched life, and so much the worse, as she knew herself to be innocent. 

Thus, finding herself so wrongfully treated, she resolved, for the time to come, to give him some reason for such usage. And as she had no opportunity of seeing people in the street, and knew that there was an agreeable young man living in the next house, she looked about to see if there was any chink in the wall, through which she might have an opportunity of speaking to him, to make him an offer of her love, and to have him come to her sometimes, if such a thing could be contrived, in order to spend her life with a little more comfort, till her husband should be cured of his jealousy. At last, in a comer of the room, she espied a crack which looked into a chamber of the next house, and she said to herself, "Now if this should prove to be Filippo's chamber (for that was the young gentleman's name), "my scheme would be half accomplished." She set her maid to work to ascertain the truth upon this point, and soon learned that the young man did sleep there all alone. She now made it her business to visit that place pretty often, and put little sticks and straws through into her neighbour's chamber, which he soon perceiving, came to the wall to see what it meant. Then she called to him softly; he knew her voice and answered; a few words sufficed to make her mind known to him, which being quite to his satisfaction, he contrived to enlarge the opening on his own side, taking care all the time that nobody should perceive it. From that time they had frequent conferences together, and could touch each other's hands, but no more, because of the husband's extraordinary care and jealousy. 

Now Christmas-day drawing near, the lady said to her husband, that, with his leave, she would go to church that day, to confess and receive the sacrament, like other good Christians. "And pray what sins can you have committed," he replied, "that you should want to confess?" - "What! " quoth she, "do you take me for a saint? Though you keep me shut up in this manner, yet I must sin as well as other people; but I am not going to tell them to you, as you are no priest." These words occasioned such a strong suspicion in him, that he was resolved to know what those sins were; and having determined what means to use, he told her that he was willing; but that she should go only to their chapel, and that betimes in the morning, and confess to their chaplain, or some person that he should appoint, and to no other, and return home directly. The lady seemed partly to know his design, and without making any other reply, said she would do as he desired. On Christmas-day, then, she rose betimes in the morning, and went to the chapel, as her husband had directed her. He also went to the same place, got there first, and having agreed with the priest what to do, he put on a gown, with a great hood that almost covered his face, such as we see priests wear sometimes, and drawing it over his eyes, sat himself down in the choir. The lady, upon coming into the chapel, inquired for the priest; who, hearing from her that she wanted to confess, told her, that he could not stay to hear her himself, but would send one of his brethren. Accordingly he sent the jealous husband, in an ill hour for him, as it happened, who had not so well disguised himself, but she immediately knew him, and said to herself, "Thank Heaven, from a jealous fool he has become a priest: but I will take care to give him what he seeks for." 

Affecting then not to know hrm, she sat down at his feet. The jealous gentleman had put some little stones into his mouth, to alter his voice, thinking himself well enough disguised as to everything else. Coming then to the confession, amongst other things, she told him, that, though married, she was yet in love with a priest, who came and lay with her every night. When the confessor heard this, he felt as if a knife was stuck into his heart, and were it not for his desire to learn something farther, he would have gone away that moment, and left her on her knees. Keeping his seat, then, he said to her, "Well, but how is it? Does not your husband lie with you." - "Yes, he does, sir," she replied. "Then," continued he, "how can the priest lie with you at the same time?" - "I know not how he does it, but there is not a door in the house but opens upon his touching it; he tells me also, that, upon coming to our chamber, before he opens the door, he says some certain words, which throw my husband asleep, and then he comes in, and lies with me, and the other never knows it." - "O, madam," quoth the confessor, "that is a very bad thing; you must leave off such practices entirely." - "Ah, father," answered she, "I know not how to do it, I love him so well." - "Then I can give you no absolution." - "I am sorry for that," she replied; "but I came here to speak the truth: if I could leave off, I would tell you so." - "I am sorry for you, as I see your soul is in a state of damnation; but I will offer up my particular prayers for you, which may be of service, and I will send a person to you at certain times, when you may inform him if you think you have received any benefit, and in that case we will proceed farther." 

The lady replied, “sir, never think of sending anybody to our house, for my husband is so unreasonably jealous, that all the world could never beat it out of his head but that he came with a bad intent, and I should not have one good day for this twelvemonth." 

- "Madam," he rejoined, "have no care for that, for I shall manage in such a manner, that you will hear no more from him upon that score." - "If you can do that," said the lady, "I am content." And having made an end of her confession, and had her penance assigned her, she got up and went to mass. 

The husband, ready to burst with fury, put off the priest's habit, and went home, waiting to find the priest and his wife together, in order to wreak his vengeance upon both; whilst she went out of the church, seeing plainly by his looks that she had given him but a bad Christmas-box, though he endeavoured to conceal both what he had done and meant farther to do. Resolving then to wait the next night at the door for the priest, he said, "I shall go out to sup and stay all night; be sure, therefore, you lock the street door, and that upon the stairs, as also your chamber door, and when you are disposed you may go to bed." She wished him a good night, went immediately to the chink in the chamber, and made the usual sign, when Filippo came to her, and she told him what she had done that morning, and what her husband had said afterwards, adding, "I am confident he will never stir from the door all night long; do you contrive a way, then, to come in at the top of the house. " He replied, full of joy, "Depend upon it. Madam, I will." When night came, therefore, the jealous husband armed himself privately, and lay concealed in the ground-room, whilst his wife made the doors fast, especially that upon the stairs, so that he could not come up to her: and the young man, when he thought it proper time, came by a secret way into her chamber, where they enjoyed themselves all night, without fear of interruption. The husband, in the meantime, continued supperless all night long, uneasy to the last degree, and almost starved to death with cold, waiting by the door for the priest. Day appearing at last, and nobody coming, he composed himself there to sleep. Rising at the third hour, and the door of the house being now opened, he came in, pretending to come from another place, and called for his breakfast. Soon afterwards he sent a messenger to his wife, as from the priest who had confessed her, to know if that person had come to her since. She, who understood full well the nature of the message, replied, "No, he did not come that night, and if he left off visiting her, she might forget him, although she had no desire to do so." 

What more need I say to you? The husband continued to watch every night, and the wife and her gallant were together all the time. At last, being out of all manner of patience, he demanded of her, with the utmost wrath in his looks, what it was that she had confessed to the priest? But she refused to tell him, saying that it was neither just nor reasonable. "Vile woman?"he cried, "I know in spite of you, what it was, and will make you confess who this priest is, that lies with you every night, by virtue of his enchantments, or else I will cut your throat." She replied, "It is false; I never lay with any priest." - "What!” said he, " did you not say so and so to the priest who confessed you?"

- "Not," she replied, "for him to tell you again; but if you were present, it is a different thing: then, to be plain with you, I did say so." - "Now tell me," quoth he, "who this priest is, and quickly." 

She smiled and said, "I am always glad to see a wise man led (by the horns as it were) by a simple woman; though you deserve not that character, since you have suffered yourself to be transported by an unreasonable fit of jealousy, without knowing why; therefore, the more weak you are, the less is my glory. Do you think my eyes are as bad as your understanding? No; I knew very well who the priest was that confessed me, and that was you. But I was resolved to give you what you wanted, and I think I have done so. But if you were as wise as you would be thought, you would never have desired to come at your wife's secrets in that manner, and would have known, without any vain suspicion, that every word was true which I said, and without the least crime or offence. I told you I loved a priest: were not you, my unworthy husband, then a priest? I said, no door could be kept shut when he had a mind to come to me: and is not that literally true? I added that the priest lay with me every night. And pray when did you lie from me? And when you sent to know if he was with me that night - you know that very time you had not been with me- I answered that he had not been with me. Who but a person blinded with jealousy, like yourself, but must have understood these things? And yet you kept watch all night at the door, and would have made me believe that you were gone elsewhere to sup and spend the night Consider a little better, and behave like a man, and do not make a fool of yourself any longer, in the eyes of one who is acquainted with all your ways, as I am. Leave off this extraordinary care upon my account; for, I assure you, were I disposed to be what you suspect, had you a hundred eyes, whereas you have only two, I could do it over and over again, and you be never the wiser." 

The poor jealous creature, who had thought himself very cunning before, now saw how he was despised, and, without more words, devested himself of that foolish and troublesome disposition, ever after esteeming his a wife virtuous and prudent woman. And she had no further occasion to make her lover come in at the top of the house, as cats do; for the door was open afterwards whenever they had a mind to be together. 

[This story is an ingenious improvement upon the Fabliau "Du Chevalier qui confessa sa Femme." It has been frequently imitated. In the 78th of the "Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles," entitled "Le Mari Confesseur,” a lady who is confessed by her husband under the disguise of a priest acknowledges a criminal intercourse with a squire, a knight, and a priest. On hearing this, the husband bursts out into an indignant exclamation. "Were you not," says she, with some presence of mind, "a squire when I married you, were you not afterwards a knight, and are you not now a priest?"

This is copied by Lafontaine, in "Le Mari Confesseur." ] 

3-3 lady confessing

NOVEL III. 

A lady, under pretence of confessing, and a pure conscience, being in love with a young gentleman, makes a sanctified friar bring them together, without his knowing anything of her intention. 

The boldness and great subtlety of the groom having been as much commended as the king's extraordinary discretion, Filomena, at the queen's desire, next began as follows: 

- I design to acquaint you with a trick, that a certain lady put upon a grave friar, which will be so much the more agreeable to us lay-people, as such folk think themselves both better and wiser than the rest of mankind, whereas they are quite the reverse, being for the most part persons who are unable to raise themselves in the world, and therefore fall back upon a profession which insures their being fed like swine. I shall tell this story then, ladies, in compliance with the order I have received, and show you, that even the clergy themselves, to whom we over-credulous women yield too implicit a faith, may be, and often are, tricked and imposed on, not by men only, but even by our own sex. 

In our city (more full of craft and deceit than of friendship and faithful dealing) there lived not long since a lady, who, in point of beauty, high bred deportment, and subtle wit, was not inferior to any of her sex; her name, as well as that of every other person concerned in this novel, I shall beg leave to conceal, out of regard to some persons who might be offended, but who may now let the story pass with a smile. This lady, knowing herself to be nobly descended, and being married to a clothier, could by no means bring down her spirit, which made her look upon a tradesman, however rich he might be, as unworthy to mate with a gentlewoman. She saw with disgust that her husband, for all his wealth, had not the least understanding in anything out of his own business, and she determined not to admit of his embraces any farther than she was obliged, but to make choice of a gallant that should be more worthy of her. Accordingly she fell in love with a gentleman, of suitable years, to that degree, that unless she saw him every day, she could get no rest at night. But he, knowing nothing of the matter, had not the least regard to her; whilst she was so cautious, that she would trust neither to letters nor messages for fear of danger. Finding, however, that the object of her choice was much acquainted with a certain friar, one of a gross person, yet esteemed by all as a very religious man, she judged that he would be the fittest agent to go between her and her lover. After maturely considering which would be the best method to take, she went one day to that church to which the friar belonged, and having called him aside, she told him that, when he was at leisure, she had a mind to confess. 

The friar, seeing her to be a person of distinction, immediately heard her confession, and when that was over, she said, "Father, I require your advice and assistance upon a matter I will explain to you. I have told you of my relations and my husband, who loves me more than his own life, and who, as he is very rich, obliges me in everything that I ask for; for which reason I love him more than I do myself; and were I capable so much as of harbouring a thought, not to speak of doing an act, which should be contrary to his wishes and his honour, I should deem no woman more deserving of death than myself. Now there is a person whose name I am a stranger to, but who seems to be of some figure, and is, if I mistake not, an acquaintance of yours, a tall handsome man, very elegantly dressed in brown, who, being unacquainted, perhaps, with my upright intentions, seems to lay constant wait for me. I can never stir out of doors, or so much as go to the window, but he is always there: I wonder he is not after me now; which gives me infinite concern, because such things often bring unmerited scandal upon virtuous ladies. Sometimes I have thought of letting my brothers know; but then I considered that men frequently deliver messages in such a manner, that words ensue, and from words, blows; therefore, to prevent both scandal and mischief, I have hitherto held my tongue, resolving to acquaint you, rather than any other person, both because you are his friend, and because it is your duty to correct such abuses, not only in friends, but also in strangers. I entreat you then, for God's sake, that you would exhort him to leave off those ways; there are other ladies enough, who may be of that stamp, and would be proud of a gallant; but I am another sort of person, and such a thing gives me the greatest uneasiness." Having said this, she hung down her head, as if she was going to weep. 

The holy father immediately understood who was the person she meant; and having commended her for her good disposition, believing it was all true that she said, he promised to take care that she should have no more disturbance of that kind; and knowing her to be rich, he concluded by recommending to her works of charity and alms-giving, not forgetting to mention his own particular necessities. The lady then said, "I beg of you, sir, if he should deny it, to tell him without any scruple, that I informed you myself, and am very uneasy about it." Having now confessed, and remembering what he had told her concerning charity, she put a sum of money into his hand, desiring he would say mass for the souls of her deceased friends; and rising from before his feet, she departed to her own house. In some little time the gentleman came according to custom, to the friar, who, after talking awhile to him upon indifferent matters, took him aside, and reproved him in a gentle manner for his design upon the lady. The other was much surprised, having never taken any notice of her, and but seldom passed by the house, and he would have excused himself, but the friar would not suffer him. "Never pretend to be surprised," he said, "nor spend your breath in denying it, for it is to no manner of purpose: this is no common report; I had it from her own lips. Such behaviour is very unbecoming in you; and, let me tell you, if there is a woman in the world averse to such follies, it is she: therefore, for her comfort, and your own credit, I exhort you to refrain, and let her live in quiet." The gentleman, more quick of apprehension than the friar, easily took the lady's meaning, and pretending to be out of countenance, promised to concern himself with her no more. He then left the friar, and went straightway towards the lady's house. There she was, looking out for him at the window, as usual, and she appeared so gracious and well pleased at the sight of him, that he found himself not mistaken: and from that time he used frequently to pass that way under pretence of business, to her great satisfaction. 

After some time, when the lady perceived that she was as agreeable to him as he was to her, she had a mind to give him some farther proofs of her affection. To the friar she went again, and throwing herself at his feet in the church, began to lament most grievously. Thereupon he asked, with a great deal of concern, what new unpleasantness had happened? She replied, "It is only that accursed friend of yours, of whom I complained to you the other day: I think, in my conscience, he is born to be a perpetual plague to me, and to make mc do what I should never think of otherwise; nor shall I ever dare afterwards to lay myself at your feet." - "What," said the friar, "does he continue still to give you trouble?" - "Indeed, sir," quoth she, 'since I made my complaint to you, he seems to do it out of mere spite; and for once that he used to come our way before, he now passes at least seven times. And would to God those walks and wanton gazings would content him; but he is now growing so audacious and impudent that no longer since than yesterday, he sent a woman to my house with his nonsense, and a present of a purse and girdle, as if I had wanted purses and girdles; at which I was, and am still, so much offended, that, had not the fear of God, and regard to you, prevented me, I had certainly done some wicked thing or other. But I kept my temper, nor would I do or say anything till I had first made you acquainted. Moreover, I returned those things to the woman that brought them, bidding her carry them back, and I sent her away with a flea in her ear; but fearing afterwards lest she might keep them herself, and tell him I had received them, as I am told those people often do, I called her back, and took them out of her hand in a passion, and here I have now brought them to you, that you may give them to him again, and tell him, that I want nothing that belongs to him; for, thank God and my husband, I have purses and girdles enough. Therefore, good father, I now tell you, that if he does not desist, I will immediately acquaint my husband and my brothers; for, happen what may, I had much rather that he should suffer, if it must be so, than that I myself should bear any blame on his account." 

Having said this, she took a rich purse and a very pretty girdle from under her gown, shedding abundance of tears, and threw them into the friar's lap; and he, believing all she had told him, was incensed beyond measure. "I do not wonder, daughter," said he, "that you make yourself uneasy for these things, nor can I blame you; but I much commend you for following my instructions. I reproved him the other day, and he has ill performed what he promised; however, I will give him such a reprimand for what he has done before, and now also, that he shall be no more a plague to you. For Heaven's sake then, do not suffer yourself to be hurried away by passion, so as to tell any one; because it may be of bad consequence. Never fear any blame to yourself, for I will bear testimony to your virtue before God and man." 

The lady seemed to be a little comforted; and changing the subject, as one who well knew the covetousness of him and his brethern, "Holy father," she said, "for some nights past many of my relations have appeared to me in a vision, demanding alms; especially my mother, who seemed to be in such affliction, that it was terrible to behold. I believe it comes of her concern to see me in all this trouble, through this most wicked fellow. Therefore I desire, for the sake of their souls, that you would say the forty masses of St. Gregory, that God may deliver them from that fiery penance;" and having said this, she put a gold florin into his hand. The holy father received it very cheerfully, confirmed her devotion by good words, and divers examples, and, having given her his blessing, let her depart. 

When she was gone, never thinking how he was imposed upon, he sent for his friend, who, finding him a little out of temper, supposed he had been discoursing with the lady, and waited to hear what he would say. The friar accordingly reiterated his former reproofs, chiding him severely for what the lady had now complained of concerning his offered present. The honest gentleman, who as yet could not tell to what all this tended, but faintly affected to deny his sending a purse and girdle, that he might pot be entirely discredited by the good man, if it should have happened that the lady had given him any such thing. But the friar cried out in a passion, "How can you deny it, you wicked man? Behold, here it is; she herself brought it me with tears: see if you know it again." The gentleman appeared quite ashamed, and said, "Yes, indeed, I know it: I confess that I have done very ill, and, I promise you, now I know her disposition, that you shall hear no more complaints upon that score." After many such words, the simple friar gave him the purse and girdle; and, exhorting him to do so no more, let him go about his business. 

The gentleman, now convinced of the lady's good will towards him, and that this was her present, went overjoyed to a place where he cautiously contrived to let the lady see both the purse and girdle in his possession, which gave her great satisfaction, as her scheme seemed now to take effect. Nothing was wanting now to complete it but the husband's absence, and it fell out soon after, that he was obliged to go to Genoa. 

No sooner had he mounted his horse, and departed, than she went again to the holy man, and, after making great complaints and lamentations, she said, "Good father, I tell you plainly that I can no longer suffer this; but, as I promised to do nothing without first consulting you, I am come to excuse myself to you; and, to convince you that I have great reason to be uneasy, I will tell you what your friend, that devil incarnate, did this very morning. I know not by what ill fortune he came to know that my husband went to Genoa yesterday, but so it is, this morning he came into my garden, and got up by a tree to my window, that looks into the garden, opened it, and would have come into the chamber, only I jumped up, and was beginning to cry out, and certainly should have done so, had he not begged of me, for Heaven's sake and yours, to be merciful; telling me who he was: upon which I ran and shut the window. Now judge you if these things are to be endured; it is upon your account only, that I have suffered them so long." 

The friar was the most uneasy man in the world at hearing this: - "And are you sure," said he, "that it was that person, and no other?" - "Bless me!" quoth she, "do you think I could be so mistaken? I tell you it was he; and if he should deny it, don't believe him." 

- "Daughter," quoth the friar, "I can say no more than that it was a most vile, audacious action, and you have done your duty: but I beg of you, as God has preserved you hitherto from dishonour, and you have followed my advice twice before, that you would do so now: leave it then to me, without saying a word to any of your relations, and see if I cannot manage this devil unchained, whom I always took for a saint. If I can reclaim him from this lewdness, it will be well; if not, along with my best benedictions, I shall give you leave to do as you shall think most proper." - "For this once, then," quoth she, "I will give you no trouble; but do you take care that he be not offensive for the time to come, for I promise you I will come no more to you upon his account;"and, without more words, she went away, apparently very angry. 

She was scarcely got out of the church, when in came the gentleman. The friar instantly took him aside, and assailed him with all the opprobrious language that could be used to a man, calling him villain, perjurer, traitor; whilst he, who had twice before found himself none the worse for these rebukes, listened very attentively, and endeavoured, by affecting great perplexity, to draw out the friar, and make him come to the point. "Why, what have I done," he said, "to deserve this treatment?" "Done! "cried the friar, "Mark the impudence of the fellow! he speaks for all the world as though these things had happened years ago, and were now quite out of his mind. Pray, have you forgotten whom you insulted this morning? Where were you a little before day-break?" -"That I cannot tell," replied the other; "but you soon heard of it, wherever I was." - "You say right," quoth he, "I did hear of it: I suppose you thought yourself sure, now the husband is from home? A very pretty fellow, truly! he gets into people's gardens in the night, and climbs up the walls by the help of the trees! You think, I suppose, that you will be able to seduce the lady by your importunity, that you get up to the windows at nights in that manner. There is nothing she so much detests as yourself, and yet you will persist. Truly, you are much the better for what has been said to you; but I assure you, she has hitherto held her peace purely at my request, and not out of the least regard to you: but she will conceal it no longer; and I have now consented, if you give her any farther disturbance, to let her take her own course. What would become of you, should she tell her brothers?" The gallant now perceived what he had to do, and, having quieted the friar with large promises, he bade him adieu. That night he got into the garden, and so up by the tree to the window, which was open, and where the lady stood expecting him. She received him with much joy, giving many thanks to the holy father for showing him the way; and from that time forth they had frequent opportunities of being together, without standing any farther in need of such a mediator. 

[This story is related in Henry Stephens' introduction to the "Apology of Herodotus.” 

It is told of a lady of Orleans, who in like manner employed the intervention of her confessor, to lure to her arms a scholar of whom she was enamoured. The tale of Boccaccio has suggested to Moliere his play of "L'École des Maris,” where Isabella enters into correspondence, and at length effects a marriage with her lover, by complaining to her guardian, Sganarelle, in the same manner as the clothier's wife to her confessor. Otway's comedy of the "Soldier's Fortune,” in which Lady Dunce employs her husband to deliver the ring and letter to her admirer, Captain Belguard, also derives its origin from this tale.] 

THE FIRST DAY. NOVEL I.

THE FIRST DAY. 

NOVEL I. 

Chappelet imposes upon a holy friar by a sham confession, and dies; and, although a very wicked fellow, comes afterwards to be reputed a saint, and called St. Chappelet. 

It is most meet and right, dear ladies, that everything we do should be begun in the name of Him who is the Maker of all things. Therefore, as I am to entertain you first, I shall relate an instance of his marvellous ways, which may direct us to place all our hopes in him, as the only unchangeable being, and evermore to praise him. Certain it is, that all earthly things are transitory and mortal; attended with great troubles, and subject to infinite dangers; which we who live embroiled with them, and are even part of them, could neither endure, nor find a remedy for, were it not for the especial grace of God that enables us, - a blessing which we are not to expect through our own merits, but his goodness, and the intercession of those saints, who, having been once mortal men like ourselves, and done his will whilst on earth, now enjoy happiness and immortality in heaven. To them, as to fit agents, informed of our frailties by their own experience, we, not daring, perhaps, immediately to address ourselves to so great a Judge, offer up our prayers for what we want. And we find his mercy the greater, forasmuch as, not being able to pry into the secrets of his Divine will, we may sometimes make choice of a mediator before him, who is banished eternally from his presence: and yet he from whom nothing is hidden, having regard to the purity of the supplicant, rather than to his ignorance, or the situation of the person to whom he applies himself, hears those who pray in this manner, as if that mediator were really a saint. All this will most plainly appear from the following story; I say most plainly, not with reference to the judgment of God, but of man. 

There lived in France a person named Musciat; who, from a wealthy merchant became a courtier, and went into Tuscany with Charles, surnamed Lackland, brother to the King of France, who was instigated to that expedition by Pope Boniface. This gentleman, finding his affairs in a very complicated state, as is usual with persons in trade, and being moreover unable to adjust them himself, without a good deal of time and trouble, resolved to employ several agents for their arrangement. By this means he settled everything to his mind, excepting some debts which were outstanding from persons in Burgundy. The reason was, he had found them to be a set of perverse, ill-conditioned, rascally fellows, and he could not for his life conceive where a man might be met with bad enough to match them. After much thinking about it, he at last called to mind one Ciappelletto da Prato, who used to come much to his house at Paris; and he being a little pragmatical fellow, the French, not knowing the meaning of his true name, which was Capperello, but thinking him to have been called Cappello, gave him the diminutive name of Ciappelletto, or Chappelet, that is, "garland," by which he was generally known there. 

Now the character of the man was this: being by trade a scrivener, he was really ashamed if any writings of his (he did not draw many indeed) were found without some fault or flaw; and would do that sort of work for nothing, with more pleasure than a just thing that he was to be well paid for. He was glad at all times of being a false witness, whether it was required of him or not; and, as great regard was had to an oath in France, he, who made no scruple to forswear himself on every occasion, was sure of every cause that depended on his single testimony. To foment quarrels and disputes was his utmost pleasure, especially amongst friends or relations; and the more mischief he occasioned, the greater was his satisfaction. Was a man to be dispatched at any time, he was the person to undertake it, and would do it with his own hands. He was a great blasphemer of God and his saints, swearing and cursing on every occasion. He went to church at no time, but spoke always of the holy sacraments in the same abominable terms as he would do of the vilest things in the world; on the other hand, he was eternally at taverns, and places of bad repute. Of women he was as fond as a dog is of a stick; but to unnatural vice, no wretch so abandoned as himself. He would pilfer and steal with as much conscience as others give to charity. He was a glutton and drunkard, to the ruin of his constitution. He was also a most notorious gamester; making use always of false dice. And, to sum up his character in few words, perhaps his equal in wickedness has not yet been born. Yet, ad as he was, he had all along been screened by the favour and interest of Musciat, as well from the resentment of private persons, whom he had often injured, as from that of the court, to which he gave daily provocation. 

This man came into Musciat's thoughts at last, who being no stranger to every part of his life, concluded him to be such a one as the tempers of the people he had to deal with required. Sending for him, therefore, he addressed him thus: "Master Chappelet, you know that I am about to leave this country, and as I have affairs to settle with some people of Burgundy, who are full of quirks and deceit, I do not know any one that I can employ so fit to manage them as yourself; you have a good deal of spare time, and if you will undertake it, I will procure you recommendatory letters from court, and allow you a reasonable part of what you recover." Chappelet, who found himself much embarrassed in the world, and likely to be more so when his great friend was gone, without hesitating at all about it, answered that he was willing. They agreed upon terms; Musciat gave him a deputation, procured him letters he had promised, and he set out for Burgundy, where, being quite a stranger, he endeavoured, contrary to his former manner, to do the business he came about by fair means, reserving a different behaviour to the last. He lodged with two brothers, who were usurers. 

They entertained him well on Musciat's account, and on his falling sick there, they had physicians to see him, and servants to attend him; nor was anything omitted that could be of service, but all in vain; for this worthy good man, who was advanced in years, and had been also an irregular liver, grew worse and worse in the judgment of the physicians; so that he was looked upon as a dead man; at which the brothers were greatly concerned. 

One day, being near the chamber where he lay, they began to have some talk together about him: "What shall we do with this fellow?" said one to the other; "we have a fine affair upon our hands, on his account. For to turn him out in this condition would afford matter for reproach, and also be a proof of our want of understanding; the people seeing us receive him before into our house, and supply him with physic, and all things necessary; and now seeing us turn him out whilst he is dying, without his having been able to do anything that we ought to be offended at. On the other hand, he has been such a vile fellow always, that he will never be brought to confess, and to receive the sacraments of the Church; and should he die without them, no church will receive his body; but he most be put into the ground like a dog. Or should he confess, his sins will appear so enormous, that the like were never known; nor can any priest be found that will give him absolution, and without that he must still be thrown into a ditch: and should this happen, the people of this country, who think ours an iniquitous trade, and are daily reviling us, would be apt to raise a mutiny, and declare publicly that they will no longer bear with these Lombards, these extortioning villains, whom the Church disdains to receive into her bosom. They will make that a pretence to plunder us of all we are worth, and abuse our persons into the bargain; so that it will be bad for us on all sides, should this man die." 

Chappelet, who, as we have said, lay not far off, heard all this, for sick people are often quick of hearing, and calling them to him, said: "I would have you be in no doubt or fear of harm to yourselves on my account; I have heard what you have been talking about, and am confident the thing would happen as you say, were everything to be as you suppose; but I will take care that it shall happen otherwise. I have been guilty of so much wickedness in my lifetime, that to add one sin at my death, will not make the sum much greater: therefore send for the most able and pious priest you know of, if a pious one can be found, and I will take such care of your affairs, as well as of my own, that you shall have reason to be satisfied." The brothers expected no great matters from this; they went however to a convent, and desired that some learned and holy person would come and take the confession of a Lombard, who was sick in their house. Accordingly, a venerable old friar, of great sanctity and learning, and much reverenced by the whole city, was ordered to go with them, who on coming into the room, seated himself by the sick man's bedside, and began, after some heavenly consolations, to inquire of him, how long it was since he had last confessed. Chappelet, who had never confessed in his whole life, replied: 

"Holy father, it has been usual with me always to confess once a week at least, and sometimes oftener; but it is true, since I have been sick, my affliction has been such, that I have not confessed at all." 

"That is well, my son," said the friar, "thus you should always do; and I perceive as you have confessed so often, that I shall have but little trouble, either in hearing or asking you questions." 

"Good father, do not say so," cried Chappelet: "I have never so often confessed, but that I would always mention every sin that I could recollect from the hour I was born. 

Therefore I beg you will examine me as particularly, as if I had never confessed at all; and do not regard my languishing condition; for I had much rather do what may disoblige the flesh, than, by consulting the ease of my body, bring damnation on my soul, which my Saviour has purchased with his most precious blood." 

The good old man was ravished with these expressions, esteeming them proofs of a well-disposed mind; and having commended his piety, he asked him whether he had ever offended God by the knowledge of women. Chappelet, fetching a deep sigh, replied: "I am ashamed to speak the truth, lest I should be thought to offend by vain-glory." - 'speak out boldly," said the priest, " for there can be no harm in telling truth, whether at confession or any other time." - 'since you make me easy on that score," quoth Chappelet, "I will speak out. I am as pure, in that respect, as when I first came into the world." 

"God bless my son," said the friar, "you have done well; and this is so much the more meritorious, as you have liberties far beyond us, of doing otherwise; but," he added, "were you never given to gluttony?" Chappelet answered with a groan, "Yes, very often; for besides fasting in Lent, as all devout persons do, I have accustomed myself to live three days in a week, at least, on bread and water; and I have drunk the water sometimes, especially if I have been fatigued with praying, or performing a pilgrimage, with as much pleasure as drunkards drink wine; and sometimes I have wished for salads, and have eaten my bread with more pleasure than a person ought, who fasts out of devotion." 

"My son," replied the friar, "these are very natural and trivial errors, and I would not have you burthen your conscience more than is necessary: all men, be they ever so holy, eat with a good appetite after fasting, and drink with pleasure when they have been fatigued." 

"Do not tell me these things to comfort me only," said Chappelet; "you know I cannot be ignorant, that whatever relates to the service of God, should be done sincerely, and with a good will, otherwise we are guilty of sin." - "I am well satisfied," returned the friar, 

"in your being of that opinion, and much approve the purity of your conscience: but tell me, have you not been guilty of the sin of covetousness, desiring more than was fit, or detaining what was not your due?"

"I would not have you think so," said Chappelet, "because you see me in the house with these usurers: I have no concern with them, but came purely to persuade them to leave off that abominable way of living; and I believe I might have prevailed, had it not pleased God to visit me in this manner. My father left me a plentiful fortune, and I immediately disposed of the greater part of it to religious uses; and betook myself to trade for a maintenance, and to have it in my power to relieve the poor in Christ: 

I cannot say, indeed, that I have not been desirous of gain; but I always gave half to the poor, and kept the other part for my own necessary occasions; and God has so far blessed me, that my affairs have always prospered.” 

"You have done well," said the confessor, "but have you not been often transported with anger and passion?" "Very often truly! "answered the penitent, "but who can forbear, seeing the common degeneracy of mankind, who are every day breaking the commandments of God, and are not kept in awe by his judgements? 

I could rather choose to be out of the world, than to see youth run after vanity, swear and forswear, haunt taverns, neglect going to church, and follow the ways of the world before those of God." 

"My son," said the friar, "passion here is commendable; nor shall I enjoin you any penance for it: but have you been transported by rage at no time, to murder, or use indecent expressions, or to do any other injury?"

"Alas, sir!" answered Chappelet, "how can you, who appear to be so good a man, mention any such thing! Do you believe, had I ever entertained such thoughts, that God would have suffered me to live? these are the actions of robbers and villains, whom I never look upon without offering up a prayer to God for their conversion." 

"God bless you again, my dear child," said the good old man: "but have you never borne false witness against, or spoken ill of another, or taken away that from him which properly belonged to him?"

"Yes, reverend father," answered he, "I must needs confess I have spoken ill of another, for I had once a neighbour, who used to beat his wife without cause; and I gave him a 

bad character to her parents; so much did I pity the poor woman, who was always ill treated by him, as often as he got drunk." 

"But," said the friar, "you tell me you have been a merchant, did you never cheat any person, as is common for them to do?"

"Yes, in good truth, sir," he replied, "but I know only of one person, who, having brought the money for a piece of cloth which I had sold him, I put it into a bag without counting it, and at the month's end, when I came to tell it over, I found fourpence too much; but as I was not able to find the owner again, after keeping it a year, I gave it to the poor." 

"This is a mere trifle," said the friar, "and you did well to dispose of it in that manner." 

He then put some other questions, which Chappelet answered as he had done the rest; and just as he was proceeding to absolution, Chappelet cried out, "There is another thing hangs upon me, which I have not confessed." The priest inquired what it was; and he answered, "I remember once making my maid clean the house on a holiday; and I have not showed that regard for the Lord's day which I ought.Oh! 'said the friar, "that is a small matter, my son." "Do not call it so, dear father," quoth the other, 'sunday is a day much to be reverenced, being the day on which our Lord rose from the dead." 

"Well," said the priest, "is there anything more?"

"Yes," answered he, "I remember, once in my life, to have spat in the house of God." The friar smiled, and said, "My son, that is not to be regarded; we ourselves spit there every day." "And you are much to blame for it," returned he, "for nothing should be kept so clean as the temple of God, where we offer sacrifice." In short, he told him many more things of that kind, and at last, as he could weep when he pleased, he fell groaning and sobbing, as though he would burst his very heart. "My son, what is the matter?" said the friar. "Alas, sir! "he answered: "there is one sin left behind, which I could never endure to confess, the shame to mention it is so great, and as often as I recollect it I lament in the manner you now see; nay I am convinced that God will never forgive it." 

"Go, go, my son," quoth the friar, "what is that you say? I tell you, that if all the wickedness that ever was committed by man, or can be committed whilst the world endures, was to be amassed in one person, if that person was thoroughly penitent, as I see you are, so great is God's mercy, that upon confession, it would all be forgiven him; tell me then what it is." 

"Alas! father," said Chappelet, shedding abundance of tears, "my sin is so heinous, that I despair altogether of pardon, unless you assist me, and move God by your prayers." 

'speak out, then," said the friar, "and I promise to intercede for you." Chappelet still kept weeping, and would say nothing; the priest exhorting him all the while to clear his conscience. At last, after the penitent had held his confessor some time in suspense, he fetched a deep sigh, and said: 'since you have promised to pray for me, I will disclose it, you must know then, that when I was a child, I once cursed my mother;" and here he began to lament afresh in a most grievous manner. 

"My good son," said the friar, "does this seem so great a sin? men are cursing God every day, yet he pardons them upon repentance; and do you think you shall never be forgiven? weep not: but let this be your comfort, that though you had even a hand in nailing Christ upon the cross, yet would that sin be forgiven on such a repentance as yours." "What do you say?" quoth Chappelet; "what! to curse my dearest mother, who bore me day and night in her womb for nine months, and suckled me many hundreds of times at her breast! No, the sin is so great, that I must inevitably perish, unless your prayers prevent it." 

The friar finding he had no more to say, absolved and gave him his benediction; and, supposing that he had spoken truth all the while, thought him the most pious man living. And, indeed, who could think otherwise, having it all from a dying man? 

He afterwards said to him, "Master Chappelet, by God's assistance you will soon recover; but if it should please the Almighty to take your blessed and well-disposed soul unto himself, will you give leave for your body to be buried in our convent?"

"I would have it laid nowhere else," he answered, "both because you have promised to pray for me, and as I have always had a great regard for your order; therefore, when you go home I beg you will take care, that the real body of our Lord, which was consecrated at your altar this morning, may be brought to me; for, unworthy as I am, I intend, with your leave, to receive it, and after that extreme unction; so that though I have been a great sinner all my life, I may die at least like a Christian." The holy man was much pleased, told him that he said well, and promised that it should be brought that day; and so it was. 

The brothers being a little suspicious that he intended to impose upon them, had posted themselves behind a partition of the room, where they heard all that passed; insomuch that they could scarcely refrain from laughing; and said one to another, "what a strange fellow this is! whom neither age, sickness, fear of death, which is at hand, nor of God, at whose tribunal he must shortly appear, is sufficient to deter from his wicked courses, or to prevent his dying as he has always lived!" But as he had obtained burial in the church by that means, they cared no farther. 

Chappelet then received the sacrament, and growing worse and worse had extreme unction, and died the evening that he had made this extraordinary confession. 

The brothers took immediate care that he should be honourably interred, and sent forthwith to the convent to desire they would come, as was usual, and perform vigils and matins for the deceased: and the friar, to whom he had confessed, went upon this notice to the prior, and had a chapter called, when he informed them how holy a person Chappelet was, as he could easily perceive by his confession: and hoping that God would work many miracles by him, he urged them to receive his body with all due reverence and devotion. To this the prior and the credulous brotherhood all consented, and that night they came in a body to the place where the corpse lay, and sang the great and solemn vigils; and in the morning they all went for the body in their hoods and surplices, with books in their hands, and the cross carried before them, singing all the way. They brought it with the utmost solemnity to their church, being followed by the whole city; and having set it down there, the good confessor mounted a pulpit, and told them wonderful things concerning the life of the deceased, his fastings, charity, simplicity, innocence, and sanctity; speaking more particularly of that great crime, which he had confessed with so much concern, as scarcely to be persuaded that God would forgive him. Thence he took occasion to reprove his audience, exclaiming: "Yet you, wicked as you are, make no scruple to curse God, the holy mother of God, and all the host of heaven, for the least trifle." He flourished much concerning his truth and purity; and worked so far upon them by his discourse, to which all yielded an implicit faith, that when the service was ended they pressed forward to kiss the hands and feet of the deceased; and the funeral clothes were immediately rent to pieces, every one thinking himself happy who could get a single rag. All that day he was kept, so that every one might see and visit him; and at night he was most honourably interred in a marble sepulchre. On the following day there was a great procession of devout persons, to worship at his shrine with lighted tapers, and to offer the waxen images which they had vowed. And such was the fame of his sanctity, and people's devotion towards him, that nobody in time of trouble would apply to any other saint but him, calling him St. Chappelet, and affirming, that God had wrought many miracles by him, and still continued to work them for such as recommended themselves devoutly to him. 

Thus lived and died master Capperello da Prato, and became a saint, as you have heard, of whom I will not pronounce it impossible that he may be happy; for though his whole life could not be worse, it is not impossible, but, before the hour of his death, he might be such a penitent, that God should have mercy on him, and receive him into his kingdom. But as this we know nothing of, we have much more reason, from what appears, to conclude that he is more probably in the hands of the devil in purgatory, than amongst the angels in Paradise. And if it be so, great is God's mercy towards us; who, not regarding our errors, but the purity of our intention, whenever we make choice of an improper mediator, hears us as well as if we had applied to one truly a saint. 

And therefore, that this grace may preserve us in our present calamity, and in this cheerful and agreeable society, let us praise his name, as we first began; recommending ourselves to him in time of need, with a full assurance of being always heard.