"Variants and Analogues of XI and XII" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burtons Version)

SER GIOVANNI’S VERSION

There were once two very intimate friends, both of the family of Saveli, in Rome; the name of one of whom was Bucciolo; that of the other Pietro Paolo, both of good birth and easy circumstances.  Expressing a mutual wish to study for a while together at Bologna they took leave of their relatives and set out.  One of them attached himself to the study of the civil law, the other to that of the canon law, and thus they continued to apply themselves for some length of time.  But the subject of Decretals takes a much narrower range than is embraced by the common law, so Bucciolo, who pursued the former, made greater progress than did Pietro Paolo, and, having taken a licentiate’s degree, he began to think of returning to Rome.  “You see, my dear fellow student,” he observed to his friend Paolo, “I am now a licentiate, and it is time for me to think of moving homewards.”  “Nay, not so,” replied his companion; “I have to entreat you will not think of leaving me here this winter.  Stay for me till spring, and we can return together.  In the meantime you may pursue some other study, so that you need not lose any time;” and to this Bucciolo at length consented, promising to await his relative’s own good time.

Having thus resolved, he had immediate recourse to his former tutor, informing him of his determination to bear his friend company a little longer, and entreating to be employed in some pleasant study to beguile the period during which he had to remain.  The professor begged him to suggest something he should like, as he should be very happy to assist him in its attainment.  “My worthy tutor,” replied Bucciolo, “I think I should like to learn the way in which one falls in love, and the best manner to begin.”  “O very good!” cried the tutor, laughing.  “You could not have hit upon anything better, for you must know that, if such be your object, I am a complete adept in the art.  To lose no time, in the first place go next Sunday to the church of the Frati Minori (Friars Minor of St. Francis), where all the ladies will be clustered together, and pay proper attention during service in order to discover if any one of them in particular happens to please you.  When you have done this, keep your eye upon her after service, to see the way she takes to her residence, and then come back to me.  And let this be the first lesson--the first part--of that in which it is my intention to instruct you.”  Bucciolo went accordingly, and taking his station the next Sunday in the church, as he had been directed, his eyes, wandering in every direction, were fixed upon all the pretty women in the place, and upon one in particular, who pleased him above all the rest.  She was by far the most beautiful and attractive lady he could discover, and on leaving church he took care to obey his master and follow her until he had made himself acquainted with her residence.  Nor was it long before the young lady began to perceive that the student was smitten with her; upon which Bucciolo returned to his master and informed him of what he had done.  “I have,” said he, “learned as much as you ordered me, and have found somebody I like very well.”  “So far, good,” cried the professor, not a little amused at the sort of science to which his pupil had thus seriously devoted himself--“so far, good!  And now observe what I have next to say to you: Take care to walk two or three times a day very respectfully before her house, casting your eyes about you in such a way that no one may catch you staring in her face; look in a modest and becoming manner, so that she cannot fail to notice and be struck with it.  And then return to me; and this, sir, will be the second lesson in this gay science.”

So the scholar went and promenaded with great discretion before the lady’s door, who observed that he appeared to be passing to and fro out of respect to one of the inhabitants.  This attracted her attention, for which Bucciolo very discreetly expressed his gratitude by looks and bows, which being as often returned, the scholar began to be aware that the lady liked him.  He immediately went and told the professor all that had passed, who replied, “Come, you have done very well.  I am hitherto quite satisfied.  It is now time for you to find some way of speaking to her, which you may easily do by means of those gipsies who haunt the streets of Bologna, crying ladies’ veils, purses and other articles for sale.  Send word by her that you are the lady’s most faithful, devoted servant, and that there is no one in the world you so much wish to please.  In short, let her urge your suit, and take care to bring the answer to me as soon as you have received it.  I will then tell you how you are to proceed.”

Departing in all haste, he soon found a little old pedlar woman, quite perfect in the trade, to whom he said he should take it as a particular favour if she would do one thing, for which he would reward her handsomely.  Upon this she declared her readiness to serve him in anything he pleased.  “For you know,” she added, “it is my business to get money in every way I can.”  Bucciolo gave her two florins, saying, ‘I wish you to go for me to-day as far as the Via Maccarella, where resides a young lady of the name of Giovanna, for whom I have the very highest regard.  Pray tell her so, and recommend me to her most affectionately, so as to obtain for me her good graces by every means in your power.  I entreat you to have my interest at heart, and to say such pretty things as she cannot refuse to hear.”  “O leave that to me, sir,” said the little old woman, “I will not fail to say a good word for you at the proper time.”  “Delay not,” said Bucciolo, “but go now, and I will wait for you here;” and she set off at once, taking her basket of trinkets under her arm.  On approaching the place, she saw the lady before the door, enjoying the air and curtseying to her very low, “Do I happen to have anything here you would fancy?” she said, displaying her wares.  “Pray, take something, madam--whatever pleases you best.”  Veils, stays, purses, and mirrors were now spread in the most tempting way before the lady’s eyes.  Out of all these things her attention seemed to be most attracted by a beautiful purse, which, she observed, if she could afford, she should like to purchase. “Nay, madam,” exclaimed the crone, “do not think anything about the price--take anything yo please, since they are all paid for already, I assure you.”  Surprised at hearing this, and perceiving the very respectful manner of the speaker, the lady rejoined, “Do you know what you are saying?  What do you mean by that?”  The old woman, pretending now to be much affected, said, “Well, madam, if it must be so, I shall tell you.  It is very true that a young gentleman of the name of Bucciolo sent me hither; one who loves you better than all the world besides.  There is nothing he would not do to please you, and indeed he appears to very wretched because he cannot speak to you, and he is so very good, that it is quite a pity.  I think it will be the death of him, and then he is such a fine--such an elegant--young man, the more is the pity!”  on hearing this, the lady, blushing deeply, turned sharply round upon the little old woman, exclaiming, “O you wicked creature! were it not for the sake of my own reputation, I would give you such a lesson that you should remember it to the latest day of your life!  A pretty story to come before decent people with! Are you not ashamed of yourself to let such words come out of your mouth?”  then seizing an iron bar that lay across the doorway, “Ill betide you, little wretch!” she cried, as she brandished it.  “If you ever come this way again, depend on it, you will never go back alive!”  the trembling old trot, quickly bundling up her wares, scampered off, in dread of feeling that cruel weapon on her shoulders, nor did she think of stopping till she had reached the place where Bucciolo stood waiting her return.  Eagerly inquiring the news and how she succeeded, “O very badly--very badly,” answered the crone.  “I was never in such a fright in all my life.  Why, she will neither see nor listen to you, and if I had not run away, I should have felt the weight of a great iron bar upon my shoulders.  For my own part, I shall go there no more; and I advise you, signor, to look to yourself how you proceed in such affairs in future.”

Poor Bucciolo became quite disconsolate, and returned in all haste to acquaint the professor with this unlucky result.  But the professor, not a whit cast down, consoled him, saying, “Do not despair; a tree is not levelled at a single stroke, you know.  I think you must have a repetition of your lesson to-night.  So go and walk before her door as usual; notice how she eyes you, and whether she appears angry or not, and then come back again to me.”  Bucciolo accordingly proceeded without delay to the lady’s house.  The moment she perceived him she called her maid and said to her, “Quick, quick--hasten after the young man--that is he, and tell him from me that he must come and speak with me this evening without fail--without fail.”  The girl soon came up with Bucciolo and thus addressed him: “My lady, signor, my lady, Giovanna, would be glad of your company this evening, she would be very glad to speak with you.”  Greatly surprised at this, Bucciolo replied, “Tell your lady I shall be most happy to wait upon her,” so saying, he set off once more to the professor, and reported the progress of the affair.  But this time the master looked a little more serious; for, from some trivial circumstances put together, he began to entertain suspicions that the lady was (as it really turned out) no other than his own wife.  So he rather anxiously inquired of Bucciolo whether he intended to accept the invitation.  “To be sure I do,” replied his pupil.  “Then,” said the professor, “promise that you will come here before you set off.”  “Certainly I will,” answered Bucciolo readily, and took his leave.

Now Bucciolo was far from suspecting that the lady bore so near a relationship to his respected tutor, although the latter began to be rather uneasy as to the result, feeling some twinges of jealousy which were by no means pleasant.  For he passed most of his winter evenings at the college where he gave lectures, and not unfrequently remained there for the night.  “I should be sorry,” said he to himself, “if this young gentleman were learning these things at my expense, and I must therefore know the real state of the case.”  In the evening his pupil called according to promise, saying, “Worthy master, I am now ready to go.”  “Well, go,” replied the professor; “but be wise, Signor Bucciolo--be wise and think more than once what you are about.”  “Trust me for that,” said the scholar, a little piqued: “I shall go well provided, and not walk into the mouth of danger unarmed.”  And away he went, furnished with a good cuirass, a rapier, and a stiletto in his belt.  He was no sooner on his way than the professor slipped out quietly after him, dogging his steps closely, until, trembling with rage, he saw him stop at his own house-door, which, on a smart tap being given, was quickly opened by the lady herself and the pupil admitted.  When the professor saw that it was indeed his own wife, he was quite overwhelmed and thought, “Alas, I fear this young fellow has learned more than he confesses at my expense;” and vowing to be revenged, he ran back to the college, where arming himself with sword and dagger, he then hastened to his house in a terrible passion. Arriving at his own door, he knocked loudly, and the lady, sitting before the fire with Bucciolo, instantly knew it was her husband, so taking hold of Bucciolo, she concealed him hurriedly under a heap of damp clothes lying on a table near the window for ironing, which done, she ran to the door and inquired who was there.  “Open quickly,” exclaimed the professor.  “You vile woman, you shall soon know who is here!”  On opening the door, she beheld him with a drawn sword, and cried in well-affected alarm, “O my dearest life, what means this?”  “You know very well what it means,” said he.  “The villain is now in the house.”  “Good Heaven! what is that you say?” exclaimed the lady.  “Are you gone out of your wits? Come and search the house, and if you find anybody, I will give you leave to kill me on the spot.  What! do you think I should now begin to misconduct myself as I never before did – as none of my family ever did before? Beware lest the Evil One should be tempting you, and, suddenly depriving you of your senses, draw you to perdition!”  But the professor, calling for candles, began to search the house from the cellar upwards--among the tubs and casks--in every place but the right place--running his sword through the beds and under the beds, and into every inch of the bedding--leaving no corner or crevice of the whole house untouched.  The lady accompanied him with a candle in her hand, frequently interrupting him with, “Say your beads--say your beads, good signor; it is certain that the Evil One is dealing with you, for were I half so bad as you esteem me, I would kill myself with my own hands.  But I entreat you not to give way to this evil suggestion: oppose the adversary while you can.”  Hearing these virtuous observations of his wife, and not being able to discover any one after the strictest search, the professor began to think that he must, after all, be possessed, and presently extinguished the lights and returned to the college.  The lady, on shutting the door after him, called out to Bucciolo to come from his hiding place, and then, stirring the fire, began to prepare a fine capon for supper, with some delicious wines and fruits.  And thus they regaled themselves, highly entertained with each other, nor was it their least satisfaction that the professor had just left them, apparently convinced that they had learned nothing at his expense.

Proceeding to the college the next morning, Bucciolo, without the least suspicion of the truth, informed his master that he had something for his ear which he was sure would make him laugh.  “How so?” demanded the professor. “Why,” said his pupil, “you must know that last night, just as I had entered the lady’s house, who should come in but her husband, and in such a rage!  He searched the whole house from top to bottom, without being able to find me.  I lay under a heap of newly-washed clothes, which were not half dry.  In short, the lady placed her part so well that the poor gentleman forthwith took his leave, and we afterwards ate a fine capon for supper and drank such wines--and with such zest!  It was really one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life.  But I think I’ll go and take a nap, for I promised to return this evening about the same hour.”  “Then be sure before you go,” said the professor, trembling with suppressed rage, “be sure to come and tell me when you set out.”  “O certainly,” responded Bucciolo, and away he went.  Such was now the unhappy tutor’s condition as to render him incapable of delivering a single lecture during the whole day, and such was his extreme vexation and eagerness for evening, that he spent his time in arming himself with sword and dagger and cuirass, meditating only upon deeds of blood.  At the appointed time came Bucciolo, with the utmost innocence, saying, “My dear master, I am going now.”  “Yes, go,” replied the professor, “and come back to-morrow morning, if you can, and tell me how you have fared.”  “I intend doing so,” said Bucciolo, and departed at a brisk pace for the house of the lady.

Armed cap-B-pie, the professor ran out after him, keeping pretty close to his heels, with the intention of catching him just as he entered.  But the lady, being on the watch, opened the door suddenly for the pupil and shut it in her husband’s face.  The professor began to knock and to call out with a furious noise.  Extinguishing the light in a moment, the lady placed Bucciolo behind the door, and throwing her arms round her husband’s neck as he entered, motioned to her lover while thus she held his enemy to make his escape, and he, upon the husband’s rushing forward, slipped out from behind the door unperceived.  She then began to scream as loud as she could, “Help! Help! The professor has gone mad! Will nobody help me?” for he was in an ungovernable rage, and she clung faster to him than before.  The neighbors running to her assistance and seeing the peaceable professor armed with deadly weapons, and his wife crying out, “Help, for the love of Heaven!--too much study hath driven him mad!”{ they readily believed such to be the fact.  “Come, good signor,” they said, “what is all this about?  Try to compose yourself--nay, do not struggle so hard, but let us help you to your couch.”  “How can I rest, think you,” he replied, “while this wicked woman harbours paramours in my house?  I saw him come in with my own eyes.”  “Wretch that I am!” cried his wife.  “inquire of all my friends and neighbors whether any one of them ever saw anything the least unbecoming in my conduct.”  The whole party entreated the professor to lay such thoughts aside, for there was not a better lady breathing, or one who set a higher value upon her reputation.  “But how can that be,” said he, “when I saw him enter the house, and he is in it now?”  in the meanwhile the lady’s two brothers arrived, when she began to weep bitterly, exclaiming, “O my dear brothers, my poor husband has gone mad, quite mad--and he even says there is a man in the house.  I believe he would kill me if he could; but you know me too well to listen for a moment to such a story,” and she continued to weep.

The brothers then accosted the professor in no gentle terms:  “We are surprised, signor--we are shocked to find that you dare bestow such epithets on our sister.  What can have led you, after living so amicably together, to bring these charges against her now?” “I can only tell you,” answered the professor, “that there is a man in the house.  I saw him enter.”  “Then come, and let us find him.  Show him to us,” retorted the incensed brothers, “for we will sift this matter to the bottom.  Show us the man, and we will then punish her in such a way as will satisfy you.”  One of the brothers, taking his sister aside, said, “First tell me, have you really got any one hidden in the house? Tell the truth.”  “Heavens!” cried his sister, “I tell you, I would rather suffer death.  Should I be the first to bring a scandal on our house?  I wonder you are not ashamed to mention such a thing.”  Rejoiced to hear this, the brothers, directed by the professor, at once commenced a search.  Half frantic, he led them at once to the great bundle of linen, which he pierced through and through with his sword, firmly believing that he was killing Bucciolo, all the while taunting him at every blow.  “There! I told you,” cried his wife, “that he was mad.  To think of destroying your own property thus!  It is plain he did not help to get them up,” she continued, whimpering--“all my best clothes!”

Having now sought everywhere in vain, one of the brothers observed, “He is indeed mad,” to which the other agreed, while he again attacked the professor in the bitterest terms:  “You have carried matters too far, signor; your conduct to our sister is shameful, and nothing but insanity can excuse it.”  Vexed enough before, the professor upon this flew into a violent passion, and brandished his naked sword in such a way that the others were obliged to use their sticks, which they did so very effectively that, after breaking them over his head, they chained him down like a maniac upon the floor, declaring he had lost his wits by excessive study, and taking possession of his house, they remained with their sister all night.  next morning they sent for a physician, who ordered a couch to be placed as near as possible to the fire, that no one should be allowed to speak or reply to the patient, and that he should be strictly dieted until he recovered his wits; and this regimen was diligently enforced. [FN#489]

A report immediately spread through Bologna that the good professor had become insane, which caused very general regret, his friends observing to each other, “It is indeed a bad business; but I suspected yesterday how it was--he could scarcely get a word out as he was delivering his lecture, did you not perceive?”  “Yes,” said another, “I saw him change colour, poor fellow.”  And by everybody, everywhere, it was decided that the professor was mad.  In this situation numbers of his scholars went to see him, and among the rest Bucciolo, knowing nothing of what had happened, agreed to accompany them to the college, desirous of acquainting his master with last night’s adventure.  What was his surprise to learn that he had actually taken leave of his senses, and being directed on leaving the college to the professor’s house, he was almost panic-struck on approaching the place, beginning to comprehend the whole affair.  Yet, in order that no one might be led to suspect the truth, he walked into the house along with the rest, and on reaching a certain apartment which he knew, he beheld his poor tutor almost beaten to a mummy, and chained down upon his bed, close to the fire.  His pupils were standing round condoling with him and lamenting his piteous case.  At length it came to Bucciolo’s turn to say something to him, which he did as follows:  “My dear master, I am truly concerned for you as if you were my own father, and if there is anything in which I can be of service to you, command me as your own son.”  To this the poor professor only replied, “No, Bucciolo, depart in peace, my pupil; depart, for you have learned much, very much, at my expense.”  Here his wife interrupted him: “You see how he wanders--heed not what he says--pay no attention to him, signor.”  Bucciolo, however, prepared to depart, and taking a hasty leave of the professor, he proceeded to the lodging of his friend Pietro Paolo, and said to him, “Fare you well.  god bless you, my friend.  I must away; and I have lately learned so much at other people’s expense that I am going home.”  So saying, he hurried away, and in due course arrived in safety in Rome.

The affliction of the professor of Giovanni’s sprightly tale will probably be considered by most readers as well-merited punishment; the young gallant proved an apt scholar in the art of love, and here was the inciter to evil repaid with the same coin!

Straparola also tells the story, but in a different form, in his “Pleasant Nights” (Piacevoli Notti), First Day, second novella; and his version is taken into a small collection entitled “Tarlton’s Newes out of Purgatorie,” first published in or before 1590--a catchpenny tract in which, of course, Dick Tarlton had never a hand, any more than he had in the collection of jests which goes under his name.



STRAPAROLA’S VERSION [FN#490]

In Pisa, a famous city of Italye, there lived a gentleman of good lineage and landes, feared as well for his wealth, as honoured for his vertue, but indeed well thought on for both; yet the better for his riches.  This gentleman had one onelye daughter, called Margaret, who for her beauty was liked of all, and desired of many.  But neither might their sutes nor her owne prevaile about her father’s resolution, who was determyned not to marrye her, but to such a man as should be able in abundance to maintain the excellency of her beauty.  Divers young gentlemen proffered large feoffments, but in vaine, a maide shee must bee still: till at last an olde doctor in the towne, that professed phisicke, became a sutor to her, who was a welcome man to her father, in that he was one of the wealthiest men in all Pisa; a tall stripling he was and a proper youth, his age about foure score, his heade as white as milke, wherein for offence sake there was left never a tooth.  But it is no matter, what he wanted in person he had in the purse, which the poore gentlewoman little regarded, wishing rather to tie herself to one that might fit her content, though they lived meanly, then to him with all the wealth in Italye.  But shee was yong, and forcst to follow her father’s direction, who, upon large covenants, was content his daughter should marry with the doctor, and whether she likte him or no, the match was made up, and in short time she was married.  The poore wench was bound to the stake, and had not onely an olde impotent man, but one that was so jealous, as none might enter into his house without suspition, nor shee doo any thing without blame; the least glance, the smallest countenance, any smile was a manifest instance to him that she thought of others better than himselfe.  Thus he himselfe lived in a hell, and tormented his wife in as ill perplexitie.

At last it chaunced that a young gentleman of the citie, coming by her house, and seeing her looke out at her window, noting her rare and excellent proportion, fell in love with her, and that so extreamelye, as his passions had no meanes till her favour might mittigate his heart sicke discontent.  The yong man that was ignorant in amorous matters, and had never beene used to courte anye gentlewoman, thought to reveale his passions to some one freend that might given him counsaile for the winning of her love, and thinking experience was the surest maister, on a daye seeing the olde doctor walkinge in the churche that was Margaret’s husband, little knowing who he was, he thought this the fittest man to whom he might discover his passions, for that hee was olde and knew much, and was a phisition that with his drugges might helpe him forward in his purposes, so that seeing the olde man walke solitary, he joinde unto him, and after a curteous salute, tolde him that he was to impart a matter of great import to him, wherein, if hee would not onely be secrete, but indevour to pleasure him, his pains should bee every way to the full considered.  You must imagine, gentleman, quoth Mutio, for so was the doctor’s name, that men of our profession are no blabs, but hold their secrets in their hearts bottome, and therefore reveale what you please, it shall not onely be concealed, but cured, if either my art or counsaile may doo it.  Upon this, Lyonell, so was the young gentleman called, told and discourst unto him from point to point, how he was falne in love with a gentlewoman that was married to one of his profession, discovered her dwelling and the house, for that he was unacquainted with the woman, and a man little experienced in love matters, he required his favour to further him with his advice.  Mutio at this motion was stung to the hart, knowing it was his wife hee was fallen in love withall, yet to conceale the matter, and to experience his wive’s chastity, and that if she plaide false, he might be revenged on them both, he dissembled the matter, and answered that he knewe the woman very well, and commended her highly: but said she had a churle to her husband, and therefore he thought shee would bee the more tractable: Trye her, man, quoth hee, fainte harte never wonne faire lady, and if shee will not be brought to the bent of your bowe, I will provide such a potion as shall dispatch all to your owne content: and to give you further instructions for oportunitie, knowe that her husband is foorth every after-noone from three till sixe.  Thus farre I have advised you, because I pitty your passions, as my selfe being once a lover, but now I charge thee reveale it to none whomsoever, least it doo disparage my credit to meddle in amorous matters.

The yong gentleman not onely promised all carefull secrecy, but gave him harty thanks for his good counsell, promising to meete him there the next day, and tell him what newes.  Then hee left the old man, who was almost mad for feare his wife any way should play false; he saw by experience brave men came to besiege the castle, and seeing it was in woman’s custodie, and had so weeke a governor as himselfe, he doubted it would in time be delivered up: which feare made him almost franticke, yet he drivde of the time great torment, till he might heare from his rival.  Lionello he hastes him home and sutes him in his braverye, and goes downe toward the house of Mutio, where he sees her at the windowe whome he courted with a passionate looke, with such humble salute and shee might perceive how the gentleman was affectionate.  Margaretta, looking earnestlye upon him, and noting the perfection of his proportion, accounted him in her eye the flower of all Pisa, thinkte herselfe fortunate if shee might have him for her freend, to supply the defaultes that she found in Mutio.  Sundry times that afternoone he past by her window, and he cast not up more loving lookes, than he received gratious favours, which did so incourage him that the next daye betweene three and sixe hee went to her house, and knocking at the doore, desired to speake with the mistris of the house, who hearing by her maid’s description what he was, commaunded him to come in, where she intertained him with all courtesie.

The youth that never before had given the attempt to court a ladye, began his exordium with a blushe; and yet went forward so well, that hee discourst unto her howe hee loved her, and that if it might please her to accept of his service, as of a freende ever vowde in all dutye to bee at her commaunde, the care of her honour should bee deerer to him than his life, and hee would be ready to prise her discontent with his bloud at all times.  The gentlewoman was a little coye, but, before they part, they concluded that the next daye at foure of the clock hee should come thither and eate a pound of cherries, which was resolved on with a succado des labras, and so with a loath to depart they tooke their leaves.  Lionello as joyfull a man as might be, hyed him to the church to meete his olde doctor, where he found him in his olde walke: What newes, syr, quoth Mutio, how have you sped?  Even as I can wishe, quoth Lionello, for I have been with my mistrisse, and have found her so tractable, that I hope to make the olde peasant, her husband, looke broadheaded by a paire of browantlers.  How deepe this strooke into Mutio’s hart, let them imagine that can conjecture what jealousie is; insomuch that the olde doctor askte when should be the time.  marry, quoth Lionello, at foure of the clocke in the afternoone, and then Maister Doctor, quoth hee, will I dub the old squire knight of the forked order.

Thus they past on in that, till it grew late, and then Lyonello went home to his lodging and Mutio to his house, covering all his sorrows with a merrye countenance, with full resolution to revenge them both the next daye with extremitie.  He past the night as patiently as he could, and the next daye, after dinner, awaye hee went, watching when it should bee foure of the clocke.  At the hour justly came Lyonello and was intertained with all curtesie; but scarce had they kist, ere the maid cryed out to her mistresse that her maister was at the doore; for he hasted, knowing that a horne was but a litle while in grafting.  Margaret, at this alarum, was amazed, and yet for a shift chopt Lionello into a great driefatte [FN#491] full of feathers, [FN#492] and sat her downe close to her woorke.  By that came Mutio in blowing, and as though hee came to looke somewhat in haste, called for the keyes of his chamber, and looked in everye place, searching so narrowlye in everye corner of the house, that he left not the very privie unsearcht.  Seeing he could not finde him, hee said nothing, but fayning himselfe not well at ease, staide at home, so that poor Lionello was faine to staye in the drifatte till the old churle was in bed with his wife; and then the maide let him out at a backe doore, who went home with a flea in his eare to his lodging.

Well, the next day he went againe to meete his doctor, whome he founde in his wonted  walke.  What newes? Quoth Mutio, how have you sped?  A poxe of the olde slave, quoth Lyonello; I was no sooner in and had given my mistresse one kisse, but the jelous asse was at the doore; the maide spied him, and cryed her maister; so that the poore gentlewoman, for very shifte, was faine to put me in a driefatte of feathers that stoode in an olde chamber, and there I was faine to tarry while [FN#493] he was in bed and a-sleepe, and then the maide let me out, and I departed.  But it is no matter; ’twas but a chaunce, and I hope to crye quittance with him ere it be long.  As how? Quoth Mutio.  Marry, thus, quoth Lionello: shee sent me woord by her maide this daye that upon Thursday next the olde churle suppeth with a patient of his a mile out of Pisa, and then I feare not but to quitte [FN#494] him for all.  It is well, quoth Mutio; fortune bee your frende.  I thanke you, quoth Lionello: and so, after a little more prattle, they departed.

To bee shorte, Thursdaye came, and about sixe of the clocke, foorth goes Mutio no further than a freendes house of his, from whence he might descrye who went into his house; straight hee saw Lionello enter in, and after goes hee, insomuche that hee was scarcelye sitten downe, before the mayde cryed out againe, my maister comes.  The goodwife, that before had provided for after-claps, [FN#495] had found out a privie place between two seelings of a plauncher, [FN#496] and there she thrust Lionello, and her husband came sweting.  What news, quoth shee, drives you home againe so soone, husband?  Marry, sweete wife, quoth he, a fearfull dream that I had this night, which came to my remembrance, and that was this: me thought there was a villaine that came secretlye into my house, with a naked poinard in his hand, and hid himselfe, but I could not finde the place; with that mine nose bled, and I came back; and, by the grace of God, I will seeke every corner in the house for the quiet of my minde.  Marry, I pray you doo, husband, quoth she.  With that he lockt in all the doors, and began to search every chamber, every hole, every chest, every tub, the very well; he stabd every feather bed through, and made havocke like a mad man, which made him thinke all was in vaine; and hee began to blame his eies that thought they saw that which they did not.  Upon this he rest halfe lunaticke, and all night he was very wakefull, that towards the morning he fell into a dead sleepe, and then was Lionello conveighed away.

In the morning when Mutio wakened, hee thought how by no meanes hee should be able to take Lionello tardy: yet he laid in his head a most dangerous plot; and that was this:  Wife, quoth he, I must the next Monday ride to Vycensa, to visit an olde patient of mine; till my returne, which will be some ten dayes, I will have thee staye at our little graunge house in the countrey.  Marry, very well content, quoth she.  With that he kist her, and was verye pleasant, as though he had suspected nothing, and away hee flings to the church, where he meetes Lionello.  What, sir, quoth he, what news? is your mistresse yours in possession?  No, a plague of the olde slave, quoth hee.  I think he is either a witch or els woorkes by magick; for I can no sooner enter into the doores, but he is at my backe, and so he was againe yesternight; for I was not warm in my seate before the maide cryed, my maister comes; and then was the poore soule faine to conveigh me betweene two seelings of a chamber, in a fit place for the purpose, wher I laught hartely to myself too see how he sought every corner, ransakt every tub, and stabd every feather bed, but in vaine; I was safe enough until the morning, and then, when he was fast asleepe, I lept out.  Fortune frownes on you, quoth Mutio.  I, [FN#497] but I hope, quoth Lionello, this is the last time, and now shee will begin to smile; for on Monday next he rides to Vicensa, and his wife lyes at the grange house a little (out) of the towne, and there in his absence I will revenge all forepast misfortunes.  God sent it be so, quoth Mutio; and so took his leave.

These two lovers longd for Monday, and at last it came.  Early in the morning Mutio horst himselfe and his wife, his maide and a man, and no more, and away he rides to his grange house, wher, after he had brok his fast, he took his leave, and away towards Vincensa.  He rode not far ere, by a false way, he returned into a thicket, and there, with a company of cuntry peasants, lay in an ambuscade to take the young gentleman.  In the afternoon comes Lionello galloping, and as soon as he came within sight of the house, he sent back his horse by his boy, and went easily afoot, and there, at the very entry, was entertained by Margaret, who led him up the staires, and convaid him into her bedchamber, saying he was welcome into so mean a cottage.  But, quoth she, now I hope fortun shall not envy the purity of our loves.  Alas! alas! mistris, cried the maid, heer is my maister, and 100 men with him, with bils and staves.  We are betraid, quoth Lionel, and I am but a dead man.  Feare not, quoth she, but follow me: and straight she carried him downe into a low parlor, where stoode an olde rotten chest full of writinges; she put him into that, and covered him with olde papers and evidences, and went to the gate to meet her husband.