3-7 Tedaldo, Florence, pilgrim

NOVEL VII. 

Tedaldo, having a misunderstanding with his mistress, leaves Florence; he returns thither afterwards in the habit of a pilgrim, and makes himself known to her; when he convinces her of her mistake, and saves her husband from being put to death for his murder, for which he had been condemned. He then reconciles him to his brethren, and lives upon good terms with her for the future. 

Fiammetta, who had been commended by all, was now silent; when, to prevent loss of time, the queen gave immediate orders to Emilia, who began thus: 

- I choose to return to our own city, which the two ladies who spoke last have departed from; and to relate how one of our own citizens regained his lost mistress. 

There lived at Florence a young nobleman, called Tedaldo Ele, who was in love with a lady named Monna Ermellina, wife to one Aldobrandino Palermini, and well did his good qualities deserve success. But ill fortune was still in his way; for the lady, after shewing a liking to him, all at once refused to see him, and would receive no more messages from him, which threw him into utter despair; but, as his love was a secret, the cause of his melancholy was unknown. Divers means he used to regain the love, which had been lost without any fault of his; but, finding all in vain, he resolved to separate himself from the world, that he might deprive her, who had been the cause of his malady, of the pleasure of seeing him in that condition. Getting together, therefore, what money he could privately raise, without saying a word of his intention to more than one friend, he went away, and came to Ancona, calling himself Phillippo di Sanlodeccio, and hired himself to a merchant, with whom he went on shipboard to Cyprus, and who was so taken with his behaviour, that he not only allowed him a good salary, but took him into partnership, intrusting to him the management of the greater part of his affairs. These he ordered so discreetly, that, in a few years, he became a wealthy and famous merchant. Whilst he was in this employ, though he would sometimes call to mind his cruel mistress, and be desirous of seeing her again, yet so firm was his resolution, that for six years together he got the better of his passion in this conflict. At last it happened, one day, whilst he was at Cyprus, that he heard a song composed by himself sung there, in which was largely set forth the mutual love which they bore to each other, whence it was inferred, that it was impossible she should ever forget him. That song inspired him with such a desire to see her, that he could no longer resist it; and, settling his affairs, he departed with only one servant to Ancona, consigned all his effects to a merchant at Florence, an acquaintance of his old friend at Ancona, and went off privately with his servant in the guise of a pilgrim just returned from the holy land. On arriving at Florence, he went to an inn which was kept by two brothers, near where his mistress lived; and the first thing he did was to go to her house, and endeavour to see her; but he found the windows and doors all made fast, which made him suspect that she was either dead or else changed her dwelling. Thence he turned his steps in a sorrowful manner towards the house where his brothers lived, and there he saw four of them standing at the door, dressed in mourning. This surprised him very much; and knowing he was so much altered since he had been away that he could not be easily known again, he applied to a shoemaker, and inquired the reason of their being in black. The shoemaker replied, "About fifteen days ago a brother of theirs, called Tedaldo, who has been long absent, was murdered; and I understand they have proved in court that he was killed by one Aldobrandino Palermini, who is arrested for it, because he had taken a fancy to his wife, and returned privately to be with her." 

Tedaldo wondered much that any one should be so like himself as to be mistaken for him; and he was grieved for Aldobrandino. Finding that his mistress was alive and well, it being now night, he returned full of thought to his inn, where having supped along with his servant, he was put to bed in a garret. There, what with his trouble, the badness of the bed, and perhaps his light supper, he was kept awake till about midnight; when he thought he heard some persons come from the top of the house, and he saw a light gleaming through the chinks of the door. Going softly, therefore, to peep, he saw a pretty young woman holding a candle, whilst three men were coming towards her, down stairs; and after some laughing together, one of them said, "We are now safe, God be thanked, since Tedaldo's death is proved by his brethren upon Aldobrandino Palermini, who has also confessed, and sentence is now passed: but yet it behoves us to keep it private; for should it be known, hereafter, that we are the persons, we should be in the same danger that he is in now." Having said this to the young woman, who seemed well pleased with it, they came down stairs and went to bed. Tedaldo, upon hearing what had passed, began to reflect how great and many were the errors to which the mind of man was subject; first, thinking of his brethren who had mourned for a stranger, and buried him by mistake for himself, and had afterwards taken up an innocent person upon a bare suspicion, who was accordingly condemned through false witnesses; and next, considering the blind severity of the law, and the ministers and dispensers of it, who, whilst they are solicitous to find out the truth, do often, by their horrid tortures, confirm a falsity; and instead of serving the cause of God and justice, are rather the ministers of iniquity and the devil. After this, he thought of Aldobrandino, and what was to be done to save his life. In the morning, then, he went alone to the lady's house, and by chance finding the door open, he entered, and beheld her sitting upon the ground floor, in a little room, making a sad lamentation. "Madam," said he to her, "do not trouble yourself; your peace is at hand." She looked up, and replied with tears, "Honest man, thou seemest to be a stranger, what knowest thou either of my peace or my affliction?" "Madam," he replied, "I am a messenger sent by God from Constantinople, and am just now arrived, to turn your tears into joy, and to save your husband's life." "If you are but now arrived," she made answer, " and are come from Constantinople, what do you know either of me or my husband?" He then related to her the misfortune that had befallen her husband, how long they had been married together and many other circumstances, to which she was no stranger; whereupon she fell down upon her knees, in amazement, believing him to be a prophet, and praying him, if he was come for Aldobrandino's sake, to make all possible dispatch, for the time was short. The pilgrim, assuming the aspect of a very holy personage, said, "Rise, madam, and attend to what I am going to say. This tribulation is now come upon you, on account of a sin formerly committed; therefore you must take care how you do the like for the time to come, lest a greater calamity befall you." - "Alas, sir!" quoth she, "I have been guilty of more sins than one; then tell me particularly what sin you mean, and I will do all in my power to amend." "Madam," returned he, "I know what sin it is; I do not ask for information: but only that you may have the greater remorse by confessing. But to come to the point: - Had you ever a lover?" The lady was in great amaze at this, supposing nobody had known anything of the matter; though from the time that person was slain who had been buried for Tedaldo, something of that kind had been talked of, occasioned by words imprudently let fall by Tedaldo's friend, whom he had intrusted with the secret, "I perceive that Heaven," she said, sighing deeply, "has revealed to you all the secrets of mankind, therefore I shall make no scruple of telling you mine. I did love, I confess, that unhappy young man whose death is now laid to my husband's charge, and which has given me also infinite concern; for though I might appear a little harsh to him, yet neither his parting, his long absence, nor his miserable death, has been able to drive him from my heart." - "The poor man who is dead," said the pilgrim, "never loved you, though Tedaldo did. But tell me what was the reason of your quarrelling with him? Did he ever give you any offence?" - "Most certainly he did not," she replied, "but it was all owing to a wicked friar, who, after I had mentioned to him, at confession, my love for that person, and our familiarity together, dinned such things into my ears that I am terrified still to think of them. He told me that if I did not desist the devil would carry me in his mouth to the bottom of hell, and put me into everlasting fire. I was so frightened, that I immediately resolved to break off all intimacy with my lover, and from that time I would no longer receive either his letters or his messages: though I really think, that had he persisted a little longer (for I suppose he went away in despair) I might have relented at last, because I had a true value for him." 

"Madam," quoth the stranger, "this is the sin which now sticks close to you. It was of your own accord that you first loved Tedaldo; there was no force in the case; you were agreeable to each other, and acquaintance begot more love. Why, therefore, was he discarded in such a cruel manner? These things should always be considered beforehand; and you should never engage when you are likely to repent. Now, with regard to these friars, you must understand that, being one of them, I must be supposed to know something of their ways; and therefore, if I speak a little more freely concerning them, it will be more excusable, as it is all for your good. Formerly they were religious, good men; but they who call themselves so now-a-days, and would be thought such, resemble the others in nothing but their hoods; nor in those things entirely; for the first friars wore them coarse and scanty, to show their great contempt of all temporal things, when they wrapped their bodies in such a mean habit; but now they are made full, shining, and of the finest cloth that can be got; and, resembling in their cut the pontifical robes, they strut with them, like so many peacocks, in churches and all public places; and as a fisherman strives to take as many fish as possible with one cast of his net, so do these with their large folds envelop and captivate young maids, who have vowed chastity, widows, and other simple people: and this is their whole care and study; so that, to speak properly, they have not preserved the hoods of their predecessors, but only the colour of them. Formerly, also, they were solicitous for people's salvation, but now they desire only women, and as much money as they can get; for which purpose they terrify the ignorant with idle stories, making them believe that their sins are all to be purged away with alms-giving and saying of masses; for which purpose one sends bread, a second wine, and a third money, all for the souls of their departed friends. It is most certain that prayers, and giving charities, are both pleasing to God; but if people knew what sort of folks they were bestowed upon, they would sooner throw what they part with in that manner to the hogs. They know full well, that rich people are not so manageable as the poorer sort, for which reason they are for engrossing all wealth to themselves. They cry down luxury, whilst they wallow in all kinds of debauchery. They condemn usury and unjust gains, in order to purchase some great benefice or bishoprick, with what is given them by way of restitution; and which, being detained from them, would occasion (they say) that person's damnation. And when they are told of these, and many other of their wicked practices, all the answer they make is, "Do as we say, not as we do;" as if it were possible for the sheep to have more resolution and constancy than the shepherd. But they would have you do as they say, namely, fill their purses with money; entrust them with all your secrets; be chaste, patient, forgivers of injuries; and never speak an ill word, which are all very good things; but for what reason? why, truly, that they may then do what, if we acted otherwise, they could not do! We all know, without money, there can be no sloth or idleness. If you spent your money for your own diversion, they could not have it for their maintenance: if you make free with the women about you, they would want the opportunity of being with them themselves: unless you were patient, and a forgiver of injuries, they would not dare to come into your house to corrupt your family. But why do I go through so many particulars? Let them first set the example, and then teach others. Suppose, however, what the friar told you to be true, namely, that it is a great crime to break the matrimonial vow: - Is not murder as bad? If, then, after Tedaldo had fallen into such despair as to leave his country, he had laid violent hands upon himself, would not you have been the occasion of it Ì Now, by your own confession, he deserved no such usage at your hands. This, therefore, is the crime, which is attended with its due punishment; for, as you broke your engagement with Tedaldo without reason; in like manner, without reason, is your husband in danger of his life upon his account, and yourself in great trouble. All that you can do, then, to be free, is to promise, and to be as good as your word, that if ever Tedaldo returns from his long banishment you will reinstate him in the favour he enjoyed before you were over-persuaded by that mischievous friar." 

When the pilgrim had finished his long address, to which Ermellina listened with great attention, strongly impressed with the truth of what he said, she replied: "Holy man, I know that what you say is true, and I begin to see that the monks and friars are a set of very bad people, though hitherto I had a quite different opinion of them: I own myself also much to blame with regard to Tedaldo, and would do as you say, but how is it possible? He is dead; and what need is there then of making any promise about him?"

The stranger made answer, "Madam, I know that he is not dead, but alive and well, provided he has your good graces." "Be careful of what you say," she replied, "I saw him before our door, stabbed in several places, and I lamented much over him; which, I suppose, gave occasion to the scandalous story that was raised about us." - "Madam, say what you please, I assure you he is not dead; and if you will promise what I desire, I hope you will very soon see him." - "That," she replied, "I will do with all my heart; nothing could give me greater pleasure than to see my husband at liberty, and Tedaldo living." Thinking it now a fit time to discover himself, and to give her more assurance concerning her husband, "Madam," he said, "for your greater comfort, I have one secret to entrust you with, which you must keep as you value your husband's life." Then taking a ring out of his pocket, which she had given him the last night of their being together, he shewed it to her, saying, "Madam, do you know this?" She instantly remembered it, and replied, "Yes, sir, I gave it formerly to Tedaldo." - "And do you know me?"he said, raising from his seat, and throwing off his hood. Recognising Tedaldo, she started as if she had seen a ghost; and looking upon him not as one returned from Cyprus, but as newly risen from the dead, she would have fled from him; but he stopped her, saying, "Doubt not. Madam; I am your Tedaldo, alive and well; I never was dead, as you and my brothers believe." The lady began now to be a little better reconciled to him, and, throwing her arms about his neck, she cried, "Welcome home, my dear Tedaldo." He kissed her, and said, "Madam, we have no time now for these greetings; I must go and take care of your husband, of whom I hope that before tomorrow you will hear such news as will please you; and if I succeed according to my expectation, I will come and spend this evening with you; when I shall be able to give you a more full account than my time will permit at present." Resuming his former habit, therefore, taking his leave of her, he went to the prison to Aldobrandino, who lay expecting nothing but death; and being admitted by the favour of the keeper as a confessor, he sat down by him, and spoke in this manner: "I am a messenger from God (who has regard to your innocence) to bring you tidings of your deliverance; for his sake, then, I request one little favour which, if you grant, I make no doubt but that before tomorrow night you will hear of a pardon." Aldobrandino replied, "sir, you are a stranger to me, but I must suppose you to be a friend, since you are so solicitous about my deliverance. With regard to this deed, however, which has been sworn upon me, I am entirely innocent; I may have been bad enough in other respects, for which this may be a judgment upon me. Ask, then, what you please; be the request of ever such consequence, I promise to grant it, if I can obtain my liberty." "What I require," said the pilgrim, "is only a pardon for Tedaldo's four brothers, whenever they ask it of you, for having brought you into this trouble, under the belief that you were concerned in murdering their brother." Aldobrandino replied, "No one knows the sweets of revenge, and how eagerly it is coveted, but they who have received the injury; nevertheless, I forgive them, and if I obtain a pardon, I will do it in such a manner as shall be most agreeable to you." The pilgrim was pleased with this, and bid him have a good heart, for that before the next day at night he should be assured of his liberty. 

Leaving the prisoner, the pilgrim then went straight to the signiory, and taking one of the lords aside, said to him, "sir, it is the business of every one to endeavour to find out the truth, especially such as are in your station, in order that people may not suffer wrongfully; and that they who deserve punishment may have it; and this is what now brings me before you, with a view to your own honour and the confusion of the guilty. You know you have proceeded with severity against Aldobrandino, thinking you had proved upon him the murder of Tedaldo. This I aver to be false, as I shall prove to you before midnight, delivering the very murderers into your hands." The worthy lord, who was under great concern for Aldobrandino, gave ear to the stranger's story, and about midnight the two innkeepers and their maid were taken by his orders, by officers, let into the house by the pilgrim. Being threatened with the torture, they all confessed that it was they who had slain Tedaldo Ele without knowing him. Being asked the reason, they declared that it was because he would have forced one of their wives when they were abroad. Having obtained this information he retired, with the Signor's permission, and went privately to the lady Ermellina's house, to give her a full account of what had passed; and after giving her such joyful intelligence he spent the night with her, and happily ratified their thorough mutual reconciliation. 

In the morning, having acquainted her with what he meant to do, and enjoined secrecy, he went to attend to the affair of Aldobrandino; and the lords, after a full inquiry, released him, and sentenced the others to lose their heads on the spot where the murder was committed. Aldobrandino being discharged, and knowing that it was all owing to the stranger, he and his friends invited him to their houses, to make what stay he pleased, and shewed him all possible respect, the lady especially, who knew well to whom she was so obliging. And now, thinking it time to bring about a reconciliation between Aldobrandino and his brothers, who had incurred so much ill will since his discharge, that they were forced to go armed, the pilgrim claimed the fulfilment of the promise made him. Aldobrandino answered, that he was willing. The pilgrim therefore made him provide a great entertainment to which his relations and their wives were to be invited, and the four brothers with their wives, adding that he himself would ask the latter, as to his own feast. Accordingly he went to the four brothers, and after much entreaty prevailed upon them to ask pardon, in order to regain Aldobrandino's friendship; and when that was settled, he invited them to dine there the next day, giving them his word for their security. At dinner-time, therefore, the next day, Tedaldo's four brothers, all in mourning, with some of their friends, came first to Aldobrandino's house, who was expecting them; when, laying their arms down upon the ground, in presence of all the guests who had been invited to bear them company, and offering themselves to his mercy, they humbly asked his pardon. He received them with tears, and saluting them one after another, forgave the injury he had suffered. After this the sisters and their wives came also, and were graciously received by Ermellina and the other ladies. 

The entertainment was now served up, and everything was agreeable, excepting a confirmed silence, occasioned by the late sorrow, which was represented by the habit of Tedaldo's relations; on which account the stranger's contrivance and invitation appeared unseasonable to many people. This he soon perceived, and resolved to remove when he saw a fit time; accordingly, when the dessert was served up, he rose, and said, "Nothing seems wanting to make this a merry meeting but the presence of Tedaldo, whom, as you have had him so long with you without knowing him, I mean now to show you." - Throwing off then his monk's disguise, he appeared in a green silk doublet, and his features were recognised by all to their great surprise, though they gazed upon him for a considerable time before they could be convinced that he was the very person; which he perceiving, related many circumstances concerning both themselves and him for their farther satisfaction. Upon this his brothers and the rest of the men, all ran and embraced him, as did all the women except Ermellina; which, when Aldobrandino saw, he said, "What is the meaning of this, Ermellina? Why don't you welcome Tedaldo home, when everybody else has done it?" She replied, in the hearing of them all, that no one could rejoice more sincerely than herself, as she was obliged to him for her husband's life; but the scandalous words that had been given out concerning her, when that person was taken for Tedaldo, had made her cautious. Aldobrandino replied, "Away with these idle stories; do you think I regard them? He has sufficiently cleared himself by his regard for my life; do then as the rest have done." 

She desired nothing better, and was therefore not slow in obeying her husband's order. Aldobrandino's liberality was so agreeable to all present, both men and women, that their former misunderstanding was quite forgotten. After Tedaldo then had received every one's compliments, he tore the mourning off all his kindred, and ordered other clothes to be immediately brought; and having put them on, they concluded the feast with singing, dancing, and the like diversions Thence they went to Tedaldo's house, where they supped, and they continued feasting many days. 

Still the people for some time looked upon him with the utmost amazement, as one risen from the dead; and perhaps his very brethren might have yet entertained some doubt about him, if one thing had not happened which made it clear who the person was that was slain. It was this: - Some sorry fellows of Lunigiana were going one day past the house, and seeing Tedaldo at the door, they stopped, and said, "How do you do, Fativolo?" Tedaldo replied, before some of his brothers, "You mistake your man." They hearing him speak, were out of countenance, and asked pardon, saying, "Never two people were more alike than you and a companion of ours, named Fativolo da Pontrimoli, who came hither fifteen days ago, and we can't learn what has befallen him. We wondered, indeed, how he came by this dress, for he was a soldier, as we are." The eldest brother, hearing this, inquired more particularly as to the clothes of the murdered man, and finding all the circumstances agree, it now appeared plainly that it was Fativolo, and not Tedaldo, that was slain, and this set every one right with regard to that affair. Thus Tedaldo returned home rich, and continued his acquaintance with the lady, without any further interruption. May the like good fortune happen to us all! 

3-6 Ricciardo Minutolo, Philippello Fighinolfi

NOVEL VI. 

Ricciardo Minutolo is in love with the wife of Philippello Fighinolfi; and knowing her to be jealous of her husband, makes her believe that the latter was to meet his wife that night at a bagnio. Accordingly she goes thither, and, imagining she was with her husband all the time, finds herself at last with Ricciardo. 

Eliza had now concluded her story, and the queen, having commended the beau's ingenuity, laid the next charge upon Fiammetta, who began, with a smile, as follows: 

- It may be convenient to quit our own city at present, which, as it abounds in everything, is no less fruitful in examples relating to most subjects, and to recount, as Eliza has done, what has come to pass in other countries. Therefore, passing over to Naples, I shall set forth how one of those sanctified ladies, who seemed averse to all love intrigues, was, by the dexterous management of her lover, brought to taste the fruits of love, before she had known the flower of it; which will both divert you as to what is already past, and caution you, in certain points, for the time to come. 

There lived at Naples, one of the most ancient and pleasant cities in all Italy, a young gentleman of great wealth, as well as nobly descended, called Ricciardo Minutolo; who, notwithstanding he had a beautiful lady for his wife, was enamoured of another, who was thought to surpass all the women in Naples. This lady was called Catella, and was the wife of a young gentleman named Philippello Fighinolfi, whom she loved and valued above all things. Now Ricciardo being in love with her, and doing everything which he thought might gain her affections, but to no manner of purpose, fell into despair; and as he was unable to get the ascendency over his passion, he had no pleasure in living, and yet no wish to die. Continuing in this disposition, he was one day advised, by the ladies of his acquaintance, to give over his vain pursuit, seeing that Catella regarded nothing so much as her own husband, of whom she was so jealous, that she was fearful of every bird that flew over his head, lest it might snatch him from her. Ricciardo hearing of this jealous disposition, began now to conceive hopes of success; but pretending to lay all such views aside, he gave it out that he had taken a fancy to another lady, towards whom he practised the same gallantries as he had before offered to Catella; and in a little time it was universally believed, that Catella was no longer the object of his passion, but this second lady; insomuch, that the former began now to put off that reserve which had hitherto appeared in her behaviour, and to treat him with the same openness and affability as her other neighbours. 

Now it happened, the season of the year being sultry, that some companies of gentlemen and ladies went to divert themselves on the sea-shore, where they were to dine and sup; and Ricciardo knowing that Catella was gone thither with a party of people, went likewise with a set of his friends, and, after much importunity, as if he had no mind to remain there, he was persuaded to join the company of Catella and her friends. Presently all the ladies, Catella among the rest, began to banter him concerning this new love of his, at which he affected to be so much nettled that they talked all the more upon that subject. At length the members of the party being dispersed up and down, as is usual on such occasions, and Catella remaining only with a few friends where Ricciardo was, he dropped a hint of some intrigue of her husband's, which gave her a violent fit of jealousy, and she burned with impatience to know the truth. In a little time, therefore, she began to entreat Ricciardo, that, for the sake of the lady whom he loved most, he would make that matter clear to her, relating to Philippello. 

"You have conjured me," Ricciardo replied, by a person, on whose account I can refuse nothing that is asked me, only you must promise never to speak a word to him, or any other person about it, till you find it really so, which I will shew you how you may be satisfied of, as soon as you please." She was now more strongly possessed of the truth of the matter, and promised to be silent. Taking her then apart, that they might not be overheard, he thus addressed her: "Madam, if I now loved you in the manner I formerly did, I could not endure to tell you what must give you so much uneasiness; but as that is at an end, I shall be less fearful of making a full discovery. I do not know whether your husband was provoked at my loving you; or whether he had any suspicion of my being loved by you: but be this as it may, he has taken an opportunity, when I had the least cause to be jealous, of attempting to do by me, what he might suspect I meant to do by him; namely, to seduce my wife; for which purpose he has tried frequent messages, with which she has constantly made me acquainted, and returned such answers to them as I directed her. This very morning I found a woman in close conference with her, and imagining who she was, I asked my wife what the woman wanted? She told me that she came from Philipello; "who, from such answers,” continued she; "as you have made me send, from time to time, begins to have hopes of prevailing; and he now says, that he wants me to come to a resolution, and that he can so order it, that we may meet privately at a bagnio. He begs and entreats me most earnestly to be there; and were it not that you have made me hold him in suspense with such frivolous answers, I should have dealt with him in such a manner, that he should never have troubled me more.”

I bore all the rest patiently, but now he has proceeded too far, and accordingly I resolved to tell you, that you might see how he has rewarded your most faithful love, for which I was just at death's door; but, lest you should think all this groundless, and that yourself may be an eye witness of it, I ordered my wife to tell the woman that she would meet him there tomorrow at nones, when everybody would be asleep; with which answer the messenger went away well pleased. Now I would not have you suppose that I intend to send her thither, but, were I in your place, I would go instead of her, and after you have been some time together, I would then make a discovery of myself to him; by which means you would shame him from being ever guilty of the like practices hereafter, and at the same time prevent the injury which is designed both to yourself and me." 

Catella, without considering who it was that told her this, or what his designs might be, gave credit to it, as jealous people usually do to such stories; and calling to mind other circumstances to confirm it, she said, with a great deal of passion, that she would certainly do so, and that she would so confound him, that he should never more dare to look a woman in the face. 

Ricciardo was highly pleased; and now thinking that his scheme was likely to take effect, he confirmed her in that resolution, desiring her, nevertheless, not to mention what she had heard, which she accordingly promised. The next morning, then, he went to the woman who kept the bagnio, which he had mentioned to Catella, and begged her assistance in the affair, which she easily agreed to; and they contrived how it might be best effected. There was a dark room in the house, where she made up a bed, as he had directed her, and as soon as he had dined, he went thither to wait for Catella; whilst she, giving more credit to his words than she ought, returned home full of spleen. Philippello came home likewise, and, as it happened, in a very thoughtful mood, so that perhaps he did not show that fondness towards her that he usually did. This made her suspect him all the more; and she said to herself, "Truly he is taken up with thinking of the lady whom he is to meet tomorrow, but I will prevent it:" and she was considering all night long what she should say to him at their meeting. In a word, at the hour of nones she took a friend with her, and went directly to the bagnio and seeing the good woman, she inquired if Philippello was there. The woman having learned her lesson from Ricciardo, said, "Are you the lady that is to speak to him here?" Catella answered, "I am.” - "Then," said she, "go in there." Catella, who went to seek what she would not willingly have found, entered the room where Ricciardo lay, her face being covered by a veil, and locked the door behind her. Ricciardo, taking her in his arms with transport, whispered, "Welcome, my soul;" whilst she, the better to sustain her assumed character, embraced and kissed him with great demonstrations of good will, but never said a word for fear he should recognise her. The room having no window was extremely dark, which suited both parties very well, nor could they see at all even after they had been there some time. Ricciardo led her to the bed without betraying himself by his speech, and there they remained together for a long time, with more delight to the one than to the other. 

At length, when Catella thought it fit time to shew her resentment, she broke out in the following manner: "Miserable lot of women! How ill placed is the love we bear to our husbands! For these eight years have I loved you more than my whole life; whilst you, most wicked man, give yourself up entirely to another woman. Whom do you think you are now with? You are with her, whom you have so often deceived with your false flatteries, pretending affection, when you had placed it elsewhere. Perfidious villain! I am Catella, and not Ricciardo's wife. Do you know my voice or not? I am, I tell you; and I think it long till I bring you into the light, to confound you with shame as you deserve. 

Alas! whom have I loved in this manner for so many years! Whom but this wretch, who, supposing himself in bed with another woman, has shewn more fondness than he ever did to me since we were married. Brisk enough you have proved yourself today, you renegade dog, that are so feeble and good for nothing at home. But, thank Heaven, it is in your own vineyard you have been labouring, not in another's, as you fancied. No wonder you did not come near me last night; you wanted to husband your strength that you might display all your prowess in another field. But once more, thank Heaven and my own foresight, the water has run in its regular channel, as it ought. Why do not you answer, you villain? Are you struck dumb with what I have said? I have a good mind to pull your eyes out of your head. You thought it had been all a secret; but you were mistaken." Ricciardo was greatly amused to hear her talk thus, and returned no answer but by his caresses; whilst she, resuming her complaints, exclaimed, "If you think to wheedle me in this manner you are mistaken; I will never rest till I have exposed you to all our neighbours and friends. Am I not as handsome as the wife of Ricciardo? Am I not as good a gentlewoman as she? Hands off; touch me not; you have performed exploits enough for one day. And now that you know who I am, whatever you might do would be all forced; but if I live you shall often be fain to ask, and get No! for your answer. I see no reason why I should not send to Ricciardo, who once loved me passionately, and yet could never boast that I vouchsafed to give him one kind look; and who knows what mischief may then ensue? You thought you had been with his wife all this time, and you are equally guilty as if you really had: therefore, were I to prove criminal with him, you could not blame me." 

Her complaints were long and outrageous; till at length he began to think that if she was suffered to depart in this mood, mischief would certainly ensue; therefore he resolved to undeceive her: and holding her so fast in his arms, that she could not get away, he said to her, "My life, do not make yourself uneasy; that which I could not have by dint of love, I have obtained by stratagem; I am your Ricciardo." She hearing this, and knowing his voice, would have leaped out of bed, but could not; and as she was going to cry out, he laid his hand upon her mouth, and said, "Madam, what has been now done cannot be undone were you to cry all your life long; and if it be made public by any means, two things must happen. The first, which is of great concern to you, is, that your honour and good name will be called in question; for though you should allege your being deceived, I will contradict it, and say that you came hither for reward, and because I would not give you as much as you expected, for that reason you made all this disturbance; and you know people are always more ready to believe what is bad, than what is good, of another, on which account my story would find the most credit. In the second place, a mortal enmity must ensue betwixt me and your husband; and things may be carried so far, that he may kill me, or I him, which would give yon great uneasiness: therefore, my dearest life, do not lessen yourself and make mischief between us. You are not the first, nor will be the last, that has been imposed upon. It is not to deprive you of your honour, but it is the abundant regard I have for you that has put me upon using this device: and from this time forth myself, and all I am worth, shall be at your service. As you are discreet then in other things, I hope you will be so in this." 

She expressed the utmost grief whilst he was speaking these words; but having listened so far to what he said, as to be convinced that it was reasonable, she replied, "I do not know how God will enable me to bear both the injury and the trick you have put upon me; I will make no noise here, where I have been brought by my own foolishness and over great jealousy; but this you may depend upon, that I shall never be at rest till I see myself revenged one way or other: therefore let me go; you have gained your point, and have done what you pleased; it is time to leave me, leave me then I beseech you." Ricciardo, who saw the anguish of her heart, resolved not to part with her before he made peace; using, therefore, all the kind and tender expressions he could think of to mollify her, he begged and prayed so earnestly that at last he made his peace, and they remained together a long while, with equal good will on both sides, and with great mutual delight. In fine, the lady having experienced how much more racy were the lover's kisses than the husband's, her former cruelty to Ricciardo was changed into the warmest passion. She loved him ever after, and many a time were they happy in each other's arms. Heaven send us all the like good fortune. 

[I do not think, says Dunlop ("History of Fiction"), that this story occurs either in the selections of Tableux published by Barbazan, or Le Grand, but I have little doubt that it exists among those which have not been brought to light. The incident has been a favourite one with subsequent novelists. For example, it corresponds with one of the tales of Sacchetti, and with the fourth of the Fourth Decade of Cinthio. It has also been versified by La Fontaine, in his 'Richard Minutolo."

3-5 Ricciardo, Beau, Francesco Vergellesi

NOVEL V. 

Ricciardo, surnamed the Beau, makes a present of a fine horse to Francesco Vergellesi, upon condition that he should have the liberty of speaking to his wile; and she making him no reply, he answers for her, which accordingly has its effect. 

The ladies all smiled at Pamfilo's story, when the queen laid her next commands upon Eliza, who began pretty smartly, according to her usual manner, to the following effect: - There are many people who know so much, that they think others know nothing at all; and who, whilst they are designing to overreach others, are themselves outwitted; therefore, I hold that person very unwise, who puts another man's wits to the test, without any occasion: but as all of you may not be of my opinion, I will tell you what happened to a knight of Pistoia. In the town of Pistoia there lived, not long since, a knight named Francesco, of the family of the Vergellesi; a rich and prudent man in all respects, but covetous beyond measure. Being made provost of the city of Milan, and having furnished himself with everything necessary for such a high office, excepting a fine horse, he was at a loss where to meet with one that should please him. In the same town lived also a young gentleman, called Ricciardo, of no great family, but rich enough; a person so neat always and exact in his dress, that he was called the Beau; and who had long admired and followed the lady of Francesco, but hitherto without success. Now he was possessed of one of the most beautiful horses in all Tuscany, which he set a high value upon; but as it was known what a respect he bore towards Francesco's wife, Francesco was given to understand, that, if he would ask it of him, the other would gladly make him a present of the horse upon that account. He, therefore, moved by his avarice, requested the beau to sell him his horse, expecting, at the same time, that he should receive it as a gift. The other was much pleased with this, and said, "sir, all you have in the world could not purchase that horse; but you may have him for nothing, provided I may first have leave to say a word or two to your wife in your presence, at such a distance from every one that I may not be overheard." Francesco, overswayed by his covetous temper, and thinking to make a fool of the other, answered, that he was willing, as soon as he pleased; and leaving him in the hall, he went upstairs to his wife, to tell her how easily he was going to get the horse, and to enjoin her to hear what the beau had to say, but to make him no answer, little or much. She blamed him for it, but, being bound to obey, went with him into the hall, to hear what the other had to offer. The beau, then leading her to a seat at the farthest part of the room, began in this manner: "I make no doubt, most worthy lady, but that you have long perceived how great a slave I am to the force of your beauty, which far exceeds that of all the ladies I ever beheld; not to mention your personal accomplishments, enough to vanquish the most resolute and insensible of men: therefore, it would be needless to tell you by words, that my love is the most fervent that a man can possibly have for a woman; and so it shall continue whilst life shall actuate these frail limbs; and even to eternity, if we love in the next world as we do in this. Be assured, then, that you can call nothing your own, so much as me and mine: and to give you proof of this, I should take it as a singular favour, if you would command me such a service as it is possible for me to perform, seeing there is nothing I should refuse for your sake. To you, therefore, whose I am, and on whom all my peace and happiness depend, I address myself for relief; humbly hoping, as I am wounded to the heart by your beauty, that your merciful goodness will not suffer me to perish. For suppose I should die, you could not help saying to yourself, - Alas! why did I not show some pity to my poor beau? which remorse would be greatly to your disquiet. Think, therefore, before it is too late; for it is in your power to make me either the happiest or most miserable of men. I hope, however, that the love I bear you will not be rewarded with death; but that you will speak one word of comfort to raise my drooping spirits, which are ready to take flight, whilst I am now before you." Here he ended, and with tears streaming from his eyes, and heaving deep sighs, sat expecting the lady's answer; whilst she, who had been hitherto unmoved, notwithstanding all his tilts, balls, serenadings, and such-like gallantries, was now heartily affected with his last most tender expressions; and began to feel that passion to which she had been hitherto a stranger; and though she was silent, out of regard to her husband's commands, yet could she not avoid disclosing, by her sighs, what she had much rather have declared by words. 

The beau, having waited some time, and finding she made no answer, at first wondered very much; but he soon began to suspect that it was a trick of her husband's: and looking earnestly at her, and observing the sparkling of her eyes, cast now and then towards him, and some secret sobbings which she strove in vain to stifle; he began to take courage, and immediately hit on a new method, namely, to answer himself in the same manner as if she had spoken; which he did to this effect: - "Dear sir, I have most assuredly been a long witness of the great love you bear towards me, and am now farther convinced of it from your words, with which I am well satisfied, as indeed I ought: and if I appealed displeased or hard-hearted, do not imagine that I was really so; I always loved you far beyond every other person, but that behaviour was necessary, for fear of other people, and to preserve my own character: the time is now come when I have it in my power to repay your love: then be of good cheer; in a few days my husband goes to be provost at Milan, and as you have given him your favourite horse for my sake, I promise you, upon my word, that then you shall have admittance, and (that I may have no occasion to speak to you again upon the subject, till the very time) take notice, that, as soon as you shall perceive two handkerchiefs hanging out of the window, which looks toward the garden, you must be careful nobody sees you, and come to me through the door, into the garden, where I shall be expecting you." 

Having said this, as for the lady, he answered in his own person as follows: "Dear madam, I am so transported with your reply, that I scarcely know how to return you due thanks; but, were I able, no time would be sufficient to do it in the manner I could wish, and as I ought: I leave it therefore for you to imagine, as I find it impossible to describe: you may depend, however, on my being punctual to what you have proposed, and I shall always have a due sense of the great favour conferred upon me. Nothing now remains, my dearest love, but till that time to bid you adieu." All this while the lady said not one word. Ricciardo then stood up, and made towards the knight, who, coming to meet him, said with a smile, "Well, what think you, sir, have I performed my promise or not?" - "By no means," replied the beau, "for you promised that I should speak to your lady, and you have given mc a statue to talk to." The knight was much pleased with this, and if he had a good opinion of his lady before, he had now a better. Afterwards he said, "You allow, I suppose, that the horse is mine." The beau replied, "Most certainly I do; but could I have thought no better success would have ensued on the bargain, I would have given him without any consideration, for as it is, you have bought him, and I not sold him." The knight laughed heartily, and being now provided with a horse, he set out, in a few days, for Milan, and entered upon his office. The lady, being then at liberty, began to think a little of the beau's words, and the regard he had for her; and seeing him often pass by her house, she said to herself, "What am I about? Why do I lose all this time? My husband is at Milan, and will not return these six months, and when shall I meet with such another lover? There is none here that I need to be afraid of. I do not see why I should not make use of the opportunity, whilst I have it. Nobody will know it, or if they should, it is better to do it and repent, than to repent and not do it." Having made up her mind, therefore, she put two handkerchiefs out of the window, as the beau had said. This he saw with a great deal of joy, and that very night went privately to the garden-door, which was open, as was also the door into the house, where he found the lady waiting for him: and though this was their first meeting, it was not the last, for, during the husband's stay at Milan, and even after his return, they found means of being frequently together, to their great mutual joy. 

[La Fontaine's "Magnifique” and a drama by La Motte, have been taken from this tale. It seems also to have suggested a scene in Ben Johnson's comedy, "The Devil is an Ass,” where Willepol makes a present of a cloak to a husband, for leave to pay his addresses to the wife for a quarter of an hour.]