He told his wife that he was going, on a certain day which he named, to take to St. Orner a waggon-load of corn, and that the work might be well done, was going himself. When the day named for his departure arrived, he did, as is usual in Picardy, especially round St. Omer, that is loaded his waggon of corn at midnight, and at that hour took leave of his wife and departed with his waggon.

As soon as he was gone, his wife closed all the doors of the house. Now you must know that the St. Omer to which our merchant was going was the house of one of his friends who lived at the other end of the village. He arrived there, put his waggon in the courtyard of the said friend--who knew all the business--and sent him to keep watch and listen round the house to see if any thief might come.

When he arrived, he concealed himself at the corner of a thick hedge, from which spot he could see all the doors of the house of the merchant, of whom he was the friend and servant.

Hardly had he taken his place than there arrived the cure, who had come to light his candle--or rather to put it out--and softly and secretly knocked at the door, which was soon opened by one who was not inclined to sleep at that time, who came down in her chemise, and let in her confessor, and then closed the door and led him to the place where her husband ought to have been.

The watcher, when he perceived what was done, left his post, and went and informed the husband. Upon which news, the following plan was quickly arranged between them. The corn-merchant pretended to have returned from his journey on account of certain adventures which had, or might have, happened to him.

He knocked at the door, and shouted to his wife, who was much alarmed when she heard his voice, and made haste to conceal her lover, the cure, in a _casier_ that was in the chamber; and you must know that a _casier_ is a kind of pantry-cupboard, long and narrow and fairly deep, and very much like a trough.

As soon as the cure was concealed amongst the eggs, b.u.t.ter cheese, and other such victuals, the brave housewife, pretending to be half awake half asleep, let in her husband, and said.

"Oh, my dear husband, what can have happened that you have returned so quickly? There must be some reason why you did not go on your journey--for G.o.d's sake tell it me quickly!"

The good man, who was as angry as he could be, although he did not show it, insisted on going to their bedroom and there telling her the cause of his sudden return. When he was where he expected to find the cure, that is to say in the bedroom, he began to relate his reasons for breaking his journey. Firstly, he said he had such suspicion of her virtue that he feared much to be numbered amongst the blue vestments, (*) or "our friends" as they are commonly called, and that it was because of this suspicion that he had returned so quickly. Also that when he was out of the house it had occurred to his mind that the cure was his deputy whilst he was away. So to put his suspicions to the test, he had come back, and now wanted the candle to see whether his wife had been sleeping alone during his absence.

(*) In the present day, yellow is the emblematic colour for jealous or cuckolded husbands, but it would appear from this pa.s.sage that in the 15th century it was blue-possibly, Bibliophile Jacob thinks, from its being the colour of the _maquereau_.

When he had finished relating the causes of his return, the good woman cried,

"Oh, my dear husband, whence comes this baseless jealousy? Have you ever seen in my conduct anything that should not be seen in that of a good, faithful, and virtuous wife? Cursed be the hour I first knew you, since you suspect me of that which my heart could never imagine. You know me badly if you do not know how clean and pure my heart is, and will remain."

The good man paid little heed to these words, but said that he wished to allay his suspicions, and to at once inspect every corner of the chamber as well as possible,--but he did not find what he sought.

Then he caught sight of the _casier_, and he guessed that the man he wanted was inside, but he made no sign, and calling his wife said;

"My dear, I was wrong to presume that you were untrue to me, and such as my false suspicions imagined. Nevertheless, I am so obstinate in my opinions, that it would be impossible for me to live comfortably with you henceforth. And therefore I hope you will agree that a separation should be made between us, and that we divide our goods equally in a friendly manner."

The wench, who was pleased with this arrangement, in order that she might more easily see her cure, agreed with scarcely any difficulty to her husband's request, but she made it a condition that in the division of the furniture she should have first choice.

"And why," said the husband, "should you have first choice? It is against all right and justice."

They were a long time squabbling about first choice, but in the end the husband won, and took the _casier_ in which there was nothing but custards, tarts, cheeses, and other light provisions, amongst which was the good cure buried, and he heard all the discussion that went on.

When the husband chose the _casier_, his wife chose the copper; then the husband chose another article then she chose; and so on until all the articles were apportioned out.

After the division was made, the husband said;

"I will allow you to live in my house until you have found another lodging, but I am going now to take my share of the furniture, and put it in the house of one of my neighbours."

"Do so," she said, "when you like."

He took a good cord and tightly tied up the _casier_; then sent for his waggoner and told him to put the _casier_ on a horse's back and take it to the house of a certain neighbour.

The good woman heard these orders, but did not dare to interfere, for she feared that if she did it would not advance matters, but perhaps cause the _casier_ to be opened, so she trusted to luck.

The _casier_ was placed on the horse, and taken through the streets to the house the good man had mentioned. But they had not gone far before the cure, who was choked and blinded with eggs and b.u.t.ter, cried,

"For G.o.d's sake! mercy!"

The waggoner hearing this piteous appeal come out of the _casier_, jumped off the horse much frightened, and called the servants and his master, and they opened the _casier_, and found the poor prisoner all smeared and be-yellowed with eggs, cheese, milk, and more than a hundred other things, indeed it would have been hard to say which there was most of,--in such a pitiable condition was the poor lover.

When the husband saw him in that state, he could not help laughing, although he felt angry; He let him go, and then went back to his wife to tell her that he had not been wrong in suspecting her of unchast.i.ty. She seeing herself fairly caught, begged for mercy, and was pardoned on this condition, that if ever the case occurred again, she should be better advised than to put her lover in the _casier_, for the cure had stood a good chance of being killed.

After that they lived together for a long time, and the husband brought back his _casier_, but I do not think that the cure was ever found in it again, but ever after that adventure he was known, and still is, as "Sire Vadin Casier".

STORY THE SEVENTY-FOURTH -- THE OBSEQUIOUS PRIEST.

By Philippe De Laon.

_Of a priest of Boulogne who twice raised the body of Our Lord whilst chanting a Ma.s.s, because he believed that the Seneschal of Boulogne had come late to the Ma.s.s, and how he refused to take the Pax until the Seneschal had done so, as you will hear hereafter._

Once when the Seneschal of the County of Boulogne was travelling through the district visiting each town, he pa.s.sed through a hamlet where the bell was ringing for Ma.s.s, and as he expected that he should not reach the town to which he was going in time to hear Ma.s.s, for the hour was then nearly noon, he thought that he would dismount at this hamlet to see G.o.d in pa.s.sing.

He left his horse at the door of the church, and took a seat near the altar, where high Ma.s.s was being celebrated, and placed himself so near the priest, that the latter could see his profile whilst he was celebrating the Ma.s.s.

When he raised the cup, and other things that he should, he thought to himself that he had noticed the Seneschal behind him, and not knowing whether he had come early enough to see the elevation, but believing that he had come too late, the priest called his clerk, and made him light the candles, and, performing all the ceremonies that he should, he again raised the Host, saying that that was for Monseigneur le Seneschal.

And after that he proceeded until he came to the _Agnus Dei_ which, when he had said three times, and his clerk gave him the Pax to kiss, he refused, approaching his clerk and saying that he should first present it to the Seneschal, who refused it two or three times.

When the priest saw that the Seneschal would not take the Pax before him, he put down the Host which he had in his hands, and took the Pax, which he carried to my lord the Seneschal, and told him that if my lord did not take it first, he would not take it himself.

"For it is not right," said the priest, "that I should take the Pax before you."

Then the Seneschal, seeing that wisdom was not to be found in that place, gave in to the cure and took the Pax first, and the cure followed him; and that being done he returned to perform the rest of the Ma.s.s.

And this is all that was related to me.

STORY THE SEVENTY-FIFTH -- THE BAGPIPE. [75]

By Monseigneur De Thalemas.

_Of a hare-brained half-mad fellow who ran a great risk of being put to death by being hanged on a gibbet in order to injure and annoy the Bailly, justices, and other notables of the city of Troyes in Champagne by whom he was mortally hated, as will appear more plainly hereafter._