3-4 Felix, scholar, Puccio

NOVEL IV. 

A young scholar, named Felix, teaches one Puccio how he may be saved, by performing a penance which he shows him: this he puts into execution, and in the meantime Felix amuses himself with his wife. 

When Filomena had finished her story, which was much commended by Dioneo, the queen, casting her eyes on Pamfìlo, said: "Continue this amusement by some agreeable story." He replied, that he was very willing, and began thus: 

- Some people there are, who, whilst they endeavour to get to heaven themselves, inadvertently send others thither, which was the case of a neighbour of ours, as you shall hear. Near to St. Brancazio, as I am informed, there lived an honest man, and one of good substance, whose name was Puccio di Rineri, who, being spritually (spiritually) minded, and having much converse with the Franciscans, was usually called Friar Puccio. 

This man, I say, regarding only his religious affairs, and having no family besides a wife and a maid-servant, used constantly to be at church, spending his whole time in saying Pater Nosters, hearing sermons, and going to masses; and for fasting, and all kinds of holy discipline, he was as devout as the best. What with his devotion, and perhaps his age, his wife, whose name was Isabella, a lady of about twenty-eight years of age, as fresh and fair and plump as an apple, had a great deal more fasting than she thought good for her, and many a time would gladly have been asleep or otherwise employed, when he was recounting to her the holy life of our Lord, the preachings of Father Anastasius, the lamentations of Mary Magdalen, and so forth. 

Now at that time there returned from Paris a monk belonging to he convent of St. Brancazio, a comely young man, of good parts and learning, with whom our Puccio contracted an acquaintance; and as he was able to solve all his scruples, and appeared to be very religious, Friar Puccio would frequently invite him to his house, both to dine and sup, whilst his wife shewed him great civility on her husband's account. 

Coming often to the house in this manner, he soon cast his eye upon Puccio's wife, and perceiving that he was nowise disagreeable to her, he took the first opportunity of making a discovery of his inclinations; but, though he found her disposed to compliance, he could in no way contrive the means, for she would go nowhere out of her own house, and there it could not be, for Puccio was never far from home, which threw the young monk into a kind of despair. At last it came into his head how the thing might be carried on in the house, without any suspicion, though the husband was there all the time. Being one day alone with Puccio, he began in this manner: "I understand. Brother Puccio, that all your desire is to become holy, but it seems to me as if you took quite a round-about way, whilst there is a much shorter path, which the pope and the other great prelates know and follow, yet they are unwilling it should be divulged, for the sake of the clergy, because they live chiefly on the charities of the people, who in that case would have no further need to give them alms. Now as you are my friend, and have entertained me well at your house, if I thought you would tell nobody, and would practise this way I am speaking of, I would reveal it to you." Puccio was extremely impatient to know the secret swearing, by all that was sacred, never to divulge it without the monk's consent, and promising, if possible, to observe it; "As you make this promise," quoth the other, "I will tell you." "You must understand, then, that the holy doctors of the church maintain, that penance in the manner I am going to lay down, is necessary to saintly beatitude. But take notice, I do not say that, after this penance, you will be no more capable of sinning. No; but all the sins committed before that time will be forgiven, and the sins committed afterwards will not be numbered to your damnation; but you may wash them away with holy water, as now you may do by venial sins. A man, then, must begin this penance by a strict confession of all his sins; after which fasting and abstinence are necessary for forty days; during which space you must refrain, not to say from women only, but even from your own wife. Besides this, you must have some place in your own house where you may look towards heaven all night long. Thither you are to go in the evening, and there you must have a very large table fixed in such a manner, that, as you stand upon your feet, the small of your back may lean upon it, whilst your arms are extended like a crucifix; and if you can make them reach to any peg of wood, so much the better. In this manner you are to gaze towards heaven, without altering your posture till the morning. If you had been a scholar, you should have repeated some prayers which I would have taught you; but as you are not, you must say three hundred Pater Nosters, with as many Ave Marias, in honour of the Trinity; and, fixing your eyes upon heaven, you are still to remember God, the Creator of heaven and earth, and to bear in mind Christ's passion, standing in the manner that he was nailed to the cross; and, when the bell sounds in the morning, you may throw yourself upon your bed to sleep. You must afterwards go to church, and hear three masses at least, and say fifty Pater Nosters, and the like number of Ave Marias; and when this is done, you may go fairly and honestly about any business you may have to do; afterwards get your dinner, and be at church in the evening, where you must say a few prayers which I shall give you in writing, without which all would signify nothing; and in the evening return as before. If you follow this method, as I have formerly done, I hope, before the expiration of your penance, that you will perceive wonderful things of the eternal beatitudes; supposing, at the same time, that you are thoroughly devout." 

Friar Puccio replied: "This is no such long and grievous affair, and with God's permission I will begin next Sunday;" and leaving his friend, he went and related the whole to his wife. She knew well enough what the monk meant by that standing still in one spot till the morning, and thinking it a very good plan, she told her husband that she was satisfied with that, or anything else that he should do for the good of his soul; and, to render his penance more effectual, she meant to keep him company with fasting, but with nothing else. So far they were agreed: and when Sunday came, he entered upon his course, whilst the monk came every evening to sup with her, bringing with him plenty of meat and drink, and he stayed with her always till morning, when it was Puccio's time to come to bed. 

Now the room he had fixed upon for his penance was next to that where the lady lay, and divided from it only by a very thin partition. One night, when he had just got through a hundred of his Pater Nosters, he heard a noise in the next room; and, making a full stop, he called out to his wife, to know what she was doing. The lady, who was full heartily, as well she might; "have not I heard you say a thousand times that there is no resting in bed with an empty stomach?" Poor Puccio imagined that her not sleeping was really occasioned by her going to bed without her supper, and said to her, in the simplicity of his heart, "I told you, my dear, not to fast; but since you would do it, even try and rest as well as you can: you make the very floor shake under my feet." - "Never mind: attend to what you are about, and I will do as well as I can." Puccio said no more, but resumed his Pater Nosters. 

After that night the lady and the monk found out another part of the house, where they diverted themselves as long as the penance lasted. In the morning, when the monk was gone, Isabella used to return to her own bed, before her husband came to lie down. Things continuing in this way during the time that Puccio was qualifying himself for saintship, Isabella often said to the roguish monk, "Is it not a good joke, that you have put Puccio upon a penance by which we have gained paradise?" She liked it, indeed, so well, and was so fond of the good cheer supplied her by the monk, after the long time she had been kept on low diet by her husband, that even when the forty days of penance were out she found means to meet the monk elsewhere, and feast with him without stint. Thus I have made good the truth of what I said at the beginning of my story, for you see that whilst poor Friar Puccio thought of winning paradise by his hard penance, he only opened its doors to his wife and to the monk who had shown him the short cut thither. 

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.] 

3-2 equerry - King Agilulf

NOVEL II. 

An equerry belonging to King Agilulf lay with his queen; of which the king making a secret discovery, set a mark upon him, by shearing the hair off his head; upon which, he who was so shorn, cut that of his fellow-servants in like manner, and so escaped further punishment. 

Filostrato having concluded his novel, which made the ladies sometimes blush and sometimes smile, the queen ordered Pampinea to follow; and she began pleasantly in this manner: - There are some people so indiscreet as to manifest that they know what they had better be unacquainted with, and who think that by bringing to light other people's offences, they lessen their own shame; whereas they make that all the greater. This I shall show to be true, by its contrary; setting forth the craft which a certain fellow (of no more account than Masetto) made use of to outwit a very wise and worthy prince. 

Agilulf, king of Lombardy, fixed the seat of his kingdom, as his predecessors had done, at Pavia; having taken to wife Teudelinga, the widow of Vetari, his predecessor; a beautiful and most virtuous lady, but unhappy in having a lover. The affairs of the kingdom being now in a prosperous way, by the good management of King Agilulf, it happened that one of the queen's equerries fell immoderately in love with her. Though a man of the lowest extraction, he was in other respects far above the station in which he was placed; comely and graceful, and in person not unlike the king himself. His low rank did not prevent his having sense enough to see the inconvenience with which this passion might be attended; therefore he was so wise as to make discovery of it to no one; not even so much as by his looks to the queen herself. But though he lived without the least hopes of ever attaining his desire, yet he could not help glorying in having fixed his affections so high: and being entirely captivated, he took more than ordinary care (far beyond the rest of his fellow-servants) to do everything that he thought would please her. Whence it happened that if the queen had a mind to ride out at any time, she oftener rode the horse that he had the care of than any other; which he esteemed a singular favour, never stirring from the stirrup; and could he but touch her clothes, he was then the happiest man in the world. But as we often see that love is most violent where there is the least probability of success, so it happened to this groom; for his passion was such, he being without the least hope whatever, that he often resolved, as he was unable to disclose it, to die. Considering in what manner he should quit the world, he resolved at length that it should be so as to convince her that it was for her sake, and at the same time so as to enable him to try his fortune, if it were possible to obtain his desire in whole or part. He had no thought of speaking, or even writing to the queen (for he knew both were to no purpose), but chose rather to attempt her bed by stratagem: and the only feasible stratagem to that end was in some way or other to personate the king, and so get admittance into her chamber. 

In order then to see how dressed and in what manner his majesty used to go to the queen, he hid himself often in the night in a great room in the palace, that was between the king's apartment and that of the queen; and one night he saw the king come out of his chamber, wrapped in a large mantle, with a lighted torch in one hand, and a wand in the other, and go to the queen's bed-room, where without speaking a word, he knocked two or three times at the door with his wand, and it was immediately opened, and the torch taken out of his hand. The groom having observed all this, and having seen the king return in like manner, determined to do the same. Accordingly, he procured such a mantle as the king's, with a torch and wand, and having first washed himself very clean, that the smell of the stables might not be offensive to the queen, or make her discover the trick, he hid himself as usual till every one was asleep, which he thought a fit time either to succeed in his desires, or to bring upon himself, by a most daring deed, that death he had long wished for. He struck a light, therefore; he kindled his torch, and folding himself well in the mantle, went to the door, and rapped twice with his stick. The door was immediately opened by a damsel half asleep, who took the light out of his hand, and set it in a comer of the room, while he stripped off his mantle, and got into the queen's bed. There he had the full gratification of his wishes, without a word being spoken on either side (for he knew the king's temper at certain times, and especially when he was disturbed, was such, that he would neither speak himself, nor be spoken to); and having stayed as long as he thought it was safe to stay, he took his mantle and torch, and stole softly to his own bed. 

He had scarcely got into it before the king came to the queen's chamber, at which she was much surprised, and made bold to say to him, "My lord, what is the meaning of your returning so quickly? It is but this moment that you left me, and then you stayed longer than usual." The king, on hearing this, concluded that she had been imposed upon by somebody or other, who had assumed his person and manner: but, like a wise man, when he found that she was entirely ignorant of it, as well as every one else, he resolved that she should continue so: not like a great many simple people, who would have been apt to say, "I never was with you to-night before: who was it that was here? How did he come? In what manner did he go away?" All which must have given the lady great uneasiness, and the thing would have been in every one's mouth: whereas, by his discreet silence, he avoided both the one and the other. Seeming then more at ease in his looks and talk, than he was really in his mind, he said to her, "And is my coming again to you so soon disagreeable? however, I will leave you for to-night." 

Highly incensed against the villain, who had dared to do him that injury, he now left the room, resolving to find him out, if it were possible; for he concluded he must be in the house, as there seemed no way for him to have got out. Taking a small light, therefore, in a lantern, he went into a long chamber over the stables, where all his domestics lay in different beds: and supposing, whoever he was, that he should find a difference in the beating of his heart and pulse, he began to examine them all from one end to the other. They were every one asleep, except that person who had been with the queen; and he seeing the king come into the room, and guessing the reason, thought it best to counterfeit sleep, and see what he meant to do. His majesty had now laid his hand upon many of them, without finding cause to suspect any one, till coming to that person, he immediately said to himself, "This is the man." Being desirous that nobody should know anything of his design, he for the present did nothing more than just cut off, with a pair of scissors he had brought with him, a part of the man's hair, which they wore very long at that time, in order to know him again the next morning; and having done this, he returned directly to his chamber. The man was wise enough to know what was the intent of this; therefore, without delay, he took a pair of scissors which they used for their horses, and clipping all the people's hair above their ears in like manner, went to bed again, without being perceived by any one. 

In the morning the king rose, and ordered, before the palace gates were opened, that all his domestics should come before him, which accordingly they did, standing with their heads uncovered; when he began to inspect them one after another, in order to find out the person whom he had marked; and perceiving that many of them had their hair cut alike, he began to wonder, and said to himself, "This fellow, though he be of low condition, is of no common understanding." Therefore, seeing that he could in no way find out the person, without making a great stir and noise; and unwilling also to incur a shame of that sort, for the sake of a little revenge, he thought it best to let the person know, by a word or two, that he was observed, and to admonish him for the future. So turning to them all, he said, "Whoever he is, let him do so no more; and all of you go about your business." Another person would have put them to the rack, to find out what would be much better concealed, and any revenge for which would, instead of lessening, have enhanced the disgrace, and brought dishonour upon the lady. The domestics all wondered at the king's words, and asked one another what could be the meaning of them: but nobody was wise enough to understand them, except the man aimed at; who kept his knowledge to himself as long as the king lived, never daring to run the like risk any more. 

[In the 40th chapter of the "Gesta Romanorum,” said to be from Macrobius, a wife's infidelity is discovered by feeling her pulse in conversation; but a story much nearer to that of Boccaccio occurs in Heber's French metrical romance of "the Seven Sages," though, according to Dunlop, it is not in the original Syntipas. The tale, however, has been taken immediately from the 98th of the "Cento Novelle Antiche,” and it has been imitated in turn in the "Palfrenier” of La Fontaine. Giannone, in his "History of Naples,” has censured, not without some reason, the impertinence of Boccaccio in applying this story, without right, truth, or pretence, to the pious Queen Theudelinda.]