Les Contes Drolatiques — I

Prologue

This is a highly-seasoned book, full of diverting morsels of goodly savor, spiced to suit the taste. of those most illustrious victims of the gout and those most accomplished topers, to whom our worthy compatriot, Francois Rabelais, the eternal glory of Touraine, formerly addressed himself. Not that the author has the presumption to wish to be aught else than a loyal Tourainer and to furnish entertainment for the bounteous repasts of the famous folk of that sweet and fertile country which produces more cuckolds, fools, and jesters than any other, and which has furnished its full share of the famous men of France, as the late Courier, of spicy memory; Verville, author of the Moyen de Parvenir, and others well known, of whom we may mention Sieur Descartes, for that he was a melancholy genius, who sang the praises of vain visions rather than wine and good cheer; a man whom all the pastry-cooks and innkeepers of Tours hold in pious horror, misunderstand him and refuse to listen to him; ‘‘ Where does he live?’’ they.say, if you mention his name.— This work, then, is the issue of the joyous leisure of divers good old monks, of whom there are many traces scattered through our province, as at La

Grenadiére-les-Saint-Cyr, at the hamlet of Sacchéles-Azay-le-Ridel, at Marmoustiers, Veretz, La Roche-Corbon, and in some collections of pleasant anecdotes; who are monks of the old school and valiant women who lived in the good old times when honest folk could crack a joke without looking to see if a horse or a sportive colt or two issued from their sides with every laugh, like the young women of to-day, who choose to divert themselves in serious fashion: a custom as becoming to our merry France as an oil-cruet on a queen’s head. And so, as laughter is a privilege granted to man alone, and as there is sufficient cause for tears on behalf of public liberty without adding thereto by books, I esteem it a deuced patriotic thing to publish a dram of merry conceits in these days when ennui falls like fine rain which drenches us, soaks us through at last, and goes on dissolving our ancient customs, which made the raye publique a source of amusement to the greatest number. Now there are very few left—and they are dying off every day—of those old Pantagruelists, who allowed God and the King their master to do their will, nor did they put their fingers in the pie more than they ought, being content with hearty laughter; so that I greatly fear to see these memorable fragments of olden breviaries cast out, spat upon, gagged, reproved, confounded— the which would seem to me no cause for mockery, insomuch as I continue to look with much respect upon the relics of our Gallic antiquities.

And do you remember, also, fierce critics, gleaners

PROLOGUE 5 of phrases, harpies who pervert the ideas and purposes of everyone, that we laugh only when we are children; and, as we journey on, laughter evaporates, vanishes like unto the oil in a lamp. This means that one must be innocent and pure of heart to laugh; for lack of which you twist your lips, work your cheeks, and scowl like people who hide vices and impurity. Take this book, therefore, as a group or a statue from which an artist cannot expunge certain features, and would be a twenty-two carat idiot if he should so much as put fig-leaves over them, because such works are not made for convents, any more than this book. Nevertheless, I have taken pains, to my great regret, to weed out from the manuscripts all the old words—still a little too young—which might have offended the ears, dazzled the eyes, reddened the cheeks, puckered the lips of virgins in breeches, and virtue with three lovers; for one must needs do something for the vices of one’s time, and periphrasis is much more gallant than plain-speaking! In truth, we are growing old and we esteem long-winded trifles more highly than the brief escapades of our youth, because we can enjoy them longer. Spare me, therefore, in your evil-speaking, and read this rather by night than by day; and give it not to the maidens, if there be any such, lest the book take fire. I take myself off. But! fear nothing for this book, because it is derived from an exalted and precious source, whence everything that has come forth has enjoyed great success: witness the royal orders of the Golden

Fleece, the Holy Ghost, the Garter, and the Bath, and many other notable things which were taken therefrom, in whose shadow do I take my stand.

‘*Now, my loves, make merry, and gayly read every word with your body and loins at ease, and may ulcers consume you if you deny me after reading me!’’—These are the words of our dear master Rabelais, to whom we should doff our caps in token of reverence and honor, as the prince of all wisdom and all merriment.

The Archbishop of Bordeaux had taken in his train, when he set forth to attend the Council of Constance, a sweet little priest of Touraine, whose manners and speech were curiously winning, insomuch that he was deemed to be the son of La Soldée and the governor. The Archbishop of Tours had readily lent him to his confrére on his passage through that city, for archbishops are wont to exchange gifts of this sort, knowing how intense is the theological itching. And so this young priest came to the Council and was lodged in the house of his prelate, who was a man of estimable morals and great learning.

Philippe de Mala—such was the priest’s name— resolved to bear himself becomingly and to serve his patron faithfully; but he saw in that mysterious council of priests many men leading dissolute lives, yet gaining rather more than less indulgences, gold pieces, and benefices than all those of more virtuous and orderly lives. Now, ona certain night, when his virtue was sore bestead, the devil whispered in his ear and understanding that he must lay in his provisions by the basketful, since everyone might suckle at the bosom of our holy mother Church, yet would it not run dry; a miracle which proved the presence of God. And the Touraine priest did not neglect the devil’s advice. He promised himself to feast and to riot in roast meats and other German sauces whenever he could do it without paying, seeing that he was aS poor as a man canbe. As he continued to be very continent, for he took pattern by his poor old archbishop, who perforce sinned no more and was esteemed a saint, he had often to suffer intolerable cravings followed by fits of melancholy, because of the great numbers of beautiful courtesans, gayly bedecked, but cold as ice to the poor, who were sojourning at Constance to enlighten the understandings of the fathers of the Council. He was distracted because he knew not how to come nigh those chattering lights-o’-love, who rebuffed cardinals, commendatory abbés, auditors of the Rota, legates, bishops, princes, dukes, and margraves, as if they had been simple clerks, with empty pockets.

In the evening, having said his prayers, he practised speaking to them, learning by heart the sweet breviary of love. He put questions to himself, that he might be prepared to make answer in any contingency. And on the morrow, if, at the hour of complines, he chanced to meet one of the aforsesaid princesses, in fine array, perched in her litter, escorted by pages well-armed, and proud as a popinjay, he would stand open-mouthed, like a dog catching flies, at sight of those sprightly features, which caused him to burn so fiercely. Monseigneur’s secretary, a gentleman of Périgord, having clearly demonstrated to him that the fathers, procurators, and auditors of the Rota purchased by lavish gifts—not relics or indulgences, but gold and jewels—the favor of intimacy with the haughtiest of those petted pusses who abode under the protection of the lords of the Council, the poor Tourainer, simple and chaste as he was, hoarded in his mattress the gold angels given him by the good archbishop for his labors as a scribe, and hoped some day to have enough of them to be able to get a peep at some cardinal’s light-o’-love, trusting to God for the rest. He was without a hair from head to heels, and resembled a man no more thana goat in a nightcap resembles a maid; but, spurred on by his desire, he would go out at night and wander through the streets of Constance, caring little for his life; and at the risk of being run through the body by soldiers, he watched the cardinals entering their mistresses’ houses. Then would he see the waxcandles lighted in the houses, and the doors and windows suddenly gleaming bright. Then would he hear the sanctified abbés and others capering about, drinking the best, inflamed with love, singing the secret alleluia, and giving largess to the music with which they were regaled. The kitchens performed miracles, and many a Prayer they said of rich and succulent stews, followed by Matins of young hams, Vespers of dainty tidbits, and Lauds of sweetmeats. And after drinking, silence fell upon the worthy churchmen. Their pages diced on the stairs, and the restive mules stamped in the street.

All went well! But faith and religion were there, I ween! That is how it came to pass that goodman Huss was burned! Andthe cause? He put his hand in the dish without being asked. Moreover, why must he be a Huguenot before other people?

To return to dear little Philippe, many a time he was roughly handled, and many a lusty blow he received; but the devil encouraged him, urging him to believe that, sooner or later, would come his turn to play the cardinal with the mistress of one. His longing made him bold as a stag in autumn; and so it came about that he stole one evening into the finest house in Constance, where he had often seen chamberlains, seneschals, varlets, and pages waiting with torches for their masters,—kings, dukes, cardinals, and archbishops.

“‘Aha!’’ he said to himself, ‘‘ she who dwells here must be a lovely and a wanton creature.”’

An armed retainer suffered him to pass, thinking that he belonged to the Elector of Bavaria, who had just taken his leave, and that he was the bearer of a message from that lord. Philippe de Mala ascended the stairs as swiftly as a greyhound goaded by amorous frenzy, and a delectable perfume guided him to the chamber where the mistress of the house sat chatting with her women, putting off her garments the while. He stood dumbfounded, like a robber before the officers of the law. The lady was without skirt or head-dress. The maids and tire-women, busily removing her clothes and her shoes, bared her lovely body with such dexterity

THE FAIR IMPERIA II and openness, that the wonderstruck priest uttered an Ah! that smacked of love.

‘Pray, what do you wish, my little fellow?”’ said the lady.

‘*To lay my heart at your feet,’’ he replied, devouring her with his eyes.

‘You may return to-morrow, make merry at his cost.

To which, Philippe, flushing crimson, prettily made answer:

“*] will not fail.”

She laughed like a mad woman. Philippe, abashed and breathless, but happy withal, fixed upon her two eyes which feasted upon fascinating treasures of love: as beautiful hair falling over a back of ivory whiteness and disclosing luscious bits of flesh, white and gleaming, through its innumerable curling locks. She wore upon her snow-white brow a balas ruby, less lavish of fiery rays than her black eyes which her hearty laughter had maistened with tears. She herself threw off her pointed shoe, gilded like a reliquary, writhing about for very wantonness, and showed her dainty foot, as tiny as a swan’s bill. She was in merry mood that evening; else would she have ordered the little shaveling tossed out of the window, paying no more heed to him than to her first bishop.

‘‘He hath fine eyes, madame,’’ said one of the tire-women.

“Whence came he, pray?’’ queried another.

“Poor child!’’ cried madame, ‘‘his mother will she rejoined, to be looking for him. We must show him the way home.”’

The Tourainer, retaining his self-possession, made a gesture of delight as he gazed upon the gold brocade-covered bed, whereon the damsel’s lovely body was soon to rest. That glance, overflowing with life and with amorous intelligence, amused the lady’s caprice, who, half laughing, half vexed with the darling, repeated: ‘‘To-morrow!’’ and dismissed him with a gesture which Pope John himself would have obeyed, especially as he was like a snail without its shell, the Council having unpoped him.

‘‘ Ah! madame, another vow of chastity changed to amorous desire,’’ said one of the women.

And the laughter broke forth anew, as merry as hail. Philippe withdrew, knocking his head against the walls like a genuine hooded crow, all dazzled as he was by having seen that creature, a more delicious morsel than a siren rising from the waves. He noticed the figures of animals carved above the door, and returned to his excellent archbishop with a thousand baskets of devils in his heart and a store of cunning in his entrails. He went up to his tiny chamber and counted his angels all night long, but could make no more than four; and as that was his all, he opined that he could content the fair lady by giving her all he had in the world.

‘What is the matter, pray, Philippe?’’ said the good archbishop, disturbed by the tremblings and Oh! ohs! of his clerk.

‘Ah! monseigneur!’”’ the poor priest replied, ‘1 am wondering how so light and sweet a woman can weigh so heavily on the heart!’’

‘*What woman?”’ queried the archbishop, laying aside his breviary, wherein he was reading for the behoof of others, worthy man!

“‘Ah! Jesus! you will rebuke me, my dear master and patron, for that I have seen the mistress of a cardinal at the very least. And I weep because | lack many more than one wretched crown to give her, even though you should permit me to convert her to the right way.’’

The archbishop contracted the circumflex accent above his nose, but said not a word. Whereupon the humble priest did tremble in his skin for that he had confessed to his superior. But the holy man abruptly said to him:

‘Of a truth, is she so very dear?’’

‘‘ Ah!”’ was the reply, ‘‘she hath stripped many a mitre and spoiled many a crozier.”’

‘«Even so, Philippe, an thou wilt renounce her, | will lend thee thirty gold angels from the poor-box.”’

‘© Ah! monseigneur, I should lose too much!”’ rejoined the youth, aflame with the thought of the feast to which he looked forward.

‘‘Oh! Philippe,’’ said the good Bordelais, ‘‘ wilt thou go to the devil and displease God, like all our cardinals?”’

And the master, overwhelmed with grief, began to pray to Saint Gatien, patron saint of chaste youths, to save his servitor. He made him kneel and bade him commend himself to Saint Philippe; but the wretched priest under his breath besought the saint to help him not to faint if on the morrow his lady should have mercy and compassion for him; and the good archbishop, observing his servant’s fervor, exclaimed:

‘‘ Courage, boy! Heaven will grant thy prayer.’’

On the morrow, while monseigneur declaimed at the Council against the licentious conduct of the apostles of Christianity, Philippe de Mala squandered his hard-earned angels in perfumery, baths, vapor-baths, and other trifles. In sooth, so foppish did he make himself that you would have said he was some lovelorn damozel’s darling. He wandered through the town until he recognized the abode of his heart’s queen; and when he asked the passers-by whose house it was, they laughed in his face, saying:

‘*Whence comes this scurvy knave who has not heard of the fair Imperia?’’

He was sore afraid lest he had spent his angels for the devil’s behoof, when he knew, from the name, into what a terrible trap he had walked of his own will.

Imperia was the most finical and capricious creature in the world; moreover, she was esteemed the most gloriously beautiful, and the most skilful in beguiling cardinals and cajoling rough soldiers and oppressors of the people. She had her own gallant captains, archers, and noblemen, eager to serve her in every way. She had but to lisp a word to compass the death of those who presumed to weary her.

The undoing of a man cost her only a pretty smile; and often the Sire de Baudricourt, one of the captains in the service of the King of France, would ask her if there were anyone he could kill for her that day, by way of jest when there were churchmen present. Saving the potentates among the higher clergy, with whom Madame Imperia shrewdly held her merriment in check, she led everyone by the nose, by virtue of her nimble tongue and her fashion of loving, whereby the most virtuous and coldest were caught fast as by bird-lime. So she was as dearly loved and as respected as the real great ladies and princesses, and was called Madame.—Wherefore the good Emperor Sigismond thus replied to a prudish dame who spoke slightingly of her: ‘‘Let virtuous women cling to the estimable customs of blessed virtue, and Madame Imperia to the charming transgressions of the goddess Venus.’’—Christian words whereat the ladies most wrongfully took offence.

Philippe, therefore, thinking of the delectable feast his eyes had had overnight, suspected that there would be nothing more for him. Whereat he grieved; and, neither eating nor drinking, wandered through the town, awaiting the hour; and he was so gallant and coquettish that other charmers would have been less inaccessible than was Madame Imperia.

When night came, the comely little Tourainer, puffed out with pride, caparisoned with desires, and impelled by the Alack-a-days which suffocated him, glided like an eel to the abode of the real queen of the Council; for to her all the authority, learning, and virtue of Christendom bent the knee. The maitre d’hétel knew him not and would have cast him out, but the tire-woman called from the stairtop:

‘‘Hola, Messire Imbert, ’tis madame’s little one!”’

And poor Philippe, red as a wedding-night, mounted the spiral stair, stumbling with joy in his good-fortune. The maid took him by the hand and led him to the room where madame was in state, already painted for the fray, gallantly arrayed like a brave woman who hopes for the best. The resplendent Imperia sat at a table covered with a velvety cloth worked in gold, and with all the paraphernalia of a joyous carouse. Flagons of wine, thirsty goblets, bottles of hippocras, stone jars full of good Cyprus, dishes filled with sweetmeats, roasted peacocks, green sauces, little salted hams, would have gladdened the gallant’s eyes, had he loved Madame Imperia less. She saw plainly that her little monk had eyes for her alone. Albeit well used to the dazzling devotion of churchmen, she was well pleased, inasmuch as she had fallen in love the night before with the poor boy, who had played havoc in her heart all day. The shutters had been closed. Madame was kindly disposed and apparelled as if to do honor to a prince of the Empire. And so the rascal, beatified by Imperia’s sacrosanct beauty, knew full well that neither Emperor, burgrave, nay, not even a cardinal about to be chosen Pope, would prevail that evening against him, humble priest that he was, who, in his poor lodging, sheltered only the devil and love. He assumed a lordly air and strut as he saluted her with a courtesy in nowise ridiculous; and thereupon the lady said to him, making him welcome with a burning glance:

‘« Sit beside me, that I may see if you are changed since yesterday.”’

“*Oh, yes!”’ he rejoined.

““How so?’’ queried she.

“*Yesterday,’’ replied slyboots, ‘‘I loved you. To-night we love each other; and I, who was then a poor, unhappy wretch, have become richer than a king.’’

‘Oh! boy! boy!”’ she cried in high glee, ‘‘ thou art changed, indeed, for thou wert a young monk, and well I see that thou hast become an old devil.’’

And they sat themselves down cheek by jowl before a blazing fire, which scattered their bliss in all directions. Nor did they advance beyond the point of being ready to eat, because they thought only of billing and cooing with their eyes, nor touched the dishes. As they were at last installed in comfort and contentment, there arose a hateful clamor at madame’s door, as if people were fighting and shouting there.

‘« Madame,”’ said the tire-woman, hastily entering, ‘there is another—”’

“‘Who?”’ she cried, haughtily as a tyrant, angered at the interruption.

‘‘ The Bishop of Coire would speak with you—”’

‘‘ May the devil curry him!’’ she retorted, with a melting glance at Philippe.

‘‘He saw the light through the crack, madame, and is making a great outcry.”

‘‘Say to him that I have the fever, and you will not say false, for I am ill with this little monk, who is fluttering about in my brain.”’

But, as she finished speaking, and devoutly pressed Philippe’s hand, whose blood was boiling beneath his skin, the stout Bishop of .Coire appeared, all breathless and wrathful. His lackeys followed, bearing upon a golden plate a trout of the canonical salmon hue, freshly taken from the Rhine; spices, too, in marvellous dishes, and delicacies of all sorts, as liqueurs and preserves made by the holy nuns in his abbeys.

“Ah! ah!’’ he exclaimed in his hoarse voice, ‘‘I have my appointed time to spend with the devil, and you need not cause me to be flayed by him beforehand, my love.”’

““Your belly will make a fine scabbard for a sword some day!’’ she retorted, knitting her brows, which, but now lovely and engaging, became fierce enough to make one quake.

‘And this choir-boy, comes he to the offertory thus early?’’ queried the bishop, insolently turning his broad, florid face toward the comely Philippe.

‘*Monseigneur, I am here to confess madame.”’

‘Oho! dost thou not know the canons? To confess ladies at this hour of the night is a function reserved for bishops. Now, begone, go and feed with simple monks, and return here no more on pain of excommunication.”’

et

‘‘Do not stir!’’ roared Imperia, more lovely with anger than she had been with love, for now there were both love and anger in her beauty. ‘‘ Stay, my friend, you are at home here!”’

Thereupon, he knew that she really loved him.

“* Is it not set down in the breviary and taught by the Church that you shall be equal before God in the valley of Jehosaphat?’’ she asked the bishop.

‘«That is an invention of the devil, who has changed the text of the Bible; but it is written,”’ replied the great clown of a bishop, in haste to sit at table.

‘‘ Even so; therefore be ye equal before me, who am your goddess here on earth,’’ retorted Imperia; ‘else will I cause you to be strangled delicately some day between your head and your shoulders! | swear it by the omnipotence of my tonsure, which is worth no less than the Pope’s!”’

And, desiring that the trout, likewise the gold plate, the sweetmeats and their receptacles, should grace the board, she added craftily:

‘Be seated and drink.”’

But the sly minx, who had been in such deviltry before, winked at her lover to signify that he need have no anxiety concerning the German, for the wine would soon deal with him.

The maid seated the bishop at the table and served him assiduously, while Philippe, aflame with a passion which closed his mouth, in that he saw his good-fortune vanishing in smoke, consigned the bishop to more devils than there were living monks.

They had reached the middle of the feast, which the young monk had not yet touched, being hungry for naught but Imperia, beside whom he sat crouching in his chair, saying not a word, yet speaking that soft language which women understand without periods, commas, accents, letters, figures, characters, notes, or metaphors. The corpulent bishop, who was of a sensual temperament and careful of the ecclesiastical integument wherein his deceased mother had sewn him, allowed himself to be generously supplied with hippocras by madame’s delicate hand, and had already reached his first hiccough, when there was a great stamping of horses and commotion in the street. The number of horses and the shouts of Ho! ho! from the pages denoted the arrival of some prince wild with love. And in truth, a moment later the Cardinal of Ragusa, to whom Imperia’s servants dared not close the door, entered the room. At that depressing sight, the poor courtesan and her favorite were as humiliated and disconcerted as lepers of yesterday, for to attempt to eject the cardinal was to defy the devil, the more as no one knew at that time who would be Pope, the three claimants having resigned their caps .for the good of christendom. The cardinal, a crafty Italian with a heavy beard, a great casuist, and the master-spirit of the Council, divined, by the faintest exertion of his wit, the alpha and omega of this adventure. He had to reflect but a moment to determine how he must proceed to obtain good security for his embraces. He had come thither under the spur of a monk’s appetite, and, to satisfy that appetite, he was quite capable of stabbing two monks and selling his bit of the true cross, which would have been a grievous thing.

‘* Ho, friend!’’ he said to Philippe, calling him to his side.

The poor Tourainer, more dead than alive, suspecting that the devil was taking a hand in his affairs, rose, and said to the redoubtable cardinal:

«Your Eminence?’’

The cardinal, taking him by the arm and leading him to the stairs, looked into the whites of his eyes and rejoined without dallying:

‘« Ventredieu! thou art a fine little fellow, and I should grieve to be obliged to give thy head to know how much thy belly weighs!—My gratification might cost me some pious foundations in my old age. So, choose; wilt thou marry an abbey for the rest of thy life, or marry madame to-night, to die to-morrow?”’

The poor Tourainer, in desperation, replied:

‘‘ And when your ardor has passed, monseigneur, may I return?”’

The cardinal found it hard to be angry; however, he said sternly:

‘*Choose! a tall tree or a mitre?”’

‘«* Ah!’’ said the monk slyly, ‘‘ a good rich abbey.’’

With that the cardinal returned to the dining-hall, took a writing-case, and scrawled upon a bit of parchment a note for the French envoy.

‘* Monseigneur,’’ said the Tourainer while the prelate was spelling out the name of the abbey, ‘‘ the

Bishop of Coire will not go so readily as I; for he has as many abbeys as the soldiers have drinkingplaces in the town; moreover, he is in the joy of the Lord! In my opinion, | owe you a useful warning in return for this most desirable abbey.—You know how malignant this accursed chin-cough is, which has been such a cruel scourge in Paris, and how rapidly it spreads. Say to him that you have but now been in attendance on your beloved old friend the Archbishop of Bordeaux. By that means you will cause him to fly like fire before a high wind.”’

‘*Ha! ha!’’ cried the cardinal, ‘‘ you deserve something better than an abbey. Ventredieu! my young friend, here are a hundred golden crowns for your journey to the Abbey of Turpenay, which I won at play yesterday, and which | give you unconditionally.’

When she heard these words and saw Philippe de Mala depart without the titillating glance overflowing with the quintessence of love which she hoped to receive from him, the leonine Imperia, puffing like a dolphin, divined the monk’s dastardly behavior. She was not yet a good Catholic enough to forgive her lover for flouting her, and for preferring not to die for her caprice. Wherefore Philippe’s death was plainly written in the viperish glance she shot at him to insult him; whereat the cardinal was well pleased, for the lecherous Italian saw that he should recover his abbey ere long. The Tourainer, heedless and without fear of the coming storm, stole away, silent and chapfallen, like a wet dog driven from a church. Madame heaved a heartfelt sigh! She would have trounced all mankind soundly, had all mankind been in her clutches, for the fire which possessed her mounted to her head, and flames crackled in the air about her. There was good reason, for it was the first time that a priest had flouted her.—Now, the cardinal smiled, believing that his good-fortune and pleasure were to meet no further obstacle. Was he not a cunning fellow? therefore had he a red hat!

** Well! well! my dear gossip,’’ he said to the bishop, ‘‘I congratulate myself on being in your company, and well pleased am | that I was able to dismiss that little varlet, who is unworthy of madame; especially, my lovely and gamesome fawn, because, if you had approached him, you might well have died a degrading death, all for a simple monk.”’

‘*Eh! how so?’”’

‘«He is scribe to Monseigneur the Archbishop of Bordeaux! Now, that excellent man was attacked this morning by the plague.’’