## Proem

It is a good and humane thing to have compassion for those who are suffering, and although it befits everyone, it is especially expected from people who have themselves needed comfort in the past and have received it. Among those, if ever anyone needed or valued or enjoyed comfort more than most, certainly, I am one. For from my earliest youth up to now, I have been deeply consumed by a high and noble passion (higher and nobler, perhaps, than might seem fitting for someone of my low station, were I to tell it). Even though wise people who knew of it praised me and counted me of greater worth for it, it was still a heavy burden to bear—not because of the cruelty of the lady I loved, but because of the intense longing caused by an unruly desire, which refused to let me stay within reasonable bounds and often brought me more sorrow than I needed to feel. In this affliction, the delightful conversation and admirable comfort of a certain friend of mine offered me such relief that I truly believe these were the reasons I did not die from it. But, as ordained by Him who is infinite and has established as an unchangeable law that all things in this world must end, my love—more fervent than any other and which no reasoning, advice, or even obvious shame or danger could end or diminish—faded gradually on its own with time, so now, it leaves me only the pleasure that comes to those who do not venture too far into its deepest waters. For this reason, all sorrow has been done away, and now I find it delightful where once it was grievous. Yet, though the pain has passed, the memory of the kindnesses I received and the support given to me by those who cared for me in my troubles has not faded, nor, I think, will it ever, except by death. And since gratitude is, in my opinion, one of the most commendable virtues—and its opposite shameful—I have resolved, now that I am free, to try, in what small way I can, to offer some help in return for what I once received—if not to those who helped me (who, perhaps, because of their wisdom or good fortune, may need it no more) then at least to those who do. And although my support, or rather my consolation, may be of little use to the afflicted, I believe it is best offered where the need is greatest, for it will do more good there, and be more gladly received. And who can deny that this need is much greater among lovesick ladies than among men? For women, within their tender and bashful hearts, secretly hold the fires of love (which, as those who have felt them know, are even more powerful than open flames) and, under the wishes, commands, and supervision of fathers, mothers, brothers, and husbands, are often locked away in the narrow confines of their rooms, passing the time idly, conflicted in their own minds, turning over many thoughts which rarely bring joy. When melancholy arises from intense longing, it must bring them serious distress unless it is soothed by new conversation—and it is worse for them because they are far less strong than men at enduring it. With men, things do not happen this way, as is easy to see. If men feel sorrow or distress, they have many ways to relieve or dispel it, for, if they wish, they may freely go about to see and hear many things, to hunt, fish, ride, play games, and conduct business; any or all of which may distract the mind and draw it from troublesome thoughts, at least for a while, until comfort comes or sorrow lessens. Therefore, wanting to offer some remedy for Fortune’s injustice, which, where there is less strength to endure—as we see especially in delicate women—has been most sparing with relief, I intend, for the aid and solace of lovesick ladies (while for others, needle, spindle, and reel are enough), to recount a hundred stories or fables or tales—however you wish to call them—told in ten days by an honourable company of seven ladies and three young men during the deadly pestilence, together with various songs sung by the ladies for distraction. In these stories will be found adventures in love, happy and sad, and other events of fortune that happened both in recent and ancient times. The ladies, reading these, may take both pleasure from the delightful things described and also draw useful lessons, learning what to avoid and what to pursue—surely a path to relief from sorrow. If this happens as I hope (God grant it may), let them thank Love, who, by freeing me from his bonds, has granted me the power to dedicate myself to their happiness.

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# *Day the First*

Here Beginneth the First Day of the Decameron Wherein (After Demonstration Made by the Author of the Manner in Which it Came to Pass That the Persons Who Are Hereinafter Presented Foregathered for the Purpose of Devising Together) Under the Governance of Pampinea Is Discoursed of That Which Is Most Agreeable Unto Each

As often, most gracious ladies, as, taking thought in myself, I mind me how very pitiful you are all by nature, so often do I recognize that this present work will, to your thinking, have a grievous and a weariful beginning, inasmuch as the dolorous remembrance of the late pestiferous mortality, which it beareth on its forefront, is universally irksome to all who saw or otherwise knew it. But I would not therefore have this affright you from reading further, as if in the reading you were still to fare among sighs and tears. Let this grisly beginning be none other to you than is to wayfarers a rugged and steep mountain, beyond which is situate a most fair and delightful plain, which latter cometh so much the pleasanter to them as the greater was the hardship of the ascent and the descent; for, like as dolour occupieth the extreme of gladness, even so are miseries determined by imminent joyance. This brief annoy (I say brief, inasmuch as it is contained in few pages) is straightway succeeded by the pleasance and delight which I have already promised you and which, belike, were it not aforesaid, might not be looked for from such a beginning. And in truth, could I fairly have availed to bring you to my desire otherwise than by so rugged a path as this will be I had gladly done it; but being in a manner constrained thereto, for that, without this reminiscence of our past miseries, it might not be shown what was the occasion of the coming about of the things that will hereafter be read, I have brought myself to write them.

I say, then, that the years of the fruitful Incarnation of the Son of God had attained to the number of one thousand three hundred and forty-eight, when into the notable city of Florence, fair over every other of Italy, there came the death-dealing pestilence, which, through the operation of the heavenly bodies or of our own iniquitous dealings, being sent down upon mankind for our correction by the just wrath of God, had some years before appeared in the parts of the East and after having bereft these latter of an innumerable number of inhabitants, extending without cease from one place to another, had now unhappily spread towards the West. And thereagainst no wisdom availing nor human foresight (whereby the city was purged of many impurities by officers deputed to that end and it was forbidden unto any sick person to enter therein and many were the counsels given for the preservation of health) nor yet humble supplications, not once but many times both in ordered processions and on other wise made unto God by devout persons,—about the coming in of the Spring of the aforesaid year, it began on horrible and miraculous wise to show forth its dolorous effects. Yet not as it had done in the East, where, if any bled at the nose, it was a manifest sign of inevitable death; nay, but in men and women alike there appeared, at the beginning of the malady, certain swellings, either on the groin or under the armpits, whereof some waxed of the bigness of a common apple, others like unto an egg, some more and some less, and these the vulgar named plague-boils. From these two parts the aforesaid death-bearing plague-boils proceeded, in brief space, to appear and come indifferently in every part of the body; wherefrom, after awhile, the fashion of the contagion began to change into black or livid blotches, which showed themselves in many on the arms and about the thighs every other part of the person, in some large and sparse and in others small and thick-sown; and like as the plague-boils had been first (and yet were) a very certain token of coming death, even so were these for every one to whom they came.

To the cure of these maladies nor counsel of physician nor virtue of any medicine appeared to avail or profit aught; on the contrary,—whether it was that the nature of the infection suffered it not or that the ignorance of the physicians (of whom, over and above the men of art, the number, both men and women, who had never had any teaching of medicine, was become exceeding great,) availed not to know whence it arose and consequently took not due measures thereagainst,—not only did few recover thereof, but well nigh all died within the third day from the appearance of the aforesaid signs, this sooner and that later, and for the most part without fever or other accident. And this pestilence was the more virulent for that, by communication with those who were sick thereof, it gat hold upon the sound, no otherwise than fire upon things dry or greasy, whenas they are brought very near thereunto. Nay, the mischief was yet greater; for that not only did converse and consortion with the sick give to the sound infection of cause of common death, but the mere touching of the clothes or of whatsoever other thing had been touched or used of the sick appeared of itself to communicate the malady to the toucher. A marvellous thing to hear is that which I have to tell and one which, had it not been seen of many men’s eyes and of mine own, I had scarce dared credit, much less set down in writing, though I had heard it from one worthy of belief. I say, then, that of such efficience was the nature of the pestilence in question in communicating itself from one to another, that, not only did it pass from man to man, but this, which is much more, it many times visibly did;—to wit, a thing which had pertained to a man sick or dead of the aforesaid sickness, being touched by an animal foreign to the human species, not only infected this latter with the plague, but in a very brief space of time killed it. Of this mine own eyes (as hath a little before been said) had one day, among others, experience on this wise; to wit, that the rags of a poor man, who had died of the plague, being cast out into the public way, two hogs came up to them and having first, after their wont, rooted amain among them with their snouts, took them in their mouths and tossed them about their jaws; then, in a little while, after turning round and round, they both, as if they had taken poison, fell down dead upon the rags with which they had in an ill hour intermeddled.

From these things and many others like unto them or yet stranger divers fears and conceits were begotten in those who abode alive, which well nigh all tended to a very barbarous conclusion, namely, to shun and flee from the sick and all that pertained to them, and thus doing, each thought to secure immunity for himself. Some there were who conceived that to live moderately and keep oneself from all excess was the best defence against such a danger; wherefore, making up their company, they lived removed from every other and shut themselves up in those houses where none had been sick and where living was best; and there, using very temperately of the most delicate viands and the finest wines and eschewing all incontinence, they abode with music and such other diversions as they might have, never suffering themselves to speak with any nor choosing to hear any news from without of death or sick folk. Others, inclining to the contrary opinion, maintained that to carouse and make merry and go about singing and frolicking and satisfy the appetite in everything possible and laugh and scoff at whatsoever befell was a very certain remedy for such an ill. That which they said they put in practice as best they might, going about day and night, now to this tavern, now to that, drinking without stint or measure; and on this wise they did yet more freely in other folk’s houses, so but they scented there aught that liked or tempted them, as they might lightly do, for that every one—as he were to live no longer—had abandoned all care of his possessions, as of himself, wherefore the most part of the houses were become common good and strangers used them, whenas they happened upon them, like as the very owner might have done; and with all this bestial preoccupation, they still shunned the sick to the best of their power.

In this sore affliction and misery of our city, the reverend authority of the laws, both human and divine, was all in a manner dissolved and fallen into decay, the ministers and executors thereof, who, like other men, were all either dead or sick or else left so destitute of followers that they were unable to exercise any office, wherefore every one had license to do whatsoever pleased him. Many others held a middle course between the two aforesaid, not straitening themselves so exactly in the matter of diet as the first neither allowing themselves such license in drinking and other debauchery as the second, but using things in sufficiency, according to their appetites; nor did they seclude themselves, but went about, carrying in their hands, some flowers, some odoriferous herbs and other some divers kinds of spiceries, which they set often to their noses, accounting it an excellent thing to fortify the brain with such odours, more by token that the air seemed all heavy and attainted with the stench of the dead bodies and that of the sick and of the remedies used.

Some were of a more barbarous, though, peradventure, a surer way of thinking, avouching that there was no remedy against pestilences better than—no, nor any so good as—to flee before them; wherefore, moved by this reasoning and recking of nought but themselves, very many, both men and women, abandoned their own city, their own houses and homes, their kinsfolk and possessions, and sought the country seats of others, or, at the least, their own, as if the wrath of God, being moved to punish the iniquity of mankind, would not proceed to do so wheresoever they might be, but would content itself with afflicting those only who were found within the walls of their city, or as if they were persuaded that no person was to remain therein and that its last hour was come. And albeit these, who opined thus variously, died not all, yet neither did they all escape; nay, many of each way of thinking and in every place sickened of the plague and languished on all sides, well nigh abandoned, having themselves, what while they were whole, set the example to those who abode in health.

Indeed, leaving be that townsman avoided townsman and that well nigh no neighbour took thought unto other and that kinsfolk seldom or never visited one another and held no converse together save from afar, this tribulation had stricken such terror to the hearts of all, men and women alike, that brother forsook brother, uncle nephew and sister brother and oftentimes wife husband; nay (what is yet more extraordinary and well nigh incredible) fathers and mothers refused to visit or tend their very children, as they had not been theirs. By reason whereof there remained unto those (and the number of them, both males and females, was incalculable) who fell sick, none other succour than that which they owed either to the charity of friends (and of these there were few) or the greed of servants, who tended them, allured by high and extravagant wage; albeit, for all this, these latter were not grown many, and those men and women of mean understanding and for the most part unused to such offices, who served for well nigh nought but to reach things called for by the sick or to note when they died; and in the doing of these services many of them perished with their gain.

Of this abandonment of the sick by neighbours, kinsfolk and friends and of the scarcity of servants arose an usage before well nigh unheard, to wit, that no woman, how fair or lovesome or well-born soever she might be, once fallen sick, recked aught of having a man to tend her, whatever he might be, or young or old, and without any shame discovered to him every part of her body, no otherwise than she would have done to a woman, so but the necessity of her sickness required it; the which belike, in those who recovered, was the occasion of lesser modesty in time to come. Moreover, there ensued of this abandonment the death of many who peradventure, had they been succoured, would have escaped alive; wherefore, as well for the lack of the opportune services which the sick availed not to have as for the virulence of the plague, such was the multitude of those who died in the city by day and by night that it was an astonishment to hear tell thereof, much more to see it; and thence, as it were of necessity, there sprang up among those who abode alive things contrary to the pristine manners of the townsfolk.

It was then (even as we yet see it used) a custom that the kinswomen and she-neighbours of the dead should assemble in his house and there condole with those who more nearly pertained unto him, whilst his neighbours and many other citizens foregathered with his next of kin before his house, whither, according to the dead man’s quality, came the clergy, and he with funeral pomp of chants and candles was borne on the shoulders of his peers to the church chosen by himself before his death; which usages, after the virulence of the plague began to increase, were either altogether or for the most part laid aside, and other and strange customs sprang up in their stead. For that, not only did folk die without having a multitude of women about them, but many there were who departed this life without witness and few indeed were they to whom the pious plaints and bitter tears of their kinsfolk were vouchsafed; nay, in lieu of these things there obtained, for the most part, laughter and jests and gibes and feasting and merrymaking in company; which usance women, laying aside womanly pitifulness, had right well learned for their own safety.

Few, again, were they whose bodies were accompanied to the church by more than half a score or a dozen of their neighbours, and of these no worshipful and illustrious citizens, but a sort of blood-suckers, sprung from the dregs of the people, who styled themselves *pickmen* and did such offices for hire, shouldered the bier and bore it with hurried steps, not to that church which the dead man had chosen before his death, but most times to the nearest, behind five or six priests, with little light and whiles none at all, which latter, with the aid of the said pickmen, thrust him into what grave soever they first found unoccupied, without troubling themselves with too long or too formal a service.

The condition of the common people (and belike, in great part, of the middle class also) was yet more pitiable to behold, for that these, for the most part retained by hope or poverty in their houses and abiding in their own quarters, sickened by the thousand daily and being altogether untended and unsuccoured, died well nigh all without recourse. Many breathed their last in the open street, whilst other many, for all they died in their houses, made it known to the neighbours that they were dead rather by the stench of their rotting bodies than otherwise; and of these and others who died all about the whole city was full. For the most part one same usance was observed by the neighbours, moved more by fear lest the corruption of the dead bodies should imperil themselves than by any charity they had for the departed; to wit, that either with their own hands or with the aid of certain bearers, whenas they might have any, they brought the bodies of those who had died forth of their houses and laid them before their doors, where, especially in the morning, those who went about might see corpses without number; then they fetched biers and some, in default thereof, they laid upon some board or other. Nor was it only one bier that carried two or three corpses, nor did this happen but once; nay, many might have been counted which contained husband and wife, two or three brothers, father and son or the like. And an infinite number of times it befell that, two priests going with one cross for some one, three or four biers, borne by bearers, ranged themselves behind the latter, and whereas the priests thought to have but one dead man to bury, they had six or eight, and whiles more. Nor therefore were the dead honoured with aught of tears or candles or funeral train; nay, the thing was come to such a pass that folk recked no more of men that died than nowadays they would of goats; whereby it very manifestly appeared that that which the natural course of things had not availed, by dint of small and infrequent harms, to teach the wise to endure with patience, the very greatness of their ills had brought even the simple to expect and make no account of. The consecrated ground sufficing not to the burial of the vast multitude of corpses aforesaid, which daily and well nigh hourly came carried in crowds to every church,—especially if it were sought to give each his own place, according to ancient usance,—there were made throughout the churchyards, after every other part was full, vast trenches, wherein those who came after were laid by the hundred and being heaped up therein by layers, as goods are stowed aboard ship, were covered with a little earth, till such time as they reached the top of the trench.

Moreover,—not to go longer searching out and recalling every particular of our past miseries, as they befell throughout the city,—I say that, whilst so sinister a time prevailed in the latter, on no wise therefor was the surrounding country spared, wherein, (letting be the castles, which in their littleness were like unto the city,) throughout the scattered villages and in the fields, the poor and miserable husbandmen and their families, without succour of physician or aid of servitor, died, not like men, but well nigh like beasts, by the ways or in their tillages or about the houses, indifferently by day and night. By reason whereof, growing lax like the townsfolk in their manners and customs, they recked not of any thing or business of theirs; nay, all, as if they looked for death that very day, studied with all their wit, not to help to maturity the future produce of their cattle and their fields and the fruits of their own past toils, but to consume those which were ready to hand. Thus it came to pass that the oxen, the asses, the sheep, the goats, the swine, the fowls, nay, the very dogs, so faithful to mankind, being driven forth of their own houses, went straying at their pleasure about the fields, where the very corn was abandoned, without being cut, much less gathered in; and many, well nigh like reasonable creatures, after grazing all day, returned at night, glutted, to their houses, without the constraint of any herdsman.

To leave the countryside and return to the city, what more can be said except that such and so great was the cruelty of fate (and perhaps, partly, that of humankind) that, between March and the following July, because of the virulence of that plague and the high number of sick people who were either poorly cared for or simply abandoned out of fear by the healthy, it is now firmly believed that over one hundred thousand people died within the walls of Florence—a number that, perhaps, the city had not even contained before the arrival of that deadly disaster. Alas, how many grand palaces, fine houses, and noble mansions—once full of families, lords, and ladies—stood empty, down to the very lowest servant! How many famous families, vast inheritances, and celebrated fortunes were left with no rightful heir! How many strong men, beautiful ladies, and lively youths, whom not only others but even Galen, Hippocrates, or Æsculapius themselves would have judged in perfect health, ate breakfast with family and friends in the morning and, by nightfall, supped with their ancestors in the other world!

I am myself weary of lingering among such misery. So, intending to leave as much of it behind as I suitably can, I say that—our city being almost empty of inhabitants—it happened (as I afterward heard from a reliable source) that in the venerable church of Santa Maria Novella, one Tuesday morning when almost no one else was there, seven young ladies came together. All were bound to each other by friendship, neighborhood, or kinship, and had attended divine service in mourning attire, suited to the somber season. Not one of them was older than twenty-eight or younger than eighteen, and each was wise, of noble birth, attractive, well-mannered, and full of honest spirit. I would provide their names in due order, were there not good reason not to—for I would not have it possible that, in time, any should be shamed by what is later recounted as having been said or heard by them, given that today's social rules regarding amusement are stricter than in those days, which—because of reasons already explained—were more relaxed not only for the young, but also for those much older. Nor would I give the envious, who are always quick to criticize every admirable life, any chance to tarnish the good name of these respectable ladies with improper talk. Therefore, so that what each says may later be understood without confusion, I intend to assign them names somewhat related to each one’s character. The eldest I shall call Pampinea, the second Fiammetta, the third Filomena, and the fourth Emilia. To the fifth I will give the name Lauretta, the sixth Neifile, and lastly, and with good reason, we will call Elisa. These ladies, then, not brought together by plan, but meeting by chance in a corner of the church, sat in a circle. After various sighs, they set aside their prayers and began discussing among themselves many things relating to the troubled times. After a while, when the others fell silent, Pampinea began to speak as follows:

“Dear ladies, you may have heard, as I often have, that anyone who justly makes use of his rights does no wrong to others; and it is the natural right of everyone born into this world to help, preserve, and defend their own life by whatever means they can; indeed, it has even happened sometimes that, for self-preservation, a man may be killed blamelessly. If the very laws, which are meant for the well-being of everyone, allow this, then how much more lawful is it for us, and for anyone else, with no harm to others, to take such means as we may for our own survival? Whenever I consider what our days are like now, and think back on how we've spent many recent mornings—the sort of conversations we have—I feel, and I’m sure you all feel, that each of us fears for her own life. Nor do I find this surprising, but what does surprise me, given that we all have a woman’s wit, is that none of us has yet acted to protect herself from what she rightly fears. We remain here, it seems to me, as if we want, or are supposed, to witness how many bodies are brought here for burial or to hear the friars—whose numbers are nearly gone—sing their offices at the proper hours or, by our mourning clothes, to show anyone here just how deep our suffering runs. If we leave here, we see either corpses or sick people being carried about, or we see those whom the law once exiled for their crimes now roaming everywhere unchecked—as if mocking the law—knowing the officials are all dead or sick; while the scum of our city, fattened by our suffering, call themselves “pickmen” and behave rudely everywhere, mocking us and our distress with obscene songs. We hear nothing here but ‘So-and-so is dead’ or ‘So-and-so is dying’; and if anyone were left to make them, we would hear sorrowful laments everywhere. And if we return to our homes, I don’t know if you feel as I do, but for my part, when I find no one left from my large household except my serving-maid, I am afraid, and every hair on my body stands on end; wherever I go in the house, it seems I see the ghosts of those who have died, their faces not as I remember them, but terrifying me with horrible looks, somehow newly changed.

Because of these things, I am equally ill at ease here, out in public, and at home—especially since it seems like no one who has the means and route to escape, as we do, is left here except us. Or if there are any, I've heard and noticed that, making no distinction between what’s right and wrong, as long as it appeals to them, whether alone or in groups, day and night, they do whatever pleases them most. And it isn't just laypeople; even those locked away in monasteries, convincing themselves that what is fitting and lawful for others is also right for them, have abandoned the rules of obedience and given in to pleasure, becoming loose and dissolute. If that’s how things are—as we clearly see—then what are we doing here? What are we waiting for? What are we hoping for? Why are we slower and less proactive in safeguarding ourselves than everyone else in town? Do we think ourselves less worthy than others, or believe our lives are more securely fixed in our bodies and thus immune to harm? We are mistaken, we deceive ourselves; it is foolish if we think that way! The sheer number and quality of young men and ladies swept away by this merciless plague is proof enough.

Therefore, if we don't want to fall into the same trouble out of stubbornness or carelessness—trouble that, if we try, we might actually escape by some means—I don't know if you agree, but I think it would be an excellent idea for us, as we are, to leave the city, as many others have already done, and, avoiding the shameful example of others as if it were death itself, go quietly to our homes in the countryside—of which each of us has plenty—and there seek out whatever amusement, pleasure, and joy we can find, all within reason. There, we can hear the little birds sing and see green hills and plains and fields of waving grain like the sea; there, we can see thousands of kinds of trees, and the sky is more open to us, which, though angered at us, still shows us its eternal beauty—far lovelier than the empty walls of our city. The air is fresher, and there, at this time, is more abundance of what is needed for life and fewer troubles, since—even though the peasants die there too, just like the townsfolk—the pain of it is less, because houses and people are fewer than in the city.

Here, by contrast, if I understand correctly, we're not abandoning anyone—in fact, we might more truthfully say that we ourselves have been abandoned, since our family, whether by death or fleeing from death, has left us alone in this hard time, as if we weren't related. No blame, then, can fall on us for following this plan. On the contrary, sorrow, regret, and maybe even death might come to us if we don’t do it. So, if it please you, I think we’d do well to take our maids and, having them bring what is needed, pass one day in one place and the next in another, seeking such pleasure and amusement as the season offers, and thus stay away until, unless death catches us first, we see what fate has in store for these troubles. And I will remind you: it is no less proper for us to leave respectably than it is for many other women to remain here dishonorably.”

The other ladies, having listened to Pampinea, not only praised her plan, but, eager to follow it, had already begun discussing how, as if rising immediately, they might set off. But Filomena, who was extremely wise, said, “Ladies, although what Pampinea says is excellent, there’s no need to rush, as it seems you want to do. Remember, we are all women, and none of us is so naive that she doesn't know how women can be among themselves, and how poorly, without a man's guidance, they know how to manage. We are fickle, stubborn, suspicious, faint-hearted, and fearful, and so I very much doubt that, if we don’t arrange some guidance besides our own, our group will soon dissolve—and with less dignity than it should. So, we would do well to secure some guidance before we start.”

“Truly,” replied Elisa, “men are the head of women, and without their direction, seldom does any undertaking of ours end well; but how can we find these men? As we all know, most of our male relatives are dead, and those still alive have all run from what we wish to escape, in scattered groups, some here, some there, with none of us knowing where. Inviting strangers would not be proper, as, if we seek our own well-being, we must find a way to organize ourselves so that, wherever we go seeking diversion and rest, no scandal or annoyance comes of it.”

While the ladies were discussing this, three young men entered the church—not so young that the youngest was less than twenty-five—whose passion for love had not been cooled, much less extinguished, by the troubles of the time, the loss of friends and relatives, or even fear for themselves. One was called Pamfilo, another Filostrato, and the third Dioneo—all agreeable and well-mannered. In this upheaval, they were seeking their beloveds, who, as it happened, were all three among the seven ladies, while some of the others were close relatives to one or another of the men.

No sooner had the men seen the ladies than the ladies spotted them. Then Pampinea said, smiling, “See, fortune favors our beginnings and puts in our way young men of worth and sense, who would gladly serve as both guides and helpers, if we are not too proud to accept them as such.” But Neifile, blushing deeply out of modesty—since she was loved by one of the men—said, “For heaven’s sake, Pampinea, be careful what you say! I freely acknowledge that only good can be said of any of them, and I believe they are worthy of something greater than this, just as I am sure that they would happily keep company not only with us, but with women far nobler than we, in a good and proper way. But since it's obvious that they are in love with some of us here, I fear that, even without any fault on our part or theirs, scandal and blame could result if we include them.” Filomena replied, “That doesn’t matter; as long as I live honestly and my conscience does not accuse me of anything, let others say what they will; God and the truth will defend me. So, if they wish to join us, we may, as Pampinea said, truly call fortune kind to our plans.”

The other ladies, hearing her speak so straightforwardly, held their peace and all immediately agreed that the young men should be told of their idea and asked to join them on their trip. Without further words, Pampinea, who was related to one of them, got up, went to the three men—who were watching the group—and, greeting them cheerfully, explained what they intended and asked them, for herself and the others, to join them in a pure and brotherly spirit. At first, the young men thought it was a joke; but, seeing the lady was serious, they joyfully agreed and, without delay, quickly made arrangements for whatever was needed for the journey.

The following morning, Wednesday at dawn, having all things made ready and sent ahead to where they planned to go, the ladies, with some of their maids, and the three young men, with as many of their own servants, left Florence and set out. They had walked not more than two short miles from the city before reaching the chosen place—a small hill, somewhat removed from the main road, and full of various shrubs and green plants, beautiful to see. At the top of the hill was a palace with a large and pleasant courtyard, halls, sleeping rooms—each lovely, decorated with cheerful paintings—lawns and grassy areas all around, wonderful gardens, wells of very cold water, and cellars full of fine wines—more suited to those who drink deeply than to sober, modest ladies. To their great pleasure, they found the place already swept, the beds made, and everything filled with all the flowers possible for the season, the floors strewn with rushes.

As soon as they had seated themselves, Dioneo, who was the merriest young man in the world and full of jokes and pranks, said, “Ladies, it’s your wit, not our foresight, that brought us here, and I don’t know what you plan to do with your worries; as for mine, I left them behind at the city gates when I left with you a short while ago. So, either get ready to join me in making merry, laughing, and singing together (as long as it’s fitting for your dignity), or let me go back for my worries and stay in the troubled city.” Pampinea, as if she too had left all her cares behind, answered cheerfully, “Dioneo, you speak well; we should live joyfully, and there’s no other reason we left those miseries behind. But, since things without moderation cannot last long, I, who began the talk that brought this lovely company together, think we must choose someone as leader, to be honored and obeyed, whose special task will be to keep us living happily. And so that everyone in turn may experience both the burden of responsibility and the pleasure of leadership, and that leadership, alternating between men and women, gives no room for jealousy (which might happen if anyone were excluded), I suggest the honor and burden should go to each of us for one day. Let the first leader be chosen by all of us, and whoever leads afterwards shall be appointed by the governor of the day, when vespers approaches, and let each, at their discretion, organize the place and way we live for the term of their rule.”

Pampinea’s words were greatly approved, and unanimously they elected her chief for the first day; whereupon Filomena, running quickly to a laurel tree—because she had often heard how honorable its leaves were and how worthy they made those crowned with them—and picking several branches, made a fine and honorable wreath, which, placed upon Pampinea’s head, became, for as long as their company lasted, a clear sign to everyone of the royal office and leadership.

Having been made queen, Pampinea commanded silence from everyone; then, calling forward the serving-men of the three young gentlemen and her own and the other ladies’ women, who were four in number, and all being silent, she spoke as follows: “In order to set a first example, so that step by step our company lives with order, pleasure, and without reproach for as long as we please, I appoint, firstly, Parmeno, Dioneo’s servant, as my steward and give him the care and management of whatever pertains to the service of the hall. Sirisco, Pamfilo’s servant, shall be our provider and treasurer and shall carry out Parmeno's orders. Tindaro shall look after Filostrato and the other two gentlemen in their bedrooms whenever the others are engaged with their duties. Misia, my maid, and Licisca, Filomena’s maid, will stay in the kitchen and diligently prepare food as Parmeno shall order. Lauretta’s Chimera and Fiammetta’s Stratilia will look after the ladies’ rooms and make sure the places we stay are clean; and we require all of you, if you value our favor, to be careful that wherever you go or whatever you see or hear, you bring us no news from outside except joyful ones.” These orders, briefly given, were approved by all, and Pampinea, rising cheerfully, said, “Here are gardens, here are meadows, and many other delightful places; let each go and enjoy themselves as they wish, and when tierce sounds, let us all return here so we may eat in the cool.”

The happy company, thus dismissed by the new queen, went wandering at leisure, young men and women together, around the garden, laughing and amusing themselves by weaving pretty garlands of various leaves and singing love songs. When they had stayed as long as the queen instructed, they returned to the house, where they found that Parmeno had diligently begun his office, for when they entered the hall on the ground floor, they saw the tables covered with the whitest linen, silver-looking beakers, and everything decorated with broom flowers. After washing their hands, they all, by the queen’s command, sat down according to Parmeno’s arrangement. Then came delicately prepared food and the choicest wines, with the three serving-men quietly attending the tables. All were delighted by these things, because they were done so well and orderly, and they ate happily with plenty of lively talk; and when the tables were cleared, the queen ordered musical instruments to be brought, since all the ladies could dance, as could the young men, and some could play and sing very well. So, by her command, Dioneo took a lute and Fiammetta a viol and began softly to play a dance; whereupon the queen and the other ladies, together with the other two young men, after sending the servants to eat, started a circle dance at a slow pace; when that ended, they sang cheerful and clever songs. In this way they stayed until the queen thought it time to sleep, and so she dismissed them all; the young men retired to their chambers, separate from the ladies' rooms, and found their beds well made and as full of flowers as the hall. They undressed and went to rest, while the ladies did the same.

It was not long after none had sounded that the queen rose and had the other ladies do likewise, and then the three young men, saying too much daytime sleep was harmful; so they went to a little meadow, where the grass was green and tall and the sun had no power. There, enjoying a gentle breeze, they all, as the queen willed, sat in a circle on the grass, and she spoke to them: “As you see, the sun is high and the heat great, and nothing is heard except crickets among the olives; so it would clearly be foolish to go anywhere now. Here it is pleasant and cool, and here, as you see, are chess and tables, and each can amuse themselves as they wish. But, if you take my advice, we’ll spend this hot part of the day not in gaming—which troubles the mind of at least one player, bringing little pleasure to the other or to onlookers—but in telling stories. Each story can entertain everyone who listens; and before we all finish telling our stories, the sun will have moved on, the heat will lessen, and we can then go out where it is most pleasant. So, if you like my proposal (for I want to please you), let’s do it; if not, let each do as he pleases until vespers.” Both ladies and men agreed to storytelling, whereupon, “Then,” said the queen, “since this pleases you, I decree that today everyone is free to tell stories on whatever topic they like.” Then, turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her right, she smiled and invited him to begin with one of his stories; and he, hearing this, immediately began, while they all listened.

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## THE FIRST STORY

Day the First

MASTER CIAPPELLETTO DECEIVES A HOLY FRIAR WITH A FALSE CONFESSION AND DIES; AND, HAVING BEEN IN HIS LIFETIME THE WORST OF MEN, HE IS, AFTER HIS DEATH, REPUTED A SAINT AND CALLED SAINT CIAPPELLETTO.

“It is fitting, dearest ladies, that whatever a person does, they begin in the holy and admirable name of Him who is the maker of all things. So, since I am first to begin our storytelling, I intend to open with one of His wonders, so that hearing this, our hope in Him, as in something unchanging, may be affirmed and His name always praised by us. It’s clear that, just as all temporal things are passing and mortal, so they are full of troubles, suffering, and hardships, and subject to endless dangers, against which we who live among them—indeed, who are part of them—would neither endure nor protect ourselves, except that God’s special grace gives us strength and foresight. This, we should not believe, comes to us by our own merit, but from God’s own kindness and the prayers of those who were once mortals like us and, having followed God’s commandments during life, are now eternal and blessed with Him. To them, perhaps not daring to turn directly to such a mighty Judge, we offer our petitions for things we need, as to advocates who know from experience how frail we are. And there is more: we see in God such generous mercy toward us, that if it sometimes happens (since mortal eyes cannot see into the secrets of the Divine plan), we, fooled by reputation, choose as our advocate someone actually banished from God’s presence forever—yet God, who hides nothing, cares more for the purity of the supplicant’s intent than for his ignorance or for the lost state of the one whose intercession is sought, and so listens to those who pray to the latter as if that soul were truly blessed. This will clearly appear in the story I intend to tell; I say, clearly—following not God’s judgment, but that of men.

It is told, then, that Musciatto Franzesi, having gone from being a wealthy and influential merchant in France to becoming a knight, and needing to go to Tuscany with Sir Charles Sansterre, brother to the King of France, who had been requested and summoned there by Pope Boniface, found his business affairs in some disorder (as merchants’ affairs often are), and could not easily or quickly sort them out. So he decided to entrust them to various people and managed to find someone for everything, except he didn’t know who to assign to recover the debts owed to him by some Burgundians. The reason for his uncertainty was that he knew the Burgundians to be argumentative, troublesome, bad-tempered, and dishonest, and could not think of anyone tough enough and trustworthy to deal with their wickedness. After considering for a while, he remembered a certain Master Ciappelletto da Prato, who often came to his house in Paris and who, being small in stature and very particular about his dress, was called Ciappelletto by the French, who misunderstood the meaning of Cepparello—thinking it meant ‘Chaplet’ in their language, instead of ‘Cappello’. So, everyone knew him as Ciappelletto, while few knew him as Master Cepparello.

Now this said Ciappelletto was of such a nature that, being a notary, he was so ashamed if any of his documents was found (and indeed he made very few) anything but false. He happily drew up as many false documents as he was asked for, and did them more willingly as a favor than for a high fee. He especially liked bearing false witness, whether asked or not; and since great importance was placed on oaths in France at that time, and he cared nothing for perjury, he deceitfully won all the lawsuits where he had to swear the truth. He took particular delight and was very committed to stirring up trouble, feuds, and scandals between friends, family, and anyone else; the worse the consequences, the more he rejoiced. If asked to commit murder or any other evil deed, he did so eagerly, never refusing; and often, of his own accord, he was known to have wounded or killed people with his own hands. He was a terrible blasphemer of God and the saints, for any trifle, being the angriest man alive. He never set foot in church and made a mockery of all its sacraments, treating them as worthless; on the other hand, he always liked to visit taverns and other disreputable places. He liked women as much as dogs like a stick; but, on the contrary, he preferred men more than any filthy fellow alive. He stole and robbed as casually as a good man would make an offering to God; he was a glutton and a heavy drinker, so much so that at times it brought him disgrace, and he was also a notorious gambler and a cheat at dice. But why say more? He was perhaps the worst man ever born. His wickedness had long been protected by Messer Musciatto’s power and influence, who often shielded him from both private persons he had wronged and from the law, against which he constantly offended.

This Master Ciappelletto, then, coming to Musciatto’s mind, the latter, who knew his way of life very well, thought he would be a good match for the Burgundians’ wickedness and so, sending for him, spoke as follows: ‘Master Ciappelletto, as you know, I am about to leave here completely, and need someone, among others, to deal with certain Burgundians—crafty men—and I couldn’t think of anyone more suited to collect what’s owed me from them than you, especially since you’re not doing anything at present; so, if you’ll take this on, I’ll arrange for you to have the court’s favor and give you a fair share of what you recover.’

Don Ciappelletto, who was at that time unemployed and lacking worldly goods, saw that his longtime support and refuge was soon to depart. Without hesitation, driven by necessity, he answered that he would indeed go. Having come to an agreement, Musciatto left, and Ciappelletto, provided with his patron’s authority and letters of recommendation from the king, made his way to Burgundy, a place where hardly anyone knew him. There, acting against his usual nature, he began to collect debts courteously and gently, doing what he had come for, as if saving anger and force for a last resort.

While managing this business and staying at the home of two Florentine brothers, who lent money at interest, he was treated with great honor for the sake of Messer Musciatto. It happened that he fell ill, and the two brothers quickly brought in doctors and servants to care for him, furnishing everything necessary for his recovery. But all help was in vain; as the doctors reported, the good man—now old and who had lived recklessly—grew worse each day from what appeared to be a fatal illness. Seeing this, the two brothers were very troubled, and one day, close to the room where he was lying sick, they discussed together, one saying to the other, "What are we to do about this man? We have found ourselves in a bad situation with him, for to put him out of our house in this sick state would bring us much reproach, and people would surely think us lacking in wisdom, especially since everyone has seen how we have welcomed him and cared for him so diligently. To suddenly turn him out, sick and near death, when he couldn't have done anything to offend us, would look very bad for us. On the other hand, he has been such a wicked man that he will never agree to confess or take any of the Church’s sacraments; and if he dies without confession, no church will accept his body—instead, he’ll be thrown into a ditch like a dog. Even if he does confess, his sins are so many and so horrible that the same will happen, for there’s no priest or friar who can or will absolve him; so, unshriven, he’ll still end up in the ditches. If this happens, the people here, who already criticize our trade as wicked and always speak against us, will use it as an excuse to riot. They’ll say, ‘These Lombard dogs, whom the Church refuses to bury, should not be tolerated here any longer!’ They’ll come to our house and might not only take all we have, but even our lives. So, no matter what, if this man dies, we are in serious trouble."

Master Ciappelletto, who, as noted, was lying near enough to hear this conversation—as sick people often have keen hearing—called them to him and said, "I don’t want you to worry about me or fear any harm on my account. I’ve heard what you said, and I fully understand that things would happen just as you imagine if matters go as you fear. But it will turn out differently. In my life, I have offended God so often that it will matter little if I do Him one more wrong at the point of death. So just make sure to find me the holiest and worthiest friar you can find, if there is such a one, and leave the rest to me. I’ll handle everything in such a way that all will be well, and you’ll have good reason to be happy with the outcome."

The two brothers, though not very hopeful, nonetheless went to a monastery of monks and requested a holy and learned man to hear the confession of a Lombard who was ill in their house. They were sent a venerable friar, a man of good and holy life and a master of holy scripture, greatly respected by everyone in town. They brought him to their house, and upon entering the chamber where Master Ciappelletto lay, the friar sat beside him, first comforting him gently, then asking how long it had been since his last confession. Master Ciappelletto, who had never confessed in his life, replied, "Father, I have made it my custom to confess at least once a week, often more. But since I fell ill, these past eight days, I have not managed to confess, so great has been my suffering." The friar said, "My son, you have done well, and you should continue to do so. Since you confess so often, my task in hearing you will be easy." "Sir," answered Master Ciappelletto, "do not say that. I have never confessed so often or so completely that I would not wish to make a full confession of all my sins—from my birth to this very moment; so I ask you, dear father, to question me thoroughly on everything, absolutely everything, just as if I had never confessed before. And don’t worry about my illness, for I would rather trouble this failing body of mine than, out of concern for it, do anything that might endanger my soul, which my Savior redeemed with His precious blood."

These words greatly pleased the holy friar and seemed to indicate a well-disposed mind. After praising Master Ciappelletto’s good habit, he asked if he had ever sinned by lust with any woman. "Father," replied Master Ciappelletto with a sigh, "I am ashamed to tell you the truth for fear of being vain." The friar said, "Speak freely, for no one sins by telling the truth, whether in confession or otherwise." "Then," said Master Ciappelletto, "since you assure me, I will tell you: I am still a virgin, just as I was born." "O blessed are you by God!" cried the monk. "How well you have lived! And you deserve even more praise, because, unlike those of us who live by a strict rule, you had more opportunity to do otherwise."

Next, he asked if Ciappelletto had ever sinned with gluttony. Ciappelletto answered, sighing, that he had indeed, many times; for although, besides the Lenten fasts devout people observe each year, he had made a habit of fasting on bread and water at least three days every week—still, sometimes (especially after any fatigue, from praying or going on pilgrimage), he drank water with as much eagerness and pleasure as heavy drinkers do wine. Many times he had yearned for simple country salads made by women, and sometimes eating had brought him more delight than seemed proper for someone fasting for devotion's sake. "My son," said the friar, "these are natural and minor sins. Don’t burden your conscience more than necessary. Even the most devout, after a long fast, find food enjoyable, and after work, drink."

"Alas, father," replied Ciappelletto, "please don’t say that just to cheer me. I know very well that things done for God’s sake should be done sincerely and willingly, and doing otherwise is a sin." The friar, even more pleased, said, "I am glad you think that way, and your pure and good conscience pleases me greatly. But tell me, have you ever sinned by avarice, wanting more than was right or holding back what you shouldn’t have kept?" "Father," Ciappelletto answered, "don’t judge by the fact that I’m in the house of these usurers; I have nothing to do here. I actually came to advise and correct them, to turn them from their sinful ways; and I believe I would have succeeded had God not struck me with this sickness. You should know that my father left me a wealthy man, most of which, after his death, I gave to charity. Later, to support myself and to be able to help Christ’s poor, I did some trading, and in this, I sought profit—but I always shared my gains with God’s poor, keeping half for myself and giving them the other half. In this, God has prospered me, and my affairs have always gone from good to better."

"You have done well," said the friar, "but have you often been angry?" "Oh," cried Master Ciappelletto, "I must admit I have been! And who could help it, seeing people do wrong all day, ignoring God’s commandments and not fearing His judgment? Many times a day I would have rather died than lived when I saw young men chasing empty pleasures, cursing, swearing, staying in taverns, neglecting church, and following worldly ways instead of God." "My son," said the friar, "this is a righteous anger. For my part, I cannot give you any penance for it. But did anger ever lead you to violence, or to speak harshly or do any other wrong?" "Alas, sir," replied Ciappelletto, "how could you think such things of me? If I had even considered doing any of those things, would God have let me live this long? Those are the actions of lawless men, whom I never saw without saying, ‘Go, may God reform you!’"

Then the friar said, "Tell me now, my son—may God bless you—have you ever borne false witness or spoken ill of others, or taken someone else’s property without permission?" "Yes, sir," replied Master Ciappelletto, "I have indeed spoken ill of others. I once had a neighbor who did nothing but beat his wife for no reason. Out of pity for the poor woman—who suffered beyond what anyone knows, especially when her husband drank too much—I once spoke badly of him to her relatives." The friar asked, "You tell me you have been a merchant. Did you ever cheat anyone, as merchants sometimes do?" "Indeed, yes, sir," answered Master Ciappelletto, "but I don’t know whom, except perhaps this one man who once paid me for cloth. I put the money into a chest without counting it, and a good month later, found it was four farthings more than it should have been. I never saw the man again, and after keeping those coins for a full year so I might return them, I finally gave them away as charity." "That was a small matter," said the friar, "and you handled it well."

He questioned him about many other matters, all of which Ciappelletto answered in a similar manner. When the holy father was ready to proceed to absolution, Master Ciappelletto said, "Sir, I still have a few sins I have not told you." The friar pressed him for details, and he said, "I recall on one Saturday afternoon, I had my servant sweep the house, not showing the reverence for the Lord’s holy day that I should have." "Oh," the friar said, "that is a minor matter, my son." "No," replied Master Ciappelletto, "do not call it minor, for the Lord’s day should be greatly honored, since on that day our Lord rose from the dead." The friar then asked, "Anything else you have done?" "Yes, sir," answered Master Ciappelletto. "Once, without thinking, I spat in the house of God." The friar smiled and said, "My son, that is nothing; we of the clergy spit there all day long." "And you do very wrong," replied Master Ciappelletto, "for nothing should be kept as clean as the holy temple where God is worshipped."

In short, he told the friar many such things, then began to sigh and weep, as he well knew how when he wished. The friar asked, "What troubles you, my son?" "Alas, sir," answered Master Ciappelletto, "there is one sin I’ve never confessed before, so ashamed am I. Every time I remember it, I weep—as you see—and I am sure that God will never forgive me." "Come now, son," the friar reassured him, "what are you saying? If all the sins ever committed by all mankind, past, present, and future, were in one man, and he was repentant as I see you are, the mercy and kindness of God are so great that upon confession, He would freely forgive them. Tell me, and be assured." Master Ciappelletto, still weeping, said, "Alas, father, my sin is too great—I can hardly believe that God would forgive me unless your prayers help me." The friar answered, "Tell me, then. I promise to pray for you."

Ciappelletto continued to weep and said nothing for a while, keeping the friar in suspense; then, sighing deeply, he said, "Father, since you promise to pray for me, I will tell you. Know then, that when I was a child, I once cursed my mother." With that, he wept again. "O my son," said the friar, "do you think this such a terrible sin? People blaspheme God every day, and He freely forgives the repentant. Don’t you think He’ll forgive you this? Don’t weep—be comforted. For surely, even if you were one of those who crucified Him, He would forgive you for the contrition I see in you." "Alas, father, what are you saying?" replied Ciappelletto. "My dear mother, who bore me for nine months, night and day, and carried me countless times—I did terribly wrong to curse her, and that is a great sin. Unless you pray for me, I fear it cannot be forgiven."

The friar, seeing that Master Ciappelletto had nothing more to say, gave him absolution and bestowed his blessing, firmly believing him to be a very holy man and devoutly accepting all he had said as true. And who would not have believed it, hearing a man speak so at the point of death? After this, the friar said, “Master Ciappelletto, with God’s help, you will soon recover; but, should it happen that God calls your blessed and well-disposed soul to Himself, would you be pleased to have your body buried in our convent?” “Yes, sir,” replied Master Ciappelletto. “Indeed, I would not want to be buried anywhere else, since you have promised to pray to God for me—especially since I have always held your order in special regard. So I pray you, when you return to your lodging, have brought to me that most true body of Christ, which you consecrate each morning on the altar, for with your permission, I intend (though unworthy) to receive it and, after that, the holy and last rites, so that, if I have lived as a sinner, I might at least die as a Christian.” The good friar replied that this pleased him greatly, commended his words, and promised to have it brought at once; and so it was done.

Meanwhile, the two brothers, fearing Master Ciappelletto might deceive them, had hidden themselves behind a wainscot dividing the chamber where he lay from another, and listening, easily heard and understood what he said to the friar. Sometimes, they were so inclined to laugh, hearing the things he claimed to have done, that they were nearly bursting and said to one another, “What kind of man is this whom neither old age nor sickness nor fear of death, which he knows is near, nor even fear of God, before whose judgment he will soon appear, can turn from his wickedness or keep from choosing to die as he has lived?” However, seeing that he had spoken in such a way that he would be buried in a church, they cared nothing for the rest.

Master Ciappelletto soon took the sacrament and, growing rapidly worse, received extreme unction, and a little after vespers on the day he made his remarkable confession, he died. The two brothers, using his own money, arranged for his honorable burial and sent word to the convent to inform the friars, asking them to come that night to hold a vigil, as was customary, and to take the body in the morning—meanwhile, they prepared everything necessary.

The holy friar who had heard his confession, learning that Ciappelletto had died, went to the prior of the convent and, ringing the bell for chapter, announced to the brethren assembled that Master Ciappelletto was a holy man, according to what he had learned in his confession, and persuaded them to receive his body with the utmost reverence and devotion, hoping that God would show many miracles through him. The prior and brothers credulously agreed, and that evening, all of them gathered where Master Ciappelletto lay dead, held a solemn vigil over him, and the next day, dressed in albs and copes with books in hand and crosses before them, they processed, singing, to take his body and brought it with great pomp and solemnity to their church, followed by nearly all the people of the city—men and women alike.

Once they had placed the body in the church, the holy friar who had confessed him mounted the pulpit and began to preach marvelous things about the dead man—his fasts, his purity, his simplicity, innocence, and holiness—recounting, among other things, what Ciappelletto had confessed as his gravest sin, and how he had barely been able to reassure him that God would forgive it. Then, rebuking the congregation, he said, “And you, accursed as you are, for every little thing that crosses your path, you blaspheme God and the Virgin and all the host of heaven.” He spoke further of Ciappelletto’s loyalty and pure heart. In short, with a speech in which all the people placed unwavering faith, he so established the dead man’s reputation that, as soon as the service ended, everyone hurried eagerly to kiss his hands and feet; his clothing was torn from his body, and anyone who could get even the smallest piece felt blessed. They had to leave the body out all day so everyone could see and visit it.

The following night he was honorably buried in a marble tomb in one of the church’s chapels, and the next morning, people promptly began to come to burn candles, pray, make vows to him, and hang wax effigies at his shrine, as they had promised. Indeed, such was his growing reputation for sanctity and the devotion of the people that there was hardly anyone in trouble who would vow themselves to another saint instead of him; and they called, and still call, him Saint Ciappelletto, claiming that God has performed, and continues to perform, many miracles through him for anyone who devoutly seeks his help.

Thus, Master Cepperello da Prato lived and died and became a saint, as you have heard. I would not deny it possible that he is beatified in God’s presence, for although his life was wicked and depraved, perhaps in his final moments he showed such contrition that God, in His mercy, received him into His kingdom. But as this is hidden from us, I judge only by what is apparent, and would say he is more likely in the hands of the devil in damnation than in Paradise. If that is so, let us observe how great God’s loving-kindness is toward us, who, ignoring our mistake and instead honoring the purity of our faith, listens to us even when we make an enemy (thinking him a friend) our intermediary—just as if we had invoked a truly holy person as intercessor for His favor. Therefore, so that by His grace we may remain safe and sound in this present adversity and in this joyful company, let us magnify His name, as we began our diversion by doing, and, holding Him in reverence, commend ourselves to Him in our needs, confident that we will be heard.” And with that, he finished.

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## THE SECOND STORY

Day the First

ABRAHAM THE JEW, AT THE SUGGESTION OF JEHANNOT DE CHEVIGNÉ, GOES TO THE COURT OF ROME, AND SEEING THE CORRUPTION OF THE CLERGY, RETURNS TO PARIS AND BECOMES A CHRISTIAN THERE

Pamfilo’s story was partly laughed at and universally praised by the ladies; when it ended and had been carefully listened to, the queen instructed Neifile, who was seated next to him, to continue the entertainment by telling a story of her own. Neifile, who was no less distinguished by her courtesy than her beauty, cheerfully replied that she would do so, and began as follows: “Pamfilo has shown us in his tale that God’s goodness does not hold our errors against us when they arise from ignorance; and I, in my story, intend to show you how this same graciousness—patiently enduring the failings of those who, though especially bound by word and deed to bear true witness, do the opposite—gives us an unmistakable demonstration of itself, so that we may follow our faith with even more constant resolve.

As I have heard, gracious ladies, there was once in Paris a great merchant, a very loyal and upright man named Jehannot de Chevigné, who did much business in silks and fabrics. He was especially close to a very wealthy Jew named Abraham, who was also a merchant, and a very honest and trustworthy man. Seeing Abraham’s worth and loyalty, Jehannot became deeply troubled that the soul of so good, wise, and decent a man might be lost for lack of faith. Therefore, he began to urge Abraham in a friendly way to abandon the errors of the Jewish faith and accept the Christian truth, which, he said, was clearly thriving and growing because it was holy and good, whereas Abraham’s own faith, in contrast, was clearly declining and fading away. Abraham answered that he considered no faith holy or good except the Jewish one; in that faith he had been born and intended to live and die, and nothing would ever make him change his mind.

Jehannot, however, did not give up on him, but a few days later returned to the subject with similar arguments, explaining (in rather blunt terms, as merchants generally know no better) why he believed Christianity to be superior to Judaism. Even though the Jew was well-versed in his own law, whether it was due to the strong friendship he felt for Jehannot, or perhaps because of words inspired by the Holy Spirit in the mouth of the good, simple man, Jehannot’s arguments began to make a strong impression on him. Yet, holding firm to his own faith, he refused to allow himself to be converted. Just as he remained stubborn, Jehannot continued to persist, until finally the Jew, worn down by his friend’s constant urging, said, “Listen, Jehannot, you want me to become a Christian and I am willing to do it—so much so that I intend, first of all, to travel to Rome and see him whom you say is God’s Vicar on earth, and observe his manners and those of his closest companions. If it seems to me, from what I see there and from your words, that your faith is truly better than mine, as you have tried to show me, I shall do what you ask; but if it does not, I will remain a Jew as I am.”

When Jehannot heard this, he was greatly saddened, saying to himself, “All my work has been wasted—I thought I had really succeeded in converting this man. For if he goes to Rome and sees the corrupt and wicked lives of the clergy, not only will he never become a Christian, but, if he were already a Christian, he would surely turn Jew again.” Then, turning to Abraham, he said, “Alas, my friend, why do you want to take on this journey and such a hardship as traveling from here to Rome? Besides, by both sea and land, the road is full of dangers for a wealthy man like yourself. Don’t you think you could find someone here to baptize you? Or, if you have any doubts about the faith I have explained to you, are there not greater scholars and more learned men concerning these matters here, who could answer any questions you might have? In my opinion, this trip is unnecessary. Remember that the prelates there are just like those you have seen here, and even better, as they are nearer to the Chief Pastor. So, if you take my advice, you’ll save this journey for another time, maybe for a jubilee, when perhaps I can go with you.” But the Jew replied, “I have no doubt, Jehannot, that things are just as you say; but to put it simply, I am absolutely resolved that, if you truly want me to do what you’ve so persistently asked me, I must go there first; otherwise, I will not do it at all.” Seeing how determined he was, Jehannot said, “Go, and may good fortune go with you!” But inside he was convinced that, once the Jew saw Rome, he would never become a Christian; so, unable to do more, he stopped insisting.

The Jew mounted his horse and, as quickly as possible, set out for Rome, where he was warmly welcomed by his fellow Jews. While staying there, without telling anyone the purpose of his visit, he began to carefully study the habits and ways of the Pope, Cardinals, other church leaders, and all the members of the papal court. Being very astute, he noticed for himself—as well as learned from others—that all of them, from highest to lowest, indulged shamefully in the sin of lust, not only in natural ways but also in the manner of Sodom, without any sign of remorse or modesty. The favor of courtesans and catamites held significant influence in gaining important favors at court.

He also observed that they were all, without exception, gluttons, wine-drinkers, drunkards, and slaves to their appetites—more like beasts than men, even more so than their lust. Looking deeper, he saw them greedy and covetous for money; so much so that human—even Christian—blood, and even sacred things, whether related to the sacrifices of the altar or church benefices, were sold and bought openly for a price, with more dealers and brokers involved than there were in Paris for silks, fabrics, or any other merchandise. Open simony was renamed “procuration,” and gluttony called “sustentation,” as if God, caring only for names and not the intentions behind them, could be deceived by mere words. All this, and much else that cannot be described here, greatly displeased the Jew, who was a sober and modest man; thinking he had seen enough, he decided to return to Paris—and so he did.

As soon as Jehannot heard of his return, he visited him—expecting anything but that he would want to become a Christian—and they greeted each other with the utmost joy. After Abraham had rested for a few days, Jehannot asked him what he thought of the Holy Father and the cardinals and others in his court. The Jew immediately replied, “It seems to me, God damn them all! And I say this because, if my observations are right, not a single churchman in Rome shows any sign of piety, devotion, good works or example of life; instead, lust, greed, gluttony and even worse (if there is worse) seem to be in favor with everyone. I think it’s more a breeding ground of evil than of holiness. And as far as I can judge, your chief pastor and the rest do everything in their power, using all their wit and skill, to destroy and rid the world of the Christian religion, when they should be its foundation and support. Yet, since I see that all their efforts fail, and your religion keeps growing and becoming more glorious, it seems clear to me that the Holy Spirit truly is the foundation and support of it—as of something true and holy above all others. Therefore, when I was previously stubborn and unmoved by your urgings, and refused to accept your faith, now I tell you frankly that I would not for anything in the world refuse to become a Christian. Let’s go, then, to church so I can be baptized, according to the rites and customs of your holy faith.”

Jehannot, who had expected the exact opposite reaction, was overjoyed at these words; so he took him to Our Lady’s Church in Paris and asked the clergy to baptize Abraham. When they heard the Jew himself asked for baptism, they immediately baptized him, with Jehannot as his godfather, naming him Giovanni. Afterwards, he had him carefully instructed by men of great learning and wisdom in the teachings of our holy faith, which Abraham quickly absorbed—and thereafter he lived a good, worthy, and devout life.

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## THE THIRD STORY

### Day the First

### MELCHIZEDEK THE JEW, WITH A STORY OF THREE RINGS, ESCAPETH A PARLOUS SNARE SET FOR HIM BY SALADIN

When Neifile had finished her story, which was praised by everyone, Filomena—by permission of the queen—began to speak: “Neifile’s story reminds me of a perilous situation once faced by a Jew. Since we have already heard much said about God and the truth of our faith, nothing prevents us now from turning our attention to human affairs and the various events that have happened. I will now tell you this tale, and after hearing it, perhaps you’ll be more careful in how you answer tricky questions. 

You should know, my dear companions, that just as folly often brings people out of good fortune and plunges them into misery, so too does wisdom deliver the wise from the greatest dangers and give them security and peace. It’s clear enough that foolishness leads many from prosperity into hardship, as countless daily examples show us; but that wisdom brings comfort, I will, as promised, briefly show by telling you a short story.

Saladin—whose bravery was such that, from being a man of humble birth, he became Sultan of Babylon and won many victories over both Saracen and Christian kings—had, through various wars and acts of great generosity, spent all his treasure. Facing a pressing need for a large sum of money, and not knowing where to get it quickly enough, he remembered a rich Jew named Melchizedek, who was a moneylender in Alexandria. Saladin realized that the Jew had plenty to help him but was so stingy that he would never do so willingly, and Saladin was unwilling to use force against him. Necessity pressed on him, so he set his mind to work out how to get what he wanted through some trick that appeared to have a good reason behind it.

Accordingly, he sent for Melchizedek and, receiving him amicably, seated him by his side. Then he said to him, “Honest man, I have heard from many people that you are a very learned man, deeply versed in matters of divinity. So I want to know from you which of the three Laws you believe is the true one: the Jewish, the Saracen, or the Christian.” The Jew, who was indeed a wise and understanding man, realized at once that Saladin intended to trap him with his words so he could find cause for a quarrel. He understood that praising any one of the three more than the others would give Saladin the opportunity he sought. Thus, sharpening his wits, as anyone in his position would, he immediately thought of how to answer without putting himself at a disadvantage, and said, “My lord, the question you ask is a difficult one, and to express my thoughts on the matter, allow me to tell you a little story.

If I am not mistaken, I remember often hearing that there was once a great and wealthy man who, among other precious jewels in his treasury, had a very beautiful and costly ring. As he wished, because of its worth and beauty, to honor it and leave it to his descendants forever, he declared that whichever of his sons, upon his death, possessed the ring by his bequest should be recognized as his heir and held in honor and respect by all the others as their chief and head. The one who received the ring did the same with his own descendants, following his father’s custom. In short, the ring was passed down from generation to generation and finally came into the possession of a man who had three fine and virtuous sons, all very obedient to their father, so he loved them all equally. The young men, knowing the tradition of the ring, each wanted to be the most honored, and each begged his father, who was now an old man, to leave him the ring upon his death. The father, who loved them all equally and did not know which to favor, having promised it to each, wanted to satisfy all three. So he secretly had two other rings made by a skilled craftsman that were so similar to the original that even he could barely tell them apart. When he died, he secretly gave each son a ring. Each son, after their father's death, claimed the inheritance and honor, and, denying it to the others, produced his ring as proof. The three rings were so similar that nobody could tell which was the real one, so the question of who was the true heir remained unresolved and still does. That is what I say to you, my lord, about the three Laws given by God the Father to the three peoples: each people believes they have His inheritance, His true Law, and His commandments, but as with the rings, the true answer is still in question.”

Saladin saw that the Jew had skillfully escaped the trap he had set for him. Thus, he decided to reveal his true need and see if Melchizedek would help him; which he did, openly telling him what he had intended to do had he not answered so wisely. The Jew willingly supplied him with everything he needed, and the Sultan later repaid him fully. Moreover, he gave him many great gifts, kept him close as a friend, and maintained him in high and honorable standing.”

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## THE FOURTH STORY

### Day the First

#### A MONK, HAVING FALLEN INTO A SIN DESERVING OF VERY GRIEVOUS PUNISHMENT, ADROITLY REPROACHING THE SAME FAULT TO HIS ABBOT, QUITTETH HIMSELF OF THE PENALTY

Filomena, having finished her story, fell silent. Dioneo, who sat next to her, knowing that by the order established it was his turn to speak, began, without waiting for further instruction from the queen: “Lovely ladies, if I have correctly understood your intention, we are gathered here to entertain ourselves with stories. Therefore, as long as it does not run contrary to our purpose, I believe each person (as our queen mentioned earlier) is free to tell whichever story they think most entertaining. Having heard how, by the wisdom of Jehannot de Chevigné, Abraham saved his soul, and how Melchizedek’s cleverness protected his riches from Saladin's plot, I intend—in hopes you won’t object—to briefly tell how a monk cleverly avoided a severe punishment for himself.

In Lunigiana, a region not far from here, there was once a monastery that, in those days, was more renowned for holiness and monks than it is now. Among them was a young monk whose vigor and passions were not lessened by fasting or vigils. One day, around noon, when the other monks were sleeping, this monk was walking alone around the monastery, which stood in a very remote place. He saw a very attractive young woman, likely a farmer’s daughter, gathering herbs in the fields. The moment he saw her, he was overtaken by strong desire. So, approaching her, he struck up a conversation that soon led to an agreement and brought her into his cell without anyone noticing. However, as he enjoyed himself with her too carelessly, it happened that the abbot, waking from his nap and quietly passing by the monk’s cell, heard the noise the pair made together. The abbot came quietly up to the door to listen, so as to identify the voices, and clearly realized there was a woman inside. At first, he considered demanding entry, but then decided on a different approach and returned to his room, waiting for the monk to come out.

The monk, despite being absorbed in pleasure and delight with the girl, was still cautious; thinking he heard movement in the dormitory, he looked through a crack and saw the abbot listening at his door. Realizing that the abbot must have discovered the girl’s presence, and knowing a harsh punishment surely awaited him, he was deeply troubled. Nevertheless, without showing any concern to the girl, he quickly thought over possible solutions and soon came up with a clever plan to achieve exactly what he wanted. Pretending that he had spent enough time with her, he said, “I must go find a way for you to leave here without being seen; so wait quietly until I return.”

Leaving and locking the cell, he went straight to the abbot’s chamber and, as was the custom when any monk went out, he presented the abbot with the cell key and said cheerfully, “Sir, I wasn’t able to finish bringing in all the firewood I cut this morning. With your permission, I’d like to go to the woods now and get the rest.” The abbot, thinking the monk was unaware he had been discovered, was glad for the chance to confirm the crime and took the key, granting him leave as requested. As soon as the monk left, the abbot debated with himself whether he should open the cell publicly, so all the monks would witness the offense and avoid grumbling about the punishment, or first question the girl. Thinking she might be the wife or daughter of someone important and not wanting to subject her to public shame, he decided to see her privately and then decide what to do. Thus, he went to the cell, opened it, and, upon entering, shut the door behind him.

The girl, seeing the abbot come in, was terrified and began to cry, fearing shame. But the abbot, noticing her youth and beauty, suddenly felt desires as strong as those of the young monk, despite his age, and said to himself, “Really, why should I not enjoy pleasure when I can, especially since displeasure and worry are always close by when I want them? This is a beautiful girl, and no one knows she’s here. If I can persuade her to do as I wish, why shouldn’t I? Who will know? No one will ever find out, and a hidden sin is half forgiven. Perhaps this chance will never come again. I think it wise to take advantage of a good thing when God sends it to us.”

With this change in mind, he approached the girl and gently comforted her, urging her not to cry. Moving from word to word, he soon made his desire clear. The girl, who was neither made of iron nor stone, quickly agreed to the abbot’s wishes. After embracing and kissing her repeatedly, he lay down on the monk’s bed, and, perhaps remembering the weight of his dignity and her youth—and not wishing to tire her with his full weight—did not lie on her chest, but instead had her lie upon him, enjoying her company for quite a while.

Meanwhile, the monk, who had only pretended to go to the woods and had hidden himself in the dormitory, felt completely reassured when he saw the abbot enter his cell alone. He had no doubt his plan would succeed, and when he saw the abbot lock the door from the inside, he was certain of it. So, coming out of his hiding spot, he stealthily went to a crevice, through which he could both hear and see everything the abbot did and said. When the abbot thought he had stayed long enough with the young woman, he locked her in the cell and went back to his own room; after some time, he heard the monk moving about and, thinking he had returned from the woods, planned to scold him harshly and throw him in prison, so that he alone could enjoy the prize he had obtained. Therefore, sending for him, he severely rebuked him, looking stern, and ordered that he be put in prison.

The monk replied readily, “Sir, I have not been long enough in the order of St. Benedict to have learned every particular, and you had not taught me that monks should use women as a means of mortification, just as with fasts and vigils. But, now that you have shown me, I promise you—if you will pardon me this fault—never again to err in this way, but always to do as I have seen you do.” The abbot, being a clever man, immediately understood that the monk not only knew more than he did, but had witnessed his actions; and his conscience, pricked by his own wrongdoing, made him ashamed to punish the monk for something he himself was equally guilty of. So, pardoning him and urging him to keep silent about what he had seen, they secretly sent the girl away—and it is believed that they caused her to return there more than once afterwards.

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## THE FIFTH STORY

**Day the First**

**THE MARCHIONESS OF MONFERRATO, WITH A DINNER OF HENS AND SOME WITTY WORDS, CURBS THE EXTRAVAGANT PASSION OF THE KING OF FRANCE**

The story that Dioneo told at first caused the listening ladies to feel a little embarrassed, as shown by the modest blushes on their faces; but after a moment, looking at each other and barely able to keep a straight face, they listened, laughing quietly to themselves. When the story ended, after gently scolding him and letting him know such tales were not suitable among ladies, the queen turned to Fiammetta, who sat beside him on the grass, and asked her to continue according to the order. With a gracious smile and in a cheerful tone, Fiammetta began, “It came to my mind, dear ladies—partly because I am pleased that we have begun sharing stories that show the power of prompt and clever responses, and partly because, just as it is wise for men to seek to love ladies of higher rank than themselves, so it is especially prudent for women to be careful not to become entangled with the love of men of higher position than they are—to tell you, in the story I am to relate, how a noble lady both by her actions and her words protected herself from this and deterred another as well.

The Marquis of Monferrato, a man of great worth and standard-bearer of the church, had crossed the sea during a general crusade undertaken by the Christians, and one day, as people spoke of his merit at the court of King Philip the Lame, who was preparing to leave France for the same crusade, a gentleman present declared that there was no couple in the world who could rival the marquis and his lady. For, just as he was famed among knights for all virtues, so was she the most beautiful and noble of all ladies in the world. These words made such an impression on the King of France that, without having seen the marchioness, he suddenly found himself passionately in love with her and determined that, for his journey to the crusade, he would arrange to leave by ship from Genoa. He planned this so he could have a respectable reason to visit the marchioness while traveling, trusting that, with the marquis absent, he could fulfill his desires.

As he had planned, so he put it into action; for, having sent on his troops ahead, he set out himself with only a few gentlemen and, a day’s journey from the marquis’s lands, sent a messenger to tell the lady to expect him for dinner the next day. The marchioness, who was wise and perceptive, cheerfully replied that he did her the greatest honor and would be very welcome. She then considered carefully what it might mean for such a king to visit her in her husband's absence, and she correctly guessed, namely, that the rumors of her beauty drew him there. Still, as a courageous lady, she resolved to receive him with due honor and, gathering some of the local gentlemen for their advice, she let them help prepare everything necessary. She kept charge over the arrangement of the meal and the dishes herself, and quickly had as many hens as could be found in the region brought together, instructing her cooks to prepare various dishes made only of hens for the royal table.

The king arrived at the appointed hour and was welcomed by the lady with great honor and celebration. When he saw her, he thought her even fairer, nobler, and more refined than he had imagined from the courtier’s description, and he was amazed, praising her and becoming even more enamored as he found she surpassed his expectations. After resting for a while in rooms lavishly adorned with all that was proper for entertaining a king, the dinner hour came. The king and the marchioness sat together at one table, while the others, according to their rank, were duly entertained elsewhere. The king was served many dishes in succession, as well as the finest and most expensive wines, all the while delightedly gazing at the beautiful marchioness, thoroughly pleased with his hospitality. But after a while, as course after course arrived, he began to be somewhat surprised, noticing that for all the variety of dishes, they were nevertheless all made with hens. He knew that the region was rich in game of many sorts, and that, since he had given notice of his visit ahead of time, the lady had an opportunity to order some hunting. Yet, although his curiosity was piqued, he chose not to question her directly about it except in the matter of the hens, and so, turning to her with a playful smile, said, “Madam, are only hens born in these parts, and never a cock?” The marchioness, who understood the king’s question perfectly, believing God had granted her, as she had hoped, the perfect chance to speak her mind, turned to him and answered firmly, “No, my lord; but women, though they may vary in dress and rank, are much the same here as anywhere else.”

The king, hearing her, instantly grasped the meaning behind the meal of hens and the lesson in her words. He realized that persuasion would be wasted on a lady of such resolve and that force was impossible; therefore, just as he had unwisely fallen for her, so now he must wisely, for his own honor’s sake, suppress his misguided passion. Without pressing the issue further, for fear of her sharp replies, he finished his meal without hope; and when it was over, he thanked her for the respectful welcome he had received and, commending her to God, left for Genoa, thinking it best to make up for his improper visit by a prompt departure.

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## THE SIXTH STORY

# Day the First

## AN HONEST MAN, WITH A CHANCE PLEASANTRY, PUTTETH TO SHAME THE PERVERSE HYPOCRISY OF THE RELIGIOUS ORDERS

Emilia, who sat next after Fiammetta—everyone having praised the courage of the marchioness and her witty rebuke to the King of France—began, at the queen’s command, to speak boldly as follows: “I too will not remain silent about a sharp rebuke given by an honest layman to a greedy monk, with a remark as funny as it was admirable.

There was, not so long ago in our city, a Franciscan friar who was an inquisitor against heresy. Although he tried hard to seem devout and a devoted lover of the Christian faith—as do they all—he was just as interested in finding out who had a well-filled purse as in discovering who lacked in matters of faith. Thanks to his diligence, he happened to come upon a good, simple man who was much richer in money than in sense, who—certainly not lacking in religion, but perhaps speaking thoughtlessly and maybe warmed by wine or too much merriment—once said to some friends that he had such good wine that Christ himself might drink it. When this was reported to the inquisitor, and he realized that the man was wealthy with a full purse, he rushed in haste *cum gladiis et fustibus* to bring a severe case against him—not aiming to correct the supposed heresy, but hoping instead to profit from the man’s wealth (as indeed he did). He ordered the man to appear and asked if what had been reported was true.

The simple man admitted it and explained how it had happened, at which point the ‘most holy’ inquisitor, who was a devotee of St. John Goldenbeard, said, ‘So you’ve called Christ a wine-bibber and picky about good wines, as if he were Cinciglione or another of your drunks and tavern-haunters; and now you try to act humble, pretending it’s a small matter! It’s not as you think; you deserve to be burned for it, if we chose to deal with you as we should.’ With these and many more words he spoke to him, with a face as threatening as if the poor soul had been Epicurus denying the immortality of the soul. In short, he terrified him so much that the simple man, by using some go-betweens, greased his palm with a generous dose of St. John Goldenmouth’s ointment (a miraculous cure for the greedy disease of the clergy, and especially the Minor Brethren who are not supposed to touch money), so that he would treat him mercifully.

This ointment, though Galen does not mention it in any of his Medicines, worked so well that the fire originally threatened was kindly changed to a cross, and to make a grander display—as if he were off crusading—the inquisitor ordered him to wear it in yellow on black. After getting the money, he kept the man around for several days, ordering him as penance to attend mass every morning at Santa Croce and to appear before him at dinner, after which he could spend the rest of the day as he wished; and the man carefully obeyed.

One morning, it happened that at Mass he heard a Gospel where these words were chanted: ‘For every one ye shall receive a hundred and shall possess eternal life.’ He remembered this and, following his orders, went to the inquisitor at meal time, finding him at dinner. The friar asked if he had heard Mass that morning, and he promptly answered, ‘Yes, sir, I have.’ The inquisitor asked, ‘Did you hear anything there that makes you doubt or want to ask a question?’ ‘Certainly,’ replied the man, ‘I do not doubt anything I heard, but I firmly believe it all to be true. Yet, I did hear something that caused me—and still causes me—to feel great pity for you and your fellow friars, thinking about the bad state you’ll be in in the next life.’ ‘And what was it that moved you to such pity for us?’ asked the inquisitor. ‘Sir,’ the man said, ‘it was that verse from the Gospel, “For every one ye shall receive a hundred.”’ ‘That is true,’ replied the inquisitor, ‘but why did those words move you so?’ ‘Sir,’ answered the man, ‘I’ll tell you. Since I started coming here, I have seen that every day you send out now one, now two huge cauldrons of broth to a crowd of beggars, broth that was taken from your own meals, as if it were extra. So, if for each one of those cauldrons of broth you get a hundred in the world to come, you will have so much broth you will surely all drown in it.’

Everyone at the inquisitor’s table burst out laughing; but the inquisitor, stung by the gibe against his and his brethren’s hypocrisy, was furious and, had he not already been criticized for what he had done, would have brought another case against the man for rebuking him and his fellow rascals with such a clever remark. Out of spite, he told him from then on he could do as he pleased and need not come before him again.”

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## THE SEVENTH STORY

# Day the First

### BERGAMINO, WITH A STORY OF PRIMASSO AND THE ABBOT OF CLUNY, COURTEOUSLY REBUKETH A FIT OF PARSIMONY NEWLY COME TO MESSER CANE DELLA SCALA

Emilia’s pleasant manner and her story made the queen and everyone else laugh and praise the cleverness of this new kind of crusader. Then, after the laughter had faded and all were quiet again, Filostrato, whose turn it was to tell a story, began to speak as follows: “It is an easy thing, noble ladies, to hit a target that never moves; but it is nearly miraculous if, when something unexpected suddenly appears, it is immediately struck by an archer. The corrupt and shameless life of the clergy, which has become a constant target for criticism, gives occasion with little difficulty to anyone who wishes to criticize and rebuke it; therefore, although the worthy man who sharply rebuked the inquisitor about the hypocritical charity of the friars—who give to the poor only what they should throw to the pigs or discard—did well, I think even more highly of the person I am about to speak of, inspired by the story just told. He, with a clever story, rebuked Messer Cane della Scala, a magnificent nobleman, for a sudden and uncharacteristic stinginess that had recently shown itself in him, conveying, by means of another character, what he wanted to say about the matter; the story happened as follows.

As is well known throughout almost the entire world, Messer Cane della Scala, to whom fortune was favorable in many ways, was one of the most notable and most magnificent gentlemen known in Italy since the days of Emperor Frederick the Second. Wishing to hold a famous and splendid entertainment in Verona, to which many people were to come from various places—especially skilled men of all kinds—he suddenly (for reasons unknown) abandoned this plan. Having partly reimbursed those who had already arrived, he dismissed everyone, except for one man, named Bergamino—a man eloquent and accomplished beyond the belief of anyone who had not heard him. Bergamino, having received neither a gift nor a dismissal, lingered behind, hoping that his continued stay might bring him some future benefit. However, Messer Cane had decided that anything he might give him would be worse spent than if he had thrown it into the fire; yet he said nothing to Bergamino, nor sent any message.

After several days, Bergamino found that he was neither invited nor required to perform anything related to his craft and was also wasting his own resources on lodging, his horses, and his servants. Growing quite anxious, yet still resolved to stay, feeling it would not be wise to leave, he waited. He had brought with him three fine and expensive suits of clothing, gifts from other noblemen, so he could make a grand appearance at the festival. When his host pressed him for payment, Bergamino gave him one of these suits. When he stayed even longer, he had to give the host the second suit to remain. Meanwhile, he began to live off the third suit, determined to wait in hope as long as this one lasted, then depart. While he was living off his third suit, it happened one day, when Messer Cane was dining, that Bergamino came before him with a sad expression. Messer Cane, seeing this, more to tease Bergamino than out of a desire to hear him speak, said, ‘What troubles you, Bergamino, that you stand there looking so downcast? Tell us something.’ Bergamino, without hesitation, as if he had long considered what to say, immediately told the following story, which related to his own circumstances.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you must know that Primasso was a very learned grammarian and an extremely skilled and quick-witted poet, which qualities made him so remarkable and so famous that, while he might not be recognized everywhere by sight, there were very few who did not know his name and reputation. It happened that, finding himself once at Paris in poverty—as he was most of the time, since true worth is of little value to those most able to reward it—he heard about the Abbot of Cluny, who is believed (except for the Pope) to be the richest prelate in the Church, judged by his income. He heard marvelous and grand things about the Abbot, who always kept open house, and that food and drink were never denied to anyone who came to where the Abbot was, provided they arrived while he was dining. Primasso, who took pleasure in observing men of worth and nobility, decided to see this Abbot’s magnificence for himself and asked where the Abbot was staying near Paris. He was told the Abbot was at a place about six miles away; so Primasso planned to arrive there at dinner time by leaving early in the morning.

He asked for directions, but as he found no one else going there, he worried he might get lost by accident and find himself somewhere with nothing to eat. Therefore, to prevent going hungry, he decided to bring three loaves of bread with him, believing that water (though he was not fond of it) he could find anywhere. He put the bread into his coat and set off, and was fortunate enough to reach the Abbot’s residence before dinner time. Entering, he looked around and saw the multitude of tables set, the impressive preparations in the kitchen, and other arrangements for dinner, and thought to himself, “Indeed, this Abbot is as magnificent as people say.” After some time observing these things, the Abbot’s steward, once it was time to eat, called for water to wash hands, and then seated everyone at the tables. By chance, Primasso was seated directly opposite the door from which the Abbot would enter the dining hall.

It was the custom in that house that neither wine nor bread nor any food or drink was served until the Abbot had sat at his own table. So, the steward announced to the Abbot that dinner was ready whenever he wished. The Abbot opened the chamber door to come into the dining room, and as he did, the first person he saw was Primasso, who was very poorly dressed and whom he did not recognize. At the sight of him, the Abbot had an unpleasant thought that had never come to him before and said to himself, “Look at whom I am giving my wealth to feed!” Then, turning back, he ordered the chamber door shut and asked those around him if anyone knew that scruffy person sitting opposite his door. All answered no.

Meanwhile, Primasso, hungry after his journey and not used to fasting, waited for a while. But seeing the Abbot still did not come, he took out one of his three loaves of bread and began to eat. After waiting a while longer, the Abbot sent one of his servants to see if Primasso had left, but the servant replied, “No, my lord; he is eating bread, which it seems he brought himself.” The Abbot said, “Let him eat his own bread if he has it; for today, he shall not eat ours.” The Abbot hoped that Primasso would leave on his own, thinking it was not right to send him away. But Primasso, having finished one loaf and with the Abbot still not arriving, started on the second; again, this was reported to the Abbot, who had asked for updates.

At last, as the Abbot continued to delay, Primasso finished the second loaf and started on the third; again, this was reported to the Abbot, who started thinking to himself, “Alas, what strange attitude has come over me today? What stinginess! What spite! And for whom? For many years I have given my food to anyone who wanted it, without caring whether he was noble or common, rich or poor, merchant or beggar, and have seen it wasted by all sorts of rascals; never before has such a feeling come over me about any man. This person, who strikes me as a nobody, surely must be someone important, since my very soul resists showing him honor.”

So, wanting to learn more, he found out it was Primasso, whom he long knew by reputation as a man of merit, who had come specifically to see for himself the Abbot’s famous hospitality. Feeling ashamed and eager to make it up to him, the Abbot did all he could to honor Primasso. After dinner, he had him dressed in fine clothes fitting his status, gave him money and a horse, and let him choose whether to stay or leave; Primasso, pleased with how he was treated, thanked him gratefully and rode back to Paris, from where he had left on foot.

Messer Cane, who understood people well, immediately grasped Bergamino’s meaning and, without further explanation, said with a smile, ‘Bergamino, you have very cleverly shown me your grievances, your worthiness, and my stinginess, as well as what you would have of me. Truly, never until now—because of you—have I felt any miserliness; but I will rid myself of it with the same stick you have shown me.’ Then he paid Bergamino’s host, dressed him most sumptuously in one of his own suits, gave him money and a horse, and let him choose, for the time being, whether to stay or go.”

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## THE EIGHTH STORY

Day the First

GUGLIELMO BORSIERE, WITH SOME CLEVER WORDS, REBUKES THE MISERLINESS OF MESSER ERMINO DE’ GRIMALDI

Seated next to Filostrato was Lauretta, who, after hearing praise of Bergamino’s story, realized it was her turn to tell one and began, without waiting for instruction, cheerfully as follows: “The previous story, dear friends, reminds me of how an honorable minstrel similarly, and not without result, criticized the greediness of a very wealthy merchant. Although in some ways it resembles the last tale, it should still please you, since in the end, good came from it.

There was, then, in Genoa, some time ago, a gentleman named Messer Ermino de’ Grimaldi, who (by general belief) far surpassed in land and wealth any other citizen known in Italy at the time. And just as he exceeded all other Italians in riches, he was also unrivaled in avarice and stinginess, outdoing every other miser and penny-pincher in the world. Not only was he tightfisted with hospitality, but, against the usual practice of the Genoese—who were known for dressing luxuriously—he lived with the barest necessities for himself, both in food and drink, just to avoid spending anything. Because of this, the surname de’ Grimaldi had fallen away from him, and he was rightly called by everyone simply Messer Ermino Avarizia.

It happened that, while he increased his fortune by never spending, a respectable minstrel named Guglielmo Borsiere came to Genoa. Guglielmo was cultured and well-spoken—a man very different from those today who, to the great shame of the selfish habits of those now wanting to be called gentlemen and lords, ought instead to be called boors, raised in the worst behaviors of humanity rather than in the courts of kings and princes. At that time, it was the minstrel’s practice and duty to use his talents in making peace where there were feuds among nobles, arranging marriages, alliances, and friendships, lifting the spirits of the weary, entertaining courts with clever and amusing sayings, and, like a stern father, reproving wrongdoers—often for little reward. But nowadays, they spend their time spreading malicious gossip, sowing discord, speaking and performing indecent and scandalous acts openly, accusing others—whether truthfully or not—of vile deeds, and encouraging people of status to disgraceful actions. Worst of all, the ones who say or do the vilest things are most honored and generously treated by the ill-mannered nobility of our day; this is a grievous and shameful sign of our times and clear proof that virtue has fled this world, leaving us poor mortals to drown in vice.

But to come back to my story, from which a just indignation has led me farther astray than I meant,—I say that Guglielmo was well respected by all the gentlemen of Genoa and gladly welcomed among them. After staying a few days in the city and hearing many stories about Messer Ermino’s greed and meanness, he wished to meet him. Messer Ermino, having heard what a worthy man Guglielmo Borsiere was, and possessing, even as a miser, a trace of noble manners, received him with very pleasant words and a cheerful air and engaged him in various conversations. While they talked, he took Guglielmo, along with other Genoese in their company, to a fine new house he had recently built, and after showing him every part of it, he said, ‘Pray, Messer Guglielmo, since you have seen and heard many things, can you tell me of something never yet seen, which I might have depicted in the hall of this house of mine?’ Guglielmo, hearing this odd request, replied, ‘Sir, I’m not sure I can name anything never yet seen, except perhaps sneezes or suchlike; but, if it pleases you, I can tell you of something that I believe you have never witnessed.’ Messer Ermino, not expecting such an answer, said, ‘Please tell me what it is.’ To which Guglielmo promptly answered, ‘Have Liberality depicted here.’

When Messer Ermino heard these words, he was immediately so ashamed that it almost changed his character entirely from what it had been, and he said, ‘Messer Guglielmo, I will have it painted here in such a way that neither you nor anyone else shall ever again be able to say I have not seen or known it.’ From then on (such was the power of Guglielmo’s words) he became the most generous and courteous gentleman of his time in Genoa, as well as the most hospitable toward both strangers and citizens.”

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## THE NINTH STORY

Day the First

THE KING OF CYPRUS, MOVED BY A GASCON LADY, CHANGES FROM A WEAK PRINCE TO A MAN OF WORTH AND VALOR

The Queen’s last command fell to Elisa, who did not wait but began cheerfully, “Young ladies, it often happens that what repeated scoldings and many efforts cannot bring about in a person is achieved by a single word, often spoken by chance rather than on purpose. This is very well shown in the story told by Lauretta, and I too intend to prove it to you with another, a very short one; for if something is good, it should be welcomed openly, no matter who the speaker may be.

I say, then, that in the time of the first King of Cyprus, after Godefroi de Bouillon conquered the Holy Land, a gentlewoman from Gascony went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre and, returning, came to Cyprus. There, she was shamefully mistreated by some wicked men. When she complained and got no remedy, she thought to appeal to the King for justice, but was told she would be wasting her effort, since he was of such a lowly nature and so lacking in spirit that, far from righting wrongs done to others, he put up with endless insults to himself with shameful cowardice, so much so that anyone who bore him a grudge would take it out by insulting or offending him.

The lady, upon hearing this and losing hope for any redress, decided to find some small comfort by rebuking the king’s cowardice. So, presenting herself before him in tears, she said, “My lord, I come before you not because I expect any remedy for the wrong that has been done to me; but instead, I ask that you teach me how you endure the insults which I understand are directed at you, so that I might learn from you to bear my own patiently. God knows, if I could, I would gladly give them to you, since you seem so excellent at suffering them.”

The King, who had until then been indolent and inactive, woke as if from a dream. Beginning with the wrong done to the lady, which he avenged severely, he from then on became a rigorous prosecutor of all who offended the honor of his crown.

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## THE TENTH STORY

### Day the First

**MASTER ALBERTO OF BOLOGNA POLITELY HUMILIATES A LADY WHO TRIED TO SHAME HIM FOR BEING IN LOVE WITH HER**

Elisa now being silent, the duty of telling the last story fell to the queen, who, with feminine grace, began to speak: “Noble ladies, just as the stars beautify the sky on clear nights, and as flowers do the green meadows in Spring, so are good manners and pleasing conversation adorned by witty remarks. These, being brief, are especially suitable for women, more so than for men, since much and prolonged speech, when it can be avoided, is more strictly forbidden to women than to men. Yet nowadays, there are few or no women left who understand a clever remark or, if they do, know how to respond to it—a shame to ourselves and all women living. The virtue that once lived in the minds of women in former times, women today have transferred to adorning their bodies. She who wears the most colorful clothes, fancily laced and decorated with the greatest amount of fringes and embroidery, thinks herself to be worth more and to be more honored than the rest, not considering that if the contest were who could carry the most decoration on her back, a donkey could carry much more and still only be a donkey for it, not honored more than the others.

I am embarrassed to admit it, because when I say this about other women, I say it about myself as well; these women who are so laced, adorned, painted, and dressed in bright colors remain either silent and senseless, like marble statues, or, if questioned, answer in such a way that it would be better had they remained silent. And they want you to believe that their inability to converse with people of quality comes from purity of mind, calling their ignorance modesty, as if no woman could be modest unless she only spoke with her maid or laundress or kitchen help. Had Nature intended it to be so, she surely would have limited their conversation otherwise. It’s true, as with all things, that one should consider the time, place, and company before speaking; for it sometimes happens that women or men, intending to shame another with some jest and not measuring their own abilities against the other’s, find that the embarrassment they intended for someone else falls back on themselves. So, so that you may know how to conduct yourselves—and to avoid becoming examples for the old proverb, that women always come off the worst—I want you to learn from today’s last story, which I will tell, so that, just as you stand apart from ordinary women by the nobility of your minds, you may also show yourselves set apart by your manners.

Not many years ago in Bologna, there lived (and perhaps lives still) a very great and famous physician, known by reputation throughout almost all the world. His name was Master Alberto, and his spirit was so lively that, although he was nearly seventy years old and nearly all natural vigor had left his body, he did not hesitate to expose himself to the flames of love. Having seen at an event a very beautiful widow, called, as some say, Madam Malgherida de’ Ghisolieri, and being greatly taken with her, he let the fire of love into his seasoned heart just as if he were a young man, so much so that he felt he could not sleep well at night unless, during the day, he had gazed on the lovely and charming face of the lady. Thus, he took to passing by her house constantly, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, as suited him, so that she—and many other ladies—noticed why he came and went so often. They often joked about it among themselves, seeing a man of such years and wisdom in love, as if they thought the delightful passion of love only took root and grew in the simple minds of the young.

While he kept up his visits, it happened one holiday that, as the lady was seated with many others at her door and saw Master Alberto approaching, they all agreed to invite and honor him, then tease him about his affection. They all rose to welcome him and, inviting him in, led him to a shaded courtyard, brought the best wine and sweets, and then, in a very friendly and pleasant way, asked him how it came about that he had fallen in love with such a beautiful lady, especially knowing she was loved by many handsome, young, and lively men. The physician, finding himself kindly addressed, put on a cheerful face and replied, “Madam, that I am in love should be no surprise to anyone thoughtful, and especially that I love you, because you deserve it. Although old men are, by nature, without the vigor required for amorous pursuits, they are not without the will or the sense to appreciate what is worthy of love; in fact, they are better able to value it, since they have more knowledge and experience than the young. As for the hope that leads me, an old man, to love you, who are pursued by so many young men, it is this: I have often seen ladies at lunch eating lupins and leeks. Now, although nothing about the leek is good, still its head is less harmful and more pleasant to the taste; yet you ladies, by strange preference, usually hold the head in your hand and eat the leaves, which are worthless and taste bad. How do I know, madam, that you don’t do the same in choosing your lovers? In which case, I would be the one chosen by you, and the others would be passed over.”

The lady and her friends were a bit embarrassed and said, “Doctor, you have rightly and courteously corrected our bold attempt; still, your affection is dear to me, as should be that of a man of worth and learning. Therefore, you may trust me in all things, as your servant, for whatever you wish—except for my honor.” The physician, rising with his companions, thanked the lady and, with laughter and cheer, took his leave. Thus, the lady, without considering whom she was teasing and thinking to embarrass another, was herself embarrassed; from this, if you are wise, you will carefully guard yourselves.

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The sun had begun to set toward evening, and most of the heat had lessened, when the stories of the young ladies and the three young men came to an end. At that, the queen cheerfully said, “Dear friends, there remains nothing else for me to do in my rule today except to appoint a new queen, who will, according to her judgment, direct her life and ours for our honest enjoyment in the coming day. And though some might say the day lasts until nightfall, I believe—since whoever does not plan a bit ahead cannot properly prepare for the future, and to make sure that whatever the new queen requires for tomorrow may be ready—the next day should begin at this hour. Therefore, in reverence to Him by whom all things live, and for our own comfort, Filomena, a truly wise lady, shall be queen and guide our group for the next day.” With these words, she stood up, removed the laurel wreath from her head, and set it with due respect upon the head of Filomena. Then first she herself and afterwards all the other ladies, as well as the young men, saluted Filomena as queen, willingly putting themselves under her leadership.

Filomena blushed a little at finding herself made queen, but, remembering what Pampinea had just said, and not wishing to seem unprepared, she regained her confidence. First, she confirmed all the positions previously appointed by Pampinea; then, having stated that they would remain where they were, she organized what should be done the following morning, as well as arrangements for that night’s supper. Afterwards, she spoke as follows:

“Dearest friends, although Pampinea, more from her kindness than my own merit, has made me queen of you all, I do not intend to rely on my judgment alone in directing how we live, but will consult yours together with mine. So that you know what I believe we should do, and may add or take away as you please, I will explain it briefly.

If I have carefully observed how Pampinea led us today, it seems to me both praiseworthy and delightful, so I judge we should keep to that plan, unless we tire of it or have some other reason to change. Therefore, since things are already in order, we will get up now and go enjoy ourselves for a little while, and when the sun is about to set, we will have supper in the cool of the evening. After some songs and other entertainments, we shall go to sleep. Tomorrow, after getting up in the cool morning, we will also go somewhere pleasant, wherever each of us prefers; as we did today, we will return at the proper hour to eat. After that, we will dance and, once we have had our rest, as we have today, we will return here for our story-telling, which I think is both very pleasant and very useful. Moreover, what Pampinea had no chance to do because she became queen so late, I would now like to introduce—that is, to set a theme beforehand for what we tell, so each of you may have time to come up with a good story on the topic I announce. If it pleases you, I propose: since from the dawn of humanity until now, people have been tossed by unpredictable fortune, each person shall tell a story OF THOSE WHO, AFTER BEING TROUBLED BY VARIOUS TRIALS, HAVE AT LAST GAINED AN UNEXPECTED HAPPY OUTCOME.”

Both the ladies and the men approved of this plan and said they were ready to follow it. Only Dioneo, after all the others were silent, said, “Madam, as the others have said, so do I: your rule is most enjoyable and wise; but I ask a special favor of you, which I wish to hold for as long as our group meets—that I may not be required by your rule to tell a story on the theme if I don’t wish, but may instead tell whatever story most pleases me. And so no one thinks I ask this because I lack stories, from now on I am content to be the last to speak.”

The queen—who knew him to be a merry and playful soul and was certain that he asked this only so he might entertain everyone with a funny story when they tired of serious ones—gladly granted his request, with everyone’s agreement. Then, rising from their seats, they slowly made their way to a stream of clear water that flowed down from a small hill, among large rocks and green grass, into a valley shaded by many trees. There, wading barefoot and bare-armed in the water, they enjoyed various amusements together until it was nearly supper-time, when they returned to the palace and ate cheerfully. After supper, the queen called for musical instruments and asked Lauretta to start a dance, while Emilia sang to the music of Dioneo’s lute. Lauretta eagerly began the dance, leading the others, while Emilia sang this love song:

I burn for my own charms with such a fire,  
It seems I never shall  
For other love have care or more desire.

Whenever I look at myself, I see  
That good which always pleases heart and mind;  
No new fortune nor thoughts of old can flee  
Or rob me of this joy I find.  
What other beauty else could fill my sight  
Enough to ever stir  
Another longing, nor a new delight?

This joy does not depart, whatever hour I yearn

Afresh I gaze upon it for my comfort;  
Indeed, whenever I wish, time and again,

With such grace it reveals itself  
That words cannot describe it, nor can its full meaning  
Be known to any mortal,  
Unless, of course, he burns with a similar desire.

And I, growing more enamored with every hour,  
The more intently I fix my eyes upon it,  
Give all of myself and surrender to its power,  
Even now tasting what it promised me,  
And hope for even greater joy to come,  
Of such a kind as never  
Was known here below by any lover’s longing.

Lauretta, having thus finished her ballad—during the chorus of which all had cheerfully joined in, though the words gave some much to think about—several other dances followed, and as a part of the brief night had now passed, it pleased the queen to bring the first day to an end. Therefore, she had the torches lit and ordered everyone to go to rest until the following morning, and so, returning to their own rooms, they did.

**HERE ENDS THE FIRST DAY  
OF THE DECAMERON**

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# *Day the Second*

Here Beginneth the Second Day of the Decameron Wherein Under the Governance of Filomena Is Discoursed of Those Who After Being Baffled by Diverse Chances Have Won at Last to a Joyful Outcome Beyond Their Hope

The sun had already brought in the new day with its light everywhere, and the birds, singing joyfully among the green branches, proclaimed its arrival with their merry songs. The ladies and the three young men all arose and entered the gardens, wandering here and there as they pressed the dewy grass with slow steps, weaving beautiful garlands and enjoying themselves for a long while. Just as they had done the previous day, so they did now; that is, after eating in the cool and dancing for a time, they went to rest, and when they rose after noon, they all came, at the command of their queen, into the fresh meadows, where they gathered seated around her. Then she, fair in countenance and exceedingly pleasant of aspect, after sitting a while crowned with her laurel wreath and looking upon all her company, told Neifile to begin the day’s storytelling with a tale of her own. Neifile, without hesitation, cheerfully began to speak as follows:

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## THE FIRST STORY

Day the Second

MARTELLINO PRETENDS TO BE A CRIPPLE AND PRETENDS TO BE HEALED BY THE BODY OF ST. ARRIGO. HIS TRICKERY IS DISCOVERED, HE IS BEATEN, AND, AFTER BEING ARRESTED, HE ALMOST GETS HANGED, BUT ULTIMATELY ESCAPES

“It often happens, dearest ladies, that someone who tries to fool others, and especially in matters of reverence, ends up with nothing for their trouble but mockery, and sometimes does not escape unharmed. Therefore, to obey the queen’s command and to begin the day’s theme with one of my stories, I intend to tell you about something that befell a fellow townsman of ours—first with bad fortune, then happily, beyond all expectation.

Not long ago, there lived in Treviso a German named Arrigo, who, being a poor man, worked for anyone who needed burdens carried, and was held by all to be exceptionally pious and good. So, whether true or not, when he died, it was said—according to the Trevisans—that at the very moment of his death, the bells of the great church of Treviso began to ring, though no one pulled the ropes. The people of the city considered this a miracle and declared Arrigo a saint. Everyone flocked to the house where he lay and carried his body, now regarded as a saint’s, to the Cathedral, where they began to bring the lame, the crippled, the blind, and other afflicted people, as if all could be cured by touching the body.

In the middle of this great excitement and crowd, it happened that three men from our town arrived in Treviso: one named Stecchi, another Martellino, and the third Marchese. They visited the courts of princes and lords, amusing onlookers by disguising themselves and skillfully imitating the mannerisms and appearances of others. Never having been in Treviso before, they were amazed at the commotion and, upon hearing the reason, wanted to see what was happening. They left their bags at an inn, and Marchese said, ‘We’d like to see this saint, but I don't know how we’ll manage it, since I hear the Cathedral is full of German and other guards, placed there by the city’s lord to prevent any disturbances. They say the church is so packed that hardly anyone else can get in.’ ‘Don’t let that stop you,’ said Martellino, who was eager to see the spectacle. ‘I guarantee I’ll find a way to reach the holy body.’ ‘How so?’ asked Marchese. Martellino replied, ‘Here’s my plan: I’ll pretend to be a cripple. You, on one side, and Stecchi on the other, can support me as if I couldn't walk on my own, making it appear you’re bringing me to the saint for healing. Nobody will refuse us passage or block our way.’

The idea pleased Marchese and Stecchi. Without delay, the three left the inn. When they reached a secluded place, Martellino twisted his hands, fingers, arms, legs, mouth, and eyes—his whole face—in such a frightening manner that anyone who saw him would have believed him completely paralyzed. Marchese and Stecchi, picking him up as he pretended, made for the church with great seriousness, humbly asking everyone they encountered, in the name of God, to make way—which was readily done. With everyone watching and calling out, ‘Make way! Make way!’ they came to Saint Arrigo’s body, and Martellino was immediately picked up by certain gentlemen and laid upon the body, so that he might be healed. Martellino, lying there, as everyone watched to see what would happen, began, very convincingly, to open first one finger, then a hand, then stretch out an arm, and finally to stretch himself out entirely. When the people saw this, they raised such a shout in praise of Saint Arrigo that it could have drowned thunder itself.

Now, by chance, there was a certain Florentine nearby who knew Martellino very well, but hadn’t recognized him in disguise. When he saw Martellino straighten out, he realized who he was and immediately began to laugh, saying, ‘God help him! Who, seeing him arrive, wouldn’t have thought him truly crippled?’ Some Trevisans overheard this and immediately asked, ‘How’s that? Wasn’t he crippled?’ ‘Not at all!’ the Florentine answered. ‘He’s always been as straight as any of us; but he’s better than anyone in the world at tricks like this, and can imitate any shape or condition he wishes.’

Upon hearing this, the others needed no more convincing. They forced their way forward, shouting, ‘Seize that traitor, that mocker of God and His saints, who, perfectly healthy, has come here in disguise to scoff at us and our saint!’ With these words, they grabbed Martellino, pulled him down from where he lay, and, grabbing him by the hair and tearing the clothes from his back, started to beat and kick him. It seemed to Martellino that every man present wanted to join in. He cried, ‘Mercy, for God’s sake!’ and tried to defend himself as best he could, but in vain, for the crowd only pressed him more. Stecchi and Marchese, seeing this, whispered that things were going badly but, fearing for their own safety, dared not help him—instead, they began to shout with the others to have him killed, all the while thinking how they might rescue him from the crowd, who certainly would have killed him, had not Marchese taken quick action. All the officers of the Seignory being outside the church, he quickly went to the commander for the Provost and said, ‘Help, for God’s sake! There’s a scoundrel inside who’s cut my purse with a good hundred gold florins in it. Please detain him, so I can get my property back.’

Hearing this, about a dozen sergeants rushed to where the unfortunate Martellino was being mercilessly beaten, and with great effort forced their way through the crowd. They dragged him, bruised and battered, out of the people’s hands and took him to the palace, followed by many of those who felt wronged by him. Hearing he had been taken as a pickpocket, and seeing an opportunity to harm him further, they all began to say he had cut their purses, too. The Provost’s judge, who was a harsh, ill-natured fellow, hearing these accusations, immediately took Martellino aside and began to question him. But Martellino answered jokingly, as if he didn’t take his arrest seriously; at which the judge, angered, had him bound and given two or three rounds of the strappado, hoping to make him confess and then have him hanged.

When he was let down again, the judge asked him once more if what the people accused him of was true, and Martellino, seeing that it did him no good to deny it, answered, “My lord, I am ready to tell you the truth; but first, make each person who accuses me say when and where I cut his purse, and I will tell you what I did and what I did not do.” The judge said, “Very well,” and called some of his accusers, putting the question to them. One said that he had cut his purse eight days ago, another six, and a third four days ago, while some said it was that very day. Martellino, hearing this, said, “My lord, they are all lying, and I can give you proof that I am telling the truth. Would to God it were as certain that I had never come here as it is that I was never in this place until a few hours ago. As soon as I arrived, I went—unluckily—to see that holy body in the church, where I was badly beaten, as you can see. The Prince’s officer who keeps the registry of strangers can confirm this to you, both he and his book, as can my host. So, if you find it as I say, I beg you not to torture me nor put me to death at the urging of these wicked men.”

While things were at this stage, Marchese and Stecchi, hearing that the judge of the Provostship was proceeding harshly against Martellino and had already put him to the strappado, became very frightened and said to themselves, “We have made matters worse; we have taken him out of the frying pan and thrown him into the fire.” So they quickly went in search of their host, and having found him, explained the situation to him. He laughed and took them to one Sandro Agolanti, who lived in Treviso and had great influence with the Prince, and after telling him everything, joined them in begging him to take up Martellino’s case. Sandro, after much laughter, went to the Prince and persuaded him to send for Martellino.

The Prince’s messengers found Martellino still in his shirt before the judge, all confused and very afraid, because the judge would listen to nothing in his defense; furthermore, having some grudge against the people of Florence by chance, the judge was completely set on hanging Martellino and would by no means release him to the Prince until he was forced to do so against his will. Martellino, brought before the lord of the city and having explained everything in order, begged him, as a special favor, to let him go about his business, for until he was back in Florence, it would still seem to him as if he had the rope around his neck. The Prince laughed heartily at his misfortune and let each of the three have a suit of clothes, with which they returned home safe and sound, having, beyond all their expectations, escaped such great danger.”

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## THE SECOND STORY

### Day the Second

### RINALDO D’ASTI, HAVING BEEN ROBBED, MAKETH HIS WAY TO CASTEL GUGLIELMO, WHERE HE IS HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED BY A WIDOW LADY AND HAVING MADE GOOD HIS LOSS, RETURNETH TO HIS OWN HOUSE, SAFE AND SOUND

The ladies laughed heartily at Martellino’s misfortunes narrated by Neifile, as did the young men and especially Filostrato, whom, since he sat next to Neifile, the queen asked to follow her in telling a story. Without delay, he began: "Fair ladies, I must tell you a story involving Catholic matters, partly mixed with misadventures and affairs of love, which may not be unprofitable to hear—especially to those who travel in the dangerous lands of love, where anyone who has not said St. Julian his Paternoster often gets poor lodgings, even if he has a good bed.

In the days of Marquis Azzo of Ferrara, there came a merchant named Rinaldo d’Asti to Bologna on business. After he had finished his affairs and was returning home, it happened that, when he left Ferrara and rode towards Verona, he fell in with certain folk who appeared to be merchants but were actually highwaymen and men of base character. He, unsuspectingly, joined their company and chatted with them. Seeing that he was a merchant and guessing that he carried money, they plotted together to rob him at the first opportunity. So that he would suspect nothing, they passed the time discussing honest and respectable matters, acting in a courteous and agreeable manner toward him, so that he considered himself very lucky to have met them, since he was alone with just one servant on horseback.

They went on, moving from one subject to another as often happens in conversation, and eventually began talking about the prayers people say to God. One of the highwaymen—there were three in all—asked Rinaldo, “And you, good sir, what prayer do you usually say when traveling?” He replied, “Truthfully, I am a simple man and not very learned in such matters, and I know only a few prayers. I live simply and reckon two shillings for twenty-four pence. Still, I have always been in the habit, when on a journey, to say in the morning, as I leave the inn, a Pater and an Ave for the soul of St. Julian’s father and mother, and then pray God and the saint to grant me good lodging for the coming night. Many times during my travels I have been in great danger, all of which I have escaped, and I have always found myself at night, besides, in a safe and comfortable place. So I firmly believe that St. Julian, to whose honor I say the prayer, has gained this favor from God for me; nor do I think I would fare well by day or find good lodging at night unless I had said it in the morning.” “And did you say it this morning?” asked his companion. “Yes, I did,” answered Rinaldo; at which the other thought to himself, knowing well what they were about to do, “May it help you! For, unless something stops us, I think you’re going to have a poor night’s lodging.” Then, turning to Rinaldo, he said, “I too have traveled a lot and have never said this prayer, though I have heard it much praised, and I have never failed to lodge well. Maybe tonight you’ll see which one gets the better lodging—you who said the prayer, or I who did not. It’s true, instead of that I use the *Dirupisti* or the *Intemerata* or the *De Profundis*, which, according to what my grandmother used to tell me, are especially powerful.”

Talking about various matters and watching out for a good time and place to carry out their plan, they came, late in the day, to a spot just past Castel Guglielmo, where, at a river ford, the three scoundrels, seeing it was late and the spot solitary and enclosed, set upon Rinaldo and robbed him of his money, clothes, and horse. Then, leaving him there barefoot and in his shirt, they went away, saying, “Go see if your St. Julian will get you a good lodging tonight, for ours certainly will do for us.” And crossing the stream, they went on their way. Rinaldo’s servant, seeing his master attacked, acted the coward and did nothing to help, but turned his horse and rode straight to Castel Guglielmo. He entered the town and settled in for the night, not troubling himself further.

Rinaldo, left in his shirt and barefoot while it was very cold and snowing hard, did not know what to do. Seeing night nearly upon him, he looked all around, shivering and his teeth chattering, for any kind of shelter nearby where he might spend the night and not freeze to death. But he saw none, as there had recently been war in those parts and everything nearby had been burned down. So he began to run toward Castel Guglielmo, driven by the cold, not knowing whether his servant had fled there or elsewhere, but thinking that if he could only get in, God would send him relief. But darkness fell when he was still about a mile from the town, so he arrived so late that the gates were shut and the drawbridges raised, and he could get no admission. Despairing and distraught, he looked around, weeping, for a place where he might take shelter, at least out of the snow. By chance, he saw a house a little outside the city walls and decided to wait under it until morning. Heading over, he found a door—although it was shut—and gathering some straw nearby, he lay down there, sad and miserable, bitterly complaining to St. Julian and saying this was not what he deserved for his faith.

However, the saint had not forgotten him and soon provided him with a good place to stay. In the town, there was a widow, as beautiful as any woman alive, whom Marquis Azzo loved dearly and kept under his protection. She lived in that same house, right under the projection where Rinaldo had taken shelter. As it happened, the Marquis had come to town that day, planning to spend the night with her, and had secretly arranged for a bath and a lavish supper at her house. With everything ready, the lady waited only for the Marquis’s arrival, when a servant arrived with news that forced the Marquis to leave immediately. He sent word to his mistress not to expect him and departed in haste. The lady, somewhat disappointed and not sure what to do, decided to use the bath prepared for the Marquis, have supper, and go to bed.

Thus, she entered the bath, which was near the door against which the miserable merchant was crouched outside the city wall. While she was in the bath, she heard Rinaldo’s weeping and trembling, which made him sound like a stork, and called her maid, saying, “Go up and look over the wall to see who is at the back gate and what he is doing there.” The maid went and, helped by the clear light, saw Rinaldo in his shirt and barefoot, sitting there, trembling so badly he could hardly speak. She asked who he was. He told her, as briefly as he could, who he was and how he came to be there, trembling so much he could barely get the words out, then begged her piteously not to leave him to die of cold if she could help it. The maid was moved by his plight and, returning to her mistress, told her everything. The lady, feeling compassion as well and remembering she had the key to that same door—the one used for the Marquis’s secret visits—said, “Go quietly and let him in; here is this supper and no one to eat it, and we have room enough for him to stay.”

The maid, praising her mistress’s kindness, went to let Rinaldo in. Seeing he was nearly paralyzed from the cold, the lady said, “Quick, good man, come into this bath, which is still warm.” Rinaldo, without waiting for a second invitation, gladly obliged and was so revived by the warm bath that he felt as if he had come back to life. The lady sent for some clothes that had belonged to her recently deceased husband; when Rinaldo put them on, they fit him perfectly. While he waited to know what else the lady would have him do, he gave thanks to God and St. Julian for saving him from what would have been a terrible night and, as he believed, bringing him to safety.

After the lady had rested herself a bit, she ordered a large fire made in her dining hall. When she went in, she asked how the poor man was; the maid replied, “Madam, he has dressed himself and is a handsome man, seeming to be of good standing and very polite.” The lady said, “Go call him, ask him to come to the fire and have supper, for I am sure he has not eaten.” So Rinaldo entered the hall and, upon seeing the lady—who indeed seemed a woman of high status—greeted her respectfully and thanked her as best he could for her kindness. Once the lady had heard and seen him, finding him just as her maid had said, she welcomed him courteously, asked him to sit with her by the fire, and inquired about his misadventures. Rinaldo told her everything in detail. As she had heard part of it earlier, when his servant came to town, she believed all he said and told him in turn what she knew about his servant and how he could easily find him the next day. Then, after the table was set, Rinaldo, at the lady’s urging, washed his hands and sat down to supper with her. He was tall, good-looking, pleasant in manner, and in the prime of life—so much so that the lady looked at him several times with interest, finding him very much to her liking. Her desire, already aroused for the Marquis who was to have stayed with her, now turned to Rinaldo. So after supper, when they had left the table, she asked her maid whether she thought it would be right—since the Marquis had left her stranded—to take advantage of the opportunity Fortune had offered. The maid, seeing her mistress’s intentions, encouraged her as much as she could to do so. The lady returned to the fireside, where Rinaldo waited alone, gazed at him with affection, and said, “Well, Rinaldo, why are you so downcast? Do you think you cannot be compensated for the loss of a horse and some minor clothes? Cheer up; you are in your own home. Indeed, I’ll tell you more: seeing you in those clothes, which were my late husband’s, you seem so much like him that tonight I’ve had a hundred urges to embrace and kiss you, and if I hadn’t feared I might offend you, I surely would have.”

Rinaldo, who was no fool, hearing these words and seeing the lady’s eyes shining, moved toward her with open arms and said, “Madam, considering that I owe my life to you and all that you have done for me, it would be most ungrateful if I did not strive to please you in every way; so please embrace and kiss me as much as you wish, and I will embrace and kiss you all the more willingly.” No more words were needed. The lady, burning with passion, threw herself into his arms, held him tightly, kissed him a thousand times, and was kissed as much in return. Then, they went together to her chamber, and, without delay, spent the night fulfilling their desires for each other many times over. When morning came, they got up—at her insistence, so as not to arouse any suspicion—and she gave him some simple clothes and a purse full of money, showed him how to enter the town and find his servant, and then put him out through the same back gate, asking him to keep the matter secret.

As soon as it was daylight and the gates opened, he entered the town, pretending to have arrived from afar, and found his servant. He put on the clothes from his saddlebags and was about to ride away on his servant’s horse when, as if by a miracle, the three highwaymen who had robbed him the previous night—having since been arrested for another crime—were brought into town. Upon their confession, his horse, clothes, and money were all returned to him, so that he lost nothing except a pair of garters, which the robbers could not account for. Rinaldo gave thanks to God and St. Julian and, mounting his horse, returned home safely, leaving the three thieves to face punishment the next day.

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## THE THIRD STORY

### Day the Second

### THREE YOUNG MEN SQUANDER THEIR SUBSTANCE AND BECOME POOR; BUT A NEPHEW OF THEIRS, RETURNING HOME IN DESPERATION, FALLETH IN WITH AN ABBOT AND FINDETH HIM TO BE THE KING’S DAUGHTER OF ENGLAND, WHO TAKETH HIM TO HUSBAND AND MAKETH GOOD ALL HIS UNCLES’ LOSSES, RESTORING THEM TO GOOD ESTATE

The adventures of Rinaldo d’Asti were listened to with admiration and his devotion was praised by the ladies, who thanked God and St. Julian for helping him in his greatest need. Nor was the lady thought foolish (though this was said half in jest) who had known how to take advantage of the good fortune that had come to her own house. But while they laughed quietly among themselves about the pleasant night she had enjoyed, Pampinea, sitting next to Filostrato and realizing, as it happened, that her turn was next, began to gather her thoughts and plan what to say. After receiving the queen’s command, she started to speak, as boldly as cheerfully: “Noble ladies, the more we talk about Fortune’s actions, the more there is to say for anyone who cares to think carefully, and this should surprise no one, if they seriously consider that all the things we foolishly call ours are in her hands and, according to her hidden ways, are constantly shifted without rest from one person to another and back again, in no way we can ever hope to understand. So, even though this has already been shown in many of the previous stories, and is always happening all around us, since our queen has commanded we speak of this topic, I will add one more tale of my own, which I believe will please—and maybe benefit—the listeners.

Once in our city, there was a gentleman named Messer Tedaldo, who, some say, was of the Lamberti family, though others claim he was an Agolanti, perhaps more because of the trade his sons later took up—which was like that of the Agolanti—than for any other reason. But setting aside which house he belonged to, he was for his time a very rich gentleman and had three sons: the eldest was named Lamberto, the second Tedaldo, and the third Agolante—all handsome and lively young men, the oldest of whom was not yet eighteen when Messer Tedaldo died, leaving them both land and money as his legitimate heirs. Seeing themselves so wealthy, the young men began to spend without restraint or control beyond their own pleasure, maintaining a grand household, many fine horses, dogs, and hawks, always keeping open house, giving generously, holding jousts and tournaments, and doing not only what was expected of gentlemen but anything their youthful impulses desired.

It was not long before the wealth their father left them vanished, and their income was not enough for their spending habits. So they began to sell and mortgage their estates; selling one thing today, another tomorrow, they barely noticed as their fortune dwindled away, until poverty forced open the eyes that wealth had kept closed. One day, Lamberto called the others to him, reminded them of their father’s and their own former riches, and pointed out the difference between what they once had and the poverty to which their reckless spending had brought them. He urged them, before things got worse, to sell what little remained and leave together with him. They took his advice; leaving Florence without farewell or ceremony, they traveled to England, where they rented a small house in London and lived very simply, devoting themselves to lending money at interest with utmost diligence. In this business, fortune favored them so well that in a few years they accumulated a great sum of money. One after another, they returned to Florence, bought back much of their former property, bought even more, and married wives.

Nevertheless, they continued to lend money in England and sent there, to look after their affairs, a young man, their nephew Alessandro. Meanwhile, the three brothers themselves stayed in Florence. Despite all having families now, they forgot how ruinous their earlier reckless spending had been and began to live even more extravagantly than ever. They had excellent credit with all the merchants, who trusted them for any sum, no matter how large. The funds sent by Alessandro, who had taken to lending to the barons against their castles and other holdings—which brought him great profit—kept them afloat for several years. But as the three brothers spent freely and, running short, kept borrowing, always confident in their English revenues, it happened—contrary to all expectation—that a civil war broke out in England between the king and his son. The whole island split into two factions, some supporting one and some the other. Because of this, all the barons’ castles were taken from Alessandro, and he lost every other reliable source of income. Still hoping peace would be made between father and son and that everything—both interest and principal—would be restored, Alessandro stayed on the island. Meanwhile, the three brothers in Florence did not cut back on their extravagant living, borrowing more and more every day. But as years passed and their hopes came to nothing, not only did they lose their credit, but when their creditors pressed for payment, they were suddenly arrested, and with their possessions insufficient to cover their debts, they remained in prison. Their wives and children, in great distress, scattered—some to the countryside, others wherever they could—faced with nothing but misery for the rest of their lives.

Meanwhile, Alessandro, after waiting many years in England for peace but seeing it never came and feeling he was at risk, decided to return to Italy. He set out alone and, as chance would have it, upon leaving Bruges, he saw an abbot of the white friars leaving as well, accompanied by many monks, a large household, and an impressive baggage train. Behind him came two elderly knights, relatives of the King, whom Alessandro greeted as acquaintances and was gladly accepted into their company. While traveling with them, he quietly asked who the monks in front were and where they were headed. One replied, “The one riding ahead is a young kinsman of ours, newly elected abbot to one of England’s greatest abbeys; but as he is younger than allowed by law for such a post, we’re taking him to Rome to ask the Holy Father to grant him a dispensation for his youth and confirm him in the abbacy. But this must not be spoken of to anyone.”

The new abbot, now riding ahead of his retinue and now behind, as noblemen often do when traveling, happened to notice Alessandro, who was a handsome, well-bred, agreeable, and elegant young man—one who pleased the abbot greatly at first sight. Calling Alessandro to his side, the abbot struck up a pleasant conversation, asking who he was, where he came from, and where he was bound. Alessandro frankly explained his situation and answered the questions, offering his humble service in whatever way was possible. The abbot, impressed by Alessandro’s refined and well-spoken manner, took further note of him, privately concluding that he must be of gentle birth despite the misfortunes in his life; becoming even more taken with Alessandro’s charm, and moved to compassion, he offered him kind encouragement. “Do not lose hope,” he said, “for if you are worthy, God will restore you to your former position, if not a greater one.” He then asked Alessandro, since he too was bound for Tuscany, to travel with him, as he was also going there. Alessandro thanked him for his encouragement and promised ever to do his bidding.

The abbot, whose heart was stirred with new feelings by the sight of Alessandro, continued traveling. After a few days, they reached a village with very poor inns. The abbot wanted to spend the night there; Alessandro arranged for the abbot to stay at the house of an innkeeper who was a friend of his, preparing the best possible room. As a capable man, now nearly acting as the abbot’s household steward, Alessandro found lodging as best he could for the whole party, spreading them around the village. After supper, and with night far advanced and everyone gone to bed, Alessandro asked the innkeeper where he might sleep. The host replied, “Honestly, I don’t know—you see everything is full, and my own household must sleep on the benches. However, in the abbot’s room there are some grain-sacks where I can put you and lay down a bit of bedding for you there. If you like, you can sleep there tonight, as best you can.” Alessandro replied, “How can I go into the abbot’s room, as you know how small it is—none of his monks could fit in there. If I’d known, before the curtains were drawn, I would have had his monks sleep on the sacks and found myself a spot where they are.” “No matter,” said the innkeeper, “that’s just how things are. But if you wish, you can sleep just as I’ve said, with all the comfort possible. The abbot is asleep and the curtains are drawn; I’ll quickly lay a small pallet for you—just go and sleep.” Alessandro, seeing it could be done without disturbing the abbot, agreed and settled himself on the grain sacks as comfortably as he could.

The abbot, who was not sleeping but was thinking intensely about his new feelings, overheard Alessandro and the host and noted where Alessandro lay down. Pleased with this, he thought to himself, “God has given me the opportunity I desired; if I don’t take it, another may never come.” So, having decided to act, and believing all was quiet in the inn, he called Alessandro softly and invited him to share his bed. Alessandro, after much hesitation, undressed and laid down beside the abbot, who put his hand on Alessandro’s chest and started caressing him much like amorous women do their lovers. This so surprised Alessandro that he began to suspect the abbot was drawn to him by unnatural desires; but the abbot, sensing either from his behavior or his expression what Alessandro was thinking, smiled. Then, suddenly taking off a shirt, the abbot took Alessandro’s hand, placed it on his chest, and said, “Alessandro, stop worrying. Search here, and discover what I have hidden.”

Alessandro did as he was told and felt two small, round, firm, and gentle breasts—just as though they were carved from ivory—thus realizing the supposed abbot was, in fact, a woman. Without waiting for any further invitation, he quickly embraced her and would have kissed her, but she said, “Before you come any closer, listen to what I have to say. As you see, I’m a woman, not a man, and I left home a virgin, bound for the Pope to be married. Be it fortune for you, or misfortune for me, but from the first moment I saw you, I was so inflamed with love that no woman has ever loved a man more. Because of this, I am resolved to take you as my husband before any other; but if you will not marry me, leave at once and return to your place.”

Alessandro, though he did not know her, guessed by her retinue and company that she must be noble and wealthy, and seeing that she was very beautiful, made no long deliberation but replied that if she wished it, he would be very glad. There in bed with him, she gave him a ring and had him marry her before a picture of our Lord, after which they embraced and delighted in each other’s company for the rest of the night, to great mutual satisfaction.

When morning came, after agreeing on their plans, Alessandro left through the way he had entered without anyone knowing where he had spent the night. Overjoyed, he joined the abbot (the lady) and the company and after many days, they arrived in Rome. There they stayed for a while, and then the abbot, with the two knights and Alessandro only, went in to the Pope. Paying their respects, the abbot (the lady) addressed the Pope: “Holy Father, as you know better than anyone, whoever wishes to live well and honestly must avoid every opportunity that could lead them to act otherwise. To make sure I could do this, I secretly fled with much of my father the King of England’s treasure (he wanted to marry me to the King of Scotland, a very old man, while I am—as you see—a young woman), and set out dressed as you see me, to come to you so you might marry me. It was not just the King of Scotland’s age that made me flee, but the fear that, if I were wed to him, my youth might lead me to do something against divine law and the honor of my father’s royal blood. As I traveled with this intent, God, who alone knows what each person needs, set before me (as I believe, out of mercy) the man he wished me to marry—this young man,” pointing to Alessandro, “whose qualities and merits are worthy of the greatest lady, even if perhaps his birth is not the most illustrious. I have taken him as my husband, and I desire no other, regardless of what my father or anyone else may think. Thus, the main reason for my journey is resolved; yet I wanted to visit this holy city with its many sacred sites, and to come before you so our marriage, made before God alone, might be made manifest through you, in your presence and before all mankind. I humbly ask that what has pleased God and myself may find favor with you, and that you grant us your blessing, so that, with greater assurance of God’s approval—whose Vicar you are—we may live and eventually die together.”

Alessandro was amazed to learn that the woman was the King of England’s daughter, and inside was filled with immense joy. The two knights were more amazed still and so angry that, were they not in the Pope’s presence, they might have harmed Alessandro or even the lady. The Pope himself was astonished, both by the situation and the lady’s choice, but seeing that what was done could not be undone, agreed to her request. After first calming the angered knights and making peace between everyone, he arranged the necessary formalities. On the day appointed, before all the cardinals and many men of great standing assembled for a magnificent wedding feast he had prepared, he presented the lady, dressed royally and admired by all for her beauty and grace, and Alessandro, splendidly attired, who carried himself as one of royal blood, not as a former moneylender, now honored by the two knights. The Pope had their marriage solemnly celebrated anew, and after grand and magnificent nuptials, gave them his blessing and sent them on their way.

Alessandro and the lady, leaving Rome, chose to travel to Florence, where news of their story had already spread. They were received by the townsfolk with the greatest honor, and the lady arranged for the three brothers to be released from prison, having paid every man his due. She restored them and their wives to their possessions, winning everyone’s goodwill. She and her husband, together with Agolante, left Florence, and coming to Paris, were warmly welcomed by the King. The two knights then returned to England and managed to reconcile the King with his daughter. The King, greatly rejoicing, received his daughter and son-in-law and soon after made Alessandro a knight with the highest honor and gave him the Earldom of Cornwall. Alessandro proved himself a man of great ability and brought about the reconciliation between father and son, which brought great benefit to the kingdom and gained him the love and favor of the people.

Furthermore, Agolante recovered all that was owed to him and his family and returned to Florence fabulously wealthy, having first been knighted by Count Alessandro. Alessandro lived long and victoriously with his lady, and, as some say, through his intelligence, courage, and the help of his father-in-law, he eventually conquered Scotland and was crowned King there.

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## THE FOURTH STORY

Day the Second

LANDOLFO RUFFOLO, HAVING FALLEN INTO POVERTY, TURNS CORSAIR; AFTER BEING CAPTURED BY THE GENOESE, HE IS SHIPWRECKED BUT SAVES HIMSELF ON A CHEST FULL OF JEWELS. HOSPITABLY RECEIVED IN CORFU, HE RETURNS HOME WEALTHY

Lauretta, who sat next to Pampinea, saw her finish her story gloriously and immediately began to speak: “Most gracious ladies, in my opinion, there is no greater display of fortune than when we see someone raised from the depths of misery to a princely state, just as Pampinea’s story showed happened to her Alessandro. Since, from now on, anyone telling a story of the given theme must naturally stay within these limits, I see no shame in telling a tale which, though it involves even greater hardships, does not have such a splendid conclusion. I know well that, because of this, my story may be listened to with less attention; but, as I can do no other, I hope I shall be excused.

The coast from Reggio to Gaeta is widely believed to be nearly the most delightful part of Italy, and there, not far from Salerno, is a hillside overlooking the sea, which the locals call the Amalfi Coast, full of small towns, gardens, springs, and of people as wealthy and enterprising in trade as any in the world. Among these cities is one called Ravello, where, although there are still rich men today, there once lived a man named Landolfo Ruffolo, who was exceedingly rich. But, not content with his wealth, he came close to losing it all—and even his life—in trying to double it. This man, following the ways of merchants, made his plans, bought a large ship, and, loading it with various goods at his own expense, sailed to Cyprus. There he found several other ships had arrived with the same type and quality of merchandise, forcing him to sell his goods at very low prices, and almost to give them away if he hoped to sell them at all—nearly ruining him.

Deeply troubled by this disaster and not knowing what to do, he saw himself, once a very rich man, reduced in a short time to near poverty. Determined either to die or to recover his losses by piracy—so he would not return poor to the place from which he had set out rich—he sold his great ship. With the proceeds and what little he got from his wares, he bought a small, nimble vessel, well suited for raiding, and equipped it thoroughly for that purpose. He set out to take other people’s property, especially from the Turks. In this line of work, fortune treated him much better than before; within a year, he seized and plundered so many Turkish vessels that he regained not only everything he had lost but more than doubled his former wealth. Cautioned by his earlier loss and believing he had enough, he decided not to risk a second disaster and to be content with what he had. Therefore, he resolved to return home with his gains, no longer wanting to do business, and so, rowing his small vessel, he set course for home.

He had already reached the Archipelago when, one evening, a violent southeast wind arose, not only contrary to his course but raising such heavy seas that his little vessel could not withstand it. He sought refuge in a cove formed by a small island, waiting there for the weather to improve. He had not been there long when two large Genoese carracks, coming from Constantinople, struggled into the harbor to escape the same storm. The newcomers saw his small ship, and, hearing it belonged to Landolfo, whom they already knew to be rich, they blocked its escape and set about, as greedy men, to seize it. They landed some men, armed with crossbows, and posted them so that no one could leave the vessel without being shot, while the rest, using small boats and taking advantage of the current, boarded and captured Landolfo's ship with all its crew, losing not a man. They brought Landolfo aboard one of the carracks—leaving him only a poor doublet—and emptied his ship before scuttling her.

The next day, with the wind having changed, the carracks sailed westward and went on their way smoothly all day; but toward evening a violent storm arose, making the waves mountain-high, separating the two ships. Moreover, the storm was so severe that the carrack carrying the unlucky Landolfo struck a shoal near the island of Cephalonia and split apart midship, breaking like a glass thrown at a wall. Instantly, the sea was filled with merchandise, chests, and planks floating about, as often happens in shipwrecks, and the people on board, those who could swim, tried in the darkness and towering seas to grab onto anything they could. Among them, the unfortunate Landolfo—who had wished for death earlier that day, rather than return home poor—suddenly, seeing death close at hand, feared it and, like the others, seized a nearby plank, hoping that if he could postpone drowning, God might yet offer him a way out.

Straddling the plank, he kept himself afloat as best he could, tossed here and there by the sea and wind until daylight. Then he looked around and saw nothing but clouds and sea—and a chest floating nearby, which frightened him because he feared it might strike him with harmful force. Each time it came near, he pushed it away with his weak hand as best he could. Suddenly, a gust of wind struck, pushing the chest violently against his plank, knocking it away and sending him underwater. Managing to surface—thanks more to fear than strength—he saw the plank far off and, fearing he could not reach it, made for the chest, which was now close. Lying facedown on its lid, he used his arms to guide it as best he could.

Thus, tossed by the waves, night and day, without food (for he had none), and drinking more seawater than he wanted, he floated, not knowing where he was. On the following day, whether it was God's will or the force of the winds, he finally reached the island of Corfu. There, a poor woman happened to be washing her pots with sand and salt water. Seeing Landolfo come close and perceiving his human shape, she at first shrank back in fright and cried out. He could not speak or see well and said nothing; but as he drifted nearer, the woman recognized the chest and, looking more closely, saw his arms on it and his face and realized the truth.

Moved by compassion, she waded somewhat into the calm sea, grabbed Landolfo by the hair, and dragged him, chest and all, to shore. After prying his hands from the chest, she placed it on her young daughter's head and, carrying him as if he were a child, brought him to her cottage, where she put him in a bath and warmed and rubbed him with hot water until his strength and warmth returned. Then, taking him from the bath when she thought best, she comforted him with good wine and sweets and cared for him for several days until he regained his strength and could understand where he was. Then, judging the time right, she returned his chest—which she had kept safe for him—and told him he could go on his way.

Landolfo, having no memory of the chest, accepted it from the good woman, thinking it might at least pay his expenses for a few days, but finding it very light, his hopes fell. Still, while his hostess was away, he broke it open to see what was inside and discovered a large quantity of precious stones, both set and unset. He knew something about such things and saw at once they were of great value; thus, he praised God, who had not abandoned him, and felt comforted. Still, having lately suffered such grave losses, he feared further misfortune and resolved to be cautious in bringing his treasure home. He wrapped the stones in rags and told the woman he no longer needed the chest, and, if she wished, she could have it for herself; she accepted gladly. Thanking her as best he could for her help, he took his bag and, boarding a boat, crossed to Brindisi and then made his way along the coast to Trani.

There he found some fellow townsmen who were cloth merchants and, after he told them his story (except for the chest), they clothed him out of charity and lent him a horse, sending him homeward to Ravello with an escort. There, feeling safe at last and thanking God who had brought him home, he opened his bag and, examining his find more carefully, saw he had so many and such fine stones that, even selling them below value, he would be twice as rich as when he had first set out. He sold the jewels and sent a generous sum of money to the woman in Corfu who had rescued him from the sea, and another to those in Trani who had clothed him. The rest he kept for himself, living in honor and comfort to the end of his days, never again venturing into trade.”

## THE FIFTH STORY

Day the Second

ANDREUCCIO OF PERUGIA, COMING TO NAPLES TO BUY HORSES, EXPERIENCES THREE SERIOUS MISADVENTURES IN ONE NIGHT, BUT ESCAPES THEM ALL AND RETURNS HOME WITH A RUBY

“The jewels found by Landolfo,” began Fiammetta, whose turn it was to tell a story, “have reminded me of a tale nearly as full of dangerous escapes as the one Lauretta just told, but different in that Lauretta’s adventures happened over several years, while the ones I will recount occurred all in a single night, as you shall hear.

There was once in Perugia, as I have heard, a young man—a horse trader—named Andreuccio di Pietro, who, upon hearing that horses were selling cheaply in Naples, put five hundred gold florins in his purse and traveled there with other merchants, never having left home before. He arrived on a Sunday evening near vespers, and after consulting with his host, he set out to the market the next morning, where he saw an abundance of horses. He liked many of them and negotiated for several but could not make a deal. Meanwhile, to show he was ready to buy, he often, as an inexperienced and naïve youth, pulled out his purse of florins in front of those passing by. While he was thus engaged, his purse visible, it happened that a Sicilian woman, very attractive but easily persuaded to do another’s will, passed by without him noticing her. When she saw the purse, she thought to herself, ‘Who could be luckier than me if that money were mine!’ and moved on.

With her was an old woman, also Sicilian, who, upon seeing Andreuccio, let her companion go ahead, and hurried to embrace him warmly. When the younger woman saw this, she stepped aside to wait without saying a word. Andreuccio, recognizing the old woman, greeted her cordially. She promised to visit him at his inn, then left without much conversation, while he returned to bargaining, though he bought nothing that morning. The younger woman, who had noticed first Andreuccio’s purse and then her old companion’s familiarity with him, began subtly to question the latter in hopes of finding a way to get some or all of the money—who Andreuccio was, where he was from, why he was there, and how she came to know him. The old woman gave every detail about Andreuccio’s affairs, almost as completely as he himself could have, since she had long lived with his father, first in Sicily and then in Perugia, and even told her where he was staying and why he had come to Naples.

Armed with all this information, the young woman cleverly set her plan in motion to achieve her desire, and returning home, kept the old woman busy for the rest of the day so she could not revisit Andreuccio. Then, calling a maid whom she had well-instructed in such matters, she sent her in the evening to the inn where Andreuccio was staying. By chance, the maid found him alone at the door and asked for him by name. He replied that he was the one she sought, so she took him aside and said, “Sir, if you please, a gentlewoman of this city wishes to speak with you.” Andreuccio, hearing this, looked himself over and, thinking himself a handsome young man, assumed (as if there were no other good-looking young men in Naples) that the lady must have fallen in love with him. So, without further thought, he replied that he was ready and asked the girl when and where the lady wished to see him; to which she answered, “Sir, she waits for you now at her house.” Andreuccio immediately responded, without telling anyone at his inn, “Go ahead; I’ll follow you.”

The girl led him to her mistress’s house, located in a street called Malpertugio—a name itself suggests what kind of neighborhood it is. But he, knowing nothing and suspecting no harm, believed he was being taken to an honorable place to meet a woman of quality, and entered the house without hesitation. The maid called her mistress, saying, “Andreuccio is here,” and led him upstairs, where he saw the lady coming to meet him. She was still young, tall, with a very beautiful face, and elegantly dressed and adorned. As he approached her, she came down three steps, opened her arms, and embraced him warmly, remaining silent as though overcome with emotion. Then she kissed him on the forehead, weeping, and said in a somewhat broken voice, “Oh, my Andreuccio, you are truly welcome.”

He was astonished at such affection and replied, quite confused, “Madam, I am pleased to meet you.” She took him by the hand, led him to her salon, and then, without saying another word, brought him into her bedroom, which was fragrant with roses, orange blossoms, and other scents. There he saw a very fine bed with curtains, many dresses hanging up, and other expensive furnishings common in that region. Because of this, in his inexperience, he believed she must be a great lady. She had him sit with her on a chest at the foot of the bed and spoke: “Andreuccio, I’m sure you must be surprised by my embraces and my tears, as anyone would be who doesn’t know me or has perhaps never heard of me; but I have something to tell you that will surprise you even more: I am your sister. And I tell you, now that God has let me see one of my brothers (though I wish to see you all) before I die, I shall not die unhappy. Since you may never have heard of this, I will explain.

Pietro, my father and yours—as I’m sure you know—lived a long time in Palermo, where, for his good humor and pleasant nature, he was, and still is, loved by all who knew him. But above all his admirers, my mother, a noble widow, loved him the most. She put aside her family’s concerns and her own reputation and became intimate with him, so that I was born as a result and grew up as you see me. When my father had to leave Palermo and return to Perugia, he left me a little girl with my mother and, as far as I know, never gave us another thought. I should blame him for this, if he were not my father, considering the ingratitude he showed to my mother (who, setting aside the love he owed me as his daughter—born not of a servant girl or a woman of low birth—but of a lady who gave both herself and all her property to him out of true love, not knowing who he really was). But what does it matter now? Wrongdoings of the past are easier to criticize than to fix; but that’s how it was.

He left me a child in Palermo, where I grew up as I am now. My mother, who was wealthy, married me to a respectable gentleman of Girgenti, who for love of her and me, moved to Palermo. There, being a strong Guelph, he allied with our King Charles. But when King Frederick discovered this, before our plan could succeed, we were forced to flee Sicily, just as I expected to become the greatest lady on the island. So with only what few belongings we could take (few compared to all we had) and leaving our lands and palaces, we took refuge here, where King Charles remembered our service and partly made up our losses by giving us land and houses, and still provides for my husband, your kinsman, as you’ll see for yourself. And so we came to live in this city, and by the grace of God and not through your doing, dear brother, I at last see you.” With these words, she embraced him again and kissed him on the forehead, still weeping out of affection.

Andreuccio, hearing this story told so fluently and convincingly, without a single stumble, and remembering it was true that his father had lived in Palermo, and knowing from experience how young men easily fall in love, saw her tears, affection, and chaste embraces, and believed everything she said—and more. When she finished, he replied, “Madam, it shouldn’t seem strange that I am surprised, because in truth, whether it’s because my father, for whatever reason, never spoke of your mother or you, or if he did, I never heard of it, I had no idea that you existed. So it is all the more dear to me to find a sister in this city where I am a stranger, and the less I expected it. In fact, I cannot imagine anyone of such high rank would not be glad to claim you as kin—much more so I, a mere trader. But please, tell me, how did you know I was here?” To this she replied, “A poor woman who visits me often told me this morning that you had just arrived, as she said she had spent much time with our father both in Palermo and Perugia. I thought it better for you to come to my house than for me to visit you at an inn—that is why I didn’t seek you earlier.” She then asked about his family, naming each member, and he told her about them all, which made him believe her even more, though he should have been more hesitant.

The conversation being long and the heat intense, she called for Greek wine and sweets and had drinks brought for Andreuccio. Afterward, he would have taken his leave, since it was supper-time; but she absolutely refused and, pretending to be greatly upset, embraced him and said, “Ah, woe is me! I see all too clearly now how little I mean to you! Who would believe that you could be with a sister you have never seen before, in whose house you should have stopped upon your arrival, and now offer to leave her just to go have supper at the inn? Truly, you shall eat with me, and although my husband is away, which grieves me greatly, I will still do you such honor as a woman can.” At this, Andreuccio, not knowing what else to say, replied, “I hold you as dear as one should hold a sister; but if I do not go, I will be expected for supper all evening and it would be discourteous of me.” “Thank God!” she replied. “Anyone would think I have no one in my house whom I can send to let them know not to expect you. Besides, you would do a much greater courtesy, and indeed only your duty, if you invited your companions to supper here; then, when the time comes for you to leave, you could all go together.”

Andreuccio replied that he had no desire for his companions’ company that evening, but that, since it pleased her, she could do as she wished with him. So she pretended to send someone to the inn to say he was not to be expected to supper, and after much more conversation, they sat down to eat and were luxuriously served with various dishes, while she cleverly prolonged the meal until it was quite dark. Then, when they rose from the table and Andreuccio made to take his leave, she insisted that she would not allow it, because Naples was no place to roam at night, especially for a stranger, and that, when she sent word to the inn that he was not coming for supper, she had also told them he would not be sleeping there that night. Andreuccio believed her, and enjoying her company—being deceived by false appearances—he stayed. After supper, they talked long into the night, not without reason, until part of the night was past; then she withdrew with her women into another room, leaving Andreuccio in her own chamber, with a young boy to wait on him should he need anything.

Because of the heat, Andreuccio, as soon as he was alone, stripped down to his doublet and removed his hose, laying them at the head of the bed. Then, needing to relieve himself, he asked the boy where he could do so, who showed him a door in one corner of the room and said, “Go in there.” So Andreuccio opened the door and went in, quite unconcerned, but happened to step on a plank that was loose from the joist at the other end, and down he went, plank and man together. By God’s grace, he was not hurt in the fall, though it was from a height; but he was thoroughly covered in the filth that filled the place. To help you better understand what has happened and what follows, let me describe the place. There was in a narrow alley, such as one often sees between two houses, a pair of beams laid from one house to another, with several boards nailed on top and the seat set up. The board that gave way with Andreuccio was one of these.

Finding himself at the bottom of the alley and greatly upset at his misfortune, he began calling for the boy; but the boy, hearing him fall, hurried to tell his mistress, who rushed to her chamber and quickly checked if his clothes were there. She found them along with the money he foolishly still carried on him out of suspicion. Now that she had gotten what she wanted—pretending to be from Palermo and his Perugian sister—she cared no more for him and hurried to lock the door through which he had exited and fallen.

Receiving no answer from the boy, Andreuccio shouted even louder but got no response. Realizing, too late, that he had been tricked, he scrambled over a low wall that separated the alley from the street, dropped down into the road, and went to the house, which he recognized well. He called out, knocked, and hammered on the door vigorously, but all to no avail. Lamenting, realizing his terrible luck, he cried out, “Ah, woe is me! In how little time I have lost five hundred florins and a sister!” After many more words, he began banging on the door again and shouting, so loud and long that neighbors were woken and, annoyed by the disturbance, got up. One of the courtesan’s maids came to the window, appearing sleepy, and said irritably, “Who is making such a racket down there?”

“What?” said Andreuccio. “Don’t you know me? I am Andreuccio, brother to Madam Fiordaliso.” She replied, “Good man, if you have drunk too much, go sleep it off and come back tomorrow. I do not know any Andreuccio or what these tales mean. Please, go away and let us sleep.” “What?” replied Andreuccio. “You don’t know what I mean? Surely you do; but if Sicilian kin are so quickly forgotten, at least return my clothes and I will be on my way with all my heart.” “Good man,” she answered, as if laughing, “I think you must be dreaming!” And with that she pulled her head in and shut the window. Seeing this, Andreuccio, now certain of his loss, was so overcome with anger he was almost driven mad, and decided to try to get back by force what he couldn’t recover with words. He picked up a large stone and began pounding the door more furiously than ever.

By now, many neighbors had been woken and gotten up; thinking him some troublemaker inventing stories to harass the lady of the house, and annoyed by his noise, they began shouting from their windows—just as dogs bark at a strange dog—“It’s a disgrace to show up at this hour and tell such ridiculous tales to respectable women. For God’s sake, good man, please go away and let us sleep. If you have business with her, come back tomorrow and leave us be tonight.” At this, one of the lady’s men—a tough-looking bully Andreuccio had neither seen nor heard before—came to the window and called down in a harsh, rough voice, “Who’s down there?”

Andreuccio looked up and saw, by what little light there was, a very formidable man with a thick black beard, who yawned and rubbed his eyes as if newly risen from sleep. Frightened, Andreuccio answered, “I am a brother of the lady here.” The man did not wait for him to finish but called out even more fiercely, “I don’t know what’s stopping me from coming down and beating you senseless right now, you pestilent drunken fool, who won’t let us sleep tonight.” With that, he withdrew into the house and shut the window. Certain other neighbors, knowing the sort of man he was, quietly advised Andreuccio, “For God’s sake, good man, leave now and don’t stay here tonight or you’ll be killed; go away for your own safety.”

Frightened by the man’s voice and looks, and persuaded by the neighbors’ advice—who seemed to speak out of genuine concern—Andreuccio headed back toward his inn, along the way he had followed the maid, not really knowing where to go, despairing of his money and more miserable than ever. Disgusted with himself because of the foul odor coming off him, and wanting to clean up, he decided to go to the sea to wash. He turned left and took a street called Ruga Catalana leading to the higher part of the city. Soon, he saw two men approaching with a lantern and, fearing they were officers or other dangerous people, he ducked into a nearby shed to hide. But they, it seemed, made straight for that very spot, and entering, began inspecting some iron tools one had carried on his shoulder, discussing them as they did.

Suddenly, one said, “What’s that smell? It’s the worst stench I’ve ever known!” He lifted the lantern, spotted the miserable Andreuccio, and asked in surprise, “Who’s there?” Andreuccio said nothing, but they came over with the light and asked what he was doing there in such a state. He told them everything that had happened, and they, recognizing where it must have taken place, said to each other, “Surely that must have been in Scarabone Buttafuocco’s house.” Then, turning to him, one said, “Good man, even though you’ve lost your money, you have much to thank God for that fortune sent you falling so you couldn’t go back in the house; for you can be sure that if you hadn’t fallen, they’d have killed you in your sleep and you’d have lost your life as well as your money. But there’s no use complaining now. You might as well wish to catch the stars from the sky as try to get a single coin back; in fact, mentioning it might get you killed if that man hears of it.” Then, after talking together for a while, they said, “Look, we feel badly for you; so if you join us in something we plan to do, it seems almost certain your share will be worth much more than what you lost.” In his desperation, Andreuccio answered he was ready.

Earlier that day an archbishop of Naples, Messer Filippo Minutolo, had died and was buried with his richest ornaments and a ruby on his finger worth more than five hundred gold florins. The two men intended to rob the tomb, and this plan they shared with Andreuccio—who, more greedy than wise, agreed and set off with them to the cathedral. All the while, since Andreuccio still stank horribly, one of the thieves said, “Can’t we find a way for this fellow to wash up somewhere so he doesn’t stink so badly?” “Yes, we can,” answered the other. “There’s a well nearby, usually with a rope, pulley, and a big bucket. Let’s go over there, and we’ll wash him off right away.” So they went to the well and found the rope, though the bucket was missing, so they decided to tie him to the rope and lower him down to wash, telling him to shake the rope when he was clean and they’d haul him up.

As soon as they let him down, by chance, some city watchmen—thirsty from the heat and chasing after some scoundrel—came to the well for water, and seeing them, the two rogues immediately fled before the officers saw them. After washing at the bottom of the well, Andreuccio shook the rope, and the officers—having put aside their weapons, shields, and coats—began to pull, expecting a bucket of water on the other end. As soon as Andreuccio reached the top, he let go of the rope and grabbed the edge with both hands; the officers, startled by the sight, let go of the rope and ran for their lives without a word. Andreuccio was quite amazed by this and, if he hadn’t managed to grab hold, would have fallen back down, badly hurt or worse. He climbed out and, seeing the arms left by the well, which clearly did not belong to his companions, was even more puzzled, but fearing a trap, decided to leave without touching anything, lamenting his bad luck.

As he left, he encountered his two companions, who had come to pull him up from the well. When they saw him, they were amazed and asked who had pulled him out. Andreuccio said he didn’t know and explained in detail what had happened and what he’d found by the well, so the men, understanding the situation, laughed and explained why they’d fled and who the men were who’d pulled him up. Then, without further delay—it being now midnight—they made their way to the cathedral and slipped inside easily, heading straight to the archbishop’s large marble tomb. With their tools, they lifted the heavy lid and propped it up so someone could crawl inside. Then one asked, “Who’ll go in?” “Not I,” said the other. “Nor I,” replied his companion; “let Andreuccio go in.” “I will not,” Andreuccio responded, at which the two rogues turned to him and said, “Oh? You won’t? By God, if you don’t go in, we’ll bash your head in with one of these irons until you’re dead.”

Andreuccio, terrified, crept into the tomb, thinking to himself, “These fellows want me to go in here so they can cheat me, because once I’ve given them everything, they’ll just leave me behind to struggle out of the tomb on my own, and I’ll end up with nothing.” So, he decided to secure his share first; as soon as he reached the bottom, remembering the valuable ring he’d heard them mention, he took it from the archbishop’s finger and put it on his own. Then he handed up the crozier, mitre, and gloves, and after stripping the dead man to his shirt, gave them everything, insisting there was nothing left. The others insisted the ring must be there and told him to search everywhere; but he claimed he couldn’t find it, pretending to look while keeping up the act for a while. Eventually, the two thieves, who were as cunning as he was, told him to keep searching, and while he was distracted, they took the opportunity to pull away the prop holding up the lid and ran off, leaving him trapped inside the tomb.

You can well imagine how Andreuccio felt in this predicament. He tried again and again to lift the lid with his head and shoulders, but wore himself out in vain. Overcome by grief and despair, he collapsed in a faint onto the archbishop’s corpse; anyone seeing them might scarcely have known which was the more lifeless, the prelate or Andreuccio. After a while, as he regained consciousness, he burst into tears, seeing he was stuck with only two possible fates: either, if no one came to open the tomb again, he would die there of hunger and the stench, among the worms feeding on the corpse, or, if someone found him there, he would surely be hanged as a thief.

As he remained in this miserable state, utterly dejected, he heard people moving about in the church and several voices speaking; soon he realized they were coming to do what he and his companions had already done, which made him even more afraid. The newcomers forced open the tomb and propped up the lid, then began to argue over who should go in; but nobody was willing. After much discussion, a priest said, “What are you afraid of? Do you think he’ll eat you? The dead don’t eat the living. I’ll go in myself.” With that, he leaned his chest on the edge of the tomb, turned his head outwards, and put in his legs, intending to let himself drop down. Seeing this, Andreuccio suddenly sprang up, grabbed the priest by the leg, and pretended he was going to pull him down. Feeling this, the priest let out a terrified scream and leaped out of the tomb in panic, leaving all the others to flee in terror as though chased by a legion of devils, leaving the tomb open behind them.

Seeing his chance, Andreuccio scrambled hastily out of the tomb, overjoyed beyond his wildest hopes, and slipped out of the church the same way he had entered. Dawn was now approaching, and he wandered aimlessly, still wearing the ring, until he came to the seashore and from there found his way back to his inn. There he found his friends and the innkeeper, who had been worried about him all night. He told them what had happened, and following the innkeeper’s advice, it seemed best for him to leave Naples immediately. So he set out right away and returned to Perugia, having invested his money in a ring, though he had originally come to buy horses.”

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## THE SIXTH STORY

### Day the Second

MADAM BERITOLA, HAVING LOST HER TWO SONS, IS FOUND ON A DESERT ISLAND WITH TWO KIDS AND GOES FROM THERE TO LUNIGIANA, WHERE ONE OF HER SONS, TAKING SERVICE WITH THE LORD OF THE COUNTRY, SLEEPS WITH HIS DAUGHTER AND IS IMPRISONED. SICILY, AFTER REBELLING AGAINST KING CHARLES, AND THE YOUNG MAN, RECOGNIZED BY HIS MOTHER, MARRIES HIS LORD’S DAUGHTER, AND HIS BROTHER IS ALSO FOUND; THEY ARE ALL THREE RESTORED TO HIGH ESTATE

Ladies and young men alike laughed heartily at Andreuccio’s adventures, as told by Fiammetta, and Emilia, seeing the story was finished, began to speak, at the queen’s command, as follows: “The various turns of Fortune are grievous and sorrowful—yet whenever people discuss them, it reminds us, since we tend to grow complacent when Fortune seems kind, never to relax our guard. So I think it should never be tiresome for either the happy or the unhappy to hear such tales, since they serve both as warnings for the fortunate and comfort for those who are suffering. For this reason, even though many stories on this subject have already been told, I intend to share with you another, just as true as it is moving—and though it ends happily, the suffering in it was so great and lasted so long, I can hardly believe any joy afterwards could fully make up for it.

You must know, dear ladies, that after Emperor Frederick the Second died, Manfred became King of Sicily. In very high favor with him was a gentleman from Naples named Arrighetto Capece, who was married to a noble and beautiful lady from Naples as well, named Madam Beritola Caracciola. Arrighetto, who ruled the island, heard that King Charles the First had defeated and slain Manfred at Benevento, that the whole kingdom had switched allegiance, and—distrusting the brief loyalty of the Sicilians—decided to flee, unwilling to become a servant of his former lord’s enemy. But his intentions were discovered by the Sicilians, and he, along with many friends and supporters of King Manfred, was quickly imprisoned and handed over to King Charles along with control of the island.

Madam Beritola, faced with this cruel twist of fate, did not know what had become of Arrighetto. Terrified by what might have happened, she abandoned all her property for fear of shame, and, poor and pregnant as she was, took a small boat with her eight-year-old son, Giusfredi, and fled to Lipari, where she gave birth to another son, whom she named Scacciato. Finding a nurse for the baby, she set out with both children for Naples, hoping to reach her relatives. But things turned out otherwise; the ship that was supposed to go to Naples was blown off course to the island of Ponza. There they anchored in a small bay, waiting for a chance to continue their journey. Madam Beritola, like the others, went ashore and found a secluded spot where she could grieve alone for Arrighetto.

This became her daily routine, but one day, as she was weeping, a pirate galley approached unnoticed by anyone on shore. The pirates seized everyone by surprise and sailed off with their prize. When Madam Beritola finished her daily grieving and returned to where she had left her children on the shore, she found no one there. First she was baffled, then, suspecting what had happened, she looked out to sea and saw the pirate galley not far off, towing the small boat behind it. She realized she had now lost her children as well as her husband, and—finding herself completely alone, destitute, and abandoned, uncertain if she’d ever see any of them again—collapsed on the sand, calling out for her husband and sons. There was no one to restore her senses with water or any other remedy, so her mind was free to wander in grief. After some time, her consciousness returned amidst tears and wailing, and she called out for her children, searching every cave. At last, finding her search fruitless and night approaching, she began, hoping against hope, to take care of herself and returned from the shore to the cavern where she usually wept and mourned.

She spent the night in great fear and indescribable sorrow, and when the new day came and the hour of tierce had passed, compelled by hunger—because she had not eaten the night before—she was forced to graze on wild herbs. Having fed as best she could, she gave herself, in tears, to various thoughts about her future. While she pondered, she saw a she-goat go into a nearby cave and come out again, then disappear into the woods. Rising, she entered the cave where the goat had been and found two little kids, likely born that day, which seemed to her the most charming and delightful things in the world. Her milk, still not dried up from recent childbirth, gave her cause to tenderly pick up the kids and offer them her breast. They did not refuse, but suckled her as if she had been their mother, making no distinction between her and their own dam. Feeling she had found some companionship in that desolate place, and growing just as familiar with the old goat as with the kids, she resigned herself to live and die there, surviving on herbs and water, weeping whenever she thought of her husband, children, and past life.

So the gentle lady, turned wild by her circumstances, lived in this way. After several months, it happened that a small vessel from Pisa, driven by a similar storm to the same place where she had once landed, arrived and stayed for some days. On board was a gentleman named Currado, of the Marquises of Malespina, returning home with his wife—a noble and devout lady—from a pilgrimage to all the holy places in the kingdom of Apulia. To pass the time, Currado set out one day with his wife, a few servants, and his dogs, to explore the island. Not far from where Madam Beritola sheltered, the dogs startled the two kids—now grown quite large—while they grazed. Chased by the dogs, the kids fled to the cave where Madam Beritola was. When she saw this, she sprang up, grabbed a staff, and chased off the dogs. Currado and his wife, following after, were astonished to see the lady, who had grown dark, thin, and shaggy, while she was even more surprised to see them. After Currado, at her request, called off his dogs, they pleaded with her until she agreed to tell them who she was and what she was doing there. She then told them everything about her situation, all that had happened to her, and her firm determination to stay alone on the island.

Currado, who had known Arrighetto Capece very well, wept at her tale and did his utmost to dissuade her from such a wild purpose. He offered to bring her back to her own home or to keep her with him, honoring her like a sister until God granted her better fortune. As the lady refused these offers, Currado left his wife with her, charging his wife to provide her with food and clothing—since she was in rags—and to do everything possible to persuade her to leave. The gentle lady, left with Madam Beritola, consoled her extensively for her misfortunes, sent for clothing and food, and—after much effort—persuaded her to put on the garments and eat.

Eventually, after many prayers, and with Madam Beritola insisting she would never go anywhere she might be recognized, she agreed to go with Currado’s wife to Lunigiana, bringing along the two kids and their dam—the mother goat—who had by then returned and greeted her lovingly, to the great curiosity of Currado’s lady. As soon as the weather was good, Madam Beritola boarded Currado’s ship with him and his lady, taking the two kids and the she-goat (thanks to whom, since her name was unknown, she was everywhere called Cavriuola). Sailing with a fair wind, they soon reached the mouth of the Magra, where they went ashore and proceeded to Currado’s castle. There, Madam Beritola lived in widow’s garb as a companion to Currado’s lady, humble, modest, and obedient, all the while caring for her kids and allowing them to be raised.

Meanwhile, the pirates who had captured the ship that brought Madam Beritola to Ponza, but had missed seeing her, took everyone else to Genoa. When the spoils were divided among the galley owners, it happened that the nurse and the two children fell to a certain Messer Guasparrino d’Oria, who sent all three to his household, to work as slaves. The nurse, deeply distressed at the loss of her mistress and their miserable circumstances, wept bitterly; but being wise even in poverty, she realized tears did no good, and that she was a slave along with the children. Resolving to comfort herself as best she could, she thought about their predicament and realized that, if the children’s identities were known, they might suffer further harm. Hoping that, sooner or later, fortune would change and that the children—if they survived—might reclaim their lost status, she decided not to reveal who they were until the time was right, insisting to everyone that they were her own sons. She renamed the elder, calling him Giannotto di Procida instead of Giusfredi (she did not bother to change the younger’s name), and explained to him carefully why she did so, showing him the danger he might face if discovered. She told him this many times, and the clever boy strictly followed his nurse’s wise advice.

Thus, the two boys and their nurse remained in Messer Guasparrino’s household for many years, poorly clothed, ill-shod, and assigned to the lowest tasks. But Giannotto, now sixteen, had more spirit than suited a slave, and, scorning such a servile life, he left to join a galley sailing for Alexandria, departing from Messer Guasparrino’s service and traveling to various lands, though without much success. About three or four years after leaving Genoa—now grown into a handsome and tall young man—and hearing that his father, whom he believed dead, was still alive but imprisoned by King Charles, Giannotto drifted about, nearly despairing, until he came to Lunigiana. There, by chance, he entered the service of Currado Malespina and distinguished himself by his ability and good conduct. Although he occasionally saw his mother, who attended Currado’s lady, neither recognized the other, so much had time changed both since last they met.

While Giannotto was serving Currado, it happened that Currado’s daughter, Spina, recently widowed from Niccolo da Grignano, returned to her father’s house. She was very beautiful, lively, and not yet seventeen. By chance, she noticed Giannotto—and he her—and they fell passionately in love. Their mutual desire was not long without effect and continued for several months unnoticed. Growing careless, they began to act less discreetly than such matters required, and one day, as they walked together through a thick, beautiful wood, they pushed ahead among the trees, leaving their companions behind. Thinking they were far out of sight, they lay down in a lovely spot full of grass and flowers, ringed by trees, and gave themselves to amorous delight.

While they were thus engaged—so absorbed that the time seemed brief, though long had passed—they were discovered, first by the girl’s mother and then by Currado himself. Outraged beyond measure by what he saw, Currado said nothing of the reason but had both seized by three servants and taken, bound, to one of his castles. He left them, seething with anger and determined to put them both to a shameful death. Spina’s mother, although deeply upset and believing her daughter deserved the harshest punishment, realized, from certain words spoken by Currado, that he intended to kill them. Unable to bear the thought, she hurried after her furious husband, begging him not to become a murderer in his old age by taking his own daughter’s life and staining his hands with his servant’s blood. She urged him to find a different way to satisfy his anger—perhaps to imprison them and let them suffer for their misdeed. With these and many other words, the good lady persuaded him to forgo execution. He ordered them imprisoned separately, kept under strict guard, with little food and much hardship, until he decided further what to do. And so it was done; their life in captivity, with constant tears and fasting beyond measure, may easily be imagined.

While Giannotto and Spina languished in their sorrowful state—a full year forgotten by Currado—King Pedro of Aragon, through the intervention of Messer Gian di Procida, raised Sicily in revolt against King Charles and took it from him. Currado, a Ghibelline, rejoiced greatly at this news. Giannotto, told of it by one of his guards, sighed deeply, saying, “Ah, woe is me! For fourteen years I have wandered the world in poverty, hoping only for this, and now, when it has come at last, I am trapped in prison, with no hope of release but in death.” “How so?” asked the jailer. “What concern is it of yours what great kings do to each other? What is Sicily to you?” Giannotto replied, “My heart breaks when I remember what my father once was there. Though I was but a small child when I fled, I remember he was lord there in King Manfred’s time.” “And who was your father?” asked the jailer. “My father’s name,” Giannotto answered, “I may now safely reveal, since nothing could be worse than my current peril. He was—and is, if alive—called Arrighetto Capece; and my real name is not Giannotto but Giusfredi. I do not doubt, if I were free, that I could return to Sicily and attain great rank there.”

The honest man, without asking further, told Currado what Giannotto had said. Though Currado pretended indifference to the gaoler, he went to Madam Beritola and politely asked if she had a son named Giusfredi by Arrighetto. Weeping, she replied that if her elder son were alive, that would be his name and he would be twenty-two years old. Convincing himself that this must be Giannotto, Currado realized he could both do a great kindness and erase his own and his daughter’s shame by marrying her to Giannotto; so, sending secretly for the young man, he questioned him in detail about his life. Seeing clear signs that he was indeed Giusfredi, son of Arrighetto Capece, Currado said, “Giannotto, you know what a great wrong you have done to me in the person of my daughter. I have always treated you well and, as a servant, you should have guarded my honor and interests. Many in my place, treated as I was, would have put you to a shameful death, which my mercy did not allow. Now, if it is true you are the son of a noble man and lady, I wish—if you agree—to end your troubles and restore your honor and mine. As you know, Spina, whom you have, though improperly, taken as your lover, is a widow with a large dowry. Her conduct and her parents you know, and your present condition I need not speak of. Therefore, if you wish, I propose that, since she has unlawfully been your mistress, she shall now lawfully be your wife, and that you shall live here with her as my son as long as it pleases you.”

Although prison had weakened Giannotto’s body, it had not diminished the noble spirit he inherited from his birth nor his love for Spina. Deeply desiring what Currado offered, and knowing himself in Currado’s power, he nonetheless answered truthfully, inspired by the strength of his soul: “Currado, neither desire for power nor greed has ever led me to act treacherously toward you or your possessions. I loved and still love your daughter, and if my love was not entirely honorable by worldly standards, my offense is one common to youth—and if you would do away with such faults, you must first do away with youth itself. Moreover, if older people would remember their own youth and judge others’ faults as they would wish their own judged, such misdeeds would not seem as grave as you and others think. As a friend, not an enemy, I acted as I did. What you now offer is all I have ever wanted; had I thought it possible, I would have asked sooner. But now, when my hope was least, it will be most dear to me. If your intentions are not as you say, do not give me false hope, but send me back to prison and torment me as you wish, for as long as I love Spina, I shall love you as well, whatever you do to me.”

Currado, hearing this, was amazed and valued him even more for his honesty and passionate love. He embraced and kissed him, then called for Spina to be brought in secretly. The lady, grown pale and thin with confinement—hardly the person she used to be—came, and, in Currado’s presence, the two lovers were joined in marriage according to custom. After a few days, during which Currado provided everything the newlyweds could need, he decided to share the good news with their mothers. He called both his wife and Cavriuola and said to the latter: “What would you say if I gave you your elder son back as the husband of one of my daughters?” She replied, “If it were possible for me to be even more grateful to you, I would, for giving me back what is dearest to me, and doing so in such a way as you describe would rekindle my lost hope.” With that, she wept silently. Currado turned to his lady and asked, “And you, madam, how would you feel if I gave you such a son-in-law?” She replied, “Even a common man would please me, if it pleased you—let alone one of such noble birth.” Currado said, “Then, I hope, before long, to make both of you happy.”

Seeing the couple now restored to joy, he dressed them splendidly and said to Giusfredi, “Would it not delight you, above your present happiness, to see your mother here?” Giusfredi replied, “I dare not hope my mother could still be alive, given her misfortunes; but if she is, nothing would please me more, not least since I think her advice could help me regain much of my Sicilian estate.” So Currado sent for both women, who came and welcomed the new bride, wondering what good fortune had inspired Currado’s extraordinary kindness. Madam Beritola, remembering Currado’s words, started to study Giannotto, and as some memory of her son’s youthful features stirred in her, she could not wait for more explanation. She ran to embrace him, and so overwhelmed was she by joy and emotion that she fell, wordless, into her son’s arms, as if dead.

The latter, though he was greatly astonished—recalling that he had seen her many times before in that same castle without ever recognizing her—immediately recognized the scent of his mother. Blaming himself for his past lack of awareness, he received her, weeping, in his arms and kissed her lovingly. After a while, Madam Beritola, being cared for affectionately by Currado’s wife and Spina and revived with cold water and other remedies, regained her senses. She embraced her son again with great motherly tenderness, showered him with many tears and kind words, and kissed him a thousand times, while he reverently regarded and comforted her. After these joyful and heartfelt reunions had occurred three or four times, to the great satisfaction of all those present, and they had recounted to each other all that had happened to them, Currado, now to everyone’s immense delight, announced the new alliance he had formed and arranged an elegant and splendid celebration.

Then Giusfredi said to him, “Currado, you have given me much happiness and have long treated my mother with honour; and now, so that nothing you could do will be left undone, I ask you to bring further joy to my mother, our wedding feast, and me by inviting my brother, whom Messer Guasparrino d’Oria keeps as a servant in his house and who, as I have already told you, was captured with me during one of his raids. Moreover, I would like you to send someone to Sicily to thoroughly find out about the state of the country and learn what has become of Arrighetto, my father—whether he is alive or dead, and if alive, in what condition. Once your envoy has fully ascertained all this, let him return to us.” Giusfredi’s request pleased Currado greatly, and he immediately sent trusted men to both Genoa and Sicily.

The one who went to Genoa found Messer Guasparrino and promptly requested, on Currado’s behalf, that he send him Scacciato and his nurse, carefully explaining all that his lord had done for Giusfredi and his mother. Messer Guasparrino was greatly surprised to hear this and said, “It is true I wish to please Currado in every way I can, and I have indeed, these fourteen years, had in my house the boy you seek and also a woman who is his mother’s servant, both of whom I will gladly send to him. But tell him, on my part, to be careful not to trust too much in the stories of Giannotto—who now calls himself Giusfredi—for he is a much greater rogue than he thinks.” With that, he gave the gentleman a warm welcome and, privately sending for the nurse, questioned her closely about the matter. Now, having heard of the Sicilian revolt and learned that Arrighetto was alive, the nurse cast off her earlier fears and explained everything in order, giving him her reasons for all she had done.

Messer Guasparrino, finding that her story matched precisely with that told by Currado’s messenger, began to believe what he had heard and, by various means, like the wise man he was, investigated further, discovering more and more evidence confirming the truth. Feeling guilty about how harshly he had treated the boy and wanting to make amends—knowing what Arrighetto had been and was—he gave Scacciato in marriage to a fair young daughter of his, only eleven years old, along with a great dowry. After hosting a splendid wedding celebration, he then set out—with the boy, girl, Currado’s messenger, and the nurse—in a well-armed galley for Lerici, where Currado received him and brought the whole company to one of his castles nearby, where a great banquet was underway.

The joy of the mother at seeing her son again, the happiness of the two brothers at being reunited, their shared gratitude to their faithful nurse, the honour paid by all to Messer Guasparrino and his daughter, and his kindness to everyone—and the collective happiness with Currado, his wife, children, and friends—was beyond words to express. Therefore, ladies, I leave it to your imagination. To make the celebration complete, it pleased God the Most High, the most generous giver, as He often does, to add even greater joy: for while the feast was at its height, and the guests, both ladies and gentlemen, still at table during the first course, the envoy who had gone to Sicily arrived and, among other things, reported that Arrighetto was alive. He explained that when Arrighetto, being held prisoner by King Charles, found himself in the midst of the revolt against the king, the people stormed the prison, killed his guards, and freed him. Being a key enemy of King Charles, he was made their leader, and they followed him to drive out and kill the French. For this, he became especially favored by King Pedro, who restored him to all his honours and possessions, so that now he was in a position of great fortune. The messenger added that Arrighetto had welcomed him with the utmost respect and celebrated with indescribable joy the news of his wife and son, of whom he had heard nothing since his capture. Moreover, he had sent a brigantine with several gentlemen aboard to bring them to him.

The messenger was received and heard with great joy and celebration, and Currado, with some of his friends, immediately set out to meet the gentlemen who had come for Madam Beritola and Giusfredi. He welcomed them warmly and brought them into the still-ongoing banquet. There, both the lady and Giusfredi, as well as everyone else, greeted them with such joy as has hardly ever been heard of; and before sitting at table, the gentlemen greeted Currado and his wife on Arrighetto’s behalf, thanking them as best they could for all the kindness shown to his wife and son, and promising Arrighetto’s gratitude in every way within his power. Then, turning to Messer Guasparrino, whose kindness was unexpected, they declared that, once Arrighetto learned of what he had done for Scacciato, he would certainly thank him as much, if not more, than he had already done.

After that, they all continued to celebrate joyfully with the new bridegrooms at the wedding feast of the two young wives; nor was it just that day that Currado entertained his son-in-law and other relatives and friends, but for many days after. When the festivities had died down a bit, and Madam Beritola, Giusfredi, and the others felt it was time to leave, they said farewell—with many tears—to Currado, his wife, and Messer Guasparrino and set sail on the brigantine, taking Spina with them. With a favorable wind they quickly reached Sicily, where Arrighetto in Palermo received them all—sons and daughters-in-law—with untold joy; and there, so it is believed, they all lived happily for a long time after, in love and gratitude to God the Most High, never forgetting the blessings they had received.”

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## THE SEVENTH STORY

**Day the Second**

### THE SOLDAN OF BABYLON SENDETH A DAUGHTER OF HIS TO BE MARRIED TO THE KING OF ALGARVE, AND SHE, BY DIVERS CHANCES, IN THE SPACE OF FOUR YEARS COMETH TO THE HANDS OF NINE MEN IN VARIOUS PLACES. ULTIMATELY, BEING RESTORED TO HER FATHER FOR A MAID, SHE GOETH TO THE KING OF ALGARVE TO WIFE, AS FIRST SHE DID

Had Emilia’s story gone on much longer, it is likely that the young ladies, moved by compassion for Madam Beritola’s misfortunes, would have been brought to tears. But as it was now finished, the queen wished for Pamfilo to continue, and so he, ever dutiful, began as follows: “It is very difficult, charming ladies, for us to know what is truly best for us, for, as can often be seen, many people imagine that if only they were rich, they might live free of worry and in safety. Such people not only pray for riches from God, but also strive diligently to acquire them, sparing neither effort nor risk to gain their end. Yet, while before they gained wealth they cherished life, once they had what they desired, others killed them out of greed for such a great inheritance. Others of humble beginnings, having fought through countless dangers and seen the blood of brothers and friends, have climbed to the heights of kingship, expecting to experience supreme happiness, only to find the royal state filled with countless worries and fears—learning at the cost of their lives that poison can be drunk from golden cups at royal tables. Many intensely desire physical strength, beauty, and various personal gifts, only to discover too late that these very qualities bring about their destruction or a life of misery. In short, without discussing every desire of humanity, I dare to say there is not one thing that can be chosen by mortals with true certainty as safe from the unpredictable turns of fortune. Therefore, if we are wise, we must accept and be content with what is given to us by Him who alone knows what we truly need and has the power to grant it. And since men sin by desiring many things, you, gracious ladies, err most often in just one thing: wishing to be beautiful. Not content with the gifts that nature has already granted, you strive with marvelous skill to increase your charms. So, let me tell you how a Saracen lady, because she was exceedingly beautiful, experienced the misfortunate fate of being, in four years, married anew nine times.

It has been some time since there was a certain Sultan of Babylon, named Berminedab, to whom, in his day, many things happened as he pleased. Among his many children, both sons and daughters, he had a daughter named Alatiel, who, by the report of all who saw her, was the fairest woman in the world at that time. Having, in a great victory over a vast multitude of Arabs who invaded him, been very well assisted by the King of Algarve, he granted Alatiel to the king as his wife by special favor. So he sent her by ship, well armed and equipped, with an honorable company of men and ladies and a wealth of rich and splendid gifts and furnishings, commending her to God for the journey.

The sailors, seeing the weather favorable, set sail and, leaving the port of Alexandria, traveled smoothly for many days. Having already passed Sardinia, they believed themselves near their journey’s end, when suddenly, one day, various contrary winds arose. Each wind was so fiercely strong that they severely battered the ship carrying the lady and its crew, to the point the sailors more than once gave themselves up for lost. Still, as brave men, they used every skill and effort they had to keep going for two days, though they were beaten by a terrible sea. But, by nightfall on the third day, as the storm not only continued but grew worse, they felt the ship starting to break up—not far from Majorca, though they did not know their exact position, for the sky was covered with clouds and it was pitch dark, making it impossible to navigate by reckoning or by sight. Since no other means of escape appeared and each thought only of himself, they lowered a small boat into the water, and the officers threw themselves in, preferring to trust the boat rather than the leaking ship. The rest of the crew crowded into the boat after them, despite the resistance of those already aboard—knife in hand. Hoping to save themselves from death, they ran right into it, for the little boat, overwhelmed by overcrowding and the rough weather, capsized and everyone aboard perished.

As for the ship, driven by furious winds and moving very swiftly though nearly waterlogged (for no one remained on board except the princess and her ladies, all lying on the decks as if dead, overcome by the violent sea and terror), it ran aground on a beach on the island of Majorca. The impact was so violent that it half-buried itself in the sand a short distance from the shore, where it remained through the night, battered by waves. The wind could not move it further. At daybreak, as the storm lessened a little, the princess—half dead—raised her head and, weak as she was, began calling for members of her household, but no one replied, for those she called were too far away to hear. Shocked not to receive any answer and unable to find anyone, she was filled with terror. Rising as best she could, she saw the ladies in her company and her other women lying about and, after trying to rouse each of them, found few who showed any signs of life, most having died from seasickness or fright. Her fear grew even worse.

Still, necessity urged her onward, for she saw herself alone and had no idea where she was. She prodded the survivors to rise and, finding they did not know what had happened to the men and seeing the ship wrecked and full of water, she and the others began to weep bitterly. It was not until noon that they saw anyone else on the shore who might help them. Around that time, a gentleman named Pericone da Visalgo, returning by chance from one of his estates, rode by with several servants. Noticing the ship, Pericone instantly guessed what had happened and ordered one of his servants to board and report what he found. Though with difficulty, the man reached the ship and found the young lady and her few companions cowering in fear below the bowsprit. When they saw him, they tearfully begged him for mercy again and again; but, as neither understood the other's language, they used signs to communicate their plight.

The servant checked everything as best he could and reported back to Pericone, who immediately brought the ladies ashore along with as many of the ship’s valuables as could be rescued. He took them to his castle, where, after food and rest, he noticed from the lady’s fine clothes that she must be someone of high rank—a suspicion soon confirmed by the honor the others showed her. Although she was pale and disheveled from her ordeal, her features still appeared exceptionally lovely to him. He soon considered, if she were unmarried, to pursue her as his wife—if not, he would seek her favor by other means.

Pericone was a man of commanding appearance and great strength. After several days of excellent care, the lady regained her health and her beauty appeared more astonishing than ever, which only saddened Pericone further, as they could not understand one another and so he could not learn her identity. Still, greatly moved by her beauty, he tried, with pleasant and affectionate gestures, to win her over gently; but she refused him at every turn, which only inflamed his desire more. Realizing she was now among Christians, in a country where revealing her identity would do her little good, and foreseeing that, ultimately, she would have to submit to Pericone’s wishes either by force or persuasion, she resolved to maintain her dignity despite her misfortune. She told her three remaining attendants never to reveal her identity unless escape seemed possible, and urged them to protect their chastity, asserting that no one but her husband would ever have her. They commended her for this and promised to follow her instructions as best they could.

Meanwhile, Pericone, more and more passionate as he saw his goal near but continually refused, decided to use cunning and trickery, holding force in reserve for later. Noticing that the lady enjoyed wine—which she was unaccustomed to, since her religion forbade it—he schemed to use it as a means of persuasion. Pretending to give up his pursuit, he arranged a festive supper one night, inviting her and ensuring her server plied her with different mixed wines. The cupbearer fulfilled his orders, and the lady, unaware, drank more than was modest, enticed by the pleasant flavor. Forgetting her troubles, she became cheerful and, seeing some women dance in the manner of Majorca, herself joined in, dancing in the Alexandrian style.

Pericone, observing all this, thought he was well on his way to what he desired. He extended the supper late into the night with plenty of food and wine. When the guests left, he followed the lady into her chamber; she, now emboldened by wine and less inhibited, undressed in his presence as if he were another of her maids and went to bed. Pericone quickly joined her, turned out the lights, lay beside her, and, taking her in his arms, made love to her without resistance. Once she had experienced this—having never before known a man—she seemed almost to regret not yielding sooner to Pericone's advances; from then on, without waiting for an invitation to these agreeable nights, she herself often instigated them, not in words (which she could not communicate) but in deeds.

Yet, in the midst of this happiness, fortune, not content with reducing her from a king’s bride to the mistress of a country gentleman, had fated her for a still more brutal entanglement. Pericone had a brother named Marato, twenty-five years old and as fresh as a rose, who saw Alatiel and was captivated by her charms. He also thought, by her gestures, that she favored him, and believed that only Pericone’s strict watch prevented him from having what he desired. So he conceived a wicked plan, which he quickly put into action.

In the city’s port, by chance, there was a ship loaded with merchandise bound for Chiarenza in Roumelia, owned by two young Genoese who were ready to sail as soon as the wind permitted. Marato struck a deal with them, arranging to be received with the lady aboard their ship the next night. That done, as soon as it was dark, and having planned his moves, Marato secretly went with some trusted friends to Pericone’s house, who suspected nothing. He hid himself as arranged, and once part of the night had passed, let in his accomplices. They went to the chamber where Pericone lay with the lady, opened the door, murdered Pericone in his sleep, and took Alatiel—now awake and in tears—threatening her with death if she made a sound. They escaped, taking much of Pericone’s most valuable possessions, and hurried to the shore, where Marato and the lady boarded the ship while his companions returned to where they came from.

With a favorable wind, the sailors set sail, while the princess bitterly mourned both her original and her new misfortune. However, Marato, with what nature had bestowed him, soon comforted her so well that she became familiar with him, and, forgetting Pericone, grew at ease. Fortune, as if not yet finished with her troubles, prepared another hardship; for, being so extremely beautiful and charming, the two young masters of the ship fell deeply in love with her. Forgetting everything else, they focused only on serving and pleasing her, careful not to let Marato learn of their desires. When each realized the other’s feelings, they privately discussed sharing the lady and enjoying her together, as if love could be shared like goods and profits.

Since Marato's watchfulness prevented them from achieving their aim, one day, while the ship sailed swiftly and Marato stood at the stern watching the sea—not suspecting anything—they suddenly grabbed him from behind and threw him into the sea. They sailed more than a mile before anyone noticed Marato had fallen overboard. When Alatiel learned of this and saw no way to save him, her grief renewed. The two lovers quickly came to comfort her with kind words and promises—most of which she barely understood—and did their best to cheer her, though she mourned less for her lost lover than for her own unhappy fate. After much talk and, believing they had nearly consoled her, they argued over which would have her first. Unable to agree, heated words turned into a fierce fight, and, drawing their knives, they attacked one another so violently that before the crew could intervene, one was killed instantly and the other badly wounded.

This new disaster upset the lady greatly, as she found herself alone again, without anyone to help or advise her, and she feared the anger of the wounded man’s family and friends might fall upon her; but the man’s pleas and their quick arrival at Chiarenza spared her from danger. There, she disembarked with the wounded man and stayed with him at an inn, where news of her extraordinary beauty soon spread through the city and reached the Prince of the Morea, who was then in Chiarenza and longed to see her. Upon meeting her and finding her even more beautiful than rumor suggested, the prince was instantly lovestruck and, hearing of her arrival and circumstances, was sure he could win her for himself. As he schemed, the wounded man’s relatives, learning of the prince’s interest, sent her to him immediately, which delighted both the prince and the lady, as she felt she had escaped great danger. The prince, seeing her beauty and royal manners, and unable to learn her true identity, concluded that she must be a woman of noble birth. He fell all the more in love with her and, holding her in the highest honor, treated her not as a mistress, but as his own wife.

The lady, accordingly, mindful of her past troubles and seeing that she was now well taken care of, was completely comforted and grew cheerful once more. Her beauty flourished in such a way that it seemed all of Roumelia could talk of nothing else. News of her loveliness reached the Duke of Athens, a young and handsome man, renowned for his valor and a friend and kinsman of the prince. He became eager to see her and, pretending to be paying a routine visit—as he sometimes did—set off with a distinguished company for Chiarenza. There, he was warmly welcomed and lavishly entertained. Some days later, as the two kinsmen were speaking together about the lady’s charms, the duke asked if she was really as extraordinary as people claimed. The prince replied, “Much more so; but don’t take my word for it—let your own eyes convince you.” At the duke’s request, they went together to visit the princess. She had been informed of their coming, received them very graciously and with a cheerful manner, and seated herself between them. However, they could not truly converse with her, as she understood little or nothing of their language. Each, therefore, contented himself by simply gazing at her as if she were a marvel, especially the duke, who could barely believe she was a mortal woman. Thinking his desire would be satisfied just by seeing her, he failed to realize the lovesick poison he was taking in through his eyes; captivated by her, he became deeply enamored.

After leaving her presence with the prince and having time to reflect, the duke considered his kinsman happier than anyone else for possessing such a beautiful woman. After much inner struggle, his uncontrollable passion outweighed his honor, and he resolved, come what may, to do his utmost to rob the prince of that happiness and claim it for himself. Determined to act quickly, he put aside all reason and justice, focusing his every thought on how best to achieve his goal. One day, following a wicked scheme he plotted with a private chamberlain of the prince, named Ciuriaci, he secretly arranged for his horses and baggage to be ready for a sudden departure.

That night, armed and accompanied by a colleague, he was stealthily let into the prince’s chamber by Ciuriaci. There, they saw the prince (the lady being asleep) standing naked by a window overlooking the seashore to catch a breeze, since the night was very hot. The duke, having already told his companion what to do, approached the window softly and stabbed the prince through the small of his back with a knife, then quickly threw him out the window. The palace stood high above the sea and the window overlooked houses abandoned due to erosion; almost no one ever came there, so, as the duke anticipated, the prince’s fall was neither seen nor heard. The duke’s companion then pulled out a rope he had brought and, pretending to embrace Ciuriaci, swiftly slipped it around his neck and choked him before he could cry out; then, with the duke’s help, they strangled him and threw him out after the prince.

Once satisfied that neither the lady nor anyone else had heard them, the duke took a light, went to the bedside, and quietly uncovered the sleeping princess. He admired her from head to toe, praising her in his heart; clothed, she had pleased him, but naked she was beyond comparison. Fueled by even hotter desire and undeterred by his recent crime, he lay down beside her—his hands still bloody—and slept with her while she was half asleep, believing him to be the prince. After enjoying himself for a while, he got up and summoned some of his men, had the lady carried off so stealthily that she could not cry out, and took her through the private door he had used to enter. He set her on horseback and left with all his men as quietly as possible, making his way back to his own lands. However (since he already had a wife), he took the lady—not to Athens, but to a beautiful seaside estate just outside the city, where he kept her hidden and made sure she lacked for nothing.

The next day, the prince’s courtiers waited for him to rise until noon, and, hearing nothing, opened the chamber doors, which were only closed, and found no one. They assumed he had gone somewhere privately to spend a few days with his beautiful lady and did not worry further. Meanwhile, it happened the next day that an idiot wandered into the ruins where the bodies of the prince and Ciuriaci lay, dragged out Ciuriaci by the rope, and hauled him about. The body was quickly recognized, causing great shock, and the townspeople, persuading the idiot to show them the spot where he found it, discovered the prince’s corpse as well and buried him with great honor. Investigating the crime and finding the Duke of Athens gone, having departed secretly, they quickly suspected—as was the case—that he was the culprit and had taken the lady. At once, they installed a brother of the dead prince as ruler and urged him to seek vengeance. The new prince, soon confirmed by other evidence that matters were as suspected, summoned his friends, family, and retainers from far and wide and swiftly raised a strong and powerful army to wage war against the Duke of Athens.

The duke, upon hearing this, likewise gathered all his forces for defense, and many nobles came to his aid—including the Emperor of Constantinople, who sent his sons Constantine and Manuel with a large and impressive retinue. The two princes were honorably welcomed by the duke and even more so by the duchess, as she was their sister. As war neared, the duchess took the opportunity to invite them both to her chambers. There, with many tears and a long speech, she told them the whole story, explaining the cause of the war. She also disclosed the insult done to her by the duke regarding the woman whom he was secretly sheltering, and, deeply complaining, begged them to do whatever they could to remedy the situation for the honor of both the duke and herself.

The young men already knew the facts, so—without further inquiry—they comforted the duchess as best they could and reassured her. After learning from her where the lady was staying, they left her and, having long heard of the lady’s remarkable beauty, asked the duke to show her to them. He, forgetting what had happened to the Prince of Morea for showing her to him, promised he would, and the next morning arranged a splendid feast in a beautiful garden at the lady’s residence. There, he took the princes and a few others to dine with her. Constantine, sitting next to Alatiel, gazed at her in wonder, convinced he had never seen anyone so lovely, and thought truly the duke could be excused—or anyone else, for that matter—if he committed treason or any crime for such a woman. The more he looked, the more he admired, until he, too, fell hopelessly in love. Upon taking his leave, his desire for her overtook any thoughts of war, and he secretly considered how he might take her from the duke, carefully keeping his love hidden from everyone.

While he burned with this desire, the time came to march out against the new prince, who was now approaching the duke’s lands. The duke, Constantine, and all the others left Athens, as planned, to defend the frontiers and keep the prince from invading further. After several days there, Constantine’s thoughts remained fixed on the lady, and believing that, with the duke away, he could now have his way, he pretended to be very ill and used this as an excuse to return to Athens. With the duke’s permission, he left his command with Manuel and returned to Athens and his sister. After some days, while discussing with her the humiliation she felt from the duke’s treatment regarding the lady, he told her that, if she wished, he could soon relieve her of it by having the lady taken away. The duchess, believing he was doing this for her sake, not out of love for the lady, said she was very pleased—as long as it could be done in such a way that the duke would never know she had any part in it. Constantine fully promised this, and with her consent, he acted as he saw fit.

Constantine secretly prepared a small vessel and sent it one evening to the area near the garden where the lady lived. He instructed his men on what they were to do, then personally went with others to the lady’s pavilion, where he was kindly received by her attendants and by the lady herself. At his request, she walked with him in the garden, attended by her servants and his companions. There, acting as if he had a message from the duke, he led her alone toward a gate that opened onto the sea—already unlocked by one of his men—and, signaling the boat, suddenly had the lady seized and taken aboard. Turning to her people, he told them, “Let no one move or say a word if he values his life. I do not seek to take the duke’s mistress, but to end the insult he has given my sister.”

No one dared resist or answer. Constantine then boarded with his men, seated himself next to the weeping lady, and ordered the oarsmen to row away. They left hurriedly and, shortly after dawn the next morning, reached Egina, where they landed to rest while Constantine comforted himself with the lady, who mourned her unlucky beauty. They then took ship again, and in a few days arrived at Chios. There, Constantine decided to stay for a while for safety, fearing his father’s wrath and that the stolen lady might be taken from him. The lady mourned her misfortune for several days, but soon, comforted by Constantine, she began, as before, to take what happiness she could from her changing fortunes.

While matters were thus, Osbech, King of the Turks—continually at war with the Emperor—came by chance to Smyrna. Hearing that Constantine was in Chios, unguarded and living openly with a mistress he had kidnapped, Osbech sailed there one night with some light-armed ships. Entering the city stealthily with his men, he captured many in their beds before they could react. Those who tried to resist he killed, then set the place ablaze, looted it, and carried both goods and captives aboard his ships before returning to Smyrna. There, as Osbech was reviewing his prisoners, he found the fair lady—knowing her as the one taken while sleeping with Constantine—and was greatly pleased. Without delay, he made her his wife, immediately celebrated the wedding, and lived with her for several months in great happiness.

Meanwhile, the Emperor—who, before these events, had been negotiating with Bassano, King of Cappadocia, to attack Osbech from one side while he attacked from another—had not yet reached a full agreement because he considered Bassano’s demands unreasonable. But when the Emperor learned what had happened to his son, he was beside himself with grief and immediately agreed to whatever Bassano asked. He urged him as much as possible to attack Osbech while he himself prepared to march from another direction. Osbech, learning of this coalition before he could be cornered by two such powerful princes, mustered his army and marched against Bassano, leaving his new wife at Smyrna in the care of a trusty friend and servant. After a time, he met the King of Cappadocia in battle, was killed in the fighting, and his army scattered. Bassano then marched toward Smyrna in triumph, unopposed, and all the people along the way submitted to him as their conqueror.

Meanwhile, Osbech’s servant, named Antiochus, who had been left in charge of the lady, saw how beautiful she was and forgot his loyalty to his friend and master. Despite his age, he became enamored of her. Driven by love and knowing her language (which greatly pleased her, as for years she had to live as though deaf and dumb, since she could neither understand nor be understood by anyone), he soon grew very familiar with her. Before long, showing no regard for their absent master, their friendly interactions turned into an intimate relationship, and they took great pleasure in each other’s company in bed. When they heard that Osbech had been defeated and killed, and that Bassano was advancing and conquering all, they agreed not to wait for him there. Gathering up many of Osbech’s most valuable possessions, they quietly escaped to Rhodes, where Antiochus fell gravely ill not long after their arrival.

As fate would have it, a merchant from Cyprus, who was a close friend and much loved by Antiochus, was staying with him at the time. As Antiochus felt his end approaching, he decided to leave both his belongings and his beloved lady to this merchant friend. Therefore, when he was near death, he called them both to his bedside and spoke to them, saying, “I feel without a doubt that I am dying, which grieves me, for never have I enjoyed life as much as I do now. Still, one thing brings me comfort as I die—that since I must die, I do so in the company of the two people I love most in the world, namely you, dearest friend, and this lady whom I have loved more than myself since I first met her. Yet, I am saddened to think that, after I am gone, she will remain here as a stranger, without help or guidance. This grief would be even greater if I didn’t know that you are here and that you, for my sake, would care for her just as you would have cared for me. So, I beg you, as much as I can, if I die, to take charge of both my belongings and of her, and to do with them and her whatever you think would bring peace to my soul. And you, dearest lady, I ask you not to forget me after my death, so that I may boast, in the next world, of having been loved here on earth by the fairest lady nature ever created; if you both promise me these things, I shall die comforted and without doubt.”

The merchant and the lady, hearing this, wept, and when he had finished speaking, they comforted him and promised, on their honor, to do as he wished if he should die. He did not live long after, and soon passed away, receiving an honorable burial from them. A few days later, after finishing his business in Rhodes and planning to return to Cyprus aboard a Catalan carrack, the merchant asked the fair lady what she wished to do, as he had to return to Cyprus. She replied that, if it pleased him, she would gladly go with him, hoping for Antiochus’s sake to be treated and regarded by him as a sister. The merchant agreed to do whatever pleased her, and in order to better protect her from any affronts before they reached Cyprus, he told others she was his wife. Thus, they embarked on the ship and were given a small cabin in the stern, where, to keep up appearances, they shared the same very small bed. Because of this, something occurred that neither of them intended when they left Rhodes: darkness, convenience, and closeness in the heat of the bed, all of which are powerful influences, stirred their mutual appetite, and both, forgetting the love and friendship of the late Antiochus, engaged in intimacy, so that before reaching Baffa, where the Cypriot merchant lived, they had formed a romantic alliance.

At Baffa, she stayed with the merchant for some time, until a gentleman named Antigonus arrived there on his business. He was an older man, wise but not wealthy, for, having been involved in the affairs of the King of Cyprus, fortune had often gone against him. One day, walking past the house where the lady lived with the merchant, who was away in Armenia on business, Antigonus noticed her at a window. Struck by her beauty, he stared at her and soon began to think he had seen her somewhere before, but could not remember where. As for the lady, who had long suffered at the hands of fate but whose troubles were now ending, the moment she saw Antigonus she remembered seeing him in Alexandria, holding a respected position in her father’s service. Hoping that with his help she might regain her royal status, and knowing the merchant was not at home, she quickly had him called to her and, blushing, asked if he was indeed Antigonus of Famagosta, as she supposed. He replied that he was and added, “Madam, it seems to me I know you, but I cannot recall from where; I beg you, if you don’t mind, please remind me who you are.”

When she heard that it was indeed him, the lady, to his great surprise, threw her arms around his neck, weeping heavily, and asked if he had never seen her in Alexandria. Upon hearing this, Antigonus immediately recognized her as Alatiel, the Soldan’s daughter, who was believed to have perished at sea. He wished to show her the respect due to her rank, but she would not allow it and asked him to sit with her a while. Sitting beside her, he respectfully asked how, when, and from where she had come there, since it was widely believed throughout Egypt that she had drowned years earlier. “‘Would God,” she replied, “that it were so, rather than that I should have lived as I have; and I am sure my father would feel the same way, if he ever learns of it.”

With that, she wept bitterly again, and Antigonus said, “Madam, do not despair before it is necessary; but, if you are willing, tell me about your adventures and the life you have led. Perhaps things have happened in such a way that, with God’s help, we may yet find a remedy.” “Antigonus,” answered the lady, “when I saw you, it felt as if I was seeing my father, and I was moved by the love and tenderness I am bound to feel for him. So, I revealed myself to you, when I could easily have kept my identity secret, and there are few whom I would have been so glad to see as I am to see and know you before anyone else. Therefore, what I have always kept hidden through my misfortune, I will tell you as though you were my father. If, after hearing all, you see any way to restore me to my former estate, I beg you to do so; but if not, then please never tell anyone you have seen or heard of me.”

With those words, as she continued to weep, she told him everything that had happened to her from the time of her shipwreck on Majorca to the present. Antigonus wept for her misfortunes and, after considering for a while, said, “Madam, since your identity has remained secret through your misfortunes, I will, without fail, restore you—more beloved than ever—to your father, and afterward to the King of Algarve as his wife.” Asked by her how this could be done, he explained step by step what should be done. Without delay, to avoid any hindrance, he returned to Famagosta and went to the king, saying, “My lord, if you wish, you can, at little cost to yourself, do yourself great honor and do a great service for me, who am poor because of you.” The king asked how, and Antigonus answered, “The fair young daughter of the Soldan, long thought drowned, has come to Baffa. Having suffered much unease to keep her honor, she is now in poor circumstances and wishes to return to her father. If you send her to him under my charge, it will bring you great honor and benefit me as well, and I do not think the Soldan would ever forget such a service.”

With royal generosity, the king immediately agreed and, sending for Alatiel, brought her in great honor to Famagosta, where he and the queen received her with joy and entertained her splendidly. When the king and queen asked her about her adventures, she replied exactly as Antigonus had instructed and told them everything; and a few days later, at her request, the king sent her, under Antigonus’s protection and with an honorable company of men and women, back to the Soldan, who, as one might imagine, received her with immense joy—along with Antigonus and the whole company.

Once she had rested, the Soldan wanted to know how she had survived and where she had been all that time without sending word of her condition. Remembering Antigonus’s instructions, the lady replied: “Father, perhaps twenty days after I left you, our ship sprang a leak during a terrible storm and crashed by night on the western shores near a place called Aguamorta. I do not know what became of the men aboard, nor could I ever find out; all I remember is that at daylight, as if waking from death, the wrecked ship was seen by the local people, who rushed from all around to plunder it. I and two of my women were the first taken ashore; they were immediately seized by some young men who ran off in different directions with them, and I never learned what happened to them.

As for me, I was seized, against my will, by two young men who dragged me along by the hair as I wept. As they were crossing a road to enter a large wood, four men on horseback arrived. Seeing them, my captors let me go and fled. These newcomers, who seemed men of authority, ran over to me and asked many questions, but though I answered much, neither understood the other. After much discussion, they set me on one of their horses and brought me to a convent of religious women of their faith, where, whatever they said, I was received kindly by all and treated with honor. There, with great devotion, I joined them in serving Saint Waxeth-in-Deepdene, a saint who is greatly revered by the women there.

After I had lived with them awhile and learned something of their language, they asked who I was. Fearing that if I told the truth I would be cast out as an enemy of their faith, I said I was the daughter of a great gentleman of Cyprus, being sent to marry in Crete, when, through misfortune, we were shipwrecked there. Many times, I observed their customs out of fear, and when the abbess, as they call her, asked if I wished to return to Cyprus, I answered that nothing would please me more. But she, caring for my honor, would send me with no one bound for Cyprus until some two months ago, when certain French gentlemen and their ladies arrived. One lady, a relative of the abbess, was going to Jerusalem to visit the Sepulchre where He whom they believe God was buried after being killed by the Jews. The abbess entrusted me to them, asking that they deliver me to my father in Cyprus.

It would be too long to tell how well I was treated by these gentlemen and their ladies; suffice it to say that we sailed and, after several days, arrived at Baffa. There, knowing no one, I was at a loss when the gentlemen wished to deliver me to my father, as the abbess had instructed. But God, perhaps pitying my troubles, brought Antigonus to the shore just as we disembarked, and I called out to him in our language, so as not to be understood by the others, asking him to take me as his daughter. He immediately understood, welcomed me joyfully, and, as best as his poverty allowed, entertained the gentlemen and their ladies and brought me to the King of Cyprus, who received me with such hospitality and has sent me back with honors that words cannot fully describe. If anything remains to be told, let Antigonus, who has often heard me relate these adventures, tell it.”

Then Antigonus, turning to the Soldan, said, “My lord, as she has so often told me, and as the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied her said, so has she recounted to you. There is only one thing she left out—perhaps because it would not be proper for her to tell it herself—namely, the many praises those gentlemen and ladies gave for her chaste and modest life with the religious women, her virtue, and admirable manners, as well as the tears and heartfelt farewells of her companions when they left her in my care. If I were to recount in full all they said to me—not just today, but all night would not be enough; let it suffice to say that, by their testimony and what I myself have seen, you can truly pride yourself on having the fairest, most chaste, and most virtuous daughter of any prince now wearing a crown.”

The Soldan was overjoyed beyond measure at these events and earnestly prayed to God again and again to grant him the grace to properly reward all those who had helped his daughter, especially the King of Cyprus, by whose honor she had been sent back to him. After a few days, having ordered great gifts to be prepared for Antigonus, he gave him leave to return to Cyprus and, both by letter and by special ambassadors, sent the king his deepest thanks for what he had done for his daughter. Then, wanting to see the matter through—that is, for her to become the wife of the King of Algarve—he informed the latter of everything and wrote to him as well, telling him that if he wished to have her, he should send for her. The King of Algarve was greatly pleased at the news and, sending for her in royal state, received her joyfully; and she, who had lain with perhaps eight men ten thousand times, was put to bed with him as a virgin and, making him believe it was so, lived happily with him as his queen for a while afterward. Because of this, it was said, “Lips for kissing lose no favor; rather, they renew themselves as the moon does every month.”

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## THE EIGHTH STORY

Day the Second

THE COUNT OF ANTWERP, BEING FALSELY ACCUSED, GOES INTO EXILE AND LEAVES HIS TWO CHILDREN IN DIFFERENT PLACES IN ENGLAND; LATER, RETURNING IN DISGUISE AND FINDING THEM WELL, HE TAKES SERVICE AS A STABLE BOY TO THE KING OF FRANCE AND, BEING FOUND INNOCENT, IS RESTORED TO HIS FORMER STATUS

The ladies sighed deeply over the fate of the fair Saracen; but who knows what truly inspired those sighs? Perhaps some among them sighed as much out of envy for such frequent marriages as for pity of Alatiel. Leaving that aside for now, after they had laughed at Pamfilo’s last words, the queen, seeing his story had ended, turned to Elisa and asked her to go next. Elisa cheerfully agreed and began as follows: “Today, we wander through such a vast field, and none of us would have trouble running not just one but ten courses through it, so abundant has Fortune made it in her strange and terrible twists. So, to tell of one such twist, among the countless that exist, I say that:

When the Roman Empire was transferred from the French to the Germans, a deep enmity and relentless war arose between the two nations. Because of this, for defense at home and offense abroad, the King of France and his son, with all the power of their realm and all the friends and kinsmen they could gather, raised a mighty army to confront their enemies. Before leaving—so that the realm would not be without a ruler—and knowing Gautier, Count of Antwerp, to be a noble and wise man, as well as their very loyal friend and servant, and though he was skilled in warfare, he seemed to them better suited to matters of peace than to war—they left him as vicar general, with authority over all the governance of France, and then set out. Gautier, therefore, performed his duties with great order and discretion, always consulting with the queen and her daughter-in-law, whom, despite having authority over them, he honored no less as his liege ladies.

Now, this Gautier was an exceedingly handsome man, about forty years old, as charming and gracious a gentleman as could be found; he was known in those days as the most elegant and refined cavalier, and the one who dressed most splendidly. His countess was dead, leaving him only two small children—a boy and a girl. It happened that, while the King of France and his son were away at war and Gautier frequented the court of the aforementioned ladies, often discussing affairs of state with them, the king’s son’s wife cast her eyes on him and, moved by his looks and manners, secretly fell passionately in love with him. Being young and lively herself, and knowing he was widowed, she believed her desire could easily be fulfilled, and thinking that shame was her only obstacle, resolved to cast it aside and declare her love to him. So, one day when she was alone and thought the moment was right, she sent for him to her chamber, as if to discuss other matters.

The count, whose mind was far from suspecting the lady’s intentions, came to her without delay and, at her invitation, sat beside her on a couch; then, when they were alone together, he twice asked her why she had summoned him, but she made no answer. At last, urged by love and blushing deeply with shame, nearly in tears and trembling, she began to speak haltingly: ‘Dearest and sweet friend and my lord, you, as a man of sense, can easily understand how great the frailty of men and women is—and for many reasons, it is often greater in one than another; so, before a just judge, the same sin shouldn’t always earn the same punishment in different sorts of people. Who would deny that a poor man or woman, who must work hard for what little they have, would be far more to blame if they followed after Love, than a lady who is rich, idle, and wanting for nothing? Surely, no one would deny this. For that reason, I think these considerations should offer a great excuse for any such lady, if she lets herself fall in love—and her choice of a worthy and wise lover should cover the rest, if she’s acted thoughtfully in that. Both of these apply to me (along with other reasons to love, like my youth and my husband’s absence), and so they should rise up to defend my love in your eyes. If they have the weight they should in the eyes of reasonable men, I ask you for advice and help with what I will ask. It is true, that, unable—because my husband is away—to withstand the urgings of the flesh or the power of love (which is so strong that it has often conquered, and daily conquers, even the strongest men, never mind weak women)—and having all the pleasures and leisure you see me enjoy, I have let myself follow after Love’s delights and fallen in love; and although, if it were known, I admit it would be wrong, yet, so long as it remains secret, I consider it hardly shameful—especially since Love has given me so much good judgment in choosing, helping me see in you someone worthy of a lady’s love: you, whom, unless my fancy deceives me, I think the handsomest, most agreeable, most charming, and most accomplished gentleman in all France; and just as I am without a husband, so you are without a wife. Therefore, I beg you, by the great love I bear you, do not deny me your love in return—have compassion on my youth, which really is melting for you, like ice before fire.’

As she finished these words, her tears welled up so much that, although she wished to say more, she could not, but, bowing her head as if overwhelmed, she let herself fall, weeping, with her face on the count’s chest. He, being a truly honorable man, began sternly to rebuke such folly and resisted the princess, who tried to throw herself into his arms, swearing to her that he would rather be torn apart than commit such a betrayal against his lord’s honor, in himself or anyone else. At this, the lady forgot her love and, overcome by furious anger, said, ‘Wicked knight that you are, shall I be scorned like this by you? Now God forbid, if you wish me dead, that I do not see you put to death or driven from the earth!’ So saying, she tore at her hair and completely disordered it; then, ripping her dress at the chest, began to scream and shout, ‘Help! Help! The Count of Antwerp would do me violence!’ The count, seeing this, and fearing the courtiers’ envy more than his own conscience, and afraid that, because of this jealousy, her words would be believed more than his innocence, got up and, leaving the chamber and the palace as quickly as possible, fled to his own house, where, without seeking further counsel, he set his children on horseback and, mounting himself, made off with them as fast as he could toward Calais.

Meanwhile, many people had responded to the princess’s cries and, seeing her in such a state and hearing her accusation, not only believed her instantly, but also said that the count’s elegant manners and kind behavior had long aimed at such an end. Filled with fury, they rushed to his house to arrest him, but not finding him, they first looted all his property and then demolished his house to the ground. The distorted tale soon reached the army, to the king and his son, who, deeply angered, sentenced Gautier and his descendants to perpetual exile, promising rich rewards to anyone who delivered him to them, alive or dead.

The count, grief-stricken that by fleeing he seemed to have proved himself guilty, even though innocent, arrived in Calais without revealing his identity or being recognized, bringing his children with him. He quickly crossed over to England and traveled in humble clothing to London. Before going in, he gave his two small children a serious talk, stressing especially two things: first, that they must bear patiently the poor state Fortune had brought them to, through no fault of their own; and second, they must be very careful never to tell anyone who they really were or whose children, for the sake of their lives. The boy, Louis by name, about nine, and the girl, Violante, about seven, both understood their father’s instructions as best as their age allowed and proved it later by their actions. To ensure this was easier, he decided to change their names—calling the boy Perrot and the girl Jeannette—and so, all three, dressed as poor folk, entered London to beg alms, just as we see those French vagabonds doing.

They were at a church door one morning for this reason, when it happened that a certain great lady, the wife of one of the king’s marshals of England, came out of the church and saw the count and his two young children asking alms. She asked him where he was from and if the children were his, to which he answered that he was from Picardy and, due to the misdeeds of a wayward elder son, he had been forced to leave his country with these two, who were his own. The lady, who was compassionate, looked kindly at the girl and was greatly taken with her, noting her beauty, good manners, and charm. She said, “Honest man, if you are willing to let your daughter stay with me, I will gladly take her, since she is of good appearance; and if she proves to be a good woman, I will in due time marry her well, so that she will be well off.” This offer was most welcome to the count, who quickly replied, “Yes,” and, with tears, entrusted his daughter to the lady, earnestly recommending her to her care.

Having thus provided for his daughter, well aware of to whom he had given her, he decided to stay no longer and, begging his way across the island, eventually arrived, after much hardship, in Wales—for he was not used to traveling on foot. Here lived another of the king’s marshals, who kept a great household and court, and both the count and his son often came there seeking food. The marshal’s sons and other young gentlemen’s children would play at running and jumping, and Perrot joined in, performing each feat as skillfully as any of them, if not more so. The marshal happened to notice this and, being impressed by the boy's manners and bearing, asked who he was. He was told Perrot was the son of a poor man who sometimes came to ask for alms. The marshal then asked the count to give him the boy; and the count, who prayed to God for nothing else, willingly gave Perrot to him, though it pained him to be separated from his son. Having thus provided for both son and daughter, the count decided to leave England. Crossing into Ireland, he made his way, as best he could, to Stamford, where he took service with a knight belonging to one of the local earls. He performed all sorts of labor a footman or stable boy would do, living there for a long time in discomfort and hardship, without anyone knowing who he was.

Meanwhile, Violante—now going by Jeannette—was growing up in London in both age and beauty while living with the gentlewoman. She became so favored by both the lady and her husband, as well as everyone else in the house or who knew her, that it was a marvel to see. Everyone who observed her manners agreed she was worthy of all the greatest good and honor. For this reason, the noble lady who had taken her in, knowing no more of her than what the count had said, was determined to arrange an honorable marriage for Jeannette to match her supposed status. But God, who fairly observes people's true worth, knowing Jeannette’s noble birth and her suffering for another’s wrong, had other plans. In His kindness, He allowed what happened to ensure the worthy young woman would not fall into the hands of a man beneath her station.

The noble lady with whom Jeannette lived had only one son by her husband, and both parents dearly loved him—not only because he was their only child, but also because he deserved it for his virtues. He was about six years older than Jeannette, and, seeing her growing ever more beautiful and graceful, became so deeply enamored of her that he saw nothing beyond her. But, thinking she was of humble origin, he not only didn’t dare ask his parents to let him marry her, but also feared blame for loving beneath his station. He therefore kept his love hidden, which made his suffering even worse; and so, for his unspoken sorrow, he fell seriously ill. Many doctors were called to treat him. They noticed various symptoms but could not identify the cause of his sickness and all agreed he could not recover. This brought immense grief and anxiety to his parents. Many times, with tearful prayers, they begged him to tell them the cause of his illness; but he only replied with sighs or said he felt himself wasting away.

It happened one day that a young but highly skilled physician was sitting by his bedside, holding his arm where doctors usually take the pulse. Jeannette, who cared for the young man attentively out of respect for his mother, entered the room for some reason. As soon as he saw her—without saying a word or making a gesture—he felt his passion flare up, and his pulse beat much stronger than usual. The doctor at once noticed this and, astonished, remained to see how long this would last. When Jeannette left the room, the pulse slowed again. The physician, believing he had discovered the cause of the illness, waited a while, then called for Jeannette under pretense of wanting to question her, but kept holding the patient's arm. As soon as she entered, the pulse strength returned; when she left, it subsided. Now feeling certain, the physician took the young man’s father and mother aside and told them, “Your son’s healing does not lie with any doctor but rests in the hands of Jeannette, whom, as I am now sure, he passionately loves—though it seems she is unaware of it. Now you know what you must do if his life is dear to you.”

The gentleman and lady were relieved to have discovered a way for their son to recover, though they were troubled that it involved giving Jeannette to their son in marriage. Still, when the physician had gone, they went to their son, and the lady said, “My son, I never would have believed you would keep any desire from me, especially seeing yourself wasting away for lack of it; for you ought to know there is nothing I could do for your happiness, even if it were less than proper, that I would not do as for myself. But since you have done this, God has shown more mercy to you than you have to yourself. He has revealed to me the cause of your illness—which is none other than an excess of love for some woman, whoever she is. You needn’t have felt ashamed to admit it, for your age demands it; and if you were not in love, I would think little of you. Do not hide anything from me but freely tell me all your wishes. Set aside your melancholy and worries which bring on this illness, and take comfort, knowing there is nothing you may ask of me for your happiness that I will not do to the best of my ability, for I love you more than life itself. Be open and tell me if I can help your passion; if I am not diligent or do not bring it to you, consider me the cruellest mother ever.”

At first the youth felt embarrassed hearing his mother’s words. But then, realizing no one could help him better than she, he set aside his shame and said, “Madam, what made me hide my love was seeing how most people, once they grow older, forget that they were once young too. But since you are reasonable in this, not only will I admit what you say is true, but I will also confess who I love—if you truly intend to keep your promise and help me as best you can. That is the only way I might recover.” The lady, overly confident in an outcome she expected, assured him he could reveal all his desires to her, and she would take care of it without delay. "Madam," said the young man, "the great beauty and admirable qualities of our Jeannette, and my inability to let her know, let alone feel pity for, my love—and never daring to tell anyone—have brought me to this pass. If you do not fulfill your promise one way or another, you can be certain I will not live long.”

The lady, thinking it was time to comfort rather than rebuke him, replied, smiling, “Ah, my son, is this why you have let yourself waste away? Take comfort and let me handle it—when you are better.” The young man, full of hope, soon improved greatly, much to the lady’s joy. She began to consider how she could fulfill her promise. One day, she called Jeannette to her and, in a playful manner, asked if she had a lover. Jeannette blushed deeply and replied, “Madam, it does not concern me, nor would it be proper for a poor girl like me—cast out from my home and serving in someone else’s house—to think of love.” The lady said, “If you have no lover, we intend to provide you one in whom you may delight and better enjoy your beauty. It is not right for such a fine girl as you to be without a lover.” To this Jeannette answered, “Madam, you took me from my father’s poverty and raised me as a daughter, so I ought to do as you wish; but in this, I cannot comply, and I believe I am right. If you please to give me a husband, I will love him, but no other. Since I have nothing left of my ancestors' inheritance but honor, I mean to keep and preserve that as long as I live.”

This answer seemed quite the opposite of what the lady expected in trying to keep her promise to her son—though, being wise, she inwardly praised Jeannette for it. She said, “What if the king, who is a young knight and you a lovely maiden, wanted some favor of your love—would you refuse?” Jeannette answered at once, “The king might use force, but he would never get anything from me by my consent except what is honorable.” The lady, seeing how steady Jeannette was, stopped debating and decided to put her to the test. She told her son that, once he was well, she would find a way to get Jeannette alone with him in a chamber, so he could try to win her himself, saying it wouldn’t be proper for her to act as a go-between for her own maid.

The young man was dissatisfied with this and became gravely ill again. When his mother saw this, she spoke openly to Jeannette. Finding her even more steadfast, she told her husband what she had done. He and she together—painful as it was—resolved to give Jeannette to their son as his wife, choosing rather to see their son alive with an unsuitable wife than dead. After much discussion, they did just that, and Jeannette was overjoyed, giving thanks to God with all her heart for not forgetting her. Yet, she never claimed to be anything but the daughter of a Picard. As for her husband, he soon recovered, and after celebrating their wedding, lived happily with her.

Meanwhile, Perrot, left in Wales with the King of England’s marshal, also rose in his lord’s favor and grew into a fine man—strong and skilled, able to outdo all others in tournaments, jousts, or any feats of arms, so that the whole land knew him as Perrot the Picard. And just as God had not forgotten his sister, He also showed care for him, for a pestilence struck the region, wiping out almost half the people. Most survivors fled, so the land was nearly deserted. The marshal, his wife, and only son, along with brothers, nephews, and other kin, died, leaving only a daughter—now of marriageable age—and Perrot, with some servants. When the plague waned, the young lady, with the advice and approval of the few remaining gentlemen, took Perrot—a worthy and valiant man—as her husband and made him lord of all that she had inherited. Before long, the King of England heard the marshal had died and, knowing Perrot’s worth, appointed him the new marshal. Such, in short, was the fate of the two innocent children of the Count of Antwerp left for lost by their father.

Eighteen years had now passed since the count’s flight from Paris, and as he stayed in Ireland, having endured much in a life of poverty, he longed to learn what had become of his children. Seeing his appearance had greatly changed and feeling stronger through long hardship than he had been in his youth, he took leave of his master and went—poor and in bad condition—to England. There he went to where he had left Perrot and found him a marshal and great lord, strong and handsome, which pleased him greatly. But he would not reveal himself until he learned what had become of Jeannette. He set out and, after some time, reached London, where he cautiously inquired about the lady with whom he’d left his daughter and her situation, and found Jeannette married to her son—which filled him with joy, making all his past hardship seem slight since he had found his children alive and well.

Wanting to see Jeannette, he began to beg in the neighborhood of her home. One day, Jamy Lamiens (as Jeannette’s husband was named) noticed him and, pitying the old man, told one of his servants to bring him in and give him food for the love of God, which the servant did willingly. Jeannette had borne several children to Jamy, the oldest of whom was eight, and they were the finest and liveliest children ever seen. As the count ate, the children gathered around him and began to show him affection, as if by some hidden instinct they felt he was their grandfather. Knowing them as his grandchildren, he caressed and embraced them, and they would not leave him, not even when their governer told them to. Jeannette, hearing of this, came out of a nearby room and scolded them, threatening to beat them if they didn’t do as their governor wished. The children cried, insisting they wanted to stay with the kind man who loved them more than their governor, which made both Jeannette and the count laugh. The count had gotten up—not as a father but as a humble man—to show respect to his daughter as to a lady, and upon seeing her, felt wonderful joy. But she, then and afterwards, never recognized him, for he was so greatly altered—old, gray, bearded, thin, and dark—that he seemed a completely different man from the count she once knew.

The lady then, seeing that the children were unwilling to leave him and wept, when she would have them go away, bade their governor let them be awhile and the children thus being with the good man, it chanced that Jamy’s father returned and heard from their governor what had passed, whereupon quoth the marshal, who held Jeannette in despite, ‘Let them be, God give them ill-luck! They do but hark back to that whence they sprang. They come by their mother of a vagabond and therefore it is no wonder if they are fain to herd with vagabonds.’ The count heard these words and was mightily chagrined thereat; nevertheless, he shrugged his shoulders and put up with the affront, even as he had put up with many others. Jamy, hearing how the children had welcomed the honest man, to wit, the count, albeit it misliked him, nevertheless so loved them that, rather than see them weep, he commanded that, if the good man chose to abide there in any capacity, he should be received into his service. The count answered that he would gladly abide there, but he knew not to do aught other than tend horses, whereto he had been used all his lifetime. A horse was accordingly assigned to him and when he had cared for it, he busied himself with making sport for the children.

Whilst fortune handled the Count of Antwerp and his children on such wise as hath been set out, it befell that the King of France, after many truces made with the Germans, died and his son, whose wife was she through whom the count had been banished, was crowned in his place; and no sooner was the current truce expired than he again began a very fierce war. To his aid the King of England, as a new-made kinsman, despatched much people, under the commandment of Perrot his marshal and Jamy Lamiens, son of the other marshal, and with them went the good man, to wit, the count, who, without being recognized of any, abode a pretty while with the army in the guise of a horseboy, and there, like a man of mettle as he was, wrought good galore, more than was required of him, both with counsels and with deeds.

During the war, it came to pass that the Queen of France fell grievously sick and feeling herself nigh unto death, contrite for all her sins, confessed herself unto the Archbishop of Rouen, who was held of all a very holy and good man. Amongst her other sins, she related to him that which the Count of Antwerp had most wrongfully suffered through her; nor was she content to tell it to him alone, nay, but before many other men of worth she recounted all as it had passed, beseeching them so to do with the king that the count, an he were on life, or, if not, one of his children, should be restored to his estate; after which she lingered not long, but, departing this life, was honourably buried. Her confession, being reported to the king, moved him, after he had heaved divers sighs of regret for the wrong done to the nobleman, to let cry throughout all the army and in many other parts, that whoso should give him news of the Count of Antwerp or of either of his children should for each be wonder-well guerdoned of him, for that he held him, upon the queen’s confession, innocent of that for which he had gone into exile and was minded to restore him to his first estate and more.

The count, in his guise of a horseboy, hearing this and being assured that it was the truth, betook himself forthright to Jamy Lamiens and prayed him go with him to Perrot, for that he had a mind to discover to them that which the king went seeking. All three being then met together, quoth the count to Perrot, who had it already in mind to discover himself, ‘Perrot, Jamy here hath thy sister to wife nor ever had any dowry with her; wherefore, that thy sister may not go undowered, I purpose that he and none other shall, by making thee known as the son of the Count of Antwerp, have this great reward that the king promiseth for thee and for Violante, thy sister and his wife, and myself, who am the Count of Antwerp and your father.’ Perrot, hearing this and looking steadfastly upon him, presently knew him and cast himself, weeping, at his feet and embraced him, saying, ‘Father mine, you are dearly welcome.’ Jamy, hearing first what the count said and after seeing what Perrot did, was overcome at once with such wonderment and such gladness that he scarce knew what he should do. However, after awhile, giving credence to the former’s speech and sore ashamed for the injurious words he had whiles used to the hostler-count, he let himself fall, weeping, at his feet and humbly besought him pardon of every past affront, the which the count, having raised him to his feet, graciously accorded him.

Then, after they had all three discoursed awhile of each one’s various adventures and wept and rejoiced together amain, Perrot and Jamy would have reclad the count, who would on nowise suffer it, but willed that Jamy, having first assured himself of the promised guerdon, should, the more to shame the king, present him to the latter in that his then plight and in his groom’s habit. Accordingly, Jamy, followed by the count and Perrot, presented himself before the king, and offered, provided he would guerdon him according to the proclamation made, to produce to him the count and his children. The king promptly let bring for all three a guerdon marvellous in Jamy’s eyes and commanded that he should be free to carry it off, whenas he should in very deed produce the count and his children, as he promised. Jamy, then, turning himself about and putting forward the count his horseboy and Perrot, said, ‘My lord, here be the father and the son; the daughter, who is my wife and who is not here, with God’s aid you shall soon see.’

The king, hearing this, looked at the count and albeit he was sore changed from that which he was used to be, yet, after he had awhile considered him, he knew him and well nigh with tears in his eyes raised him—for that he was on his knees before him—to his feet and kissed and embraced him. Perrot, also, he graciously received and commanded that the count should incontinent be furnished anew with clothes and servants and horses and harness, according as his quality required, which was straightway done. Moreover, he entreated Jamy with exceeding honour and would fain know every particular of his past adventures. Then, Jamy being about to receive the magnificent guerdons appointed him for having discovered the count and his children, the former said to him, ‘Take these of the munificence of our lord the king and remember to tell thy father that thy children, his grandchildren and mine, are not by their mother born of a vagabond.’ Jamy, accordingly, took the gifts and sent for his wife and mother to Paris, whither came also Perrot’s wife; and there they all foregathered in the utmost joyance with the count, whom the king had reinstated in all his good and made greater than he ever was. Then all, with Gautier’s leave, returned to their several homes and he until his death abode in Paris more worshipfully than ever.”

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## THE NINTH STORY

Day the Second

BERNABO OF GENOA, DUPED BY AMBROGIUOLO, LOSETH HIS GOOD AND COMMANDETH THAT HIS INNOCENT WIFE BE PUT TO DEATH. SHE ESCAPETH AND SERVETH THE SOLDAN IN A MAN’S HABIT. HERE SHE LIGHTETH UPON THE DECEIVER OF HER HUSBAND AND BRINGETH THE LATTER TO ALEXANDRIA, WHERE, HER TRADUCER BEING PUNISHED, SHE RESUMETH WOMAN’S APPAREL AND RETURNETH TO GENOA WITH HER HUSBAND, RICH

Elisa having furnished her due with her pitiful story, Filomena the queen, who was tall and goodly of person and smiling and agreeable of aspect beyond any other of her sex, collecting herself, said, “Needs must the covenant with Dioneo be observed, wherefore, there remaining none other to tell than he and I, I will tell my story first, and he, for that he asked it as a favour, shall be the last to speak.” So saying, she began thus, “There is a proverb oftentimes cited among the common folk to the effect that the deceiver abideth at the feet of the deceived; the which meseemeth may by no reasoning be shown to be true, an it approve not itself by actual occurrences. Wherefore, whilst ensuing the appointed theme, it hath occurred to me, dearest ladies, to show you, at the same time, that this is true, even as it is said; nor should it mislike you to hear it, so you may know how to keep yourselves from deceivers.

There were once at Paris in an inn certain very considerable Italian merchants, who were come thither, according to their usance, some on one occasion and some on another, and having one evening among others supped all together merrily, they fell to devising of divers matters, and passing from one discourse to another, they came at last to speak of their wives, whom they had left at home, and one said jestingly, ‘I know not how mine doth; but this I know well, that, whenas there cometh to my hand here any lass that pleaseth me, I leave on one side the love I bear my wife and take of the other such pleasure as I may.’ ‘And I,’ quoth another, ‘do likewise, for that if I believe that my wife pusheth her fortunes she doth it, and if I believe it not, still she doth it; wherefore tit for tat be it; an ass still getteth as good as he giveth.’ A third, following on, came well nigh to the same conclusion, and in brief all seemed agreed upon this point, that the wives they left behind had no mind to lose time in their husbands’ absence. One only, who hight Bernabo Lomellini of Genoa, maintained the contrary, avouching that he, by special grace of God, had a lady to wife who was belike the most accomplished woman of all Italy in all those qualities which a lady, nay, even (in great part) in those which a knight or an esquire, should have; for that she was fair of favour and yet in her first youth and adroit and robust of her person; nor was there aught that pertaineth unto a woman, such as works of broidery in silk and the like, but she did it better than any other of her sex. Moreover, said he, there was no sewer, or in other words, no serving-man, alive who served better or more deftly at a nobleman’s table than did she, for that she was very well bred and exceeding wise and discreet. He after went on to extol her as knowing better how to ride a horse and fly a hawk, to read and write and cast a reckoning than if she were a merchant; and thence, after many other commendations, coming to that whereof it had been discoursed among them, he avouched with an oath that there could be found no honester nor chaster woman than she; wherefore he firmly believed that, should he abide half a score years, or even always, from home, she would never incline to the least levity with another man. Among the merchants who discoursed thus was a young man called Ambrogiuolo of Piacenza, who fell to making the greatest mock in the world of this last commendation bestowed by Bernabo upon his wife and asked him scoffingly if the emperor had granted him that privilege over and above all other men. Bernabo, some little nettled, replied that not the emperor, but God, who could somewhat more than the emperor, had vouchsafed him the favour in question. Whereupon quoth Ambrogiuolo, ‘Bernabo, I doubt not a whit but that thou thinkest to say sooth; but meseemeth thou hast paid little regard to the nature of things; for that, hadst thou taken heed thereunto, I deem thee not so dull of wit but thou wouldst have noted therein certain matters which had made thee speak more circumspectly on this subject. And that thou mayst not think that we, who have spoken much at large of our wives, believe that we have wives other or otherwise made than thine, but mayst see that we spoke thus, moved by natural perception, I will e’en reason with thee a little on this matter. I have always understood man to be the noblest animal created of God among mortals, and after him, woman; but man, as is commonly believed and as is seen by works, is the more perfect and having more perfection, must without fail have more of firmness and constancy, for that women universally are more changeable; the reason whereof might be shown by many natural arguments, which for the present I purpose to leave be. If then man be of more stability and yet cannot keep himself, let alone from complying with a woman who soliciteth him, but even from desiring one who pleaseth him, nay more, from doing what he can, so he may avail to be with her,—and if this betide him not once a month, but a thousand times a day,—what canst thou expect a woman, naturally unstable, to avail against the prayers, the blandishments, the gifts and a thousand other means which an adroit man, who loveth her, will use? Thinkest thou she can hold out? Certes, how much soever thou mayst affirm it, I believe not that thou believest it; and thou thyself sayst that thy wife is a woman and that she is of flesh and blood, as are other women. If this be so, those same desires must be hers and the same powers that are in other women to resist these natural appetites; wherefore, however honest she be, it is possible she may do that which other women do; and nothing that is possible she be so peremptorily denied nor the contrary thereof affirmed with such rigour as thou dost.’ To which Bernabo made answer, saying, ‘I am a merchant, and not a philosopher, and as a merchant I will answer; and I say that I acknowledge that what thou sayst may happen to foolish women in whom there is no shame; but those who are discreet are so careful of their honour that for the guarding thereof they become stronger than men, who reck not of this; and of those thus fashioned is my wife.’ ‘Indeed,’ rejoined Ambrogiuolo, ‘if, for every time they occupy themselves with toys of this kind, there sprouted from their foreheads a horn to bear witness of that which they have done, there be few, I believe, who would incline thereto; but, far from the horn sprouting, there appeareth neither trace nor token thereof in those who are discreet, and shame and soil of honour consist not but in things discovered; wherefore, whenas they may secretly, they do it, or, if they forebear, it is for stupidity. And have thou this for certain that she alone is chaste, who hath either never been solicited of any or who, having herself solicited, hath not been hearkened. And although I know by natural and true reasons that it is e’en as I say, yet should I not speak thereof with so full an assurance, had I not many a time and with many women made essay thereof. And this I tell thee, that, were I near this most sanctified wife of thine, I warrant me I would in brief space of time bring her to that which I have already gotten of other women.’ Whereupon quoth Bernabo, ‘Disputing with words might be prolonged without end; thou wouldst say and I should say, and in the end it would all amount to nothing. But, since thou wilt have it that all women are so compliant and that thine address is such, I am content, so I may certify thee of my wife’s honesty, to have my head cut off, and thou canst anywise avail to bring her to do thy pleasure in aught of the kind; and if thou fail thereof, I will have thee lose no otherwhat than a thousand gold florins.’ ‘Bernabo,’ replied Ambrogiuolo, who was now grown heated over the dispute, ‘I know not what I should do with thy blood, if I won the wager; but, an thou have a mind to see proof of that which I have advanced, do thou stake five thousand gold florins of thy monies, which should be less dear to thee than thy head, against a thousand of mine, and whereas thou settest no limit I will e’en bind myself to go to Genoa and within three months from the day of my departure hence to have done my will of thy wife and to bring back with me, in proof thereof, sundry of her most precious things and such and so many tokens that thou shalt thyself confess it to be truth, so verily thou wilt pledge me thy faith not to come to Genoa within that term nor write her aught of the matter.’ Bernabo said that it liked him well and albeit the other merchants endeavoured to hinder the affair, foreseeing that sore mischief might come thereof, the two merchants’ minds were so inflamed that, in despite of the rest, they bound themselves one to other by express writings under their hands. This done, Bernabo abode behind, whilst Ambrogiuolo, as quickliest he might, betook himself to Genoa. There he abode some days and informing himself with the utmost precaution of the name of the street where the lady dwelt and of her manner of life, understood of her that and more than that which he had heard of her from Bernabo, wherefore himseemed he was come on a fool’s errand. However, he presently clapped up an acquaintance with a poor woman, who was much about the house and whose great well-wisher the lady was, and availing not to induce her to aught else, he debauched her with money and prevailed with her to bring him, in a chest wroughten after a fashion of his own, not only into the house, but into the gentlewoman’s very bedchamber, where, according to the ordinance given her of him, the good woman commended it to her care for some days, as if she had a mind to go somewhither. The chest, then being left in the chamber and the night come, Ambrogiuolo, what time he judged the lady to be asleep, opened the chest with certain engines of his and came softly out into the chamber, where there was a light burning, with whose aid he proceeded to observe the ordinance of the place, the paintings and every other notable thing that was therein and fixed them in his memory. Then, drawing near the bed and perceiving that the lady and a little girl, who was with her, were fast asleep, he softly altogether uncovered the former and found that she was as fair, naked, as clad, but saw no sign about her that he might carry away, save one, to wit, a mole which she had under the left pap and about which were sundry little hairs as red as gold. This noted he covered her softly up again, albeit, seeing her so fair, he was tempted to adventure his life and lay himself by her side; however, for that he had heard her to be so obdurate and uncomplying in matters of this kind, he hazarded not himself, but, abiding at his leisure in the chamber the most part of the night, took from one of her coffers a purse and a night-rail, together with sundry rings and girdles, and laying them all in his chest, returned thither himself and shut himself up therein as before; and on this wise he did two nights, without the lady being ware of aught. On the third day the good woman came back for the chest, according to the given ordinance, and carried it off whence she had taken it, whereupon Ambrogiuolo came out and having rewarded her according to promise, returned, as quickliest he might, with the things aforesaid, to Paris, where he arrived before the term appointed. There he summoned the merchants who had been present at the dispute and the laying of the wager and declared, in Bernabo’s presence, that he had won the wager laid between them, for that he had accomplished that whereof he had vaunted himself; and to prove this to be true, he first described the fashion of the chamber and the paintings thereof and after showed the things he had brought with him thence, avouching that he had them of herself. Bernabo confessed the chamber to be as he had said and owned, moreover, that he recognized the things in question as being in truth his wife’s; but said that he might have learned from one of the servants of the house the fashion of the chamber and have gotten the things in like manner; wherefore, an he had nought else to say, himseemed not that this should suffice to prove him to have won. Whereupon quoth Ambrogiuolo, ‘In sooth this should suffice, but, since thou wilt have me say more, I will say it. I tell thee that Madam Ginevra thy wife hath under her left pap a pretty big mole, about which are maybe half a dozen little hairs as red as gold.’ When Bernabo heard this, it was as if he had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, such anguish did he feel, and though he had said not a word, his countenance, being all changed, gave very manifest token that what Ambrogiuolo said was true. Then, after awhile, ‘Gentlemen,’ quoth he, ‘that which Ambrogiuolo saith is true; wherefore, he having won, let him come whenassoever it pleaseth him and he shall be paid.’ Accordingly, on the ensuing day Ambrogiuolo was paid in full and Bernabo, departing Paris, betook himself to Genoa with fell intent against the lady. When he drew near the city, he would not enter therein, but lighted down a good score miles away at a country house of his and despatched one of his servants, in whom he much trusted, to Genoa with two horses and letters under his hand, advising his wife that he had returned and bidding her come to him; and he privily charged the man, whenas he should be with the lady in such place as should seem best to him, to put her to death without pity and return to him. The servant accordingly repaired to Genoa and delivering the letters and doing his errand, was received with great rejoicing by the lady, who on the morrow took horse with him and set out for their country house. As they fared on together, discoursing of one thing and another, they came to a very deep and lonely valley, beset with high rocks and trees, which seeming to the servant a place wherein he might, with assurance for himself, do his lord’s commandment, he pulled out his knife and taking the lady by the arm, said, ‘Madam, commend your soul to God, for needs must you die, without faring farther.’ The lady, seeing the knife and hearing these words, was all dismayed and said, ‘Mercy, for God’s sake! Ere thou slay me, tell me wherein I have offended thee, that thou wouldst put me to death.’ ‘Madam,’ answered the man, ‘me you have nowise offended; but wherein you have offended your husband I know not, save that he hath commanded me slay you by the way, without having any pity upon you, threatening me, an I did it not, to have me hanged by the neck. You know well how much I am beholden to him and how I may not gainsay him in aught that he may impose upon me; God knoweth it irketh me for you, but I can no otherwise.’ Whereupon quoth the lady, weeping, ‘Alack, for God’s sake, consent not to become the murderer of one who hath never wronged thee, to serve another! God who knoweth all knoweth that I never did aught for which I should receive such a recompense from my husband. But let that be; thou mayst, an thou wilt, at once content God and thy master and me, on this wise; to wit, that thou take these my clothes and give me but thy doublet and a hood and with the former return to my lord and thine and tell him that thou hast slain me; and I swear to thee, by that life which thou wilt have bestowed on me, that I will remove hence and get me gone into a country whence never shall any news of me win either to him or to thee or into these parts.’ The servant, who was loath to slay her, was lightly moved to compassion; wherefore he took her clothes and give her a sorry doublet of his and a hood, leaving her sundry monies she had with her. Then praying her depart the country, he left her in the valley and afoot and betook himself to his master, to whom he avouched that not only was his commandment accomplished, but that he had left the lady’s dead body among a pack of wolves, and Bernabo presently returned to Genoa, where the thing becoming known, he was much blamed. As for the lady, she abode alone and disconsolate till nightfall, when she disguised herself as most she might and repaired to a village hard by, where, having gotten from an old woman that which she needed, she fitted the doublet to her shape and shortening it, made a pair of linen breeches of her shift; then, having cut her hair and altogether transformed herself in the guise of a sailor, she betook herself to the sea-shore, where, as chance would have it, she found a Catalan gentleman, by name Senor Encararch, who had landed at Alba from a ship he had in the offing, to refresh himself at a spring there. With him she entered into parley and engaging with him as a servant, embarked on board the ship, under the name of Sicurano da Finale. There, being furnished by the gentleman with better clothes, she proceeded to serve him so well and so aptly that she became in the utmost favour with him. No great while after it befell that the Catalan made a voyage to Alexandria with a lading of his and carrying thither certain peregrine falcons for the Soldan, presented them to him. The Soldan, having once and again entertained him at meat and noting with approof the fashions of Sicurano, who still went serving him, begged him of his master, who yielded him to him, although it irked him to do it, and Sicurano, in a little while, by his good behaviour, gained the love and favour of the Soldan, even as he had gained that of the Catalan. Wherefore, in process of time, it befell that,—the time coming for a great assemblage, in the guise of a fair, of merchants, both Christian and Saracen, which was wont at a certain season of the year to be held in Acre, a town under the seignory of the Soldan, and to which, in order that the merchants and their merchandise might rest secure, the latter was still used to despatch, besides other his officers, some one of his chief men, with troops, to look to the guard,—he bethought himself to send Sicurano, who was by this well versed in the language of the country, on this service; and so he did. Sicurano accordingly came to Acre as governor and captain of the guard of the merchants and their merchandise and there well and diligently doing that which pertained to his office and going round looking about him, saw many merchants there, Sicilians and Pisans and Genoese and Venetians and other Italians, with whom he was fain to make acquaintance, in remembrance of his country. It befell, one time amongst others, that, having lighted down at the shop of certain Venetian merchants, he espied among other trinkets, a purse and a girdle, which he straightway knew for having been his and marvelled thereat; but, without making any sign, he carelessly asked to whom they pertained and if they were for sale. Now Ambrogiuolo of Piacenza was come thither with much merchandise on board a Venetian ship and hearing the captain of the guard ask whose the trinkets were, came forward and said, laughing, ‘Sir, the things are mine and I do not sell them; but, if they please you, I will gladly give them to you.’ Sicurano, seeing him laugh, misdoubted he had recognized him by some gesture of his; but yet, keeping a steady countenance, he said, ‘Belike thou laughest to see me, a soldier, go questioning of these women’s toys?’ ‘Sir,’ answered Ambrogiuolo, ‘I laugh not at that; nay, but at the way I came by them.’ ‘Marry, then,’ said Sicurano, ‘an it be not unspeakable, tell me how thou gottest them, so God give thee good luck.’ Quoth Ambrogiuolo, ‘Sir, a gentlewoman of Genoa, hight Madam Ginevra, wife of Bernabo Lomellini, gave me these things, with certain others, one night that I lay with her, and prayed me keep them for the love of her. Now I laugh for that I mind me of the simplicity of Bernabo, who was fool enough to lay five thousand florins to one that I would not bring his wife to do my pleasure; the which I did and won the wager; whereupon he, who should rather have punished himself for his stupidity than her for doing that which all women do, returned from Paris to Genoa and there, by what I have since heard, caused her put to death.’ Sicurano, hearing this, understood forthwith what was the cause of Bernabo’s anger against his wife and manifestly perceiving this fellow to have been the occasion of all her ills, determined not to let him go unpunished therefor. Accordingly he feigned to be greatly diverted with the story and artfully clapped up a strait acquaintance with him, insomuch that, the fair being ended, Ambrogiuolo, at his instance, accompanied him, with all his good, to Alexandria. Here Sicurano let build him a warehouse and lodged in his hands store of his own monies; and Ambrogiuolo, foreseeing great advantage to himself, willingly took up his abode there. Meanwhile, Sicurano, careful to make Bernabo clear of his innocence, rested not till, by means of certain great Genoese merchants who were then in Alexandria, he had, on some plausible occasion of his own devising, caused him come thither, where finding him in poor enough case, he had him privily entertained by a friend of his against it should seem to him time to do that which he purposed. Now he had already made Ambrogiuolo recount his story before the Soldan for the latter’s diversion; but seeing Bernabo there and thinking there was no need to use farther delay in the matter, he took occasion to procure the Soldan to have Ambrogiuolo and Bernabo brought before him and in the latter’s presence, to extort from the former, by dint of severity, an it might not easily be done the truth of that whereof he vaunted himself concerning Bernabo’s wife. Accordingly, they both being come, the Soldan, in the presence of many, with a stern countenance commanded Ambrogiuolo to tell the truth how he had won of Bernabo the five thousand gold florins; and Sicurano himself, in whom he most trusted, with a yet angrier aspect, threatened him with the most grievous torments, an he told it not; whereupon Ambrogiuolo, affrighted on one side and another and in a measure constrained, in the presence of Bernabo and many others, plainly related everything, even as it passed, expecting no worse punishment therefor than the restitution of the five thousand gold florins and of the stolen trinkets. He having spoken, Sicurano, as he were the Soldan’s minister in the matter, turned to Bernabo and said to him, ‘And thou, what didst thou to thy lady for this lie?’ Whereto Bernabo replied, ‘Overcome with wrath for the loss of my money and with resentment for the shame which meseemed I had gotten from my wife, I caused a servant of mine put her to death, and according to that which he reported to me, she was straightway devoured by a multitude of wolves,’ These things said in the presence of the Soldan and all heard and apprehended of him, albeit he knew not yet to what end Sicurano, who had sought and ordered this, would fain come, the latter said to him, ‘My lord, you may very clearly see how much reason yonder poor lady had to vaunt herself of her gallant and her husband, for that the former at once bereaved her of honour, marring her fair fame with lies, and despoiled her husband, whilst the latter more credulous of others’ falsehoods than of the truth which he might by long experience have known, caused her to be slain and eaten of wolves; and moreover, such is the goodwill and the love borne her by the one and the other that, having long abidden with her, neither of them knoweth her. But that you may the better apprehend that which each of these hath deserved, I will,—so but you vouchsafe me, of special favour to punish the deceiver and pardon the dupe,—e’en cause her come hither into your and their presence.’ The Soldan, disposed in the matter altogether to comply with Sicurano’s wishes, answered that he would well and bade him produce the lady; whereat Bernabo marvelled exceedingly, for that he firmly believed her to be dead, whilst Ambrogiuolo, now divining his danger, began to be in fear of worse than paying of monies and knew not whether more to hope or to fear from the coming of the lady, but awaited her appearance with the utmost amazement. The Soldan, then, having accorded Sicurano his wish, the latter threw himself, weeping, on his knees before him and putting off, as it were at one and the same time, his manly voice and masculine demeanour, said, ‘My lord, I am the wretched misfortunate Ginevra, who have these six years gone wandering in man’s disguise about the world, having been foully and wickedly aspersed by this traitor Ambrogiuolo and given by yonder cruel and unjust man to one of his servants to be slain and eaten of wolves.’ Then, tearing open the fore part of her clothes and showing her breast, she discovered herself to the Soldan and all else who were present and after, turning to Ambrogiuolo, indignantly demanded of him when he had ever lain with her, according as he had aforetime boasted; but he, now knowing her and fallen well nigh dumb for shame, said nothing. The Soldan, who had always held her a man, seeing and hearing this, fell into such a wonderment that he more than once misdoubted that which he saw and heard to be rather a dream than true. However, after his amazement had abated, apprehending the truth of the matter, he lauded to the utmost the life and fashions of Ginevra, till then called Sicurano, and extolled her constancy and virtue; and letting bring her very sumptuous woman’s apparel and women to attend her, he pardoned Bernabo, in accordance with her request, the death he had merited, whilst the latter, recognizing her, cast himself at her feet, weeping and craving forgiveness, which she, ill worthy as he was thereof, graciously accorded him and raising him to his feet, embraced him tenderly, as her husband. Then the Soldan commanded that Ambrogiuolo should incontinent be bound to a stake and smeared with honey and exposed to the sun in some high place of the city, nor should ever be loosed thence till such time as he should fall of himself; and so was it done. After this he commanded that all that had belonged to him should be given to the lady, the which was not so little but that it outvalued ten thousand doubloons. Moreover, he let make a very goodly banquet, wherein he entertained Bernabo with honour, as Madam Ginevra’s husband, and herself as a very valiant lady and gave her, in jewels and vessels of gold and silver and monies, that which amounted to better than other ten thousand doubloons. Then, the banquet over, he caused equip them a ship and gave them leave to return at their pleasure to Genoa, whither accordingly they returned with great joyance and exceeding rich; and there they were received with the utmost honour, especially Madam Ginevra, who was of all believed to be dead and who, while she lived, was still reputed of great worth and virtue. As for Ambrogiuolo, being that same day bounded to the stake and anointed with honey, he was, to his exceeding torment, not only slain, but devoured, of the flies and wasps and gadflies, wherewith that country aboundeth, even to the bones, which latter, waxed white and hanging by the sinews, being left unremoved, long bore witness of his villainy to all who saw them. And on this wise did the deceiver abide at the feet of the deceived.”

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## THE TENTH STORY

Day the Second

PAGANINO OF MONACO STEALETH AWAY THE WIFE OF MESSER RICCIARDO DI CHINZICA, WHO, LEARNING WHERE SHE IS, GOETH THITHER AND MAKING FRIENDS WITH PAGANINO, DEMANDETH HER AGAIN OF HIM. THE LATTER CONCEDETH HER TO HIM, AN SHE WILL; BUT SHE REFUSETH TO RETURN WITH HIM AND MESSER RICCIARDO DYING, SHE BECOMETH THE WIFE OF PAGANINO

Each of the honourable company highly commended for goodly the story told by their queen, especially Dioneo, with whom alone for that present day it now rested to tell, and who, after many praises bestowed upon the preceding tale, said, “Fair ladies, one part of the queen’s story hath caused me change counsel of telling you one that was in my mind, and determine to tell you another,—and that is the stupidity of Bernabo (albeit good betided him thereof) and of all others who give themselves to believe that which he made a show of believing and who, to wit, whilst going about the world, diverting themselves now with this woman and now with that, imagine that the ladies left at home abide with their hands in their girdles, as if we knew not, we who are born and reared among the latter, unto what they are fain. In telling you this story, I shall at once show you how great is the folly of these folk and how greater yet is that of those who, deeming themselves more potent than nature herself, think by dint of sophistical inventions to avail unto that which is beyond their power and study to bring others to that which they themselves are, whenas the complexion of those on whom they practise brooketh it not.

There was, then, in Pisa a judge, by name Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, more gifted with wit than with bodily strength, who, thinking belike to satisfy a wife by the same means which served him to despatch his studies and being very rich, sought with no little diligence to have a fair and young lady to wife; whereas, had he but known to counsel himself as he counselled others, he should have shunned both the one and the other. The thing came to pass according to his wish, for Messer Lotto Gualandi gave him to wife a daughter of his, Bartolomea by name, one of the fairest and handsomest young ladies of Pisa, albeit there be few there that are not very lizards to look upon. The judge accordingly brought her home with the utmost pomp and having held a magnificent wedding, made shift the first night to hand her one venue for the consummation of the marriage, but came within an ace of making a stalemate of it, whereafter, lean and dry and scant of wind as he was, it behoved him on the morrow bring himself back to life with malmsey and restorative confections and other remedies. Thenceforward, being now a better judge of his own powers than he was, he fell to teaching his wife a calendar fit for children learning to read and belike made aforetime at Ravenna, for that, according to what he feigned to her, there was no day in the year but was sacred not to one saint only, but to many, in reverence of whom he showed by divers reasons that man and wife should abstain from carnal conversation; and to these be added, to boot, fast days and Emberdays and the vigils of the Apostles and of a thousand other saints and Fridays and Saturdays and Lord’s Day and all Lent and certain seasons of the moon and store of other exceptions, conceiving belike that it behoved to keep holiday with women in bed like as he did bytimes whilst pleading in the courts of civil law. This fashion (to the no small chagrin of the lady, whom he handled maybe once a month, and hardly that) he followed a great while, still keeping strait watch over her, lest peradventure some other should teach her to know working-days, even as he had taught her holidays. Things standing thus, it chanced that, the heat being great and Messer Ricciardo having a mind to go a-pleasuring to a very fair country-seat he had, near Monte Nero, and there abide some days to take the air, he betook himself thither, carrying with him his fair lady. There sojourning, to give her some diversion, he caused one day fish and they went out to sea in two boats, he in one with the fishermen, and she in another with other ladies. The sport luring them on, they drifted some miles out to sea, well nigh without perceiving it, and whilst they were intent upon their diversion, there came up of a sudden a galliot belonging to Paganino da Mare, a famous corsair of those days. The latter, espying the boats, made for them, nor could they flee so fast but he overtook that in which were the women and seeing therein the judge’s fair lady, he carried her aboard the galliot, in full sight of Messer Ricciardo, who was now come to land, and made off without recking of aught else. When my lord judge, who was so jealous that he misdoubted of the very air, saw this, it booteth not to ask if he was chagrined; and in vain, both at Pisa and otherwhere, did he complain of the villainy of the corsairs, for that he knew not who had taken his wife from him nor whither he had carried her. As for Paganino, finding her so fair, he deemed himself in luck and having no wife, resolved to keep her for himself. Accordingly, seeing her weeping sore, he studied to comfort her with soft words till nightfall, when, his calendar having dropped from his girdle and saints’ days and holidays gone clean out of his head, he fell to comforting her with deeds, himseeming that words had availed little by day; and after such a fashion did he console her that, ere they came to Monaco, the judge and his ordinances had altogether escaped her mind and she began to lead the merriest of lives with Paganino. The latter carried her to Monaco and there, over and above the consolations with which he plied her night and day, he entreated her honourably as his wife. After awhile it came to Messer Ricciardo’s ears where his wife was and he, being possessed with the most ardent desire to have her again and bethinking himself that none other might thoroughly suffice to do what was needful to that end, resolved to go thither himself, determined to spend any quantity of money for her ransom. Accordingly he set out by sea and coming to Monaco, there both saw and was seen of the lady, who told it to Paganino that same evening and acquainted him with her intent. Next morning Messer Ricciardo, seeing Paganino, accosted him and quickly clapped up a great familiarity and friendship with him, whilst the other feigned not to know him and waited to see at what he aimed. Accordingly, whenas it seemed to him time, Messer Ricciardo discovered to him, as best and most civilly he knew, the occasion of his coming and prayed him take what he pleased and restore him the lady. To which Paganino made answer with a cheerful countenance, ‘Sir, you are welcome, and to answer you briefly, I say thus; it is true I have a young lady in my house, if she be your wife or another’s I know not, for that I know you not nor indeed her, save in so much as she hath abidden awhile with me. If you be, as you say, her husband, I will, since you seem to me a civil gentleman, carry you to her and I am assured that she will know you right well. If she say it is as you avouch and be willing to go with you, you shall, for the sake of your civility, give me what you yourself will to her ransom; but, an it be not so, you would do ill to seek to take her from me, for that I am a young man and can entertain a woman as well as another, and especially such an one as she, who is the most pleasing I ever saw.’ Quoth Messer Ricciardo, ‘For certain she is my wife, an thou bring me where she is, thou shalt soon see it; for she will incontinent throw herself on my neck; wherefore I ask no better than that it be as thou proposest.’ ‘Then,’ said Paganino, ‘let us be going.’ Accordingly they betook themselves to the corsair’s house, where he brought the judge into a saloon of his and let call the lady, who issued forth of a chamber, all dressed and tired, and came whereas they were, but accosted Messer Ricciardo no otherwise than as she would any other stranger who might have come home with Paganino. The judge, who looked to have been received by her with the utmost joy, marvelled sore at this and fell a-saying in himself, ‘Belike the chagrin and long grief I have suffered, since I lost her, have so changed me that she knoweth me not.’ Wherefore he said to her, ‘Wife, it hath cost me dear to carry thee a-fishing, for that never was grief felt like that which I have suffered since I lost thee, and now meseemeth thou knowest me not, so distantly dost thou greet me. Seest thou not that I am thine own Messer Ricciardo, come hither to pay that which this gentleman, in whose house we are, shall require to thy ransom and to carry thee away? And he, of his favour, restoreth thee to me for what I will.’ The lady turned to him and said, smiling somewhat, ‘Speak you to me, sir? Look you mistake me not, for, for my part, I mind me not ever to have seen you.’ Quoth Ricciardo, ‘Look what thou sayest; consider me well; an thou wilt but recollect thyself, thou wilt see that I am thine own Ricciardo di Chinzica.’ ‘Sir,’ answered the lady, ‘you will pardon me; belike it is not so seemly a thing as you imagine for me to look much on you. Nevertheless I have seen enough of you to know that I never before set eyes on you.’ Ricciardo, concluding that she did this for fear of Paganino and chose not to confess to knowing him in the latter’s presence, besought him of his favour that he might speak with her in a room alone. Paganino replied that he would well, so but he would not kiss her against her will, and bade the lady go with him into a chamber and there hear what he had to say and answer him as it should please her. Accordingly the lady and Messer Ricciardo went into a room apart and as soon as they were seated, the latter began to say, ‘Alack, heart of my body, sweet my soul and my hope, knowest thou not thy Ricciardo, who loveth thee more than himself? How can this be? Am I so changed? Prithee, fair mine eye, do but look on me a little.’ The lady began to laugh and without letting him say more, replied, ‘You may be assured that I am not so scatterbrained but that I know well enough you are Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, my husband; but, what time I was with you, you showed that you knew me very ill, for that you should have had the sense to see that I was young and lusty and gamesome and should consequently have known that which behoveth unto young ladies, over and above clothes and meat, albeit for shamefastness they name it not; the which how you performed, you know. If the study of the laws was more agreeable to you than your wife, you should not have taken her, albeit it never appeared to me that you were a judge; nay, you seemed to me rather a common crier of saints’ days and sacraments and fasts and vigils, so well you knew them. And I tell you this, that, had you suffered the husbandmen who till your lands keep as many holidays as you allowed him who had the tilling of my poor little field, you would never have reaped the least grain of corn. However, as God, having compassion on my youth, hath willed it, I have happened on yonder man, with whom I abide in this chamber, wherein it is unknown what manner of thing is a holiday (I speak of those holidays which you, more assiduous in the service of God than in that of the ladies, did so diligently celebrate) nor ever yet entered in at this door Saturday nor Friday nor vigil nor Emberday nor Lent, that is so long; nay, here swink we day and night and thump our wool; and this very night after matinsong, I know right well how the thing went, once he was up. Wherefore I mean to abide with him and work; whilst I am young, and leave saints’ days and jubilees and fasts for my keeping when I am old; so get you gone about your business as quickliest you may, good luck go with you, and keep as many holidays as you please, without me.’ Messer Ricciardo, hearing these words, was distressed beyond endurance and said, whenas he saw she had made an end of speaking. ‘Alack, sweet my soul, what is this thou sayest? Hast thou no regard for thy kinsfolk’s honour and thine own? Wilt thou rather abide here for this man’s whore and in mortal sin than at Pisa as my wife? He, when he is weary of thee, will turn thee away to thine own exceeding reproach, whilst I will still hold thee dear and still (e’en though I willed it not) thou shalt be mistress of my house. Wilt thou for the sake of a lewd and disorderly appetite, forsake thine honour and me, who love thee more than my life? For God’s sake, dear my hope, speak no more thus, but consent to come with me; henceforth, since I know thy desire, I will enforce myself wherefore, sweet my treasure, change counsel and come away with me, who have never known weal since thou wast taken from me.’ Whereto answered the lady, ‘I have no mind that any, now that it availeth not, should be more tender of my honour than I myself; would my kinsfolk had had regard thereto, whenas they gave me to you! But, as they had then no care for my honour, I am under no present concern to be careful of theirs; and if I am herein *mortar* sin, I shall abide though it be in pestle sin. And let me tell you that here meseemeth I am Paganino’s wife, whereas at Pisa meseemed I was your whore, seeing that there, by season of the moon and quadratures of geometry, needs must be planets concur to couple betwixt you and me, whereas here Paganino holdeth me all night in his arms and straineth me and biteth me, and how he serveth me, let God tell you for me. You say forsooth you will enforce yourself; to what? To do it in three casts and cause it stand by dint of cudgelling? I warrant me you are grown a doughty cavalier since I saw you last! Begone and enforce yourself to live, for methinketh indeed you do but sojourn here below upon sufferance, so peaked and scant o’ wind you show to me. And yet more I tell you, that, should he leave me (albeit meseemeth he is nowise inclined thereto, so I choose to stay,) I purpose not therefor ever to return to you, of whom squeeze you as I might, there were no making a porringer of sauce; for that I abode with you once to my grievous hurt and loss, wherefore in such a case I should seek my vantage elsewhere. Nay, once again I tell you, here be neither saints’ days nor vigils; wherefore here I mean to abide; so get you gone in God’s name as quickliest you may, or I will cry out that you would fain force me.’ Messer Ricciardo, seeing himself in ill case and now recognizing his folly in taking a young wife, whenas he was himself forspent, went forth the chamber tristful and woebegone, and bespoke Paganino with many words, that skilled not a jot. Ultimately, leaving the lady, he returned to Pisa, without having accomplished aught, and there for chagrin fell into such dotage that, as he went about Pisa, to whoso greeted him or asked him of anywhat, he answered nought but ‘The ill hole will have no holidays;’ and there, no great while after, he died. Paganino, hearing this and knowing the love the lady bore himself, espoused her to his lawful wife and thereafter, without ever observing saints’ day or vigil or keeping Lent, they wrought what while their legs would carry them and led a jolly life of it. Wherefore, dear my ladies, meseemeth Bernabo, in his dispute with Ambrogiuolo, rode the she-goat down the steep.”

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This story gave such occasion for laughter to all the company that there was none whose jaws ached not therefor, and all the ladies avouched with one accord that Dioneo spoke sooth and that Bernabo had been an ass. But, after the story was ended and the laughter abated, the queen, observing that the hour was now late and that all had told and seeing that the end of her seignory was come, according to the ordinance commenced, took the wreath from her own head and set it on that of Neifile, saying, with a blithe aspect, “Henceforth, companion dear, be thine the governance of this little people”; and reseated herself. Neifile blushed a little at the honour received and became in countenance like as showeth a new-blown rose of April or of May in the breaking of the day, with lovesome eyes some little downcast, sparkling no otherwise than the morning-star. But, after the courteous murmur of the bystanders, whereby they gladsomely approved their goodwill towards the new-made queen, had abated and she had taken heart again, she seated herself somewhat higher than of wont and said, “Since I am to be your queen, I will, departing not from the manner holden of those who have foregone me and whose governance you have by your obedience commended, make manifest to you in few words my opinion, which, an it be approved by your counsel, we will ensue. To-morrow, as you know, is Friday and the next day is Saturday, days which, by reason of the viands that are used therein, are somewhat irksome to most folk, more by token that Friday, considering that He who died for our life on that day suffered passion, is worthy of reverence; wherefore I hold it a just thing and a seemly that, in honour of the Divinity, we apply ourselves rather to orisons than to story-telling. As for Saturday, it is the usance of ladies on that day to wash their heads and do away all dust and all uncleanliness befallen them for the labours of the past week; and many, likewise, use, in reverence of the Virgin Mother of the Son of God, to fast and rest from all manner of work in honour of the ensuing Sunday. Wherefore, we being unable fully to ensue the order of living taken by us, on like wise methinketh we were well to rest from story-telling on that day also; after which, for that we shall then have sojourned here four days, I hold it opportune, an we would give no occasion for newcomers to intrude upon us, that we remove hence and get us gone elsewhither; where I have already considered and provided. There when we shall be assembled together on Sunday, after sleeping,—we having to-day had leisure enough for discoursing at large,—I have bethought myself,—at once that you may have more time to consider and because it will be yet goodlier that the license of our story-telling be somewhat straitened and that we devise of one of the many fashions of fortune,—that our discourse shall be OF SUCH AS HAVE, BY DINT OF DILIGENCE, ACQUIRED SOME MUCH DESIRED THING OR RECOVERED SOME LOST GOOD. Whereupon let each think to tell somewhat that may be useful or at least entertaining to the company, saving always Dioneo his privilege.” All commended the speech and disposition of the queen and ordained that it should be as she had said. Then, calling for her seneschal, she particularly instructed him where he should set the tables that evening and after of what he should do during all the time of her seignory; and this done, rising to her feet, she gave the company leave to do that which was most pleasing unto each. Accordingly, ladies and men betook themselves to a little garden and there, after they had disported themselves awhile, the hour of supper being come, they supped with mirth and pleasance; then, all arising thence and Emilia, by the queen’s commandment, leading the round, the ditty following was sung by Pampinea, whilst the other ladies responded:

What lady aye should sing, and if not I,
Who’m blest with all for which a maid can sigh?
Come then, O Love, thou source of all my weal,
All hope and every issue glad and bright
Sing ye awhile yfere
Of sighs nor bitter pains I erst did feel,
That now but sweeten to me thy delight,
Nay, but of that fire clear,
Wherein I, burning, live in joy and cheer,

And as my God, I glorify your name.

Love, you brought before my eyes,  
When I first entered your fire,  
A youth graced  
With courage, worth, and divine beauty,  
Such that none could find a better—indeed,  
No equal, I believe.  
I burned so fiercely for him that I must  
Joyfully sing of him with you, my lord most high.

And what completes my happiness in him  
Is that I please him, as he pleases me,  
Thanks to gentle Love;  
Thus, in this world, my wish is fulfilled,  
And I trust to find peace in the next,  
Through the steadfast faith I hold  
For him; surely God, who sees this, will never  
Deny us the kingdom of His bliss.

Afterwards, they sang various other songs, danced several dances, and played different musical instruments. Then, when the queen considered it time to retire, each person, with torches ahead of them, went to their rooms. Throughout the next two days, while carrying out the tasks the queen had mentioned, everyone eagerly awaited Sunday.

**HERE ENDS THE SECOND DAY  
OF THE DECAMERON**

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# *Day the Third*

Here Beginneth the Third Day of the Decameron wherein Under the Governance of Neifile Is Discoursed of Such as Have by Dint of Diligence Acquired Some Much Desired Thing or Recovered Some Lost Good

The dawn from vermeil began to grow orange-tawny, at the approach of the sun, when on the Sunday the queen arose and caused all her company rise also. The seneschal had a great while before despatched to the place whither they were to go store of things needful and folk who should there make ready that which behoved, and seeing the queen now on the way, straightway let load everything else, as if the camp were raised thence, and with the household stuff and such of the servants as remained set out in rear of the ladies and gentlemen. The queen, then, with slow step, accompanied and followed by her ladies and the three young men and guided by the song of some score nightingales and other birds, took her way westward, by a little-used footpath, full of green herbs and flowers, which latter now all began to open for the coming sun, and chatting, jesting and laughing with her company, brought them a while before half tierce, without having gone over two thousand paces, to a very fair and rich palace, somewhat upraised above the plain upon a little knoll. Here they entered and having gone all about and viewed the great saloons and the quaint and elegant chambers all throughly furnished with that which pertaineth thereunto, they mightily commended the place and accounted its lord magnificent. Then, going below and seeing the very spacious and cheerful court thereof, the cellars full of choicest wines and the very cool water that welled there in great abundance, they praised it yet more. Thence, as if desirous of repose, they betook themselves to sit in a gallery which commanded all the courtyard and was all full of flowers, such as the season afforded, and leafage, whereupon there came the careful seneschal and entertained and refreshed them with costliest confections and wines of choice. Thereafter, letting open to them a garden, all walled about, which coasted the palace, they entered therein and it seeming to them, at their entering, altogether wonder-goodly, they addressed themselves more intently to view the particulars thereof. It had about it and athwart the middle very spacious alleys, all straight as arrows and embowered with trellises of vines, which made great show of bearing abundance of grapes that year and being then all in blossom, yielded so rare a savour about the garden, that, as it blent with the fragrance of many another sweet-smelling plant that there gave scent, themseemed they were among all the spiceries that ever grew in the Orient. The sides of these alleys were all in a manner walled about with roses, red and white, and jessamine, wherefore not only of a morning, but what while the sun was highest, one might go all about, untouched thereby, neath odoriferous and delightsome shade. What and how many and how orderly disposed were the plants that grew in that place, it were tedious to recount; suffice it that there is none goodly of those which may brook our air but was there in abundance. Amiddleward the garden (what was not less, but yet more commendable than aught else there) was a plat of very fine grass, so green that it seemed well nigh black, enamelled all with belike a thousand kinds of flowers and closed about with the greenest and lustiest of orange and citron trees, the which, bearing at once old fruits and new and flowers, not only afforded the eyes a pleasant shade, but were no less grateful to the smell. Midmost the grass-plat was a fountain of the whitest marble, enchased with wonder-goodly sculptures, and thence,—whether I know not from a natural or an artificial source,—there sprang, by a figure that stood on a column in its midst, so great a jet of water and so high towards the sky, whence not without a delectable sound it fell back into the wonder-limpid fount, that a mill might have wrought with less; the which after (I mean the water which overflowed the full basin) issued forth of the lawn by a hidden way, and coming to light therewithout, encompassed it all about by very goodly and curiously wroughten channels. Thence by like channels it ran through well nigh every part of the pleasance and was gathered again at the last in a place whereby it had issue from the fair garden and whence it descended, in the clearest of streams, towards the plain; but, ere it won thither, it turned two mills with exceeding power and to the no small vantage of the lord. The sight of this garden and its fair ordinance and the plants and the fountain, with the rivulets proceeding therefrom, so pleased the ladies and the three young men that they all of one accord avouched that, an Paradise might be created upon earth, they could not avail to conceive what form, other than that of this garden, might be given it nor what farther beauty might possibly be added thereunto. However, as they went most gladsomely thereabout, weaving them the goodliest garlands of the various leafage of the trees and hearkening the while to the carols of belike a score of different kinds of birds, that sang as if in rivalry one of other, they became aware of a delectable beauty, which, wonderstricken as they were with the other charms of the place, they had not yet noted; to wit, they found the garden full of maybe an hundred kinds of goodly creatures, and one showing them to other, they saw on one side rabbits issue, on another hares run; here lay kids and there fawns went grazing, and there was many another kind of harmless animal, each going about his pastime at his pleasure, as if tame; the which added unto them a yet greater pleasure than the others. After they had gone about their fill, viewing now this thing and now that, the queen let set the tables around the fair fountain and at her commandment, having first sung half a dozen canzonets and danced sundry dances, they sat down to meat. There, being right well and orderly served, after a very fair and sumptuous and tranquil fashion, with goodly and delicate viands, they waxed yet blither and arising thence, gave themselves anew to music-making and singing and dancing till it seemed good to the queen that those whom it pleased should betake themselves to sleep. Accordingly some went thither, whilst others, overcome with the beauty of the place, willed not to leave it, but, abiding there, addressed themselves, some to reading romances and some to playing chess or tables, whilst the others slept. But presently, the hour of none being past and the sleepers having arisen and refreshed their faces with cold water, they came all, at the queen’s commandment, to the lawn hard by the fountain and there seating themselves, after the wonted fashion, waited to fall to story-telling upon the subject proposed by her. The first upon whom she laid this charge was Filostrato, who began on this wise:

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## THE FIRST STORY

Day the Third

MASETTO OF LAMPORECCHIO FEIGNETH HIMSELF DUMB AND BECOMETH GARDENER TO A CONVENT OF WOMEN, WHO ALL FLOCK TO LIE WITH HIM

“Fairest ladies, there be many men and women foolish enough to believe that, whenas the white fillet is bound about a girl’s head and the black cowl clapped upon her back, she is no longer a woman and is no longer sensible of feminine appetites, as if the making her a nun had changed her to stone; and if perchance they hear aught contrary to this their belief, they are as much incensed as if a very great and heinous misdeed had been committed against nature, considering not neither having regard to themselves, whom full license to do that which they will availeth not to sate, nor yet to the much potency of idlesse and thought-taking. On like wise there are but too many who believe that spade and mattock and coarse victuals and hard living do altogether purge away carnal appetites from the tillers of the earth and render them exceeding dull of wit and judgment. But how much all who believe thus are deluded, I purpose, since the queen hath commanded it to me, to make plain to you in a little story, without departing from the theme by her appointed.

There was (and is yet) in these our parts a convent of women, very famous for sanctity (the which, that I may not anywise abate its repute, I will not name), wherein no great while agone, there being then no more than eight nuns and an abbess, all young, in the nunnery, a poor silly dolt of a fellow was gardener of a very goodly garden of theirs, who, being miscontent with his wage, settled his accounts with the ladies’ bailiff and returned to Lamporecchio, whence he came. There, amongst others who welcomed him home, was a young labouring man, stout and robust and (for a countryman) a well-favoured fellow, by name of Masetto, who asked him where he had been so long. The good man, whose name was Nuto, told him, whereupon Masetto asked him in what he had served the convent, and he, ‘I tended a great and goodly garden of theirs, and moreover I went while to the coppice for faggots and drew water and did other such small matters of service; but the nuns gave me so little wage that I could scare find me in shoon withal. Besides, they are all young and methinketh they are possessed of the devil, for there was no doing anything to their liking; nay, when I was at work whiles in the hortyard, quoth one, “Set this here,” and another, “Set that here,” and a third snatched the spade from my hand, saying, “That is naught”; brief, they gave me so much vexation that I would leave work be and begone out of the hortyard; insomuch that, what with one thing and what with another, I would abide there no longer and took myself off. When I came away, their bailiff besought me, an I could lay my hand on any one apt unto that service, to send the man to him, and I promised it him; but may God make him sound of the loins as he whom I shall get him, else will I send him none at all!’ Masetto, hearing this, was taken with so great a desire to be with these nuns that he was all consumed therewith, judging from Nuto’s words that he might avail to compass somewhat of that which he desired. However, foreseeing that he would fail of his purpose, if he discovered aught thereof to Nuto, he said to the latter, ‘Egad, thou didst well to come away. How is a man to live with women? He were better abide with devils. Six times out of seven they know not what they would have themselves.’ But, after they had made an end of their talk, Masetto began to cast about what means he should take to be with them and feeling himself well able to do the offices of which Nuto had spoken, he had no fear of being refused on that head, but misdoubted him he might not be received, for that he was young and well-looked. Wherefore, after pondering many things in himself, he bethought himself thus: ‘The place is far hence and none knoweth me there, an I can but make a show of being dumb, I shall for certain be received there.’ Having fixed upon this device, he set out with an axe he had about his neck, without telling any whither he was bound, and betook himself, in the guise of a beggarman, to the convent, where being come, he entered in and as luck would have it, found the bailiff in the courtyard. Him he accosted with signs such as dumb folk use and made a show of asking food of him for the love of God and that in return he would, an it were needed, cleave wood for him. The bailiff willingly gave him to eat and after set before him divers logs that Nuto had not availed to cleave, but of all which Masetto, who was very strong, made a speedy despatch. By and by, the bailiff, having occasion to go to the coppice, carried him thither and put him to cutting faggots; after which, setting the ass before him, he gave him to understand by signs that he was to bring them home. This he did very well; wherefore the bailiff kept him there some days, so he might have him do certain things for which he had occasion. One day it chanced that the abbess saw him and asked the bailiff who he was. ‘Madam,’ answered he, ‘this is a poor deaf and dumb man, who came hither the other day to ask an alms; so I took him in out of charity and have made him do sundry things of which we had need. If he knew how to till the hortyard and chose to abide with us, I believe we should get good service of him; for that we lack such an one and he is strong and we could make what we would of him; more by token that you would have no occasion to fear his playing the fool with yonder lasses of yours.’ ‘I’ faith,’ rejoined the abbess, ‘thou sayst sooth. Learn if he knoweth how to till and study to keep him here; give him a pair of shoes and some old hood or other and make much of him, caress him, give him plenty to eat.’ Which the bailiff promised to do. Masetto was not so far distant but he heard all this, making a show the while of sweeping the courtyard, and said merrily in himself, ‘An you put me therein, I will till you your hortyard as it was never tilled yet.’ Accordingly, the bailiff, seeing that he knew right well how to work, asked him by signs if he had a mind to abide there and he replied on like wise that he would do whatsoever he wished; whereupon the bailiff engaged him and charged him till the hortyard, showing him what he was to do; after which he went about other business of the convent and left him. Presently, as Masetto went working one day after another, the nuns fell to plaguing him and making mock of him, as ofttimes it betideth that folk do with mutes, and bespoke him the naughtiest words in the world, thinking he understood them not; whereof the abbess, mayhap supposing him to be tailless as well as tongueless, recked little or nothing. It chanced one day, however, that, as he rested himself after a hard morning’s work, two young nuns, who went about the garden, drew near the place where he lay and fell to looking upon him, whilst he made a show of sleeping. Presently quoth one who was somewhat the bolder of the twain to the other, ‘If I thought thou wouldst keep my counsel, I would tell thee a thought which I have once and again had and which might perchance profit thee also.’ ‘Speak in all assurance,’ answered the other, ‘for certes I will never tell it to any.’ Then said the forward wench, ‘I know not if thou have ever considered how straitly we are kept and how no man dare ever enter here, save the bailiff, who is old, and yonder dumb fellow; and I have again and again heard ladies, who come to visit us, say that all other delights in the world are but toys in comparison with that which a woman enjoyeth, whenas she hath to do with a man. Wherefore I have often had it in mind to make trial with this mute, since with others I may not, if it be so. And indeed he is the best in the world to that end, for that, e’en if he would, he could not nor might tell it again. Thou seest he is a poor silly lout of a lad, who hath overgrown his wit, and I would fain hear how thou deemest of the thing.’ ‘Alack!’ rejoined the other, ‘what is this thou sayest? Knowest thou not that we have promised our virginity to God?’ ‘Oh, as for that,’ answered the first, ‘how many things are promised Him all day long, whereof not one is fulfilled unto Him! An we have promised it Him, let Him find Himself another or others to perform it to Him.’ ‘Or if,’ went on her fellow, ‘we should prove with child, how would it go then?’ Quoth the other, ‘Thou beginnest to take thought unto ill ere it cometh; when that betideth, then will we look to it; there will be a thousand ways for us of doing so that it shall never be known, provided we ourselves tell it not.’ The other, hearing this and having now a greater itch than her companion to prove what manner beast a man was, said, ‘Well, then, how shall we do?’ Quoth the first, ‘Thou seest it is nigh upon none and methinketh the sisters are all asleep, save only ourselves; let us look about the hortyard if there be any there, and if there be none, what have we to do but to take him by the hand and carry him into yonder hut, whereas he harboureth against the rain, and there let one of us abide with him, whilst the other keepeth watch? He is so simple that he will do whatever we will.’ Masetto heard all this talk and disposed to compliance, waited but to be taken by one of the nuns. The latter having looked well all about and satisfied themselves that they could be seen from nowhere, she who had broached the matter came up to Masetto and aroused him, whereupon he rose incontinent to his feet. The nun took him coaxingly by the hand and led him, grinning like an idiot, to the hut, where, without overmuch pressing, he did what she would. Then, like a loyal comrade, having had her will, she gave place to her fellow, and Masetto, still feigning himself a simpleton, did their pleasure. Before they departed thence, each of the girls must needs once more prove how the mute could horse it, and after devising with each other, they agreed that the thing was as delectable as they had heard, nay, more so. Accordingly, watching their opportunity, they went oftentimes at fitting seasons to divert themselves with the mute, till one day it chanced that one of their sisters, espying them in the act from the lattice of her cell, showed it to other twain. At first they talked of denouncing the culprits to the abbess, but, after, changing counsel and coming to an accord with the first two, they became sharers with them in Masetto’s services, and to them the other three nuns were at divers times and by divers chances added as associates. Ultimately, the abbess, who had not yet gotten wind of these doings, walking one day alone in the garden, the heat being great, found Masetto (who had enough of a little fatigue by day, because of overmuch posting it by night) stretched out asleep under the shade of an almond-tree, and the wind lifting the forepart of his clothes, all abode discovered. The lady, beholding this and seeing herself alone, fell into that same appetite which had gotten hold of her nuns, and arousing Masetto, carried him to her chamber, where, to the no small miscontent of the others, who complained loudly that the gardener came not to till the hortyard, she kept him several days, proving and reproving that delight which she had erst been wont to blame in others. At last she sent him back to his own lodging, but was fain to have him often again and as, moreover, she required of him more than her share, Masetto, unable to satisfy so many, bethought himself that his playing the mute might, an it endured longer, result in his exceeding great hurt. Wherefore, being one night with the abbess, he gave loose to his tongue and bespoke her thus: ‘Madam, I have heard say that one cock sufficeth unto half a score hens, but that half a score men can ill or hardly satisfy one woman; whereas needs must I serve nine, and to this I can no wise endure; nay, for that which I have done up to now, I am come to such a pass that I can do neither little nor much; wherefore do ye either let me go in God’s name or find a remedy for the matter.’ The abbess, hearing him speak whom she held dumb, was all amazed and said, ‘What is this? Methought thou wast dumb.’ ‘Madam,’ answered Masetto, ‘I was indeed dumb, not by nature, but by reason of a malady which bereft me of speech, and only this very night for the first time do I feel it restored to me, wherefore I praise God as most I may.’ The lady believed this and asked him what he meant by saying that he had to serve nine. Masetto told her how the case stood, whereby she perceived that she had no nun but was far wiser than herself; but, like a discreet woman as she was, she resolved to take counsel with her nuns to find some means of arranging the matter, without letting Masetto go, so the convent might not be defamed by him. Accordingly, having openly confessed to one another that which had been secretly done of each, they all of one accord, with Masetto’s consent, so ordered it that the people round about believed speech to have been restored to him, after he had long been mute, through their prayers and by the merits of the saint in whose name the convent was intituled, and their bailiff being lately dead, they made Masetto bailiff in his stead and apportioned his toils on such wise that he could endure them. Thereafter, albeit he began upon them monikins galore, the thing was so discreetly ordered that nothing took vent thereof till after the death of the abbess, when Masetto began to grow old and had a mind to return home rich. The thing becoming known, enabled him lightly to accomplish his desire, and thus Masetto, having by his foresight contrived to employ his youth to good purpose, returned in his old age, rich and a father, without being at the pains or expense of rearing children, to the place whence he had set out with an axe about his neck, avouching that thus did Christ entreat whoso set horns to his cap.”

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## THE SECOND STORY

Day the Third

A HORSEKEEPER LIETH WITH THE WIFE OF KING AGILULF, WHO, BECOMING AWARE THEREOF, WITHOUT WORD SAID, FINDETH HIM OUT AND POLLETH HIM; BUT THE POLLED MAN POLLETH ALL HIS FELLOWS ON LIKE WISE AND SO ESCAPETH ILL HAP

The end of Filostrato’s story, whereat whiles the ladies had some little blushed and other whiles laughed, being come, it pleased the queen that Pampinea should follow on with a story, and she accordingly, beginning with a smiling countenance, said, “Some are so little discreet in seeking at all hazards to show that they know and apprehend that which it concerneth them not to know, that whiles, rebuking to this end unperceived defects in others, they think to lessen their own shame, whereas they do infinitely augment it; and that this is so I purpose, lovesome ladies, to prove to you by the contrary thereof, showing you the astuteness of one who, in the judgment of a king of worth and valour, was held belike of less account than Masetto himself.

Agilulf, King of the Lombards, as his predecessors had done, fixed the seat of his kingship at Pavia, a city of Lombardy, and took to wife Theodolinda the widow of Autari, likewise King of the Lombards, a very fair lady and exceeding discreet and virtuous, but ill fortuned in a lover. The affairs of the Lombards having, thanks to the valour and judgment of King Agilulf, been for some time prosperous and in quiet, it befell that one of the said queen’s horse-keepers, a man of very low condition, in respect of birth, but otherwise of worth far above so mean a station, and comely of person and tall as he were the king, became beyond measure enamoured of his mistress. His mean estate hindered him not from being sensible that this love of his was out of all reason, wherefore, like a discreet man as he was, he discovered it unto none, nor dared he make it known to her even with his eyes. But, albeit he lived without any hope of ever winning her favour, yet inwardly he gloried in that he had bestowed his thoughts in such high place, and being all aflame with amorous fire, he studied, beyond every other of his fellows, to do whatsoever he deemed might pleasure the queen; whereby it befell that, whenas she had occasion to ride abroad, she liefer mounted the palfrey of which he had charge than any other; and when this happened, he reckoned it a passing great favour to himself nor ever stirred from her stirrup, accounting himself happy what time he might but touch her clothes. But, as often enough we see it happen that, even as hope groweth less, so love waxeth greater, so did it betide this poor groom, insomuch that sore uneath it was to him to avail to brook his great desire, keeping it, as he did, hidden and being upheld by no hope; and many a time, unable to rid himself of that his love, he determined in himself to die. And considering inwardly of the manner, he resolved to seek his death on such wise that it should be manifest he died for the love he bore the queen, to which end he bethought himself to try his fortune in an enterprise of such a sort as should afford him a chance of having or all or part of his desire. He set not himself to seek to say aught to the queen nor to make her sensible of his love by letters, knowing he should speak and write in vain, but chose rather to essay an he might by practice avail to lie with her; nor was there any other shift for it but to find a means how he might, in the person of the king, who, he knew, lay not with her continually, contrive to make his way to her and enter her bedchamber. Accordingly, that he might see on what wise and in what habit the king went, whenas he visited her, he hid himself several times by night in a great saloon of the palace, which lay between the king’s bedchamber and that of the queen, and one night, amongst others, he saw the king come forth of his chamber, wrapped in a great mantle, with a lighted taper in one hand and a little wand in the other, and making for the queen’s chamber, strike once or twice upon the door with the wand, without saying aught, whereupon it was incontinent opened to him and the taper taken from his hand. Noting this and having seen the king return after the same fashion, he bethought himself to do likewise. Accordingly, finding means to have a cloak like that which he had seen the king wear, together with a taper and a wand, and having first well washed himself in a bagnio, lest haply the smell of the muck should offend the queen or cause her smoke the cheat, he hid himself in the great saloon, as of wont. Whenas he knew that all were asleep and it seemed to him time either to give effect to his desire or to make his way by high emprise to the wished-for death, he struck a light with a flint and steel he had brought with him and kindling the taper, wrapped himself fast in the mantle, then, going up to the chamber-door, smote twice upon it with the wand. The door was opened by a bedchamber-woman, all sleepy-eyed, who took the light and covered it; whereupon, without saying aught, he passed within the curtain, put off his mantle and entered the bed where the queen slept. Then, taking her desirefully in his arms and feigning himself troubled (for that he knew the king’s wont to be that, whenas he was troubled, he cared not to hear aught), without speaking or being spoken to, he several times carnally knew the queen; after which, grievous as it seemed to him to depart, yet, fearing lest his too long stay should be the occasion of turning the gotten delight into dolour, he arose and taking up the mantle and the light, withdrew, without word said, and returned, as quickliest he might, to his own bed. He could scarce yet have been therein when the king arose and repaired to the queen’s chamber, whereat she marvelled exceedingly; and as he entered the bed and greeted her blithely, she took courage by his cheerfulness and said, ‘O my lord, what new fashion is this of to-night? You left me but now, after having taken pleasure of me beyond your wont, and do you return so soon? Have a care what you do.’ The king, hearing these words, at once concluded that the queen had been deceived by likeness of manners and person, but, like a wise man, bethought himself forthright, seeing that neither she nor any else had perceived the cheat, not to make her aware thereof; which many simpletons would not have done, but would have said, ‘I have not been here, I. Who is it hath been here? How did it happen? Who came hither?’ Whence many things might have arisen, whereby he would needlessly have afflicted the lady and given her ground for desiring another time that which she had already tasted; more by token that, an he kept silence of the matter, no shame might revert to him, whereas, by speaking, he would have brought dishonour upon himself. The king, then, more troubled at heart than in looks or speech, answered, saying, ‘Wife, seem I not to you man enough to have been here a first time and to come yet again after that?’ ‘Ay, my lord,’ answered she. ‘Nevertheless, I beseech you have regard to your health.’ Quoth Agilulf, ‘And it pleaseth me to follow your counsel, wherefore for the nonce I will get me gone again, without giving you more annoy.’ This said, taking up his mantle, he departed the chamber, with a heart full of wrath and despite for the affront that he saw had been done him, and bethought himself quietly to seek to discover the culprit, concluding that he must be of the household and could not, whoever he might be, have issued forth of the palace. Accordingly, taking a very small light in a little lantern, he betook himself to a very long gallery that was over the stables of his palace and where all his household slept in different beds, and judging that, whoever he might be that had done what the queen said, his pulse and the beating of his heart for the swink endured could not yet have had time to abate, he silently, beginning at one end of the gallery, fell to feeling each one’s breast, to know if his heart beat high. Although every other slept fast, he who had been with the queen was not yet asleep, but, seeing the king come and guessing what he went seeking, fell into such a fright that to the beating of the heart caused by the late-had fatigue, fear added yet a greater and he doubted not but the king, if he became aware of this, would put him to death without delay, and many things passed through his thought that he should do. However, seeing him all unarmed, he resolved to feign sleep and await what he should do. Agilulf, then, having examined many and found none whom he judged to be he of whom he was in quest, came presently to the horsekeeper and feeling his heart beat high, said in himself, ‘This is the man.’ Nevertheless, an he would have nought be known of that which he purposed to do, he did nought to him but poll, with a pair of scissors he had brought with him, somewhat on one side of his hair, which they then wore very long, so by that token he might know him again on the morrow; and this done, he withdrew and returned to his own chamber. The culprit, who had felt all this, like a shrewd fellow as he was, understood plainly enough why he had been thus marked; wherefore he arose without delay and finding a pair of shears, whereof it chanced there were several about the stables for the service of the horses, went softly up to all who lay in the gallery and clipped each one’s hair on like wise over the ear; which having done without being observed, he returned to sleep. When the king arose in the morning, he commanded that all his household should present themselves before him, or ever the palace-doors were opened; and it was done as he said. Then, as they all stood before him with uncovered heads, he began to look that he might know him whom he had polled; but, seeing the most part of them with their hair clipped after one and the same fashion, he marvelled and said in himself, ‘He whom I seek, for all he may be of mean estate, showeth right well he is of no mean wit.’ Then, seeing that he could not, without making a stir, avail to have him whom he sought, and having no mind to incur a great shame for the sake of a paltry revenge, it pleased him with one sole word to admonish the culprit and show him that he was ware of the matter; wherefore, turning to all who were present, he said, ‘Let him who did it do it no more and get you gone in peace.’ Another would have been for giving them the strappado, for torturing, examining and questioning, and doing this, would have published that which every one should go about to conceal; and having thus discovered himself, though he should have taken entire revenge for the affront suffered, his shame had not been minished, nay, were rather much enhanced therefor and his lady’s honour sullied. Those who heard the king’s words marvelled and long debated amongst themselves what he meant by this speech; but none understood it, save he whom it concerned, and he, like a wise man, never, during Agilulf’s lifetime, discovered the matter nor ever again committed his life to the hazard of such a venture.”

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## THE THIRD STORY

Day the Third

UNDER COLOUR OF CONFESSION AND OF EXCEEDING NICENESS OF CONSCIENCE, A LADY, BEING ENAMOURED OF A YOUNG MAN, BRINGETH A GRAVE FRIAR, WITHOUT HIS MISDOUBTING HIM THEREOF, TO AFFORD A MEANS OF GIVING ENTIRE EFFECT TO HER PLEASURE

Pampinea being now silent and the daring and subtlety of the horsekeeper having been extolled by several of the company, as also the king’s good sense, the queen, turning to Filomena, charged her follow on; whereupon she blithely began to speak thus, “I purpose to recount to you a cheat which was in very deed put by a fair lady upon a grave friar and which should be so much the more pleasing to every layman as these \[—friars, to wit—\], albeit for the most part very dull fools and men of strange manners and usances, hold themselves to be in everything both better worth and wiser than others, whereas they are of far less account than the rest of mankind, being men who, lacking, of the meanness of their spirit, the ability to provide themselves, take refuge, like swine, whereas they may have what to eat. And this story, charming ladies, I shall tell you, not only for the ensuing of the order imposed, but to give you to know withal that even the clergy, to whom we women, beyond measure credulous as we are, yield overmuch faith, can be and are whiles adroitly befooled, and that not by men only, but even by certain of our own sex.

In our city, the which is fuller of cozenage than of love or faith, there was, not many years agone, a gentlewoman adorned with beauty and charms and as richly endowed by nature as any of her sex with engaging manners and loftiness of spirit and subtle wit, whose name albeit I know, I purpose not to discover it, no, nor any other that pertaineth unto the present story, for that there be folk yet alive who would take it in despite, whereas it should be passed over with a laugh. This lady, then, seeing herself, though of high lineage, married to a wool-monger and unable, for that he was a craftsman, to put off the haughtiness of her spirit, whereby she deemed no man of mean condition, how rich soever he might be, worthy of a gentlewoman and seeing him moreover, for all his wealth, to be apt unto nothing of more moment than to lay a warp for a piece of motley or let weave a cloth or chaffer with a spinster anent her yarn, resolved on no wise to admit of his embraces, save in so far as she might not deny him, but to seek, for her own satisfaction, to find some one who should be worthier of her favours than the wool-monger appeared to her to be, and accordingly fell so fervently in love with a man of very good quality and middle age, that, whenas she saw him not by day, she could not pass the ensuing night without unease. The gentleman, perceiving not how the case stood, took no heed of her, and she, being very circumspect, dared not make the matter known to him by sending of women nor by letter, fearing the possible perils that might betide. However, observing that he companied much with a churchman, who, albeit a dull lump of a fellow, was nevertheless, for that he was a man of very devout life, reputed of well nigh all a most worthy friar, she bethought herself that this latter would make an excellent go-between herself and her lover and having considered what means she should use, she repaired, at a fitting season, to the church where he abode, and letting call him to her, told him that, an he pleased, she would fain confess herself to him. The friar seeing her and judging her to be a woman of condition, willingly gave ear to her, and she, after confession, said to him, ‘Father mine, it behoveth me have recourse to you for aid and counsel anent that which you shall hear. I know, as having myself told you, that you know my kinsfolk and my husband, who loveth me more than his life, nor is there aught I desire but I have it of him incontinent, he being a very rich man and one who can well afford it; wherefore I love him more than mine own self and should I but think, let alone do, aught that might be contrary to his honour and pleasure, there were no woman more wicked or more deserving of the fire than I. Now one, whose name in truth I know not, but who is, meseemeth, a man of condition, and is, if I mistake not, much in your company,—a well-favoured man and tall of his person and clad in very decent sad-coloured raiment,—unaware belike of the constancy of my purpose, appeareth to have laid siege to me, nor can I show myself at door or window nor go without the house, but he incontinent presenteth himself before me, and I marvel that he is not here now; whereat I am sore concerned, for that such fashions as these often bring virtuous women into reproach, without their fault. I have whiles had it in mind to have him told of this by my brothers; but then I have bethought me that men oftentimes do messages on such wise that ill answers ensue, which give rise to words and from words they come to deeds; wherefore, lest mischief spring therefrom and scandal, I have kept silence of the matter and have determined to discover it to yourself rather than to another, at once because meseemeth you are his friend and for that it beseemeth you to rebuke not only friends, but strangers, of such things. I beseech you, therefore, for the one God’s sake, that you rebuke him of this and pray him leave these his fashions. There be women enough, who incline belike to these toys and would take pleasure in being dogged and courted by him, whereas to me, who have no manner of mind to such matters, it is a very grievous annoy.’ So saying, she bowed her head as she would weep. The holy friar understood incontinent of whom she spoke and firmly believing what she said to be true, greatly commended her righteous intent and promised her to do on such wise that she should have no farther annoy from the person in question; and knowing her to be very rich, he commended to her works of charity and almsdeeds, recounting to her his own need. Quoth the lady, ‘I beseech you thereof for God’s sake, and should he deny, prithee scruple not to tell him that it was I who told you this and complained to you thereof.’ Then, having made her confession and gotten her penance, recalling the friar’s exhortations to works of almsgiving, she stealthily filled his hand with money, praying him to say masses for the souls of her dead kinsfolk; after which she rose from his feet and taking leave of him, returned home. Not long after up came the gentleman, according to his wont, and after they had talked awhile of one thing and another, the friar, drawing his friend aside, very civilly rebuked him of the manner in which, as he believed, he pursued and spied upon the lady aforesaid, according to that which she had given him to understand. The other marvelled, as well he might, having never set eyes upon her and being used very rarely to pass before her house, and would have excused himself; but the friar suffered him not to speak, saying, ‘Now make no show of wonderment nor waste words in denying it, for it will avail thee nothing; I learnt not these matters from the neighbours; nay, she herself told them to me, complaining sore of thee. And besides that such toys beseem not a man of thine age, I may tell thee this much of her, that if ever I saw a woman averse to these follies, it is she; wherefore, for thine own credit and her comfort, I prithee desist therefrom and let her be in peace.’ The gentleman, quicker of wit than the friar, was not slow to apprehend the lady’s device and feigning to be somewhat abashed, promised to meddle no more with her thenceforward; then, taking leave of the friar, he betook himself to the house of the lady, who still abode await at a little window, so she might see him, should he pass that way. When she saw him come, she showed herself so rejoiced and so gracious to him, that he might very well understand that he had gathered the truth from the friar’s words, and thenceforward, under colour of other business, he began with the utmost precaution to pass continually through the street, to his own pleasure and to the exceeding delight and solace of the lady. After awhile, perceiving that she pleased him even as he pleased her and wishful to inflame him yet more and to certify him of the love she bore him, she betook herself again, choosing her time and place, to the holy friar and seating herself at his feet in the church, fell a-weeping. The friar, seeing this, asked her affectionately what was to do with her anew. ‘Alack, father mine,’ answered she, ‘that which aileth me is none other than yonder God-accursed friend of yours, of whom I complained to you the other day, for that methinketh he was born for my especial torment and to make me do a thing, such that I should never be glad again nor ever after dare to seat myself at your feet.’ ‘How?’ cried the friar. ‘Hath he not given over annoying thee?’ ‘No, indeed,’ answered she; ‘nay, since I complained to you of him, as if of despite, maybe taking it ill that I should have done so, for every once he used to pass before my house, I verily believe he hath passed seven times. And would to God he were content with passing and spying upon me! Nay, he is grown so bold and so malapert that but yesterday he despatched a woman to me at home with his idle tales and toys and sent me a purse and a girdle, as if I had not purses and girdles galore; the which I took and take so ill that I believe, but for my having regard to the sin of it and after for the love of you, I had played the devil. However, I contained myself and would not do or say aught whereof I should not first have let you know. Nay, I had already returned the purse and the girdle to the baggage who brought them, that she might carry them back to him, and had given her a rough dismissal, but after, fearing she might keep them for herself and tell him that I had accepted them, as I hear women of her fashion do whiles, I called her back and took them, full of despite, from her hands and have brought them to you, so you may return them to him and tell him I want none of his trash, for that, thanks to God and my husband, I have purses and girdles enough to smother him withal. Moreover, if hereafter he desist not from this, I tell you, as a father, you must excuse me, but I will tell it, come what may, to my husband and my brothers; for I had far liefer he should brook an affront, if needs he must, than that I should suffer blame for him; wherefore let him look to himself.’ So saying, still weeping sore, she pulled out from under her surcoat a very handsome and rich purse and a quaint and costly girdle and threw them into the lap of the friar, who, fully crediting that which she told him and incensed beyond measure, took them and said to her, ‘Daughter, I marvel not that thou art provoked at these doings, nor can I blame thee therefor; but I much commend thee for following my counsel in the matter. I rebuked him the other day and he hath ill performed that which he promised me; wherefore, as well for that as for this that he hath newly done, I mean to warm his ears for him after such a fashion that methinketh he will give thee no farther concern; but do thou, God’s benison on thee, suffer not thyself to be so overcome with anger that thou tell it to any of thy folk, for that overmuch harm might ensue thereof unto him. Neither fear thou lest this blame anywise ensue to thee, for I shall still, before both God and men, be a most constant witness to thy virtue.’ The lady made believe to be somewhat comforted and leaving that talk, said, as one who knew his greed and that of his fellow-churchmen, ‘Sir, these some nights past there have appeared to me sundry of my kinsfolk, who ask nought but almsdeeds, and meseemeth they are indeed in exceeding great torment, especially my mother, who appeareth to me in such ill case and affliction that it is pity to behold. Methinketh she suffereth exceeding distress to see me in this tribulation with yonder enemy of God; wherefore I would have you say me forty masses of Saint Gregory for her and their souls, together with certain of your own prayers, so God may deliver them from that penitential fire.’ So saying, she put a florin into his hand, which the holy father blithely received and confirming her devoutness with fair words and store of pious instances, gave her his benison and let her go. The lady being gone, the friar, never thinking how he was gulled, sent for his friend, who, coming and finding him troubled, at once divined that he was to have news of the lady and awaited what the friar should say. The latter repeated that which he had before said to him and bespeaking him anew angrily and reproachfully, rebuked him severely of that which, according to the lady’s report, he had done. The gentleman, not yet perceiving the friar’s drift, faintly enough denied having sent her the purse and the girdle, so as not to undeceive the friar, in case the lady should have given him to believe that he had done this; whereat the good man was sore incensed and said, ‘How canst thou deny it, wicked man that thou art? See, here they are, for she herself brought them to me, weeping; look if thou knowest them.’ The gentleman feigned to be sore abashed and answered, ‘Yes, I do indeed know them and I confess to you that I did ill; but I swear to you, since I see her thus disposed, that you shall never more hear a word of this.’ Brief, after many words, the numskull of a friar gave his friend the purse and the girdle and dismissed him, after rating him amain and beseeching him occupy himself no more with these follies, the which he promised him. The gentleman, overjoyed both at the assurance that himseemed he had of the lady’s love and at the goodly gift, was no sooner quit of the friar than he betook himself to a place where he made shift to let his mistress see that he had the one and the other thing; whereat she was mightily rejoiced, more by token that herseemed her device went from good to better. She now awaited nought but her husband’s going abroad to give completion to the work, and it befell not long after that it behoved him repair to Genoa on some occasion or other. No sooner had he mounted to horse in the morning and gone his way, than the lady betook herself to the holy man and after many lamentations, said to him, weeping, ‘Father mine, I tell you now plainly that I can brook no more; but, for that I promised you the other day to do nought, without first telling you, I am come to excuse myself to you; and that you may believe I have good reason both to weep and to complain, I will tell you what your friend, or rather devil incarnate, did to me this very morning, a little before matins. I know not what ill chance gave him to know that my husband was to go to Genoa yestermorn; algates, this morning, at the time I tell you, he came into a garden of mine and climbing up by a tree to the window of my bedchamber, which giveth upon the garden, had already opened the lattice and was for entering, when I of a sudden awoke and starting up, offered to cry out, nay, would assuredly have cried out, but that he, who was not yet within, besought me of mercy in God’s name and yours, telling me who he was; which when I heard, I held my peace for the love of you and naked as I was born, ran and shut the window in his face; whereupon I suppose he took himself off (ill-luck go with him!), for I heard no more of him. Look you now if this be a goodly thing and to be endured. For my part I mean to bear with him no more; nay, I have already forborne him overmuch for the love of you.’ The friar, hearing this, was the wrathfullest man alive and knew not what to say, except to ask again and again if she had well certified herself that it was indeed he and not another; to which she answered, ‘Praised be God! As if I did not yet know him from another! I tell you it was himself, and although he should deny it, credit him not.’ Then said the friar, ‘Daughter, there is nothing to be said for it but that this was exceeding effrontery and a thing exceeding ill done, and in sending him off, as thou didst, thou didst that which it behoved thee to do. But I beseech thee, since God hath preserved thee from shame, that, like as thou hast twice followed my counsel, even so do thou yet this once; to wit, without complaining to any kinsman of thine, leave it to me to see an I can bridle yonder devil broke loose, whom I believed a saint. If I can make shift to turn him from this lewdness, well and good; if not, I give thee leave henceforth to do with him that which thy soul shall judge best, and my benison go with thee.’ ‘Well, then,’ answered the lady, ‘for this once I will well not to vex or disobey you; but look you do on such wise that he be ware of annoying me again, for I promise you I will never again return to you for this cause.’ Thereupon, without saying more, she took leave of the friar and went away, as if in anger. Hardly was she out of the church when up came the gentleman and was called by the friar, who, taking him apart, gave him the soundest rating ever man had, calling him disloyal and forsworn and traitor. The other, who had already twice had occasion to know to what the monk’s reprimands amounted, abode expectant and studied with embarrassed answers to make him speak out, saying, at the first, ‘Why all this passion, Sir? Have I crucified Christ?’ Whereupon, ‘Mark this shameless fellow!’ cried the friar. ‘Hear what he saith! He speaketh as if a year or two were passed and he had for lapse of time forgotten his misdeeds and his lewdness! Hath it then escaped thy mind between this and matinsong that thou hast outraged some one this very morning? Where wast thou this morning a little before day?’ ‘I know not,’ answered the gentleman; ‘but wherever it was, the news thereof hath reached you mighty early.’ Quoth the friar, ‘Certes, the news hath reached me. Doubtless thou supposedst because her husband was abroad, that needs must the gentlewoman receive thee incontinent in her arms. A fine thing, indeed! Here’s a pretty fellow! Here’s an honourable man! He’s grown a nighthawk, a garden-breaker, a tree-climber! Thinkest thou by importunity to overcome this lady’s chastity, that thou climbest up to her windows anights by the trees? There is nought in the world so displeasing to her as thou; yet must thou e’en go essaying it again and again. Truly, thou hast profited finely by my admonitions, let alone that she hath shown thee her aversion in many ways. But this I have to say to thee; she hath up to now, not for any love she beareth thee, but at my instant entreaty, kept silence of that which thou hast done; but she will do so no more; I have given her leave to do what seemeth good to her, an thou annoy her again in aught. What wilt thou do, an she tell her brothers?’ The gentleman having now gathered enough of that which it concerned him to know, appeased the friar, as best he knew and might, with many and ample promises, and taking leave of him, waited till matinsong of the ensuing night, when he made his way into the garden and climbed up by the tree to the window. He found the lattice open and entering the chamber as quickliest he might, threw himself into the arms of his fair mistress, who, having awaited him with the utmost impatience, received him joyfully, saying, ‘Gramercy to my lord the friar for that he so well taught thee the way hither!’ Then, taking their pleasure one of the other, they solaced themselves together with great delight, devising and laughing amain anent the simplicity of the dolt of a friar and gibing at wool-hanks and teasels and carding-combs. Moreover, having taken order for their future converse, they did on such wise that, without having to resort anew to my lord the friar, they foregathered in equal joyance many another night, to the like whereof I pray God, of His holy mercy, speedily to conduct me and all Christian souls who have a mind thereto.”

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## THE FOURTH STORY

Day the Third

DOM FELICE TEACHETH FRA PUCCIO HOW HE MAY BECOME BEATIFIED BY PERFORMING A CERTAIN PENANCE OF HIS FASHION, WHICH THE OTHER DOTH, AND DOM FELICE MEANWHILE LEADETH A MERRY LIFE OF IT WITH THE GOOD MAN’S WIFE

Filomena, having made an end of her story, was silent and Dioneo having with dulcet speech mightily commended the lady’s shrewdness and eke the prayer with which Filomena had concluded, the queen turned with a smile to Pamfilo and said, “Come, Pamfilo, continue our diversion with some pleasant trifle.” Pamfilo promptly answered that he would well and began thus: “Madam, there are many persons who, what while they study to enter Paradise, unwittingly send others thither; the which happened, no great while since, to a neighbour of ours, as you shall hear.

According to that which I have heard tell, there abode near San Pancrazio an honest man and a rich, called Puccio di Rinieri, who, devoting himself in his latter days altogether to religious practices, became a tertiary of the order of St. Francis, whence he was styled Fra Puccio, and ensuing this his devout life, much frequented the church, for that he had no family other than a wife and one maid and consequently, it behoved him not apply himself to any craft. Being an ignorant, clod-pated fellow, he said his paternosters, went to preachments and attended mass, nor ever failed to be at the Lauds chanted by the seculars, and fasted and mortified himself; nay, it was buzzed about that he was of the Flagellants. His wife, whose name was Mistress Isabetta, a woman, yet young, of eight-and-twenty to thirty years of age, fresh and fair and plump as a lady-apple, kept, by reason of the piety and belike of the age of her husband, much longer and more frequent fasts than she could have wished, and when she would have slept or maybe frolicked with him, he recounted to her the life of Christ and the preachments of Fra Nastagio or the Complaint of Mary Magdalene or the like. Meantime there returned home from Paris a monk hight Dom Felice, Conventual of San Pancrazio, who was young and comely enough of person, keen of wit and a profound scholar, and with him Fra Puccio contracted a strait friendship. And for that this Dom Felice right well resolved him his every doubt and knowing his pious turn of mind, made him a show of exceeding devoutness, Fra Puccio fell to carrying him home bytimes and giving him to dine and sup, as the occasion offered; and the lady also, for her husband’s sake, became familiar with him and willingly did him honour. The monk, then, continuing to frequent Fra Puccio’s house and seeing the latter’s wife so fresh and plump, guessed what should be the thing whereof she suffered the most default and bethought himself, an he might, to go about to furnish her withal himself, and so spare Fra Puccio fatigue. Accordingly, craftily casting his eyes on her, at one time and another, he made shift to kindle in her breast that same desire which he had himself, which when he saw, he bespoke her of his wishes as first occasion betided him. But, albeit he found her well disposed to give effect to the work, he could find no means thereunto, for that she would on nowise trust herself to be with him in any place in the world save her own house, and there it might not be, seeing that Fra Puccio never went without the town. At this the monk was sore chagrined; but, after much consideration, he hit upon a device whereby he might avail to foregather with the lady in her own house, without suspect, for all Fra Puccio should be at home. Accordingly, the latter coming one day to visit him, he bespoke him thus, ‘I have many a time understood, Fra Puccio, that all thy desire is to become a saint and to this end meseemeth thou goest about by a long road, whereas there is another and a very short one, which the Pope and the other great prelates, who know and practise it, will not have made known, for that the clergy, who for the most part live by alms, would incontinent be undone, inasmuch as the laity would no longer trouble themselves to propitiate them with alms or otherwhat. But, for that thou art my friend and hast very honourably entertained me, I would teach it thee, so I were assured thou wouldst practise it and wouldst not discover it to any living soul.’ Fra Puccio, eager to know the thing, began straightway to entreat him with the utmost instancy that he would teach it him and then to swear that never, save in so far as it should please him, would he tell it to any, engaging, an if it were such as he might avail to follow, to address himself thereunto. Whereupon quoth the monk, ‘Since thou promisest me this, I will e’en discover it to thee. Thou must know that the doctors of the church hold that it behoveth whoso would become blessed to perform the penance which thou shalt hear; but understand me aright; I do not say that, after the penance, thou wilt not be a sinner like as thou presently art; but this will betide, that the sins which thou hast committed up to the time of the penance will all by virtue thereof be purged and pardoned unto thee, and those which thou shalt commit thereafterward will not be written to thy prejudice, but will pass away with the holy water, as venial sins do now. It behoveth a man, then, in the first place, whenas he cometh to begin the penance, to confess himself with the utmost diligence of his sins, and after this he must keep a fast and a very strict abstinence for the space of forty days, during which time thou must abstain from touching, not to say other women, but even thine own wife. Moreover, thou must have in thine own house some place whence thou mayst see the sky by night, whither thou must betake thyself towards the hour of complines, and there thou must have a wide plank set up, on such wise that, standing upright, thou mayst lean thy loins against it and keeping thy feet on the ground, stretch out thine arms, crucifix fashion. An thou wouldst rest them upon some peg or other, thou mayst do it, and on this wise thou must abide gazing upon the sky, without budging a jot, till matins. Wert thou a scholar, thou wouldst do well to repeat certain orisons I would give thee; but, as thou art it not, thou must say three hundred Paternosters and as many Ave Marys, in honour of the Trinity, and looking upon heaven, still have in remembrance that God is the Creator of heaven and earth and the passion of Christ, abiding on such wise as He abode on the cross. When the bell ringeth to matins, thou mayst, an thou wilt, go and cast thyself, clad as thou art, on thy bed and sleep, and after, in the forenoon, betake thyself to church and there hear at least three masses and repeat fifty Paternosters and as many Aves; after which thou shalt with a single heart do all and sundry thine occasions, if thou have any to do, and dine and at evensong be in church again and there say certain orisons which I will give thee by writ and without which it cannot be done. Then, towards complines, do thou return to the fashion aforesaid, and thus doing, even as I have myself done aforetime, I doubt not but, ere thou come to the end of the penance, thou wilt, (provided thou shalt have performed it with devoutness and compunction,) feel somewhat marvellous of eternal beatitude.’ Quoth Fra Puccio, ‘This is no very burdensome matter, nor yet overlong, and may very well be done; wherefore I purpose in God’s name to begin on Sunday.’ Then, taking leave of him and returning home, he related everything in due order to his wife, having the other’s permission therefor. The lady understood very well what the monk meant by bidding him stand fast without stirring till matins; wherefore, the device seeming to her excellent, she replied that she was well pleased therewith and with every other good work that he did for the health of his soul and that, so God might make the penance profitable to him, she would e’en fast with him, but do no more. They being thus of accord and Sunday come, Fra Puccio began his penance and my lord monk, having agreed with the lady, came most evenings to sup with her, bringing with him store of good things to eat and drink, and after lay with her till matinsong, when he arose and took himself off, whilst Fra Puccio returned to bed. Now the place which Fra Puccio had chosen for his penance adjoined the chamber where the lady lay and was parted therefrom but by a very slight wall, wherefore, Master Monk wantoning it one night overfreely with the lady and she with him, it seemed to Fra Puccio that he felt a shaking of the floor of the house. Accordingly, having by this said an hundred of his Paternosters, he made a stop there and without moving, called to his wife to know what she did. The lady, who was of a waggish turn and was then belike astride of San Benedetto his beast or that of San Giovanni Gualberto, answered, ‘I’ faith, husband mine, I toss as most I may.’ ‘How?’ quoth Fra Puccio. ‘Thou tossest? What meaneth this tossing?’ The lady, laughing, for that she was a frolicsome dame and doubtless had cause to laugh, answered merrily; ‘How? You know not what it meaneth? Why, I have heard you say a thousand times, “Who suppeth not by night must toss till morning light.”’ Fra Puccio doubted not but that the fasting was the cause of her unableness to sleep and it was for this she tossed thus about the bed; wherefore, in the simplicity of his heart, ‘Wife,’ said he, ‘I told thee not to fast; but, since thou wouldst e’en do it, think not of that, but address thyself to rest; thou givest such vaults about the bed that thou makest all in the place shake.’ ‘Have no care for that,’ answered the lady; ‘I know what I am about; do you but well, you, and I will do as well as I may.’ Fra Puccio, accordingly, held his peace and betook himself anew to his Paternosters; and after that night my lord monk and the lady let make a bed in another part of the house, wherein they abode in the utmost joyance what while Fra Puccio’s penance lasted. At one and the same hour the monk took himself off and the lady returned to her own bed, whereto a little after came Fra Puccio from his penance; and on this wise the latter continued to do penance, whilst his wife did her delight with the monk, to whom quoth she merrily, now and again, ‘Thou hast put Fra Puccio upon performing a penance, whereby we have gotten Paradise.’ Indeed, the lady, finding herself in good case, took such a liking to the monk’s fare, having been long kept on low diet by her husband, that, whenas Fra Puccio’s penance was accomplished, she still found means to feed her fill with him elsewhere and using discretion, long took her pleasure thereof. Thus, then, that my last words may not be out of accord with my first, it came to pass that, whereas Fra Puccio, by doing penance, thought to win Paradise for himself, he put therein the monk, who had shown him the speedy way thither, and his wife, who lived with him in great lack of that whereof Dom Felice, like a charitable man as he was, vouchsafed her great plenty.”

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## THE FIFTH STORY

Day the Third

RICCIARDO, SURNAMED IL ZIMA, GIVETH MESSER FRANCESCO VERGELLESI A PALFREY OF HIS AND HATH THEREFOR HIS LEAVE TO SPEAK WITH HIS WIFE. SHE KEEPING SILENCE, HE IN HER PERSON REPLIETH UNTO HIMSELF, AND THE EFFECT AFTER ENSUETH IN ACCORDANCE WITH HIS ANSWER

Pamfilo having made an end, not without laughter on the part of the ladies, of the story of Fra Puccio, the queen with a commanding air bade Elisa follow on. She, rather tartly than otherwise, not out of malice, but of old habit, began to speak thus, “Many folk, knowing much, imagine that others know nothing, and so ofttimes, what while they think to overreach others, find, after the event, that they themselves have been outwitted of them; wherefore I hold his folly great who setteth himself without occasion to test the strength of another’s wit. But, for that maybe all are not of my opinion, it pleaseth me, whilst following on the given order of the discourse, to relate to you that which befell a Pistolese gentleman by reason thereof.

There was in Pistoia a gentleman of the Vergellesi family, by name Messer Francesco, a man of great wealth and understanding and well advised in all else, but covetous beyond measure. Being made provost of Milan, he had furnished himself with everything necessary for his honourable going thither, except only with a palfrey handsome enough for him, and finding none to his liking, he abode in concern thereof. Now there was then in the same town a young man called Ricciardo, of little family, but very rich, who still went so quaintly clad and so brave of his person that he was commonly known as Il Zima, and he had long in vain loved and courted Messer Francesco’s wife, who was exceeding fair and very virtuous. Now he had one of the handsomest palfreys in all Tuscany and set great store by it for its beauty and it being public to every one that he was enamoured of Messer Francesco’s wife, there were those who told the latter that, should he ask it, he might have the horse for the love Il Zima bore his lady. Accordingly, moved by covetise, Messer Francesco let call Il Zima to him and sought of him his palfrey by way of sale, so he should proffer it to him as a gift. The other, hearing this, was well pleased and made answer to him, saying, “Sir, though you gave me all you have in the world, you might not avail to have my palfrey by way of sale, but by way of gift you may have it, whenas it pleaseth you, on condition that, ere you take it, I may have leave to speak some words with your lady in your presence, but so far removed from every one that I may be heard of none other than herself.’ The gentleman, urged by avarice and looking to outwit the other, answered that it liked him well as much as he would; then, leaving him in the saloon of his palace, he betook himself to the lady’s chamber and telling her how easily he might acquire the palfrey, bade her come hearken to Il Zima, but charged her take good care to answer neither little or much to aught that he should say. To this the lady much demurred, but, it behoving her ensue her husband’s pleasure, she promised to do his bidding and followed him to the saloon, to hear what Il Zima should say. The latter, having renewed his covenant with the gentleman, seated himself with the lady in a part of the saloon at a great distance from every one and began to say thus, ‘Noble lady, meseemeth certain that you have too much wit not to have long since perceived how great a love I have been brought to bear you by your beauty, which far transcendeth that of any woman whom methinketh I ever beheld, to say nothing of the engaging manners and the peerless virtues which be in you and which might well avail to take the loftiest spirits of mankind; wherefore it were needless to declare to you in words that this is the greatest and most fervent that ever man bore woman; and thus, without fail, will I do so long as my wretched life shall sustain these limbs, nay, longer; for that, if in the other world folk love as they do here below, I shall love you to all eternity. Wherefore you may rest assured that you have nothing, be it much or little worth, that you may hold so wholly yours and whereon you may in every wise so surely reckon as myself, such as I am, and that likewise which is mine. And that of this you may take assurance by very certain argument, I tell you that I should count myself more graced, did you command me somewhat that I might do and that would pleasure you, than if, I commanding, all the world should promptliest obey me. Since, then, I am yours, even as you have heard, it is not without reason that I dare to offer up my prayers to your nobility, wherefrom alone can all peace, all health and all well-being derive for me, and no otherwhence; yea, as the humblest of your servants, I beseech you, dear my good and only hope of my soul, which, midmost the fire of love, feedeth upon its hope in you,—that your benignity may be so great and your past rigour shown unto me, who am yours, on such wise be mollified that I, recomforted by your kindness, may say that, like as by your beauty I was stricken with love, even so by your pity have I life, which latter, an your haughty soul incline not to my prayers, will without fail come to nought and I shall perish and you may be said to be my murderer. Letting be that my death will do you no honour, I doubt not eke but that, conscience bytimes pricking you therefor, you will regret having wrought it and whiles, better disposed, will say in yourself, “Alack, how ill I did not to have compassion upon my poor Zima!” and this repentance, being of no avail, will cause you the great annoy. Wherefore, so this may not betide, now that you have it in your power to succour me, bethink yourself and ere I die, be moved to pity on me, for that with you alone it resteth to make me the happiest or the most miserable man alive. I trust your courtesy will be such that you will not suffer me to receive death in guerdon of such and so great a love, but will with a glad response and full of favour quicken my fainting spirits, which flutter, all dismayed, in your presence.’ Therewith he held his peace and heaving the deepest of sighs, followed up with sundry tears, proceeded to await the lady’s answer. The latter,—whom the long court he had paid her, the joustings held and the serenades given in her honour and other like things done of him for the love of her had not availed to move,—was moved by the passionate speech of this most ardent lover and began to be sensible of that which she had never yet felt, to wit, what manner of thing love was; and albeit, in ensuance of the commandment laid upon her by her husband, she kept silence, she could not withal hinder sundry gentle sighs from discovering that which, in answer to Il Zima, she would gladly have made manifest. Il Zima, having waited awhile and seeing that no response ensued, was wondered and presently began to divine the husband’s device; but yet, looking her in the face and observing certain flashes of her eyes towards him now and again and noting, moreover, the sighs which she suffered not to escape her bosom with all her strength, conceived fresh hope and heartened thereby, took new counsel and proceeded to answer himself after the following fashion, she hearkening the while: ‘Zima mine, this long time, in good sooth, have I perceived thy love for me to be most great and perfect, and now by thy words I know it yet better and am well pleased therewith, as indeed I should be. Algates, an I have seemed to thee harsh and cruel, I will not have thee believe that I have at heart been that which I have shown myself in countenance; nay, I have ever loved thee and held thee dear above all other men; but thus hath it behoved me do, both for fear of others and for the preserving of my fair fame. But now is the time at hand when I may show thee clearly that I love thee and guerdon thee of the love that thou hast borne and bearest me. Take comfort, therefore, and be of good hope, for that a few days hence Messer Francesco is to go to Milan for provost, as indeed thou knowest, who hast for the love of me given him thy goodly palfrey; and whenas he shall be gone, I promise thee by my troth and of the true love I bear thee, that, before many days, thou shalt without fail foregather with me and we will give gladsome and entire accomplishment to our love. And that I may not have to bespeak thee otherwhiles of the matter, I tell thee presently that, whenas thou shalt see two napkins displayed at the window of my chamber, which giveth upon our garden, do thou that same evening at nightfall make shift to come to me by the garden door, taking good care that thou be not seen. Thou wilt find me awaiting thee and we will all night long have delight and pleasance one of another, to our hearts’ content.’ Having thus spoken for the lady, he began again to speak in his own person and rejoined on this wise, ‘Dearest lady, my every sense is so transported with excessive joy for your gracious reply that I can scarce avail to make response, much less to render you due thanks; nay, could I e’en speak as I desire, there is no term so long that it might suffice me fully to thank you as I would fain do and as it behoveth me; wherefore I leave it to your discreet consideration to imagine that which, for all my will, I am unable to express in words. This much only I tell you that I will without fail bethink myself to do as you have charged me, and being then, peradventure, better certified of so great a grace as that which you have vouchsafed me, I will, as best I may, study to render you the utmost thanks in my power. For the nonce there abideth no more to say; wherefore, dearest lady mine, God give you that gladness and that weal which you most desire, and so to Him I commend you.’ For all this the lady said not a word; whereupon Il Zima arose and turned towards the husband, who, seeing him risen, came up to him and said, laughing ‘How deemest thou? Have I well performed my promise to thee?’ ‘Nay, sir’ answered Il Zima; ‘for you promised to let me speak with your lady and you have caused me speak with a marble statue.’ These words were mighty pleasing to the husband, who, for all he had a good opinion of the lady, conceived of her a yet better and said, ‘Now is thy palfrey fairly mine.’ ‘Ay is it, sir,’ replied Il Zima, ‘but, had I thought to reap of this favour received of you such fruit as I have gotten, I had given you the palfrey, without asking it of you; and would God I had done it, for that now you have bought the palfrey and I have not sold it.’ The other laughed at this and being now provided with a palfrey, set out upon his way a few days after and betook himself to Milan, to enter upon the Provostship. The lady, left free in her house, called to mind Il Zima’s words and the love he bore her and the palfrey given for her sake and seeing him pass often by the house, said in herself, ‘What do I? Why waste I my youth? Yonder man is gone to Milan and will not return these six months. When will he ever render me them again? When I am old? Moreover, when shall I ever find such a lover as Il Zima? I am alone and have no one to fear. I know not why I should not take this good opportunity what while I may; I shall not always have such leisure as I presently have. None will know the thing, and even were it to be known, it is better to do and repent, than to abstain and repent.’ Having thus taken counsel with herself, she one day set two napkins in the garden window, even as Il Zima had said, which when he saw, he was greatly rejoiced and no sooner was the night come than he betook himself, secretly and alone, to the gate of the lady’s garden and finding it open, passed on to another door that opened into the house, where he found his mistress awaiting him. She, seeing him come, started up to meet him and received him with the utmost joy, whilst he clipped and kissed her an hundred thousand times and followed her up the stair to her chamber, where, getting them to bed without a moment’s delay, they knew the utmost term of amorous delight. Nor was this first time the last, for that, what while the gentleman abode at Milan and even after his coming back, Il Zima returned thither many another time, to the exceeding satisfaction of both parties.”

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## THE SIXTH STORY

Day the Third

RICCIARDO MINUTOLO, BEING ENAMOURED OF THE WIFE OF FILIPPELLO FIGHINOLFI AND KNOWING HER JEALOUSY OF HER HUSBAND, CONTRIVETH, BY REPRESENTING THAT FILIPPELLO WAS ON THE ENSUING DAY TO BE WITH HIS OWN WIFE IN A BAGNIO, TO BRING HER TO THE LATTER PLACE, WHERE, THINKING TO BE WITH HER HUSBAND, SHE FINDETH THAT SHE HATH ABIDDEN WITH RICCIARDO

Elisa, having nothing more to add, was praised by the queen for Il Zima’s cleverness. The queen then asked Fiammetta to continue with a tale. With a smile, Fiammetta replied, “Willingly, Madam,” and began: “It is fitting that we step outside of our city (which, just as it is abundant in all things, offers stories on every subject) and, like Elisa has done, tell of things that have happened elsewhere in the world. So, passing on to Naples, I will share how one of those so-called ‘she-saints,’ who pretend to be so cautious about love, was, by her lover’s ingenuity, brought to experience the fruits of love before she had even tasted its blossoms. This will teach you to be wary of what may happen, as well as to be entertained by things that already have.

In Naples, a very ancient city, as delightful as any in Italy—perhaps more so—there was once a young man, noble by birth and known for his wealth, whose name was Ricciardo Minutolo. Although he had a very beautiful and charming young wife, he fell in love with another woman who, by general opinion, surpassed all the other ladies of Naples in beauty. Her name was Catella, the wife of another young gentleman of similar standing, named Filippello Fighinolfi, whom she, as a truly virtuous woman, cherished above all. Ricciardo loved Catella deeply, and did all the common things to win her love and favor, but despite all his efforts, made no progress with her, which drove him nearly to despair. Unable to rid himself of his passion or die from it, he felt torn—living brought him no joy, yet he could not bear to die.

Staying in this state, it happened that one day, some female relatives urged Ricciardo to give up his hopeless pursuit of Catella, as he wore himself out in vain—they assured him Catella’s only love was Filippello and that she was so jealous that she imagined every bird flying by might steal him away. Hearing of Catella’s jealousy, Ricciardo quickly hatched a plan to achieve his desires. He pretended to be heartbroken over Catella and shifted his attentions to another lady, making a show of jousting, touring, and doing all the things he used to do for Catella, now apparently for this new woman. It was not long before nearly everyone in Naples, including Catella herself, believed that he no longer loved Catella, but was passionately in love with the second woman. Catella, believing this completely, let down the guarded manner with which she used to treat Ricciardo and began to greet him more familiarly as a neighbor, just like she did with others.

Then it happened, as the weather warmed, that many groups of ladies and gentlemen would—following Neapolitan custom—spend time together by the sea to dine and enjoy themselves. Knowing Catella would be present with her group, Ricciardo joined them with his own friends, at first pretending to be reluctant to stay so as not to seem eager. The ladies, including Catella, teased him about his new love, and he played along, giving them more to talk about. Soon, while one lady went wandering and Catella was left with only a few people nearby—including Ricciardo—he subtly dropped a hint about a supposed affair of Filippello, her husband. Catella was instantly seized with jealous anger and burning to know what he meant. After holding back for a while, unable to stand it any longer, she pleaded with Ricciardo, by the love he bore for his new lady, to explain what he meant regarding Filippello. Ricciardo replied, “Since you ask me by such a person, I dare not deny you anything. I am ready to tell you—as long as you promise never to mention this to Filippello or anyone else, unless you confirm for yourself what I reveal. I can show you how to see it, whenever you wish.”

She agreed and swore never to repeat what he told her, now suspecting it was true. Taking her aside so no one could overhear, he said: “Madam, if I still loved you as I once did, I wouldn’t dare tell you anything that might upset you. But as that love is over, I’ll be blunt. I don’t know whether Filippello has ever been suspicious about my feelings for you or has thought you returned them. Be that as it may, he never confronted me. But now, perhaps thinking I have moved on and become less wary, he seems eager to do to me what he fears I’ve done to him—seeking the favors of my wife. For a while now, he’s been secretly sending her messages, all of which I’ve known about because she tells me everything, and she responds as I instruct her. In fact, just today before coming here, I found a woman speaking privately with my wife in my house. I immediately guessed who she was and asked my wife what she wanted. My wife said, ‘She’s Filippello’s agent, and you’ve involved me with him by making me write back and give him hope. Now she says he wants to know, once and for all, what I intend to do, and if I agree, he’ll arrange a secret meeting at a bagnio in the city. He begs and pressures me—and had you not, for reasons I don’t understand, made me keep up this communication, I’d have gotten rid of him so he’d never have bothered me again.’ I thought this was going too far and couldn’t allow it any longer, so I decided to tell you how he repays your complete loyalty—loyalty that once almost killed me. And so you won't think this is just gossip or stories, but may, whenever you wish, see it for yourself, I had my wife reply to her messenger that she’d be at the bagnio tomorrow at noon, when most people nap. The woman left very pleased with this answer. Now, I doubt you believe I would send my own wife there—but if I were you, I’d arrange for him to find me there in her place. After spending some time with him, I’d reveal my identity and give him what he deserves. That way, you’d shame him for the insult he wishes to inflict on us both, and settle things in one stroke.”

Catella, hearing this and never considering who was telling her or suspecting any trickery, immediately, as jealous people do, believed every word and recalled incidents that seemed to fit his story. Filled with sudden anger, she replied that she would definitely do as he advised—it was no big deal—and that if Filippello showed up, she’d shame him so badly he’d remember it every time he saw any woman. Ricciardo, delighted that his plot seemed certain to succeed, encouraged her, backing up his story with more words and pleading with her to never say she heard it from him. She gave him her word.

The next morning, Ricciardo visited a friendly woman who managed the bagnio in question. He told her about his plan and asked her to help as best she could. The woman, much indebted to Ricciardo, agreed wholeheartedly and they worked out what she should do and say. The house had a very dark room—no windows for light—which the woman prepared with a bed for Ricciardo, who, after lunch, lay in wait for Catella. Catella, believing Ricciardo’s tale, returned home that evening burning with anger. Filippello, perhaps preoccupied, did not give her his usual affection, which only fueled her suspicions: “Of course, he’s thinking about that woman he plans to meet tomorrow—but I’ll put a stop to it.” She kept thinking through the night about what she’d say to him at the bagnio.

When the appointed hour arrived, she took her maid and, sticking to her plan, went to the bagnio Ricciardo had named, where she found the woman, and asked if Filippello had come. The woman, well-prepped by Ricciardo, replied, “Are you the lady who was to meet him?” “I am,” replied Catella. “Then go right in to him,” said the woman. Catella, looking for the proof she hoped not to find, allowed herself to be led to the dark room where Ricciardo waited. Entering with her head covered, she locked the door behind her. Ricciardo, seeing her enter, joyfully stood and embraced her, saying softly, “Welcome, my soul!” Catella, trying to disguise herself further, hugged and kissed him in silence, afraid he’d recognize her voice. The room was pitch-black, which pleased them both, and even as time passed there, their eyes did not adjust. Ricciardo led her to the bed, and, not speaking to avoid giving themselves away, they lay together for a long time—to one’s greater delight than the other’s.

Eventually, Catella, burning with anger and ready to express her resentment, said, “Alas, how miserable is a woman’s lot, and how poorly placed is the love many give their husbands! I, unfortunate that I am, have loved you for eight years more than life itself, and you, as I have learned, are consumed with love for another woman, wicked and perverse man that you are! Now, with whom do you think you’ve been? You have been with the woman you have deceived far too long with your false promises, pretending to love her while being in love with someone else. I am Catella, not Ricciardo’s wife, you disloyal traitor! Listen and see if you recognize my voice; it’s truly me; I can’t wait till we’re in the light, where I can shame you as you deserve, you disgraceful, wretched cur! Oh misery! Who have I loved so much for all these years? This disloyal dog, who, thinking he had another woman in his arms, has given me more affection in this short time than ever before! You were energetic enough today, faithless cur; at home you always act weak and tired, but praise God, today you’ve worked your own field, not, as you thought, someone else’s. No wonder you stayed away from me last night; you planned to enjoy yourself elsewhere and come fresh to the encounter. But, thank God and my cleverness, you’ve spent your energy in the right place after all. Why don’t you answer, wicked man? Why don’t you say something? Are you struck dumb by hearing me? By Heaven, I barely resist clawing out your eyes with my own hands. You tried to be very secret about this, but, by God, others know as much as you—your plan failed; I had better trackers on you than you imagined.”

Ricciardo, secretly thrilled to hear this, responded only by hugging and kissing her even more. Catella went on, “Oh, you think you can smooth things over with fake affection, you disgusting dog, and soothe me? You’re wrong. I won’t be satisfied until I’ve publicly shamed you before all our friends and family. Am I not as fair as Ricciardo’s wife? Am I not from as good a family? Why won’t you answer, you pitiful dog? What does she have that I don’t? Stay away from me; don’t touch me again—you’ve done enough for today. Now that you know who I am, all you could do would be by force. But, so help me God, I’ll see you go without my affection, and I might even send for Ricciardo, who loved me more than himself but could never say I even looked his way. And what harm would there be in doing that? You thought you’d have his wife here—and it’s almost as if you did, since the only reason you failed is luck. So, if I were to be with him, you’d have no right to complain.”

Catella’s complaints went on for some time. At last, Ricciardo, realizing that if he let her go on believing she had slept with her husband, worse trouble might follow, decided to reveal himself and set things straight. So, holding her tightly so she couldn’t escape, he said, “Sweetheart, don’t be angry. What I couldn’t have from you by simple love, Love has taught me to obtain through cleverness. I am your Ricciardo.” Catella, recognizing his voice, tried to leap out of bed but couldn’t; then she started to cry out, but Ricciardo covered her mouth and said, “Madam, what has been done cannot be undone, no matter how much you shout or weep. If you create an uproar or ever let anyone know about this, two things will happen: First—something you should care about—a scandal will ruin your good name. Even if you insist I tricked you, I’ll claim it was for gifts and money I promised, but you got angry when I didn’t give enough, so you started this whole scene. People are far more likely to believe the bad than the good, so my version will be believed over yours. Secondly, a mortal feud will break out between your husband and me, and there’s as much chance I’ll kill him as he’ll kill me. Whatever happens, you’ll never again be happy. So please, my dear, don’t bring disgrace on yourself or set your husband and me at odds. You are not the first woman, nor will you be the last, to have been deceived; nor did I plan this simply to wrong you, but out of my deep love and devotion to you. Everything I own or possess has long been at your service, and from now on, I intend to devote myself to you more than ever. You are wise in other matters, and I am certain you will be wise now as well.”

While Ricciardo spoke, Catella wept bitterly. She was deeply hurt and voiced her complaints, but her reason acknowledged the truth of his words, and she knew things could turn out as he said. So she replied, “Ricciardo, I don’t know how God will give me the strength to bear the insult and deceit you have put upon me. I will not make any scene here—my own foolishness and excessive jealousy brought me to this. But know this: I won’t rest until, one way or another, I see myself avenged for what you’ve done. So let me go; hold me no longer—you’ve had what you wished, and you’ve had your fill. Now let me go, I beg you.”

Ricciardo, seeing her mind still greatly unsettled, resolved never to leave her until he had gained her full forgiveness. Using the gentlest words to soothe her, he spoke, pleaded, and persuaded so earnestly that she was eventually moved to make peace with him. In mutual accord, they remained together for a long time afterward in the greatest happiness. What’s more, Catella, having now discovered how much more delightful were a lover’s kisses than those of a husband, and her former severity having turned to tender affection for Ricciardo, from that day forward loved him dearly. From then on, with the utmost discretion, they often enjoyed the pleasures of their love together. God grant us the same joy!”

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## THE SEVENTH STORY

Day the Third

TEDALDO ELISEI, HAVING FALLEN OUT WITH HIS MISTRESS, DEPARTS FLORENCE AND RETURNS AFTER SOME TIME, DISGUISED AS A PILGRIM; HE SPEAKS WITH THE LADY AND REVEALS HER ERROR, THEN SAVES HER HUSBAND—WRONGLY ACCUSED OF MURDERING HIM—FROM EXECUTION, RECONCILES HIM WITH HIS BROTHERS, AND THENCEFORTH SECRETLY ENJOYS HIS LOVE

Fiammetta being now silent and praised by all, the queen, not wishing to waste time, immediately gave the task of storytelling to Emilia, who began as follows: “I wish to return to our city, from which the last two speakers departed, and show you how one of our townsmen regained his lost love.

There was, in Florence, a noble young man named Tedaldo Elisei, who was deeply in love with a lady called Madam Ermellina, wife of Aldobrandino Palermini. For his admirable conduct, he deserved to have his wishes fulfilled. However, Fortune, always the enemy of happiness, denied him this comfort; for whatever reason, the lady, after indulging his desires for a while, suddenly withdrew all favor from him. She not only refused to listen to his messages but also would not see him under any circumstance. This plunged him into deep and cruel melancholy; still, his love had been so secret that no one guessed the source of his sorrow. After trying everything he could think of to regain the love he felt he had unjustly lost, and seeing all his efforts fail, he chose to leave worldly life rather than give his beloved the satisfaction of seeing him waste away because of her. Without telling anyone, friend or relative—except a single comrade who knew everything—he took what money he could gather and, secretly departing, went to Ancona. There, under the name Filippo di Sanlodeccio, he befriended a wealthy merchant and entered his service, traveling with him to Cyprus on the merchant’s ship.

His manners and conduct pleased the merchant so much that he not only gave him a good wage but also made him a partner and put much of his business in Tedaldo’s hands. Tedaldo managed these affairs so well and diligently that within a few years he became a wealthy and well-respected merchant himself. Still, in the midst of his work, he often thought of his cruel mistress, suffering deeply from love and longing to see her again; yet, for seven years, he stayed away, overcoming his longing. But one day, by chance, he heard in Cyprus a song he had written long ago, one which told of his love for his mistress and hers for him, and the pleasure he once had from her. Believing she could not have forgotten him, he was overcome by such a powerful desire to see her again that he could not endure any longer and decided to return to Florence.

So, after arranging his business affairs, he traveled with only one servant to Ancona, transferred his property there, and sent it on to Florence through a friend of his Anconese partner. He himself, disguised as a pilgrim returning from the Holy Sepulchre, followed secretly with his servant. Upon reaching Florence, he found lodging at a small inn run by two brothers near his mistress’s home, which he visited first, hoping to see her if he could. However, he found the windows and doors all closed, which made him fear that she had either died or moved away. Distressed and anxious, he went to his brothers’ house, where he saw four of them all dressed in black. Astonished, and knowing that he had changed both in appearance and in dress since he left, so that he would not be easily recognized, he boldly approached a shoemaker nearby and asked why they were dressed in mourning. The man replied, ‘Those men are in black because just under two weeks ago, a brother of theirs—who hadn’t been here in a long time—was murdered. I hear they’ve shown in court that Aldobrandino Palermini, now in prison, killed him, since he was friendly with Aldobrandino’s wife and had returned in secret to be with her.’

Tedaldo was astonished that anyone had been mistaken for him and grieved for Aldobrandino’s misfortune. Learning that the lady was alive and well, and as it was now night, he returned, filled with conflicting thoughts, to the inn. There, after dining with his servant, he was given a bed nearly at the top of the house. Between his worries, the poor state of the bed, and perhaps also the meager supper, he could not sleep for half the night. So, while awake, it seemed to him about midnight that he heard people coming down into the house from the roof, and through a crack in the door he saw a light entering. He went quietly to the door, looked through the crack, and saw a fairly attractive young woman holding a light while three men, who had come down from the roof, approached her. After some initial greetings, one of them said to the girl, ‘Now, thank God, we can be at ease. We know for sure that Tedaldo Elisei’s death has been pinned on Aldobrandino Palermini by his brothers—he has confessed to it, and judgment has been passed. Still, we must keep quiet, as if it should ever come out that we [killed him], we’d be in the same danger as Aldobrandino.’ After saying this, the woman, who seemed quite pleased, left them as they went downstairs to bed.

Hearing this, Tedaldo reflected on how many serious mistakes can happen to people, first thinking of his brothers who had mourned and buried a stranger instead of him, and also of the innocent man accused on false suspicion and condemned by wrongful evidence, as well as the blindness of laws and rulers. These, in the name of diligent investigation, sometimes through their harshness, end up upholding what is false, and call themselves ministers of justice and God—when in truth they act as agents of injustice and the devil. He then turned his thoughts to how he might save Aldobrandino and decided what to do. So, early in the morning, he left his servant at the inn and went alone at a suitable hour to his mistress’s house. Finding the door open, he entered and saw the lady sitting in a small downstairs room, weeping bitterly.

At this sight, he nearly wept out of compassion and, approaching her, said, ‘Madam, do not be upset. Your peace is at hand.’ The lady, hearing this, looked up and said through her tears, ‘Good sir, you seem a foreign pilgrim; what do you know of my peace or my pain?’ ‘Madam,’ replied Tedaldo, ‘I am from Constantinople, only just arrived here, sent by God to turn your tears to joy and to save your husband from death.’ She asked, ‘If you are from Constantinople and only just arrived here, how do you know who I am or who my husband is?’ Then the pilgrim began at the beginning, telling her the whole story of Aldobrandino’s troubles, who she was, how long she had been married, and many details about her life, all of which he knew very well. She was amazed, taking him for a prophet, and fell at his feet, begging him for God’s sake, if he had truly come for Aldobrandino’s salvation, to hurry, since time was short.

The pilgrim, pretending to be a very holy man, said, ‘Madam, rise and weep no more, but listen closely to what I say and be sure never to repeat it to anyone. What you are suffering now is because of a sin you committed in the past. God has chosen to punish it partly through your current misfortune and wants you to change entirely, or you will fall into greater sorrow.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the lady, ‘I have many sins and cannot tell which God would have me amend most; if you know it, tell me, and I will do my best to change.’ ‘Madam,’ said the pilgrim, ‘I know very well what it is. I ask not to know it better, but so that you, in confessing it, might feel remorse. Let us get to the heart of it—do you remember ever having had a lover?’

The lady, hearing this, sighed deeply and was greatly amazed, believing that no one had ever known of it, although, in the days when the man who was buried as Tedaldo was slain, there had been some rumors about it, due to certain indiscreet words from Tedaldo’s confidant, who knew the truth. Then she answered, “I see that God reveals to you all men’s secrets, so I have resolved not to hide my own from you. It is true that in my youth I loved above all else the unfortunate young man whose death is blamed on my husband; and I have mourned his death as deeply as it grieved me, for although I seemed harsh and cruel to him before he left, neither his long absence nor his tragic death has been able to tear him from my heart.” The pilgrim said, “The unfortunate young man who is dead was not the one you loved, but rather, it was Tedaldo Elisei. But tell me, what caused the break between you? Did he ever offend you in any way?” She replied, “Certainly not; he never did anything against me. The cause of our falling out was the talk of an accursed friar, to whom I once confessed and who, when I told him of my feelings for Tedaldo and our private meetings, made such a commotion about my ears that I still tremble to recall it. He told me that if I did not desist from this love, I would go straight to the devil’s mouth, into the deepest parts of hell, and be cast into everlasting fire. This frightened me so much that I decided to cut off all contact with Tedaldo, and to make sure I wouldn’t be tempted, I stopped receiving his letters or messages. Still, I believe that if he had persisted a while longer instead of leaving in despair (as I assume), seeing him waste away as I did, my harsh determination would have changed, for I desired nothing more in the world.”

“Madam,” replied the pilgrim, “it is only this sin that now distresses you. I know for certain that Tedaldo did you no wrong; when you fell in love with him, it was by your own free will, because he pleased you. And as you wished, he came to you and enjoyed your company, and with both words and actions you showed him such kindness that, if he loved you before, you made his love grow a thousandfold. And since this is so (and I know it is), what could possibly justify your harsh decision to withdraw from him? Such things should be thought over beforehand, and if you think you might later regret them as wrong, you should not do them. You could, if you wished, have decided that he would no longer be yours, as you had the right; but to try to take yourself away from him, when you were his, was a theft and shameful thing, since it was not his wish. Now know that I am a friar and well acquainted with their ways. If I speak at length about them for your benefit, it is not forbidden me, as it might be for another; indeed, I am glad to tell you, so you may better understand them now than you have before.

Friars of old were truly pious and worthy men, but those who today call themselves friars and want to be seen as such have nothing of the monk left but the robe—and even that is not truly the robe of a friar. Whereas the founders of monastic orders made the habits plain, poor, and of coarse material, reflecting the spiritual humility of those who wore them—showing they despised worldly things by clothing themselves so simply—those of today have their robes made wide, double, glossy, and of the finest cloth, and have tailored them into a fanciful, pontifical style. They are not ashamed to flaunt them like peacocks in churches and public places, just as laypeople flaunt their fashionable clothes. And just as a fisherman uses a sweep net to catch many fish at once, so do these friars, wrapping themselves in their voluminous skirts, plot to ensnare many prudish young women, widows, foolish women, and men as well—and this is their main concern beyond all else. To put it plainly, they do not truly wear the friar’s habit, but only its colors.

Moreover, while the friars of old desired the salvation of mankind, those today seek after women and riches, focusing all their thoughts on terrifying foolish minds with clamors and frightening images, pretending that sins may be purged with alms and masses, so that people (who have become friars out of cowardice and laziness, not devotion, and to avoid hard work) will bring them bread, others send them wine, and yet others give them money for the souls of their departed friends. Certainly, it is true that alms and prayers cleanse away sins; but if those who give alms knew what sort of men they are giving to, they would sooner keep them for themselves or throw them to the pigs. And knowing that the fewer people have a great treasure, the easier life is for those few, each of them tries with frightful threats and warnings to separate others from what he alone wishes to keep. They condemn lust in men so that, when those men leave off women in fear, the women will be left to the accusers; they decry usury and ill-gotten wealth so that, when people entrust them with restitution, they can use that which they claim will doom anyone who keeps it and instead fatten their purses, buy bishoprics, and gain other great benefices.

And when they are called out for these and many other unseemly things, they think answering, “Do as we say, not as we do,” will excuse them from every serious responsibility—as if sheep could be expected to stand firmer against temptation than the shepherds! Many who hear this reply don't realize the way it is truly meant, as most people know. The monks of today want you to do as they say—fill their purses, trust them with your secrets, remain chaste, practice patience and forgiveness, and never speak ill of anyone—all things that are good and proper; but all this is so that they themselves may do what, if laypeople did it, they could not. Who does not know that idleness cannot last without money? If you spend your money on your own pleasure, the friar cannot be idle in the monastery; if you pursue women, there is no room for him; and unless you are patient or forgiving, he will not dare visit your house to corrupt your household. Why dwell further? They condemn themselves in the eyes of the wise as often as they use this excuse. If they don’t believe themselves able to abstain and live a devout life, why not just stay at home? Or, if they insist on pursuing this path, why not follow the holy saying of the Gospel, “Christ began to do and to teach?” Let them first do themselves, then teach others. I have seen a thousand friars wooing, loving, and even frequenting not only lay women, but nuns as well—ay, even those who are the loudest thunderers from the pulpit! Should we follow such men as these? Whoever does so acts as he pleases, but God knows whether he acts wisely.

But even if we grant that which the friar who reproved you said—that it is a grave sin to break the marriage vow—isn’t it an even greater sin to rob a man, and greater still to kill him or send him into exile, to wander miserably about the world? Everyone must agree. For a woman to have relations with a man is a sin of nature; but robbing, killing, or exiling him comes from a wicked heart. You robbed Tedaldo, as I already showed, by taking yourself from him when you had of your own will become his; I say also that, as much as in you lay, you killed him, for had it not been for you—your ever-increasing cruelty—he might have killed himself with his own hand. The law says that whoever causes harm is as guilty as he who does the deed. And it cannot be denied that you caused his exile and wandering these seven years. So, in any of these three things, you have sinned more gravely than in your relationship with him.

But let us see—did Tedaldo deserve this treatment? He certainly did not; you have admitted it yourself, and moreover I know he loved you more than his own life. No woman was ever so honored and exalted above others by a man as you were by him, whenever he could speak of you without raising suspicion. He put all his goods, honor, and freedom in your hands. Was he not noble and young? Was he not the handsomest among his townsmen? Did he not excel in all that is fitting for a young man? Was he not loved, esteemed, and respected by everyone? You cannot deny any of this. So how, at the prompting of some miserable, envious, empty-headed friar, could you make such a harsh decision against him? I do not understand women who shun and undervalue men, when, considering what women are and the great nobility given by God to man above all other animals, they should rejoice in being loved and value a man above all else, striving diligently to please him so he never stops loving them. That you acted otherwise, swayed by a friar’s talk—who almost certainly wished to take the place he drove another from—you yourself know best.

This, then, is the sin that Divine justice, which measures all things justly, has seen fit not to leave unpunished. Just as you unreasonably withdrew yourself from Tedaldo, so your husband has been, and still is, without reason, in danger for Tedaldo’s sake, and you, in distress. Therefore, if you wish to be delivered from this, what you must promise—and even more, do—is this: should Tedaldo ever return here from his long exile, you will restore to him your favor, your love, your goodwill, and your company, and give him back the place he had before you foolishly listened to that foolish friar.”

When the pilgrim finished his speech, the lady, who had listened with utmost attention—since his words seemed so true and, as she listened, she realized she truly suffered because of the sin he spoke of—said, “Friend of God, I know well that what you say is true, and thanks to you I now see what sort of people these friars really are, whom until now I held to be all saints. I also admit, without doubt, that I have greatly wronged Tedaldo; and if I could, I would gladly make amends as you have said. But how can this be done? Tedaldo can never return here; he is dead, so why should I promise what cannot be?” “Madam,” replied the pilgrim, “as God has revealed to me, Tedaldo is not dead at all, but alive and well, if only he had your favor.” The lady said, “Be careful what you say; I saw him dead at my own door, stabbed several times, and held him in my arms, washing his dead face with many tears—which might have given cause for some unseemly talk.” The pilgrim replied, “No matter what you say, I assure you Tedaldo is alive, and if you will promise—with the intent to truly keep it—I hope you will soon see him.” She replied, “I promise and would gladly do so; nothing could please me more than to see my husband free and safe and Tedaldo alive.”

It then seemed to Tedaldo the right moment to reveal himself and give the lady greater hope regarding her husband. He said, “Madam, so that I may comfort you about your husband, I must reveal a secret to you, which you must tell no one, for your life’s sake.” They were in a secluded place alone, and the lady had the utmost trust in the pilgrim’s supposed sanctity. Tedaldo then produced a ring the lady had given him the last night they were together, which he had guarded carefully, and, showing it to her, said, “Madam, do you recognize this?” She immediately knew it and answered, “Yes, sir; I gave it to Tedaldo long ago.” Whereupon the pilgrim, rising, quickly took off his pilgrim’s robe and hat and, speaking with a Florentine accent, asked, “And now, do you recognize me?”

When the lady saw this, she realized that it was Tedaldo. She was overcome with shock, as one would fear to see the dead walking alive; rather than rushing to greet him as Tedaldo returned from Cyprus, she tried to flee, thinking she saw a ghost. But he said, “Madam, do not fear; I am your Tedaldo, alive and well. I was never dead or murdered, no matter what you and my brothers may have believed.” Somewhat reassured by his voice, she looked at him longer and was convinced it truly was Tedaldo. She then threw herself, weeping, into his arms and kissed him, saying, “Welcome back, my dear Tedaldo.”

After kissing and embracing her, Tedaldo said, “Madam, now is not the time for closer greetings; I must go see to it that Aldobrandino is safely restored to you. I hope that before tomorrow evening you will have news that will please you; if, as I expect, I have good news of his safety, I hope tonight to visit you and report more leisurely than I can right now.” Donning his gown and hat once more, he kissed the lady again, encouraged her to have hope, then took his leave and went to where Aldobrandino lay imprisoned, gripped more by fear of death than hope of deliverance. With the jailer’s permission, Tedaldo entered to see him, disguised as a spiritual comforter, and, sitting by his side, said, “Aldobrandino, I am a friend sent to you by God for your deliverance, who has taken pity on you because of your innocence; if, in reverence to Him, you will grant me a small favor I ask, you will, before tomorrow night, when you expect a death sentence, hear instead of your acquittal.”

‘Honest man,’ replied the prisoner, ‘since you are concerned for my deliverance, even though I do not know you nor remember ever having seen you, you must be a friend, as you say. Truly, the crime for which they claim I am to be put to death, I never committed; though I have committed enough other wrongs in the past, which may have brought me to this point. But I say this to you, out of reverence for God: if He shows me mercy now, I will not only promise, but gladly do anything, however great—even more so something small; so, ask what you will, for if I escape with my life, I will without fail do exactly as you ask.’ Then the pilgrim said, ‘What I desire from you is that you forgive Tedaldo’s four brothers for having brought you to this point, believing you guilty of their brother’s death, and that you accept them again as brothers and friends when they come to ask your pardon.’ To this Aldobrandino replied, ‘No one but the one who has suffered a wrong knows how sweet revenge is, and how strongly it is desired; nevertheless, if God delivers me, I will freely forgive them; in fact, I forgive them now, and if I get out of here alive, I will act in a manner you’ll approve of.’

This pleased the pilgrim, and without saying more, he encouraged Aldobrandino to keep his spirits up, promising him that before the next day ended, he would most certainly hear good news of his safety. Then, taking his leave, he went to the Seignory and spoke in private to a gentleman presiding there: ‘My lord, everyone should be eager to uncover the truth, and especially those who hold positions such as yours, so that the innocent do not suffer while the guilty go unpunished. For your honor, and to the ruin of those who deserve it, I have come to speak with you. You have been proceeding harshly against Aldobrandino Palermini, and, believing you have found proof that he killed Tedaldo Elisei, intend to condemn him. But this is certainly false, as I have no doubt of showing you before midnight, by placing the murderers of the young man in your hands.’

The worthy gentleman, who was concerned for Aldobrandino, gladly listened to the pilgrim’s words and, after discussing the matter thoroughly, acting on his information, arresting the two innkeeper brothers and their servant, catching them asleep and without resistance. He wanted to interrogate them to find out the truth, but they would not withstand torture; so, one after the other and then all together, they openly confessed that they had killed Tedaldo Elisei, not knowing who he was. When questioned further, they said it was because he had greatly troubled the wife of one of them while they were away, and had tried to force her to his will.

After hearing this, the pilgrim, with the magistrate’s consent, left and quietly went to Madam Ermellina’s house, where he found her alone and waiting for him (everyone else in the house was asleep), anxious both for good news about her husband and to fully reconcile with her Tedaldo. He greeted her happily and said, ‘Dearest lady, be of good cheer; tomorrow you will certainly have your Aldobrandino home safe and sound’; and to reassure her fully, he told her everything he had done. She, happier than any woman at two such sudden and joyful events—that is, having her lover alive again, whom she had truly believed she had wept for as dead, and seeing Aldobrandino out of danger, whose death she thought she would soon have to mourn—embraced and kissed Tedaldo affectionately; then, going to bed together, they joyfully and lovingly made their peace, delighting in each other's company.

As dawn approached, Tedaldo arose after explaining his plans to the lady and once again asking her to keep it secret, and then left, still in his pilgrim’s garb, to attend to Aldobrandino’s matter when the time came. When day arrived, the Seignory, convinced they had full knowledge of the case, immediately released Aldobrandino, and a few days later, executed the murderers where they had committed the crime.

Aldobrandino, now free to the great joy of himself, his wife, and all their friends and family, and openly recognizing that he owed his deliverance to the pilgrim’s efforts, brought him to his house for as long as he wished to stay in the city; and there, they could not do enough to honor and respect him, especially the lady, who knew well whom she was entertaining. After a time, judging it the right moment to reconcile his brothers with Aldobrandino—and knowing they felt not only ashamed at Aldobrandino’s acquittal, but also went armed in fear of him—he asked his host to fulfill his promise. Aldobrandino agreed wholeheartedly, so the pilgrim arranged for a fine banquet the next day, telling him to invite his family and have them entertain the four brothers and their wives, adding that he himself would at once invite the brothers and urge them to peace and the banquet. Aldobrandino agreed to everything, and the pilgrim went directly to the four brothers; with many fitting and convincing arguments, he easily persuaded them to regain Aldobrandino’s friendship by asking his forgiveness. Once they agreed, he invited them and their wives to dine at Aldobrandino’s the following morning, and they, assured of his sincerity, gladly accepted.

So, the next day around dinner time, Tedaldo’s four brothers, dressed in mourning, came with friends to Aldobrandino’s house, where he awaited them. In front of all the guests, they laid down their arms and placed themselves at his mercy, asking forgiveness for what they had done to him. Aldobrandino, in tears, received them warmly, kissing each one, and with just a few words, forgave every wrong.

Afterward, their wives and sisters, all in somber clothing, arrived and were warmly received by Madam Ermellina and the other ladies. Then, everyone, men and women alike, was sumptuously entertained at the banquet; and nothing about the gathering was lacking except the silence born of the fresh sorrow visible in Tedaldo’s family’s black clothing. Some had considered the pilgrim’s plan to hold the banquet ill-timed because of this somberness, and he noticed their thoughts; so, when the time came to end this tension, as he had planned, while the others were still finishing their fruit, he stood and said, ‘Nothing has been missing from this celebration to make it joyful, except Tedaldo himself. Now, since you have had him among you all along without recognizing him, I will reveal him to you.’

With these words, he took off his pilgrim’s cloak and other travel clothes, and standing in a green silk jerkin, was stared at in amazement by all, who found it hard to believe it was truly him. Tedaldo, seeing their disbelief, recounted many details of their relationships and of his own adventures; then, his brothers and the other gentlemen rushed to embrace him with tears of joy, as did the ladies, both relatives and strangers—except only Madam Ermellina.

Noticing this, Aldobrandino said, ‘What is it, Ermellina? Why are you not welcoming Tedaldo like the other ladies?’ She replied, in hearing of everyone, ‘No one would have more gladly welcomed him than I, or would now, since I owe him greater thanks than any other woman—because through him, I have you back again; but the shameful rumors spoken while we thought Tedaldo was dead made me hold back.’ Her husband said, ‘Now, do you think I believe such gossip? He has proven those rumors false by saving me—and I never believed them anyway. Go on, get up and embrace him.’

The lady, who wanted nothing more, quickly obeyed her husband and went to embrace Tedaldo, like the other ladies, greeting him with joy. Aldobrandino’s generosity pleased Tedaldo’s brothers and everyone present greatly, and thus any lingering suspicion the earlier rumors may have caused in some minds was put to rest. Once all had congratulated Tedaldo, he himself tore off the mourning clothes from his brothers and the somber dresses from his sisters and female relatives and had them bring new ones; and when they had changed, everyone began to sing, dance, and enjoy many festivities. Thus, the banquet that had begun in silence ended with much merriment. Afterward, filled with joy, everyone—just as they were—went to Tedaldo’s house, where they supped that night, and the celebrations continued for several more days.

The people of Florence were for a while amazed by Tedaldo, as if he had returned from the dead; indeed, in the minds of many—and even his brothers—there remained some lingering doubt whether he was truly himself. This doubt would likely have lingered even longer if not for an event that finally revealed who the murdered man was. One day, some footmen from Lunigiana happened to pass by their house and, seeing Tedaldo, approached him and said, ‘Good day to you, Faziuolo.’ Tedaldo, in front of his brothers, answered, ‘You are mistaken.’ The men, embarrassed by his response, apologized, saying, ‘Truly, you look more like our comrade, Faziuolo of Pontremoli, than one man ever favored another. He came here about a fortnight ago, and we have not heard from him since. Indeed, we wondered at your clothes, as he was a soldier, just like us.’ Tedaldo’s eldest brother, hearing this, asked how Faziuolo had been dressed. They told him, and it matched exactly what they remembered; with this and other evidence, it was clear that the slain man was Faziuolo, not Tedaldo, erasing all remaining doubt. Tedaldo, now returned a wealthy man, continued his love affair, and the lady never quarreled with him again; so, managing their relationship wisely, they enjoyed their love for a long time. May God grant us the same in ours!”

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## THE EIGHTH STORY

Day the Third

FERONDO, HAVING SWALLOWED A CERTAIN POWDER, IS BURIED AS IF DEAD AND, BEING TAKEN FROM THE TOMB BY THE ABBOT—WHO ENJOYS HIS WIFE IN THE MEANTIME—IS PUT IN PRISON AND MADE TO BELIEVE HE IS IN PURGATORY; AFTER WHICH, BEING BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE, HE RAISES AS HIS OWN A CHILD FATHERED BY THE ABBOT UPON HIS WIFE

When Emilia’s long story came to an end—which, despite its length, was pleasing to all and, in fact, was considered by all the ladies to have been brief, given how many varied events it included—the queen, with just a sign, indicated to Lauretta that it was her turn. Lauretta began: “Dearest ladies, a true story has come to my mind, which seems far more unbelievable than it really is, recalled by a recent tale about someone being mourned and buried for another. I intend to tell you how a living man was buried as dead, and how, after he and many others believed he had come forth from the tomb as if raised from the dead, he was worshipped as a saint—though he deserved to be condemned as a criminal instead.

Now, there was—and still is—in Tuscany, an abbey located, as we often see, in a rather deserted place. Its abbot was a monk known as a very holy man in all things—except when it came to women; yet he conducted himself with such cunning that hardly anyone suspected him, much less knew, for he was considered exceedingly godly and just in all respects. It happened that a very wealthy farmer named Ferondo became close friends with the abbot—a heavy, simple fellow, dull-witted beyond measure, with whom the abbot enjoyed some diversion thanks to his naivete. Over time, the abbot noticed that Ferondo had a very beautiful wife, with whom he fell madly in love, thinking of her day and night; but he also learned that, although Ferondo was simple and slow in all other things, he was quite shrewd in guarding his wife, and this made the abbot almost give up hope about her.

However, being a clever man, he managed to lure Ferondo to the abbey from time to time with his wife, and there, speaking piously about the joys of eternal life and the good works of men and women of old, he entertained them most earnestly. So moved was the lady that she desired to confess to him and, with Ferondo’s consent, did so. To the abbot’s great delight, she came to him and, seated at his feet, before she made her confession, she began: ‘Sir, if God had given me a proper husband or none at all, it would likely be easy, with your advice, for me to follow the path that you say leads people to eternal life; but, knowing what Ferondo is and his foolishness, I may as well call myself a widow, even though I am married, for while he lives, I can have no other husband. And though he is a dolt, he is, without any cause, so outrageously jealous of me that I can live with him only in misery and tribulation. Therefore, before confessing further, I humbly beg you, as much as I can, to give me some counsel regarding this, since unless there is some remedy for my troubles, confession or any other good work will do me little good.’

This speech greatly pleased the abbot—he felt fortune had opened the way to his greatest desire—so he said, ‘Daughter, I can easily believe it must be torture for a beautiful and fine lady like you to have a fool for a husband, and even worse to have a jealous one; so, having both, it’s not hard to believe what you say of your misery. As for advice—shortly put—I see only one remedy: Ferondo must be cured of his jealousy. I know well how to make the medicine that will cure him, if you have the courage to keep secret what I will tell you.’ ‘Father,’ replied the lady, ‘do not worry—I would rather die than repeat anything you tell me in confidence. But how can this be done?’ The abbot replied, ‘If we are to cure him, it is necessary that he go to purgatory.’ ‘But how,’ asked the lady, ‘can he go there alive?’ ‘He must die,’ answered the abbot, ‘and so go there; then, after he has suffered enough penance to purge his jealousy, we will pray to God, with certain prayers, that He restore him to life—and He will do it.’ ‘So,’ said the lady, ‘I am to become a widow?’ ‘Yes,’ said the abbot, ‘for a time, but you must be careful not to marry again—God would not approve, and when Ferondo returns, you would need to go back to him, and he would be more jealous than ever.’ ‘If only this will cure him, and I do not have to stay in prison all my life, I agree—do as you please.’ ‘I will,’ replied he, ‘but what reward am I to have from you for such a service?’ ‘Father,’ responded the lady, ‘whatever you want, as long as it is within my power; but what could someone like me give that would be fitting for a man like you?’ ‘Madam,’ said the abbot, ‘you can do nothing less than what I am doing for you; just as I am willing to do what is for your happiness and comfort, you should do that which will be the saving and healing of my life.’ She said, ‘If that’s the case, I am ready.’ ‘Then,’ said the abbot, ‘you must give me your love and grant me the satisfaction of yourself, for whom I am burning with love and desire.’

The lady was shocked and replied, ‘Oh dear father, what is this you ask? I thought you were a saint. Is it right for holy men to ask such things of women who come to them for counsel?’ ‘My dear,’ replied the abbot, ‘do not be surprised; holiness is not lessened by this, since it has its seat in the soul, and what I ask is only a bodily sin. But whatever the case, your remarkable beauty has such power that love forces me to act thus; indeed, you may take pride that your charms attract even holy men accustomed to contemplating heavenly beauties. Besides, though I am abbot, I am a man like any other, and not yet old, as you see. And this thing should not trouble you—you should desire it, for while Ferondo is in purgatory, I will be with you at night, offering you the comfort he should give you; no one will ever know, since everyone believes of me even more than what you just believed. Do not refuse the grace God sends you; there are women enough who want what you can have, and shall have, if you wisely follow my advice. I also have beautiful, precious jewels which I intend for no one else but you. Please, my sweet hope, do for me what I gladly do for you.’

The lady bowed her head—not knowing how to refuse, though she felt it wrong to agree; but the abbot, seeing she was listening and hesitant, and thinking he had half-convinced her, pressed her further with words until he persuaded her she should comply. She answered, blushing, that she was willing to do as he wished, but only after Ferondo had gone to purgatory; at this, the abbot, greatly pleased, said, ‘Then we’ll make sure he goes there right away—just arrange for him to come here tomorrow or the next day to stay with me.’ And secretly, he slipped a very handsome ring into her hand and dismissed her. The lady, happy with the gift and expecting more, joined her companions; she began telling them marvellous things about the abbot’s holiness, and eventually returned home with them.

A few days later Ferondo came to the abbey, and, once the abbot saw him, he began planning to send him to purgatory. He used a special powder of remarkable potency, which he had received in the Levant from a great prince, who claimed it was used by the Old Man of the Mountain to make people sleep and enter his paradise, or bring them out—depending on the amount, it caused sleep for longer or shorter periods, seeming to take away all life while lasting, but causing no harm. The abbot measured out enough to make a man sleep for three days and mixed it into a cup of not yet fully clarified wine, which he gave Ferondo in his cell, without Ferondo suspecting anything. He then took Ferondo into the cloister, where he and some monks began to make sport of him and his foolishness; soon, the powder took effect—Ferondo became so suddenly and profoundly sleepy that he was still standing when he fell fast asleep.

The abbot pretended to be alarmed at this, and, ordering him to be undressed, had cold water brought and poured on his face, and tried many other remedies, as if he wanted to recall life and sense from some stomach trouble or similar malady. The monks, seeing he did not revive and feeling for his pulse but finding no sign of life, were certain he was dead. They sent word to his wife and his kin, all of whom hurriedly came; after the lady wept for a while with her relatives, the abbot had Ferondo, still clothed, laid in a tomb. The lady then returned home, saying she meant never to be parted from a little son she had by her husband, and busying herself with the care of the child and the property that had been Ferondo’s. Meanwhile, at night, the abbot rose secretly and, with the help of a Bolognese monk—a trusted confidant who had come that day from Bologna—took Ferondo from the tomb and carried him to a windowless vault, used to imprison monks who had broken rules. There they undressed him and, dressing him as a monk, laid him on straw until he recovered his senses, while the Bolognese, following the abbot’s instructions and unknown to anyone else, waited for Ferondo to awaken.

The next day, the abbot, with several monks, went by way of visitation to the lady’s house, where he found her in mourning and much distress, and, after comforting her, quietly asked her to keep her promise. The lady, now free from Ferondo and seeing another fine ring on the abbot’s finger, replied that she was ready, naming that very night for him to come to her. That night, the abbot went there, disguised in Ferondo’s clothes and accompanied by his confidant. He lay with her in utmost pleasure till morning, and then returned to the abbey. After that, he often made the same journey, and, when passing villagers saw him coming or going, they believed it was Ferondo, doing penance—so many strange tales started circulating among the simple village folk, and more than once these were reported to Ferondo’s wife, who well knew the truth.

As for Ferondo, when he came to his senses and found himself in an unknown place, the Bolognese monk entered with a terrible noise, grabbed him, and gave him a sound beating with a rod. Ferondo, weeping and crying out, asked only, “Where am I?” The monk answered, “You are in purgatory.” “How?” cried Ferondo. “Am I dead, then?” “Yes, indeed,” replied the monk. At this, Ferondo began to lament for himself, his wife, and his child, saying the strangest things. Soon the monk brought him some food and drink, and when Ferondo saw it, he exclaimed, “What! Do the dead eat?” “They do,” answered the monk. “What I bring you is from the woman who was your wife—she sent this to the church this morning as an offering to have masses said for your soul, and God has willed that it be given to you.” Ferondo said, “God grant her a good year! I still loved her before I died, so much that I held her all night in my arms and did nothing but kiss her, and the other thing as well, when I wished.” Then, very hungry, he began eating and drinking, but found the wine not very good. “Lord curse her!” he said. “Why didn’t she give the priest wine from the cask against the wall?”

After he had eaten, the monk seized him again and gave him another good beating with the same rod. Ferondo roared loudly and cried, “Why are you doing this to me?” The monk replied, “Because God has ordained that this shall be done to you twice every day.” “But why?” asked Ferondo. “Because,” said the monk, “you were jealous, even though you had the best woman in the country for a wife.” “Alas,” replied Ferondo, “you speak the truth—and she was the kindest soul; sweeter than syrup. But I didn’t know that God disapproved of a man’s jealousy; otherwise I wouldn’t have been so.” The monk said, “You should have thought of that when you were there below and corrected yourself; and should it happen that you ever return, remember well what I do to you now, so that you’re never jealous again.” “What?” said Ferondo. “Do the dead ever return?” “Yes,” answered the monk, “when God wills it.” “Well,” said Ferondo, “if I ever return, I’ll be the best husband in the world; I’ll never beat her or say a harsh word—except maybe about the wine she sent here today, and because she sent no candles, so I had to eat in the dark.” “No,” said the monk, “she sent enough candles, but they were all burned for the masses.” “True,” replied Ferondo, “and certainly, if I go back, I’ll let her do as she pleases. But tell me, who are you who treats me this way?” “I too am dead,” said the monk. “I was from Sardinia, and because I once praised my master for being jealous, God sentenced me to this punishment: to bring you food and drink and to beat you, until God commands otherwise for you and for me.” Then Ferondo asked, “Is there no one here except us both?” “There are thousands,” answered the monk, “but you can neither see nor hear them, nor they you.” Ferondo then asked, “And how far are we from our own lands?” “Why,” replied the monk, “we’re farther than we could ever walk in a single trip.” “Well,” said the farmer, “that’s far enough; it seems we must be out of the world if it’s that far.”

With such conversations, Ferondo passed about ten months, eating, drinking, and being beaten, while the abbot visited the fair lady often and enjoyed himself greatly with her. At last, by misfortune, the lady found herself with child and immediately informed the abbot, so it seemed best to both that Ferondo should be brought back from purgatory at once, so she could claim the child as his. So, that same night, the abbot had Ferondo called in his cell with a disguised voice, saying, “Ferondo, take heart, for it is God’s will that you return to the world; you shall have a son by your wife, whom you must name Benedict, for by the prayers of your holy abbot, your wife, and for the love of St. Benedict, God grants you this favor.” Hearing this, Ferondo was overjoyed and said, “I like that—God bless Lord God Almighty, the abbot, St. Benedict, and my sweet, lovely wife.” The abbot mixed enough of the powder into Ferondo’s wine to make him sleep for about four hours, and, together with his monk, dressed him in his own clothes and secretly returned him to the tomb where he had been buried.

The next morning at dawn, Ferondo woke up and, seeing light—for the first time in ten months—through a crack in the tomb, was sure he was alive again. He began shouting, “Open to me! Open to me!” and pushed so hard at the lid with his head that he started to move it. The monks, who had just finished saying matins, ran there when they recognized Ferondo’s voice and saw him trying to come out of the tomb. Astonished by the sight, they fled to the abbot, who pretended to rise from prayer and said, “My sons, do not fear; take the cross and holy water and follow me, so we may see what God wishes to reveal to us of His power”—and so they did.

Ferondo, now out of the tomb and extremely pale as one would be after so long without seeing the sky, ran to the abbot as soon as he saw him and threw himself at his feet, saying, “Father, as was revealed to me, your prayers, those of St. Benedict, and my wife have freed me from purgatory and brought me back to life. I pray God grants you many good years and good fortune, now and always.” The abbot replied, “Praised be God’s power! Go, my son, since he has returned you to us; comfort your wife, who has done nothing but weep since you left this life, and be a friend and servant of God from now on.” “Yes, Father,” replied Ferondo, “just let me—because as soon as I find her, I’ll kiss her, I love her so much.”

When the abbot was alone with his monks, he made a great show of wonder at this miracle and had the Miserere sung devoutly for it. As for Ferondo, he went back to his village, where everyone who saw him ran away, as people do from frightening things; but he called them back and claimed he had risen again. His wife also pretended to be scared of him; but after the people settled down and saw he really was alive, they questioned him closely, and he, pretending to have returned wiser, answered everything and brought news of the souls of their relatives, inventing the most fanciful tales about purgatory, including the message he claimed to have received from the angel Bragiel before he returned. Then, going home and taking possession of his goods again, he believed he got his wife pregnant, and by coincidence, at the time people thought proper for pregnancy—since the ignorant believe women are always exactly nine months with child—the lady gave birth to a boy, who was named Benedict Ferondi.

Ferondo’s return and his tales, with nearly everyone believing he had truly risen from the dead, greatly increased the abbot’s reputation for holiness, and Ferondo himself, seemingly cured of his jealousy by so many beatings, was from then on, as the abbot promised the lady, never jealous again. The lady was well pleased and lived honestly with him, as usual, except that, whenever she had the chance, she gladly met with the holy abbot who had so diligently helped her in her time of need.”

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## THE NINTH STORY

Day the Third

GILLETTE DE NARBONNE CURES THE KING OF FRANCE OF A FISTULA AND ASKS FOR BERTRAND DE ROUSSILLON AS HER HUSBAND; HE MARRIES HER AGAINST HIS WILL AND GOES, IN SPITE, TO FLORENCE, WHERE, WHILE HE COURTS A YOUNG LADY, GILLETTE, DISGUISED AS HER, SLEEPS WITH HIM AND HAS TWO SONS BY HIM; AFTER THIS, HE FINALLY HOLDS HER DEAR AND ACCEPTS HER AS HIS WIFE

Lauretta’s story being finished, it was now only left for the queen to speak, unless she wished to infringe upon Dioneo’s privilege. So, without waiting for her companions to urge her, she began with cheerful words: “Who can tell a story that will seem good, after Lauretta’s? Truly, it is well this one did not come first, for few afterward could have pleased us, and I fear the remaining ones today may disappoint. Nevertheless, as it may, I will tell you what comes to my mind for the proposed theme.

There was in the kingdom of France a gentleman named Isnard, Count of Roussillon, who, being often in poor health, always kept a physician by him, called Master Gerard de Narbonne. This count had only one young son, named Bertrand, who was exceedingly handsome and charming. Other children his age were brought up with him. Among these was the daughter of the physician, Gillette, who loved Bertrand with a passion beyond her young years. When the count died and left his son in the king’s care, Bertrand went to Paris, and the girl was left deeply saddened. Her own father died soon after, and she would have gladly gone to Paris to see Bertrand, if she could have done so honorably; but, as she was closely watched—being a wealthy and solitary heiress—she saw no proper way. And now of age to marry, unable to forget Bertrand, she turned down many worthy suitors suggested by her family, without ever giving a reason.

Now, as it happened, while her love for Bertrand burned more fiercely than ever—especially since she heard he had grown into a very handsome gentleman—news reached her that the King of France, because of an abscess in his chest that had been poorly treated, had developed a fistula causing him severe pain and distress. Despite the efforts of many physicians, none had been able to cure him; in fact, they had made things worse. In despair of finding a cure, the king refused any further medical help. The young lady was greatly pleased by this news, seeing in it not only a legitimate reason for her to travel to Paris, but also a chance—if the king’s ailment was what she suspected—that she might finally win Bertrand as her husband. Having previously learned much from her father, she made a powder from certain herbs suited to treat the king's condition and set out for Paris.

Before doing anything else, she made an effort to see Bertrand; then, presenting herself to the king, she asked him kindly to let her examine his illness. The king, seeing she was a fair and engaging young woman, could not refuse her and showed her the afflicted area. Upon seeing it, she immediately realized she could cure it and said, "My lord, if it please you, I hope in God to make you whole from this illness within eight days, without pain or fatigue on your part." The king, skeptical, thought to himself, "What the greatest physicians in the world couldn’t do, how could a young woman manage?" So he thanked her for her goodwill, but replied that he no longer wished to consult physicians. The young woman responded, "My lord, you underestimate my skill simply because I am young and a woman; but you should remember that I don’t practice medicine by my own learning alone, but with the help of God and the knowledge of Master Gerard de Narbonne, my father, who was a renowned physician in his time."

Hearing this, the king thought to himself, "Perhaps this woman is sent to me by God; why shouldn't I test her skill, especially since she says she'll cure me quickly and without discomfort?" Deciding to try her, he said, "Damsel, and if you fail to cure us, after making us break our resolution, what punishment would you accept?" She replied, "My lord, guard me, and if I don't cure you within eight days, let me be burned alive; but if I do cure you, what reward will I have?" The king answered, "You seem to be unmarried; if you accomplish this, we will ensure you’re married well and honorably." The young woman responded, "My lord, I’m content to have you marry me, but I will choose my husband, as long as he’s not one of your sons or of royal blood." He agreed, and she began the treatment. In short, before the arranged time was up, she restored him to health.

Feeling healthy again, the king said, "Damsel, you have well earned your husband." She answered, "Then, my lord, I have earned Bertrand de Roussillon, whom I loved since childhood and have always cherished above all." The king hesitated to give her Bertrand; yet, since he had promised and did not want to break his word, he called for the count and said, "Bertrand, you are now of age and ready to manage your estate as a man; therefore, it is our wish that you return to govern your county, taking with you a young lady given to you as wife." "And who is the lady, my lord?" Bertrand asked. The king replied, "It is she whose medicines have restored my health."

Bertrand, who had met and recognized Gillette, knew (despite her beauty) that she was not of a rank equal to his own. He replied disdainfully, "My lord, do you truly mean to marry me to a female doctor? God forbid I ever take such a woman as my wife!" The king responded, "Would you have us break our word, which we gave this damsel in exchange for our health, when she requested you as her husband?" Bertrand said, "My lord, you may strip me of everything I own or assign me wherever you please as your vassal. But know this: I will never willingly agree to such a marriage." The king countered, "But you shall, for the young lady is beautiful and wise and loves you dearly; we are sure you will have a much happier life with her than with a woman of nobler birth." Bertrand remained silent, and the king made grand preparations for the wedding.

When the appointed day came, Bertrand, greatly against his will, married the young lady in the king's presence, she loving him more than herself. Afterwards, already having decided what to do, he asked the king for leave to depart, saying he wished to return to his county and there consummate the marriage. But instead, he traveled to Tuscany, where, learning that the Florentines were at war with the Sienese, he chose to side with the Florentines. They welcomed him warmly, making him captain over a group of men-at-arms, and there he served for some time.

His newly wedded wife, unhappy with her situation but hoping to win him over by her good conduct, went to Roussillon, where she was welcomed as their lady. Finding the land wasted and disordered after being so long without a lord, she, showing her good sense and diligence, brought everything back into order. The count’s vassals were much pleased and valued her greatly, showing her deep affection and blaming the count for not accepting her. When she had set everything right in the county, she sent word to the count through two knights, asking him—if her presence was the reason he stayed away—to let her know, and she would leave to please him. But he replied coldly, "Let her do as she pleases; as for me, I shall not return to stay with her until she has on her finger this ring of mine and bears in her arms a son conceived by me." Now, Bertrand valued the ring highly and never took it off, believing it had a special power.

The knights realized that the count's conditions were nearly impossible to fulfill; but, finding they could not persuade him otherwise, they returned to the lady and gave her his answer. She was deeply distressed and, after much thought, resolved to see if there was any way she could fulfill the conditions and thus reclaim her husband. After careful planning, she gathered several of the most important men of the county and, with a heartfelt speech, recounted what she had already done out of love for the count, describing what had happened and adding that she did not wish her presence to cause him to stay in permanent exile. Instead, she planned to spend her life in pilgrimages and charitable works for the good of her soul. She asked them to govern the county and to inform the count that she had left, giving up any claim to Roussillon and never intending to return. The people wept as she spoke and pleaded with her to change her mind and stay, but to no avail. Then, commending them to God, she set out with no one knowing where, taking with her money, valuables, a cousin, and a maid, all dressed as pilgrims. They traveled until they reached Florence, where, finding a small inn run by a respectable widow, she took up residence, living quietly as a poor pilgrim, eager for news of her husband.

It so happened that the day after her arrival, she saw Bertrand ride past her lodging with his company. She knew him well but still asked the innkeeper who he was. The hostess replied, "That is a foreign gentleman who calls himself Count Bertrand, a pleasant, courteous man who is much loved in this city. He is head over heels in love with a neighbor of ours, a gentlewoman of good character but poor. The daughter, who still lives at home unmarried for want of a dowry, is very virtuous and lives with her mother, a kind and wise lady; otherwise, perhaps, she might have already given in to the count’s wishes." The countess remembered what she heard, asked enough to learn every detail, and decided what to do.

Having found out where the lady lived, she went there secretly in her pilgrim’s habit and, seeing the mother and daughter in poverty, greeted them. She asked to speak with the mother in private. The mother, polite as ever, agreed and led her into a private room where they sat down together and the countess began, "Madam, it seems you, like me, have been unlucky in life; but, if you wish, perhaps you can help both of us." The lady replied that she wanted nothing more than to relieve her family's troubles by any honest means. The countess continued, "First, you must give me your word. If I trust you and you betray me, you’ll harm not only my cause but your own." "Tell me anything you wish; you may trust me—I will not deceive you," said the lady.

The countess then told her, beginning with her first love for Bertrand, who she was and all that had happened to her until that day. The lady, believing her story and having already heard it from others, began to feel compassion. The countess continued, "Now you have heard of the two things I must obtain if I am to have my husband. I know no one who can help me except you, if it’s true—as I hear—that the count is desperately in love with your daughter." The woman answered, "Madam, whether the count loves my daughter or not, I can’t say, though he certainly acts as though he does. But even if it’s true, what can I do for you?" "Madam," replied the countess, "I’ll explain, but let me tell you first what I will do for you in return. Your daughter is beautiful and of marriageable age, and from what I hear, I understand it’s only a lack of money for a dowry that keeps her single. I propose, in return for your help, to give your daughter, from my own wealth, any dowry you consider necessary to arrange a suitable marriage."

The mother, though poor, maintained her dignity as a gentlewoman. She was pleased by the offer but replied, "Madam, tell me what you need; if it’s honorable, I’ll do it, and then you may do as you wish." The countess continued, "I need you to have someone you trust tell the count—my husband—that your daughter is ready to grant his every wish, so long as she is sure he truly loves her. She will never believe this unless he sends her the ring he always carries and values so much. If he sends you the ring, give it to me, then send word to him that your daughter is willing. When he comes secretly to see her, you must quietly put me—instead of your daughter—to bed with him. With God’s help, maybe I will conceive a child, and so, with his ring on my finger and a child of his in my arms, I will win him back and live as a wife should with her husband, thanks to your help."

This seemed a serious matter to the gentlewoman, who feared that blame might somehow fall upon her daughter; nevertheless, considering that it was an honorable act to help the poor lady get her husband back and that she was doing this for a worthy purpose—and trusting in the good and honest intentions of the countess—she not only promised to help, but, within a few days, with prudence and secrecy and following the countess's instructions, she both obtained the ring (though this was somewhat unpleasant for the count) and cleverly arranged for the countess to be put to bed with her husband in place of her own daughter. In these first embraces, which the count ardently desired, the lady, by God's will, conceived twin sons, as later became evident at their birth. Not just once, but many times, did the gentlewoman grant the countess the opportunity to be with her husband, arranging it so secretly that no one ever suspected a thing, while the count continued to believe he was with the woman he loved, not his wife. Whenever he left in the morning, he would give her various fine and precious jewels on different occasions, which the countess kept with great care.

Then, when she realized she was pregnant and did not wish to further trouble the gentlewoman with such a task, she said, “Madam, thanks to God and to you, I have gained what I desired, so it is time I compensate you and then take my leave.” The gentlewoman replied that, if she was satisfied, she was glad, but insisted she had done this not in hope of a reward, but because she felt it was right. “Madam,” replied the countess, “what you say pleases me, and, accordingly, I intend not merely to repay you what you ask as a reward, but to do even more, for I believe it is right to do so.” The gentlewoman, compelled by necessity and blushing with shame, asked for a hundred pounds to marry off her daughter. However, the countess, seeing her modesty and hearing her humble request, gave her five hundred pounds and so many rare and precious jewels that they might have been worth just as much again. The gentlewoman was more than satisfied and thanked the countess as best she could; and after taking leave, the countess returned to the inn, while the gentlewoman, to prevent Bertrand from having any further reason to contact her, left with her daughter for the countryside to live with relatives; meanwhile, Bertrand, after being recalled by his vassals and learning that the countess had left the area, returned to his own home.

The countess, hearing he had left Florence and returned to his county, was overjoyed and remained in Florence until it was time for her to give birth. She then delivered twin boys, who greatly resembled their father, and had them raised with great care. When she felt it was the right time, she set out and arrived, unknown to anyone, in Montpellier, where she rested for several days and asked about the count's whereabouts. She learned he was to hold a great gathering of knights and ladies at Roussillon on All Saints’ Day, so she went there, still dressed in the pilgrim’s habit she was accustomed to wearing. When she found the knights and ladies assembled in the count’s palace and about to dine, she entered the banqueting hall with her children in her arms, without changing her clothes, made her way through the crowd to the count, and threw herself at his feet, saying—while weeping—“I am your unhappy wife, who, to persuade you to return and live in your home, has long wandered miserably through the world. I beg you, in God's name, to fulfill your promise made on the terms set by the two knights I sent you; for, look, here in my arms is not only one son of yours, but two, and here is your ring. It is time for you to accept me as your wife, according to your promise.”

The count, hearing this, was utterly amazed and recognized both the ring and the children, so much did they resemble him; but he still asked, “How could this have happened?” The countess then, to the wonder of him and everyone present, explained in order all that had taken place and how it had happened. The count, realizing she spoke the truth, and seeing her steadfastness, cleverness, and the two fine children, both to keep his promise and to please his liegemen and the ladies—who all urged him to now receive and honor her as his lawful wife—put aside his stubborn resentment. He raised the countess to her feet, embraced and kissed her, and acknowledged her as his lawful wife and the boys as his sons. Then, having her dressed in clothing befitting her station, and to the great joy of all present and of all his vassals who later heard the news, he held a grand celebration, not just that day, but for several more, and from that day on always honored her as both his bride and wife, loving and treasuring her above all.”

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## THE TENTH STORY

Day the Third

ALIBECH, BECOMING A HERMIT, IS TAUGHT BY RUSTICO, A MONK, TO PUT THE DEVIL IN HELL, AND AFTER BEING BROUGHT AWAY FROM THERE, BECOMES THE WIFE OF NEERBALE

Dioneo, who had listened attentively to the queen’s story, seeing it had ended and that it was his turn to tell a tale, began smiling: “Charming ladies, perhaps you’ve never heard how one puts the devil in hell; so, without straying far from the theme you’ve all discussed today, I’ll tell you the story. Perhaps after hearing it, you’ll get the idea, and realize that, although Love more often dwells in cheerful palaces and luxurious chambers than in the hovels of the poor, nevertheless, sometimes he makes his presence felt even in deep forests, rugged mountains, and lonely caves—demonstrating that all things are subject to his power.

To get to the point: In the city of Capsa, in Barbary, there once lived a very wealthy man who, among his other children, had a beautiful and charming young daughter named Alibech. She was not a Christian, and after hearing many Christians in town praise the Christian faith and service to God, one day she asked one of them how someone might best serve God without much difficulty. The person replied that those best served God who strictly avoided worldly things, as those did who retreated into the deserts of Thebais. The girl, perhaps fourteen years old and very naïve, was motivated not by any deep longing, but by a childish impulse. The next morning, quietly and alone, she set off for the Thebaid desert, telling no one of her intent. After several days, with her desire undiminished, and after much effort, she reached those deserts. Seeing a hut in the distance, she went there and found a holy man at the door, who was amazed to see her and asked what she wanted. She replied that she was inspired by God and was seeking to enter His service, and now looked for someone to teach her how she should serve Him.

The worthy man, seeing her young and fair and fearing that if he kept her, the devil would tempt him, praised her good intentions and, giving her something to eat—roots, wild apples, and dates—and some water, said, “My daughter, not far from here is a holy man, a much better guide than I for what you seek; go to him,” and told her the way. She went to the man he described, but received the same answer, and so continued on until she reached the cell of a young hermit, a very devout and good man named Rustico, to whom she made the same request. Rustico, wanting to test his own self-control, did not send her away as the others had, but welcomed her into his cell. When night fell, he made her a small bed of palm fronds and told her to rest there. But temptations did not delay their attack on his resolve, and he—realizing he was completely overmatched—quickly surrendered, confessing defeat. Setting aside prayers, meditations, and self-denial, he began to dwell on the youth and beauty of the girl and thought about how he might get what he wanted from her, without her thinking him a depraved man.

After questioning her in various ways, he found she was as innocent as she appeared, never having known a man. So, he devised a plan to fulfill his desires under the pretense of serving God. First, he explained at length how great an enemy the devil was to the Lord God. Then he told her the most pleasing service to God was to put the devil back in hell, where God had condemned him. The girl asked how that was to be done, and he replied, “You shall soon know; simply do as you see me do.” With that, he removed his few garments and stood naked, and had the girl do the same; then he knelt, as if to pray, placing her opposite himself.

E cosí stando, essendo Rustico, piú che mai, nel suo dis

La giovane di buona fede rispose: “O padre mio, poiché io ho l’inferno, sia pure quando vuoi metterci il diavolo.” Rustico allora disse: “Figlia mia, sia tu benedetta; andiamo quindi, e rimettiamocelo dentro, così che poi mi lasci in pace.” Così dicendo, condusse la giovane su uno dei loro letticelli e le insegnò come doveva stare per poter incarcerare quel maledetto da Dio. La giovane, che mai prima aveva messo il diavolo in inferno, la prima volta sentì un po’ di disagio; e disse a Rustico:

“Davvero, padre mio, questo diavolo deve essere una brutta cosa, e davvero è nemico di Dio, poiché persino all’inferno, non solo altrove, dà fastidio quando vi è rimesso.” Rustico rispose: “Figlia mia, non sarà sempre così.” E per far sì che questo non accadesse, rinnovarono il gesto sei volte prima di alzarsi dal letto, rimettendolo in inferno; tanto che per quella volta gli tolsero ogni superbia dal capo, e lui rimase volentieri in quiete. Ma, tornandogli poi il desiderio più volte nei giorni seguenti, e la giovane ubbidendo sempre a liberarlo, accadde che il gioco cominciò a piacerle; e così disse a Rustico: “Ora vedo che dicevano il vero quei buoni di Capsa, che servire Dio fosse così dolce; e di certo non ricordo mai di aver fatto nulla che mi arrechi tanto piacere e diletto quanto mettere il diavolo in inferno; dunque penso che chiunque si dedichi ad altro che al servire Dio sia davvero uno sciocco.” Perciò spesso si recava da Rustico e gli diceva: “Padre mio, sono venuta qui per servire Dio e non per stare oziosa; andiamo a rimettere il diavolo in inferno.” Facendo ciò, a volte diceva: “Rustico, non capisco perché il diavolo scappi dall’inferno; perché, se vi rimanesse volentieri come l’inferno lo accoglie e lo tiene, non ne uscirebbe mai.” Così la giovane spesso invitava Rustico al servizio di Dio e, tanto lo incoraggiava, che gli aveva tolto la bambagia dal farsetto, tanto che egli a volte sentiva freddo dove un altro avrebbe sudato; e perciò iniziò a dire alla giovane che il diavolo non era da punire o da rimettere in inferno, se non quando per superbia alzava il capo; “e noi, per grazia di Dio, l’abbiamo talmente ingannato che ora prega Dio di lasciarlo in pace.” Così impose un po’ di silenzio alla giovane. Ma quando la giovane vide che Rustico non la cercava più per rimettere il diavolo in inferno, un giorno gli disse: “Rustico, se il tuo diavolo è domato e non ti infastidisce più, il mio inferno invece non mi lascia stare; quindi sarebbe bene che tu, col tuo diavolo, aiutassi a placare la rabbia del mio inferno, così come io, col mio inferno, ho aiutato a togliere la superbia dal tuo diavolo.”

*Nota del trascrittore:* Di seguito un brano della traduzione inglese del 1886 curata da John Payne, pubblicata per la Villon Society e per circolazione privata:

Matters standing thus and Rustico being more than ever inflamed in his desires to see her so fair, there came the resurrection of the flesh, which Alibech observing and marvelling, ‘Rustico,’ quoth she, ‘what is that I see on thee which thrusteth forth thus and which I have not?’ ‘Faith, daughter mine,’ answered he, ‘this is the devil whereof I bespoke thee; and see now, he giveth me such sore annoy that I can scarce put up with it.’ Then said the girl, ‘Now praised be God! I see I fare better than thou, in that I have none of yonder devil.’ ‘True,’ rejoined Rustico; ‘but thou hast otherwhat that I have not, and thou hast it instead of this.’ ‘What is that?’ asked Alibech; and he, ‘Thou hast hell, and I tell thee methinketh God hath sent thee hither for my soul’s health, for that, whenas this devil doth me this annoy, an it please thee have so much compassion on me as to suffer me put him back into hell, thou wilt give me the utmost solacement and wilt do God a very great pleasure and service, so indeed thou be come into these parts to do as thou sayst.’

The girl answered in good faith, ‘Marry, father mine, since I have hell, be it whensoever it pleaseth thee;’ whereupon quoth Rustico, ‘Daughter, blessed be thou; let us go then and put him back there, so he may after leave me in peace.’ So saying, he laid her on one of their little beds and taught her how she should do to imprison that accursed one of God. The girl, who had never yet put any devil in hell, for the first time felt some little pain; wherefore she said to Rustico, ‘Certes, father mine, this same devil must be an ill thing and an enemy in very deed of God, for that it irketh hell itself, let be otherwhat, when he is put back therein.’ ‘Daughter,’ answered Rustico, ‘it will not always happen thus;’ and to the end that this should not happen, six times, or ever they stirred from the bed, they put him in hell again, insomuch that for the nonce they so took the conceit out of his head that he willingly abode at peace. But, it returning to him again and again the ensuing days and the obedient girl still lending herself to take it out of him, it befell that the sport began to please her and she said to Rustico, ‘I see now that those good people in Capsa spoke sooth, when they avouched that it was so sweet a thing to serve God; for, certes, I remember me not to have ever done aught that afforded me such pleasance and delight as putting the devil in hell; wherefore methinketh that whoso applieth himself unto aught other than God His service is a fool.’

Accordingly, she came ofttimes to Rustico and said to him, ‘Father mine, I came here to serve God and not to abide idle; let us go put the devil in hell.’ Which doing, she said whiles, ‘Rustico, I know not why the devil fleeth away from hell; for, an he abode there as willingly as hell receiveth him and holdeth him, he would never come forth therefrom.’ The girl, then, on this wise often inviting Rustico and exhorting him to the service of God, so took the bombast out of his doublet that he felt cold what time another had sweated; wherefore he fell to telling her that the devil was not to be chastised nor put into hell, save whenas he should lift up his head for pride; ‘and we,’ added he, ‘by God’s grace, have so baffled him that he prayeth our Lord to suffer him abide in peace;’ and on this wise he for awhile imposed silence on her. However, when she saw that he required her not of putting the devil in hell, she said to him one day, ‘Rustico, an thy devil be chastened and give thee no more annoy, my hell letteth me not be; wherefore thou wilt do well to aid me with thy devil in abating the raging of my hell, even as with my hell I have helped thee take the conceit out of thy devil.’

Rustico, who lived on roots and water, could ill avail to answer her calls and told her that it would need overmany devils to appease hell, but he would do what he might thereof. Accordingly he satisfied her bytimes, but so seldom it was but casting a bean into the lion’s mouth; whereas the girl, herseeming she served not God as diligently as she would fain have done, murmured somewhat. But, whilst this debate was toward between Rustico his devil and Alibech her hell, for overmuch desire on the one part and lack of power on the other, it befell that a fire broke out in Capsa and burnt Alibech’s father in his own house, with as many children and other family as he had; by reason whereof she abode heir to all his good. Thereupon, a young man called Neerbale, who had spent all his substance in gallantry, hearing that she was alive, set out in search of her and finding her, before the court had laid hands upon her father’s estate, as that of a man dying without heir, to Rustico’s great satisfaction, but against her own will, brought her back to Capsa, where he took her to wife and succeeded, in her right, to the ample inheritance of her father.

There, being asked by the women at what she served God in the desert, she answered (Neerbale having not yet lain with her) that she served Him at putting the devil in hell and that Neerbale had done a grievous sin in that he had taken her from such service. The ladies asked, ‘How putteth one the devil in hell?’ And the girl, what with words and what with gestures, expounded it to them; whereat they set up so great a laughing that they laugh yet and said, ‘Give yourself no concern, my child; nay, for that is done here also and Neerbale will serve our Lord full well with thee at this.’ Thereafter, telling it from one to another throughout the city, they brought it to a common saying there that the most acceptable service one could render to God was to put the devil in hell, which byword, having passed the sea hither, is yet current here. Wherefore do all you young ladies, who have need of God’s grace, learn to put the devil in hell, for that this is highly acceptable to Him and pleasing to both parties and much good may grow and ensue thereof.”

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Dioneo’s story had moved the modest ladies to laughter a thousand times or more, his words proving so quaint and funny; and when he finished, the queen, knowing her time as sovereign was up, lifted the laurel from her head and merrily placed it on Filostrato’s, saying: “We’ll soon see if the wolf knows how to govern the ewes better than the ewes have governed the wolves.” Filostrato, hearing this, laughed and said, “If I’d been heard, the wolves would have taught the ewes to put the devil in hell just as Rustico taught Alibech; so do not call us wolves, since you yourselves have not been ewes. Anyway, I’ll govern the kingdom entrusted to me as best I can.” “Listen, Filostrato,” replied Neifile, “in seeking to teach us, you might have learned something yourself, just as Masetto of Lamporecchio did with the nuns, and found your tongue when your bones ought to have learned to whistle without a master.”

Filostrato, seeing that he was still matched wit for wit, stopped joking and began attending to the governance of the kingdom entrusted to him. He called the seneschal to learn how things stood, then wisely ordered what he thought would please the company during his reign. Then, turning to the ladies, he said: “Dear ladies, ever since I could tell right from wrong, I have, for my misfortune, always been subject to Love because of the charms of one or another of you; nor have humility, obedience, nor the faithful following of Love’s ways, as much as I knew, helped me except to be abandoned for another, and then to go from bad to worse; and so, I expect, it will be until my death. Therefore, I would have tomorrow’s stories be solely of that which matches my case: OF THOSE WHOSE LOVES HAVE HAD UNHAPPY ENDINGS, since I, in the end, expect such a fate for myself; and the name by which you call me was given by one who knew well what it signified.” With that, he rose and dismissed everyone until supper-time.

The garden was so beautiful and delightful that no one chose to leave it, hoping to find greater pleasure elsewhere. Indeed, the sun, now mild, made it easy to chase after the fawns, kids, rabbits, and other animals that, while the group sat, had come perhaps a hundred times to disturb them by leaping through their midst; so some entertained themselves by running after them. Dioneo and Fiammetta began singing of Messer Guglielmo and the Lady of Vergiu, while Filomena and Pamfilo sat down to play chess; and so, some doing one thing, some another, the time passed so agreeably that supper-time arrived almost unnoticed; whereupon, with the tables set around the lovely fountain, they dined there that evening with great delight.

As soon as the tables were cleared, Filostrato, in keeping with the tradition set by the previous queens, asked Lauretta to start a dance and sing a song. “My lord,” she replied, “I don’t know any songs by other people, nor do I recall any of my own that would best suit such a joyful group; but if you choose one from those I do know, I will gladly sing it.” The king replied, “Nothing of yours could be anything but good and pleasing; so sing us one that you have.” Lauretta then began, her voice sweet but somewhat plaintive, while the other ladies answered her:

No maid disconsolate  
Hath cause as I, alas!  
Who sigh for love in vain, and mourn her fate.

He who moves heaven and all the stars above  
Made me for His delight,  
Lovely and lively, kind and full of love,

Here below to give each noble soul some light  
Of that beauty fair  
That still in heaven remains within His sight;  
But erring men’s unfairness,  
Unknowing me, my worth  
Accepted not—they only spoke ill and berate.

Once there was one who held me dear and wished  
To take me, a young maiden,  
Into his arms and thoughts and heart and mind,  
He caught fire at my sweet eyes; yes, time,  
Which quickly flies away,  
He spent entirely trying to win me.  
I, courteous, did not refuse  
And held him worthy of me;

But now, alas, I am left without him.

Then before me appeared  
A proud and haughty young man,  
Boasting of his courage and nobility;  
He took hold of me and with misguided thoughts  
Is driven by jealousy;  
Because of this, I am nearly in despair,  
Knowing myself—brought  
Into this world for the good

Of many—yet taken by only one partner.

I truly curse the unlucky hour  
When I, unhappily, said yes,  
Choosing to change my garment—so beautiful in that dark clothing  
I was and joyful, while in this brighter dress  
I now lead a weary life,  
Regarded as less respectable than before, alas!  
Oh, sorrowful wedding day,  
I wish to God I had died  
Before I experienced you in such misery!

Oh, dear lover, with whom I once was so pleased  
In days gone by—

Who now before Him, seated in the sky  
Who fashioned us—have pity upon me  
Who cannot, even if I die,  
Forget you for another; let me see  
The flame that once kindled you  
For me still burns unquenched  
And grant my recall up there.

Here Lauretta ended her song, which, though everyone listened closely, was understood differently by different people. There were some who, in the Milanese way, thought a good pig was better than a beautiful woman; but others, with a higher and truer understanding, saw things differently, though there's no need to discuss that now. Afterward, the king had many torches lit on the grass and among the flowers, and had various other songs sung, until every star above the horizon began to set. When he thought it was time for sleep, he wished everyone good night and bade them retire to their chambers.

**HERE ENDS THE THIRD DAY**

OF THE DECAMERON**

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# *Day the Fourth*

Here Begins the Fourth Day of the Decameron, Where, Under the Rule of Filostrato, Stories Are Told of Those Whose Loves Have Had Unhappy Endings

Dearest ladies, from both the words of wise men I've heard and the many things I've seen and read myself, I had believed that the furious and burning wind of envy mostly strikes only the tallest towers or the highest treetops. But I now find myself mistaken, because, trying—always—to avoid the cruel attack of that raging wind, I have aimed to stay not only in the plains, but in the deepest valleys, as anyone can clearly see from these stories now presented. They have been written by me, not only in plain Florentine language, but in prose, anonymously, and in as humble and simple a style as possible. Yet, all the same, I have not been able to avoid being severely shaken—almost uprooted—by the said wind, and torn apart by the teeth of envy; so I fully understand now the truth of what the wise often say: misery alone, in present things, is free from envy.

There are then, thoughtful ladies, some who, reading these stories, have said that I admire you too much and that it is not fitting for me to take such delight in entertaining and comforting you; and some have criticized me even more for praising you as I do. Others, pretending to be more mature, have said that it's improper, at my age, to concern myself with such things—to tell stories about women or to try to please them. Many, pretending to care for my reputation, claim I would be wiser to remain with the Muses on Parnassus than to occupy myself with these amusements among you. Again, there are some who, speaking more spitefully than wisely, have said that I would be wiser to worry about where I might get my next meal than go selling these trifles, feeding on air; and certain others, trying to belittle my efforts, attempt to prove that the things I have recounted happened differently than I have related.

With all these quarrels, these harsh criticisms, these constant stings, noble ladies, I find myself—while fighting in your service—baffled, battered, and pierced to the core. These things, God knows, I hear and notice with a calm mind; and although my defense in this truly belongs to you, still, I do not intend to spare my own efforts. No, without replying as much as I probably should, I mean to clear my ears of these words with a brief response, and I'll do it without delay. For if already, before I have reached even a third of my task, they are so many and so bold, I imagine that by the end—if given no pushback early on—their numbers may have increased so much that, with even a little effort, they might defeat me, and even your considerable power might not be able to help.

But, before I respond to any of these objections, it pleases me, in my own defense, to relate—not a full story, lest it seem I wish to mix my own tales with those of such a commendable company as I have presented here—but a portion of one—so that its very incompleteness may prove it is not one of those stories. Accordingly, I say to my critics that, in our city, some time ago, there lived a townsman named Filippo Balducci, a man of quite humble origins, but wealthy, capable, and skilled in the affairs his station allowed. He had a wife whom he loved exceedingly, and she returned his love; together, they lived peacefully, each striving above all to please the other. In time, as happens to everyone, the good lady passed away, leaving Filippo nothing of herself but a single son, his child, perhaps two years old. Filippo was as disconsolate as any man could be at her death. Feeling abandoned after losing his beloved companion, he resolved to renounce the world and give himself completely to God's service, doing the same for his little son. So, in the name of God, he gave away all his possessions and swiftly moved to the top of Mount Asinajo, where he lived with his son in a small hut, surviving on alms and devoting themselves to fasting and prayer. He strictly guarded against discussing anything worldly in the boy’s presence, nor did he allow him to see any such things, fearing it might distract him from the holy life. He spoke only of the glories of eternal life, God, and the saints, teaching him only devout prayers; and so, for many years, he kept the boy within this way of life, never letting him leave the hermitage or see anyone but himself.

Now, the good man sometimes traveled to Florence, where, receiving help from friends of God as needed, he returned to his hut. It happened one day, when his son was eighteen and Filippo was old, that the young man asked where he went. Filippo told him, and the boy said, “Father, you are now old and can scarcely endure the journey; why don't you sometimes take me to Florence and introduce me to your friends and fellow devotees? That way, since I am younger and stronger, I can, when you wish, go to Florence on our behalf while you remain here?” The good man, realizing his son was grown and believing he was so accustomed to the service of God that worldly things could hardly tempt him, thought, “The boy is right.” So, having reason to go, he took him along. There the youth, seeing the palaces, houses, churches, and all else that filled the city, began—like someone who had never seen the like—to marvel greatly and asked his father about many things, what they were called and how they were made. Filippo answered him, and the son, satisfied, asked about something else.

As they walked and the son continued questioning and the father answering, they happened to meet a group of pretty, well-dressed young women coming from a wedding. The young man, seeing them, promptly asked his father what sort of creatures these were. “My son,” replied Filippo, “cast your eyes down and don’t look at them, for they are a bad thing.” The son asked, “And what are they called?” The father, wary of stirring any unhelpful desires in the young man, avoided the real term—women—and said, "They are called green geese." Remarkably, though he had never seen a woman and cared nothing for other things he had seen—palaces, oxen, horses, donkeys, money—he immediately said, “Father, I beg you, get me one of these green geese.” “Alas, my son,” replied the father, “be quiet; I told you these are a bad thing.” “How so?” asked the youth. “Are bad things made in this way?” and Filippo replied, “Yes.” Then said the son, “I do not understand you nor why these are bad; to me, I have never yet seen anything so lovely. They are more beautiful than the painted angels you’ve shown me before. For God’s sake, if you care for me, let’s take one of those green geese back to our place, and I shall feed it.” “No,” replied the father, “I will not: you do not know what they eat.” He instantly realized that nature is stronger than reason and regretted bringing the boy to Florence. But let this much suffice for now and let me return to those for whose benefit I have told it.

Some of my critics claim, dear ladies, that I do wrong by striving so hard to please you and by being too pleased with you in return. I freely admit both: that you please me and that I strive to please you. I ask, do they truly find this surprising—considering, even putting aside the sweet kisses, loving embraces, and delightful unions won from you most gracious ladies—the mere fact of seeing your charming manners, beauty, lively grace, and, above all, your gentle courtesy? If even he who grew up wild and secluded on a lonely mountain, knowing no company except his father, upon seeing you, desired only you, sought only you, and pursued you with passion, should they blame or attack me for the same? Should they be so cruel if I, naturally made to love you by Heaven, I, who have, since childhood, devoted my soul to you—feeling the power of your eyes, your sweet words, the fire in your tender sighs—am pleased by you or strive to please you, seeing that you enchanted even a simple hermit, barely more than a wild creature? Surely, only those who lack understanding or knowledge of natural affection, who neither love you nor wish to be loved by you, could reproach me—and I care little for such people.

As for those who deride me over my age, it seems they do not realize that, though a leek has a white head, its tail is green. But, setting jokes aside, I say to them that never, not even at the furthest end of my years, shall I ever be ashamed to seek the approval of those whom Guido Cavalcanti and Dante Alighieri, when already in late life, and Messer Cino da Pistoja, as an old man, valued and honored. If it weren’t for diverting from the usual manner of storytelling, I could cite history and show it is full of tales of marvelous, noble men who in their later years sought most of all to please ladies—if my detractors do not know this, let them learn. That I should remain with the Muses on Parnassus is good advice; but since neither can we always be with the Muses nor they always with us, it is not shameful if, when separated from them, a man delights in what is like them. The muses are women, and although women may not wholly match the Muses, at first sight, they closely resemble them. If for no other reason than this, women should please me; especially since women have been my inspiration for a thousand verses, while the Muses themselves never inspired any. They aided me, indeed, and taught me how to write those verses, and perhaps, in the writing of these present things, humble as they are, the Muses have sometimes graced me with their presence—to honor the resemblance women bear to them; so, in composing these amusements, I stray no farther from Mount Parnassus or the Muses than many believe.

But what should I say to those who pity my supposed hunger and urge me to find bread for myself? Truly, I do not know, except that when I imagine what they would say if I actually had to plead for bread, I suspect their answer would be: “Go seek it among your fables.” In fact, poets in the past have found more bread within their fables than many rich men have among their treasures; and many, following their stories, have caused their age to flourish, while others, greedy for more bread than they needed, have died miserably. What more? Let them turn me away when I ask for it—not that, by God’s grace, I am yet in need; and even if that time comes, I know, like the Apostle Paul, both how to abound and to be in want; so let no one be more concerned for me than I am for myself. For those who argue that these tales are not as I have set them down, I wish them to produce their own originals, and if theirs do not match what I have written, I will accept their challenge and strive to improve. But until anything other than words appears, I’ll leave them with their views and keep my own, saying of them only what they say of me.

Believing that I have now answered sufficiently, I will say that, armed—as I hope—with God’s help, your support, dearest ladies, and with proper patience, I will continue this work, turning my back to such criticisms and letting them blow by. After all, what could possibly happen to me but what befalls fine dust, for when a whirlwind rises, it may leave the dust on the ground or it may lift it aloft—sometimes to fall on the heads of men and on the crowns of kings and emperors, yes, even on the highest palaces and towers; and wherever it falls, it cannot end up lower than where it began. And if ever I strove with all my might to please you, I will do so now more than ever; for I know none can rightly say otherwise than that I and all who love you act according to nature, whose laws are too strong to be resisted without great effort, effort that is often wasted or even greatly harms those who attempt it. Such strength I do not possess, nor would I wish for it; and if I did, I’d rather lend it to others than use it myself. So let the critics fall silent, and if they cannot find warmth, let them live cold and dissatisfied in their own desires—or rather, their own corrupt appetites—and let me live in mine, for the brief life allotted me. But now, fair ladies, since we have wandered enough, it is time to return to our starting point and continue as we began.

The sun had already banished every star from the sky and driven away the damp mists of night, when Filostrato, rising, had the whole company rise as well. Together, they went to the beautiful garden, where they all began their amusements until mealtime, when they dined where they had supped the previous evening. Then, after a nap during the heat of the day, they seated themselves as usual by the lovely fountain, and Filostrato asked Fiammetta to begin the storytelling; whereupon, without awaiting further instruction, she began with womanly grace as follows:

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## THE FIRST STORY

Day the Fourth

TANCRED, PRINCE OF SALERNO, SLAYS HIS DAUGHTER’S LOVER AND SENDS HER HIS HEART IN A GOLDEN BOWL; WHEREUPON, POURING POISONED WATER OVER IT, SHE DRINKS AND DIES

“Our king has today given us a sorrowful topic for discussion, since, whereas we gathered here to make merry, we are now required to recount the woes of others—something that cannot be told without stirring compassion in both storyteller and listener. Perhaps he has done this somewhat to balance the merriment of previous days; but, whatever his reason, since it is not for me to change his will, I will share a pitiable tale, indeed one full of misfortune and worthy of your tears.

Tancred, Lord of Salerno, was a humane prince, kind by nature (had he not in his old age stained his hands with a lover’s blood). In his whole life, he had but one daughter—he would have been happier if he’d had none. He loved her as tenderly as ever a father has loved a daughter, and, because of this love, he found it hard to let her go; so, he did not marry her off until she was well past the proper age for marriage. Finally, he gave her as wife to a son of the Duke of Capua. After a short time, her husband died and she returned to her father. She was exceptionally beautiful and graceful, quite young and lively, and perhaps more learned than was expected of a lady. Living with her father in comfort and luxury as a great lady, and seeing that, due to his love for her, he took little care to remarry her—and it did not seem right for her to ask—she decided to try, if possible, to find herself a worthy lover in secret. Many men, gentle and simple alike, frequented her father’s court, and, observing the ways and manners of many, one of her father’s young servants, Guiscardo by name, caught her eye. Though of humble birth, he was nobler in character and manners than all the others. Seeing him often, she secretly fell deeply in love with him, finding more and more to admire with every hour. Guiscardo, who was perceptive, noticed her affection and welcomed her into his heart, so that his thoughts turned almost entirely to loving her.

With both secretly affectionate, the young lady, who longed more than anything to meet with him but wished to trust no one with her secret, devised a clever plan to inform him of the opportunity. She wrote him a letter explaining what he needed to do to meet her the following day, placed it inside a hollow cane, and, handing it to Guiscardo with a playful remark, said, “Make a bellows of this for your serving-maid; she can use it to stoke the fire tonight.” Guiscardo, recognizing she would not have handed it to him nor spoken as she did without a reason, returned to his quarters. There, examining the cane and seeing it was split, he opened it and found the letter. After reading and understanding what he needed to do, he was the happiest man alive and immediately began to make arrangements to meet her as instructed.

Near the prince’s palace was a grotto, carved from the rock long ago. A tunnel, crafted through the mountain, gave it a little light, but, since the grotto was abandoned, its entrance was almost blocked with brambles and weeds. This grotto could be reached by a hidden staircase in one of the ground-floor rooms of the lady’s suite, secured by a very strong door. So long disused, the stair was almost forgotten—few even knew it existed. But Love, to whom nothing is truly hidden, brought it back to the lady’s mind. Wanting nobody to discover her secret, she worked many days with whatever tools she could get, until she managed to open the door. Going down alone into the grotto and seeing the tunnel, she instructed Guiscardo to come to her through it, and told him roughly how far it was from the tunnel entrance to the ground below.

Guiscardo quickly prepared a knotted rope with loops to help him climb up and down, and put on a leather suit to protect himself from the brambles. The next night, without letting anyone suspect a thing, he went to the tunnel’s mouth. Tying one end of the rope to a sturdy tree stump growing at the entrance, he lowered himself down into the grotto and waited for the lady. The next morning, Ghismonda—the lady—pretended she wanted to sleep, dismissed her women, and locked herself in her room. Opening the secret door, she descended into the grotto and found Guiscardo. They greeted each other with great happiness and went up to her chamber, where they spent much of the day in delight. After arranging together how to keep their love affair secret, Guiscardo returned to the grotto, and she closed the secret door and rejoined her women. When evening came, Guiscardo climbed back up his rope, exited the tunnel the way he had come in, and returned home. Once he knew this secret path, he returned many times.

But fate, jealous of their long and great happiness, soon turned their joy into mourning and sorrow, and this is how it happened. Sometimes Tancred would visit his daughter’s rooms alone, spend time talking with her, and then leave. One day, after dinner, when Ghismonda was in her garden with her ladies, he entered her room unannounced, not wanting to disturb her. He found the shutters closed, the bed curtained, and sat on a cushion at the foot of the bed, leaning his head there. Pulling the curtain over himself as if to hide, he accidentally fell asleep. While he slept, Ghismonda—fatedly having arranged for her lover’s visit that day—entered, leaving her women behind in the garden. Unaware that anyone was there, she locked the door and opened the secret passage for Guiscardo, who was waiting. They went straight to bed together as usual, and, as they played and loved, Tancred awoke. Hearing and seeing what they did, he was overwhelmed with grief. At first, he wanted to call out, but then decided to remain hidden, hoping that by doing so, with greater secrecy and less shame, he could act on the course that had come to his mind.

The lovers spent a long time together as usual, unaware of Tancred. When they left the bed, Guiscardo returned to the grotto and Ghismonda left the chamber. Tancred, for all his age, climbed out into the garden by the window and, unseen, made his way back to his own quarters, heartbroken. That night, during the first watch, Guiscardo was seized by two men upon Tancred’s orders as he left the tunnel, and taken, trussed in his leather suit, secretly to Tancred. When Tancred saw him, he said, almost in tears, “Guiscardo, my kindness to you did not deserve the insult and shame you have caused me in my own family, as I have just seen with my own eyes.” Guiscardo replied only, “Love can do far more than you or I.” Tancred then ordered that he be closely guarded in a chamber of the palace, and so it was done.

The next morning, having thought of many different plans overnight, Tancred went, as usual after lunch, to his daughter’s chamber. He summoned Ghismonda, who knew nothing of what had happened, and, shutting himself in with her, began to speak tearfully: “Ghismonda, I believed in your virtue and honesty, and never could have imagined—even if told—unless I saw it myself, that you would give yourself to any man but your husband. For what remains of my life, however brief, I will be sorrowful, remembering this. If, despite everything, you had to turn to such folly, I wish at least you’d chosen someone equal to your rank! Out of so many who attend my court, you chose Guiscardo—a youth of the lowest station, raised almost as a charity case from childhood in this court up to today. You have brought me terrible distress of heart, for I know not what to do with you. As for Guiscardo, whom I had taken last night as he left the tunnel and whom I hold imprisoned, I have resolved what to do with him; but with you, truly, I do not know. On one hand, love for you—as much as any father has felt for a daughter—pulls me toward forgiveness; on the other, righteous anger at your dreadful folly urges me, against my natural instincts, to harshness. Before I resolve anything, I wish to hear what you have to say.” With these words, he bowed his head and wept like a chastised child.

Ghismonda, hearing her father’s words and realizing her secret was revealed and Guiscardo captured, felt an indescribable grief and nearly broke down in tears as most women would. Nevertheless, her proud spirit overcame her weakness. With remarkable strength, she composed herself and, rather than beg for herself, resolved inwardly not to live any longer, sure that Guiscardo was already dead. So, not like a shamed and sorrowful woman, but like one brave and undaunted, with dry eyes and calm, unwavering face, she replied:

“Tancred, I intend neither to deny nor to beg, for neither would profit me, nor do I wish your kindness or affection to be persuaded by me. Instead, I will speak plainly in defense of my honor, and then soon enough act according to the greatness of my spirit. It is true I have loved and still love Guiscardo, and as long as I live—which will not be long—I shall love him. Nor, if there is life after death, will I ever cease to love him; but it was not merely my feminine weakness that led me here, but your own lack of effort in marrying me again and his own merit.

It should have been plain to you, Tancred, as a man of flesh and blood, that you begot a daughter of flesh and blood, not of iron or stone. You, even in your old age, should remember what youth is like and how strong its impulses are; nor, although as a man you once practiced arms instead of idleness, should you be ignorant of what ease, leisure, and luxury do to the old, let alone to the young. So, being young and of your flesh, I too am full of natural desire—strengthened by knowing marital pleasure before—and unable to resist, I followed my impulses, as any young woman would. But in all this, I did everything in my power to prevent shame for either of us. Compassionate Love and favorable Fortune showed me a secret way to satisfy my wishes, and, whoever betrayed this secret or however you came to know it, I do not deny what happened.

It was not by chance, as many women do, that I chose Guiscardo; rather, I selected him carefully above all others, and through perseverance and discretion, he and I have long enjoyed each other’s love. Now you, following common prejudice more than truth, reproach me not just for loving, but for loving someone of low station—as if you would not be less offended had I chosen a man of noble birth. But this is not my failing, but Fortune’s, which often raises the unworthy and leaves the worthy in obscurity.

But let’s step back and look at the origins of things: we all come from the same human stock, and every soul is created by the same Creator, equally endowed. It was merit that first made people noble, and those who possessed and showed more of it were called noble, while the rest were considered common. Although custom has since blurred this law, it is neither erased from nature nor from honest behavior; so, whoever acts nobly is a gentleman, and if someone is called otherwise, the fault lies with the accuser, not the accused. Look at all your nobles—their characters and manners—then look at Guiscardo’s; if you judge fairly, you’ll see he is the most noble, while your so-called nobles are churls. I did not rely on others’ judgment of his merit, but on your own words and my own eyes. Who ever praised him as highly as you, for all the qualities a man should have? And not without cause, for, when I watched, I saw every praise you gave him justified, and even more than your words could say. If I was deceived in this, it is you who deceived me. If you accuse me of having loved a man of low birth, you speak falsely; but if you accuse me of loving a poor man, that may be conceded—but then it is your shame for so poorly rewarding your faithful, worthy servant. Yet poverty does not rob anyone of nobility; it is wealth that often does so. Many kings and great princes were once poor, and many who labor or herd sheep were once rich.

The last difficulty you mention—what you should do with me—put it out of your mind. If, in your extreme old age, you now decide to act cruelly—something you never did when young—then unleash your cruelty on me, for I will make no plea for myself. I am the real cause of this, if it is a sin; and I assure you, whatever you do or have done to Guiscardo, if you do not do the same to me, I shall do it with my own hands. Now leave—go weep with women; if you must be cruel, kill him and me with the same blow, if you deem us deserving of it.”

The prince knew the greatness of his daughter’s spirit, but still he did not entirely believe she was as firmly resolved as she claimed. Therefore, after taking his leave of her and putting aside any intent to use force against her, he decided to try cooling her fervent love by making her suffer through another’s pain. So, he ordered Guiscardo’s two guards to strangle him quietly that very night, and, after removing his heart, to bring it to him. They carried out his orders, and the next morning the prince had a large, fine golden bowl prepared. He placed Guiscardo’s heart in it and sent it to his daughter by one of his most discreet servants, instructing him to say, when delivering it, “Your father sends you this to comfort you for the thing you love most, just as you have comforted him of that which he loved most.”

Ghismonda, undeterred from her stern resolve, had after her father’s visit ordered poisonous herbs and roots brought, which she distilled and prepared as a potion in case she needed it. When the servant came to her with her father’s gift and message, she accepted the cup with a calm face and uncovered it. Seeing the heart and understanding the message, she was fully certain it was Guiscardo’s heart. Turning her eyes to the messenger she said, “No tomb less worthy than one of gold should hold such a heart as this, and in this my father has acted wisely.” With that, she put the heart to her lips and kissed it, saying, “Even at this final stage of my life I have found my father’s love for me most tender; now, more than ever. So, please tell him, on my behalf, my final thanks for this great gift.”

Then, bending over the cup, which she held tightly, she looked at the heart and said, “Oh, dearest harbor of all my joys, cursed be the cruelty that forces me to see you now with my bodily eyes! It was enough for me to behold you always with the eyes of my mind. You have finished your course and fulfilled your duty as fate allowed; you have reached the end that awaits us all; you have left behind the toil and misery of the world, and from your very enemy, you have received the tomb your worth deserves. Nothing was lacking for your funeral rites except the tears of the one you loved in life. That you might have them, God inspired my unnatural father to send you to me, and I will give them to you, even though I intended to die with dry eyes and an undaunted face. Having given them, I will soon bring it about that my soul, by your doing, will join the soul you once so dearly protected. And what better company could I find, or go more contentedly to the unknown realm, than with it? I am sure it still abides here within, still looks upon the places of our delight, and, as I am certain still loves me, waits for my soul, which is above all beloved by it.”

So saying, as if she were a fountain of water, she bowed over the bowl and, without any womanly lament, began grieving and shedding so many and such great tears that it was amazing to see, kissing the dead heart over and over. Her women, who stood around her, did not understand what this heart was or what her words meant, but, moved by compassion, they all wept and gently questioned her about the cause of her grief, doing their best to comfort her. When she had wept as much as she felt right, she raised her head and dried her eyes, saying, “Beloved heart, I have fulfilled every duty to you; there is nothing left but to come with my soul and keep you company.” With that, she called for the vial containing the potion she had made the day before and poured it into the bowl, now already bathed in her tears. Then, without fear, she put her mouth to the bowl and drank it all. Having drunk, she climbed onto her bed, cup in hand, arranged her body as decently as possible, pressed her dead lover’s heart to her own, and, without another word, awaited death.

Her women, seeing and hearing all this, though they did not know what the liquid was, had already sent for Tancred, telling him everything. Fearing what would happen, he hurried down to his daughter’s chamber and arrived just as she lay on her bed, but he was too late to comfort her with gentle words. Seeing her at the point of death, he began to weep bitterly. The lady then said to him, “Tancred, save your tears for a fate less desired than mine and don’t spend them on me, for I do not want them. Who has ever seen anyone but you mourn for what he himself has willed? Still, if any love remains in you for me, as you once had, grant me one last request: since you would not let me live with Guiscardo in secret, let my body lie with his openly, wherever you have had him cast after his death.” The depth of his grief kept the prince from replying. Then, as the young lady felt her end near, she pressed Guiscardo’s heart to her breast and said, “Farewell all, for I go now.” Then, closing her eyes and losing all sense, she left this life of sorrow. So, as you have heard, ended the ill-fated love of Guiscardo and Ghismonda, whose bodies Tancred—after much grieving and too late repentance for his cruelty—had honorably buried in one tomb, to the general mourning of all the people of Salerno.

## THE SECOND STORY

Day the Fourth

FRA ALBERTO MAKES A LADY BELIEVE THE ANGEL GABRIEL IS IN LOVE WITH HER AND, IN HIS GUISE, SLEEPS WITH HER SEVERAL TIMES; LATER, FEARING HER RELATIVES, HE JUMPS FROM HER WINDOW INTO THE CANAL AND TAKES REFUGE AT A POOR MAN’S HOUSE, WHO THE NEXT DAY TAKES HIM TO THE PIAZZA, DISGUISED AS A WILD MAN, WHERE HE IS RECOGNIZED, CAPTURED BY HIS BROTHERS, AND IMPRISONED

Fiammetta’s story had more than once brought the ladies who listened to tears; but when she finished, the king, with a grave look, said, “My life would seem a small price to pay for just half the joy Guiscardo had with Ghismonda, and you ladies should not marvel at this, seeing as every hour I live through a thousand deaths without a single moment of happiness. But, leaving my troubles aside for now, I want Pampinea to continue our stories, choosing one of sorrow and misfortune similar to mine; if she follows in Fiammetta’s way, perhaps I will feel some dew fall upon my fire.” Pampinea, understanding the feelings of her companions more than Filostrato’s intent by his words, was more inclined to entertain them than to satisfy the king any further than his explicit command. So she decided to tell a story that would, without leaving the set theme, offer some cause for laughter, and began:

“There’s a common saying that a person who is bad but considered good can do wrong and people won’t believe it; this gives me plenty of material for a story on today’s subject, and also a chance to show the deep hypocrisy of the clergy. With their long wide robes, artificially pale faces, and humble voices when begging but loud and harsh ones when scolding others for their own sins, they pretend that giving to them leads to salvation—not as men who, like us, must strive for paradise, but as though they owned it and could assign to each dead person their place there, depending on how much money was left them. They fool first themselves, if they believe what they claim, and then those who trust their words. If I could say all I know, I would quickly show many simple people what those wide cloaks hide. But let’s wish upon them all the same tricks that befell a certain minor friar—no youngster, but one of the top casuists in Venice—about whom I especially want to tell you, to cheer your hearts with some laughter after the tragedy of Ghismonda’s death.

So, noble ladies, in Imola, there was a man of wicked and corrupt ways named Berto della Massa. His bad reputation was so well known among the people there that nobody would believe anything he said, even if it was true. Realizing he could not get anywhere with his tricks, he fled in desperation to Venice—refuge of every sort of scoundrel—hoping to continue his plots. There, pretending to be conscience-stricken for his past misdeeds, he acted humbler than ever and became a Minor Friar, calling himself Fra Alberto da Imola. In that role, he appeared to lead a very austere life, constantly praising abstinence and self-denial, and never eating meat or drinking wine unless he liked the offering. In short, while almost no one noticed, he changed suddenly from thief, pimp, forger, and murderer to a great preacher—though still practicing those same vices in secret when possible. Once he became a priest, he would, when seen by many while celebrating Mass, weep for Our Saviour’s passion—tears came easily to him when it suited him. In brief, with his sermons and tears, he so charmed the Venetians that he became trustee and executor for nearly every will in town, guardian of people’s funds, and confessor and adviser to most of the men and women in the city. Thus, from wolf he became shepherd, and his reputation for holiness in those parts was even greater than St. Francis’ at Assisi.

One day, it happened that a vain, foolish young lady named Madam Lisetta da Ca Quirino, wife of a wealthy merchant away in Flanders with the galleys, came to confess to Fra Alberto along with other women. Kneeling at his feet and, like a true Venetian (where women are all known for being flighty), she told him some of her affairs. He asked if she had a lover. She responded, offended, “Good heavens, sir friar, have you no eyes in your head? Do my looks seem as ordinary as those others? I could have lovers aplenty if I wanted; but my beauty is not for just anyone. How many women do you see as beautiful as I, women who’d be considered fair even in Paradise?” In short, she said so much about her beauty that it was exhausting to listen. Fra Alberto immediately recognized her foolishness, and thinking she was perfect for his purposes, fell for her at once; but, holding back for later, he pretended to be holy for now, rebuking her for her pride and so on. The lady called him a fool who couldn’t tell the difference between one beauty and another, whereupon, not wanting to upset her, he took her confession and let her leave with the others.

He let a few days pass and then, taking with him a trusted companion, he went to Madam Lisetta’s house. After withdrawing with her into a private room, where no one could see them, he fell to his knees before her and said, “Madam, I beg you, for God’s sake, to forgive me for what I said to you last Sunday when you spoke to me of your beauty, because on the following night I was so terribly punished that I haven’t been able to get out of bed until today.” Mistress Featherbrain asked, “And who punished you like that?” “I’ll tell you,” replied the monk. “That night, while I was at my prayers, as I always am, suddenly a great light filled my cell, and before I could turn to see what it was, I saw right before me a strikingly handsome young man with a stout stick in his hand. He grabbed me by my robe, pulled me to my feet, and gave me such a beating that he seemed to break every bone in my body. I asked why he treated me this way, and he answered, ‘Because you dared today to insult the heavenly beauty of Madam Lisetta, whom I love above all things except God.’ ‘Who are you, then?’ I asked. He told me he was the angel Gabriel. ‘O my lord,’ I said, ‘please forgive me.’ He said, ‘So be it; I forgive you on one condition: that you go to her as soon as you can and ask her forgiveness. If she does not forgive you, I’ll come back and beat you so severely that you’ll regret it as long as you live.’ What he said to me after, I dare not tell you unless you first pardon me.”

Lady Addlepate, who lacked some sense, was overjoyed to hear this, believing every word, and after a little while, said, “I told you, Fra Alberto, that my beauty was heavenly. But, as God is my witness, I am sorry for you and I pardon you at once, so you may come to no more harm—provided you tell me truthfully what else the angel said to you after.” “Madam,” replied Fra Alberto, “since you pardon me, I will gladly tell you. But first, I warn you: whatever I say must be kept secret from everyone, or you’ll ruin your good fortune, for you are the luckiest lady in the world. The angel Gabriel told me to let you know that you please him so much he has often wished to spend the night with you, but he’s been afraid to alarm you. Now, through me, he says he wishes to come to you one night and stay awhile, and (because he’s an angel, and if he came in angel form, you couldn’t touch him), he plans to come, for your pleasure, disguised as a man. He asks you to let him know when you want him to come and in whose form, and he will come. Because of this, you are more blessed than any other woman alive.”

Lady Conceit answered that she was pleased that the angel Gabriel loved her, since she loved him too and always lit a candle for him wherever she saw his image. She said whenever he wished to come, he’d be welcome and would find her alone in her chamber. She only requested that he not leave her for the Virgin Mary, whom he seemed so fond of, since everywhere she saw his picture, he was kneeling before her. She also said he could appear in whatever form he wished, so long as he didn’t frighten her.

Then Fra Alberto said, “Madam, you speak wisely, and I will be sure to arrange what you wish with him. And you could do me a favor—one that will cost you nothing: ask him to use my body. Let me explain how that helps me—he will take my soul out of my body and place it in Paradise, while he enters into me; and for as long as he stays with you, my soul will remain in Paradise.” “With all my heart,” replied Dame Littlewit. “I’m happy for you to have this pleasure, to make up for the beating he gave you because of me.” Then Fra Alberto said, “Make sure the door of your house is open tonight so he can come in, because, coming in human form as he must, he can only enter through the door.” She agreed, and after Fra Alberto left, she was so excited she could hardly sit still, feeling it was an eternity until the angel Gabriel should visit her.

Meanwhile, Fra Alberto, considering that he must act as a lover, not an angel, that night, fortified himself with sweets and other good things so he wouldn't tire easily. Then, after getting leave at night, he went with a friend to the house of a woman he knew—a place he often used as a starting point when he went out on such adventures. When the time seemed right, after disguising himself, he went to the lady’s house, dressed up with the props he’d brought to look like an angel, and went up to her chamber. Seeing this figure all in white, she fell to her knees. The angel blessed her, raised her up, and signaled her to go to bed, which she did eagerly, and the angel lay down with her. Now, Fra Alberto was a handsome, sturdy man, and so, finding himself in bed with Madam Lisetta, who was young and lovely, he proved to be a much better lover than her husband, and many times that night “took flight without wings,” leaving her exceedingly pleased. He also told her many things about the glories of heaven. When dawn neared, after arranging his return, he gathered his props and returned to his friend’s house, where the kind woman had kept his companion company so he wouldn’t get lonely.

As for the lady, after lunch, she took her maid and went to visit Fra Alberto, telling him all about her night with the angel Gabriel, reporting everything he had told her about the joys of heaven, and adding fantastic stories of her own. “Madam,” he said, “I don’t know how you fared with him last night; I only know that when he came to me and I gave him your message, he suddenly whisked my soul away to a field of roses and flowers such as never existed here on earth, and I remained in one of the most delightful places until morning. What happened to my body I don’t know.” “Didn’t I tell you?” answered the lady. “Your body was in my arms all night with the angel Gabriel. If you don’t believe me, look under your left breast, where I kissed the angel so hard the mark will stay for days.” The friar said, “Is that so? Then I’ll do something today I haven’t done in ages—I’ll strip and see if you’re telling the truth.” After much chatting, the lady returned home, and Fra Alberto visited her many more times in angel form, without any trouble.

However, one day, Madam Lisetta, in a dispute with a gossip about women’s beauty, wanting to prove herself above all others, said, foolish as she was, “If you only knew who admires my beauty, you’d say nothing about other women.” The other, eager to learn more, replied, “Madam, perhaps you’re right, but if I don’t know who you mean, I can’t agree so quickly.” Lisetta, who could be easily drawn out, said, “Gossip, promise not to tell, but the one I mean is the angel Gabriel. He loves me more than himself—as the fairest lady (so he says) in the world or the Maremma.” The other wanted to laugh, but held back to get her talking more, and said, “Well, madam, if the angel Gabriel is your lover and says this, it must be true; but I didn’t think angels did such things.” “Gossip,” replied Lisetta, “You’re wrong! He does what you know of even better than my husband and says they do it in heaven, too! He’s fallen in love with me because I’m fairer than any woman there, and he comes to me often. Understand now?”

The gossip, almost bursting with impatience to repeat the story, soon left and at an entertainment with many ladies, recounted it all. They told their husbands and other ladies, and thus, in less than two days, all Venice knew. Among those who heard were Lisetta’s brothers-in-law, who, saying nothing to her, decided to catch this angel and see if he could fly. They kept watch several nights. As it happened, word of this came to Fra Alberto, so he went one night to the lady’s house to scold her, but just as he undressed, her brothers-in-law, who had seen him arrive, were at the chamber door.

Hearing them and guessing the situation, Fra Alberto had no choice but to open a window onto the Grand Canal and jump in. The canal was deep and he could swim well, so he was not injured and made his way to the opposite bank. There, seeing an open house, he begged the poor man inside to save him, telling an invented tale about why he was there naked at that hour. The man, moved to pity, had to leave for his errands but put Fra Alberto in his bed and told him to stay until his return, locking him in before leaving. Meanwhile, the lady’s brothers-in-law had entered her chamber and found the angel’s wings left behind; realizing they’d been outsmarted, they scolded her harshly and finally left, taking the angel’s costume and leaving her disconsolate.

At daybreak, the good man who harbored Fra Alberto was on the Rialto and heard that the angel Gabriel had spent the night with Madam Lisetta and, surprised by her relatives, jumped into the canal, and now no one knew what had happened to him. He immediately realized this was the man he’d taken in. He returned home and, recognizing Fra Alberto, managed, after much bargaining, to make him pay fifty ducats for his silence and not handing him over to Lisetta’s relatives. After getting the money and Fra Alberto wanting to leave, the man said, “There’s only one way you can escape: today there is a festival where one man comes dressed as a bear, another as a wild man and other costumes, and there’s a hunt in St. Mark’s Square. After it ends, everyone goes home. If you let me take you disguised as one of these, I can take you wherever you want before anyone realizes it’s you; otherwise, you’ll be caught, for the lady’s relatives have surrounded the area.” 

As hard as it seemed, Fra Alberto, afraid of the lady's relatives, agreed and told the man where he wanted to go, leaving the details to him. So, the man smeared him all over with honey and covered him in down, put a chain around his neck, a mask on his face, handed him a big staff, and two large dogs that he fetched from the butcher. He sent someone to the Rialto to proclaim that anyone who wished to see the angel Gabriel should gather at St. Mark’s Square—so much for Venetian loyalty! Then, after a while, he led him out, parading him before the crowd as people asked, “What’s this? What’s this?” He reached the square, and, with the crowds drawn by the announcement, tied his “wild man” to a column high up, pretending to wait for the hunt while the flies and wasps tormented the honey-smeared monk. When the square was full, he pretended to unchain Fra Alberto, pulled off his mask, and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, since the bear isn’t coming and there’s no hunt, I don’t want you here for nothing, so here, you shall see the angel Gabriel, who comes down from heaven at night to comfort the ladies of Venice.”

As soon as the mask was off, Fra Alberto was instantly recognized, and the crowd erupted, giving him every sort of insult and abuse imaginable for a hypocrite. They threw all kinds of filth at him and kept up the torment until, by chance, news reached his fellow monks, who hurried there, unchained him, threw a cloak over him, and, pursued by the crowd’s jeers, carried him off to the convent. There, it is believed he died in prison after a miserable life. So this man, thought to be holy while doing wrong, dared to pretend to be the angel Gabriel and, after being made a wild man and humiliated as he deserved, finally lamented, too late, the sins he had committed. May God allow such a fate to befall all other rogues like him!”

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## THE THIRD STORY

Day the Fourth

THREE YOUNG MEN LOVE THREE SISTERS AND FLEE WITH THEM INTO CRETE, WHERE THE ELDEST SISTER, OUT OF JEALOUSY, KILLS HER LOVER. THE SECOND, YIELDING HERSELF TO THE DUKE OF CRETE, SAVES HER SISTER FROM DEATH, WHEREUPON HER OWN LOVER KILLS HER AND ESCAPES WITH THE ELDEST SISTER. MEANWHILE, THE THIRD LOVER AND THE YOUNGEST SISTER ARE ACCUSED OF THE NEW MURDER AND, WHEN TAKEN, CONFESS TO IT; THEN, FEARING DEATH, THEY BRIBE THEIR KEEPERS AND ESCAPE TO RHODES, WHERE THEY DIE IN POVERTY.

Filostrato, having heard the end of Pampinea’s story, thought for a moment and then, turning to her, said, “There was a little at the end of your story that I liked and found pleasing; but before that, there was too much that invited laughter, which I would rather not have had.” Then, turning to Lauretta, he said, “Lady, please follow with a better story, if you can.” She replied, laughing, “You are too harsh on lovers if you wish them only bad endings; but, to obey you, I will tell a story of three who all ended badly, having enjoyed little happiness from their loves.” So saying, she began thus: “Young ladies, as you should clearly know, every vice can turn to the great harm of those who practice it, and often harms others as well; but of all vices, I think the one that most easily leads us to danger is anger, which is nothing other than a sudden and thoughtless emotion, stirred by some offense suffered, and which banishes all reason and clouds our judgment, stirring the soul to the hottest rage. And although this often happens with men and more in some than in others, it has been seen before to cause even greater harm among women, because anger is more easily kindled in us and burns with a fiercer flame, urging us on with less restraint. Nor should this be surprising, for if we think about it, we see that fire naturally catches more quickly in light and delicate things than in those more dense and solid; and we women, indeed—let men not take offense—are made more delicately than they and are more changeable. So, since we are naturally inclined to this and knowing how our gentleness and kindness bring peace and pleasure to the men we deal with, and how much harm and danger come from anger and rage, I intend, so that we may more steadfastly guard ourselves against these, to show you with my story how the loves of three young men and three ladies, as I said before, ended badly, turning from great happiness to the greatest misery through one lady’s anger.

Marseilles is, as you know, a very old and noble city on the coast of Provence, and it once had more rich and great merchants than it does today. Among these was one named Narnald Cluada, a man of humble birth but famed for his honesty, a trustworthy merchant, extraordinarily rich in land and money, who had several children by his wife, the three oldest being daughters. Two of these, born as twins, were fifteen, and the third was fourteen. Their family was waiting only for Narnald to return from a trip to Spain with his merchandise to arrange their marriages. The names of the two older girls were Ninetta and Maddalena, and the third was Bertella. Ninetta was deeply in love with a young man of good family but poor, named Restagnone, and he with her, and together they had managed to secretly enjoy their love.

They had long enjoyed this happiness when it happened that two young men, one named Folco and the other Ughetto, both orphaned but very wealthy, fell in love, Folco with Maddalena and Ughetto with Bertella. Restagnone, noticing this (Ninetta had told him), thought he might find a way to improve his own position through the loves of the newcomers. So, he made friends with them, so that sometimes one, sometimes the other would accompany him to visit their beloveds and his. When he thought he had become close enough with them and true friends, he invited them one day to his house and said, “Dear friends, you should understand by now how much I care for you, and that I would do for you anything I would do for myself. Because I love you, I want to share with you an idea I’ve had, and together we’ll decide what’s best to do about it. As far as your actions show—and your words too—I believe you both burn with deep passion for the young ladies you love, just as I do for their sister. And, if you agree, my heart tells me I’ve found a very sweet and pleasing remedy for us all, which is this: You are both very rich, which I am not. If you agree to combine your wealth with mine, making me an equal partner, and decide together where in the world we should go to enjoy life with our loves, my heart guarantees I can manage it so that the three sisters, along with much of their father’s wealth, will go wherever we wish—and there each of us, with his beloved, like brothers, may live the happiest lives of any men in the world. It is up to you to decide if you wish to pursue this happiness, or leave it.”

The two young men, both completely enraptured and eager for their beloveds, quickly made up their minds and replied that, as long as this happened, they would gladly do as he suggested. Restagnone, having received their answer, soon found a way to meet with Ninetta (which was not easy), and after spending some time with her, told her what he had proposed to the others and used many arguments to win her approval. This was not difficult, for she was even more eager than he to be with him openly, so she readily agreed and told him her sisters would do anything she wished, especially in this matter, and told him to make every preparation as quickly as possible.

Accordingly, Restagnone returned to the other young men, who kept urging him to act on his plan, and told them that, as far as their beloveds were concerned, the matter was settled. Then, having agreed to go to Crete, they sold some land under the pretense of planning a trading venture, and, turning all their possessions into cash, bought a light brigantine and secretly equipped it as well as possible.

Meanwhile, Ninetta, who knew well enough what her sisters wanted, persuaded them with gentle words to join the plan, so much so that they felt they couldn’t wait for it to happen. Thus, on the night they were to board the brigantine, the three sisters opened a large chest of their father’s and took out a great quantity of money and jewelry, then slipped out of the house as planned. They found their lovers waiting and all immediately boarded the brigantine, rowed out to sea, and did not stop until, by the next evening, they reached Genoa, where the new couples finally enjoyed their loves openly for the first time. After resting and refreshing themselves, they set sail again and, traveling from port to port, reached Crete before eight days had passed, without any trouble. There, they bought large and beautiful estates near Candia and built splendid and delightful homes. Living like nobles, they spent their days in banquets, pleasure, and joy, the happiest people possible, with many servants, hounds, hawks, and horses.

Living this way, it happened—as we often see, that no matter how much we enjoy something, we grow tired of it if we have too much—that Restagnone, who had once loved Ninetta passionately now that he could have her whenever he liked, began to tire of her, and so his love faded. Having met, at a gathering, a noble and beautiful local young woman who greatly pleased him, he began courting her, giving marvelous entertainments in her honor and using every means to win her over. Ninetta, discovering this, became so jealous that she heard about his every move and constantly harassed both herself and him with angry words and reproaches. But just as too much of anything brings boredom, being denied something makes the desire stronger; so Ninetta’s reproaches only fueled Restagnone’s new passion, and, whether he actually succeeded with the new lady or not, Ninetta believed every rumor she heard about it. Driven first to such grief and then to such anger that her love for Restagnone turned to bitter hatred, blinded by rage, she decided to take revenge for what she felt was an insult, by killing him.

So, she went to an old Greek woman, an expert in the art of poison, and persuaded her with gifts and promises to make her a deadly potion, which Ninetta, without a second thought, gave Restagnone to drink one evening when he was hot and not suspicious; and such was the strength of the poison that before morning, he was dead. Folco and Ughetto and their beloveds did not know what killed him but mourned him bitterly together with Ninetta and gave him an honorable burial. But, not many days later, the old woman who had made the poison for Ninetta was arrested for another crime, and under torture confessed to this among her other offenses, fully explaining what had happened. As a result, the Duke of Crete, without announcing anything, unexpectedly surrounded Folco’s palace one night and, without noise or resistance, took Ninetta prisoner. Without using torture, he easily obtained from her the truth about Restagnone’s death.

Folco and Ughetto (and their ladies from them) quietly learned from the duke the reason for Ninetta’s arrest, which distressed them greatly, and they did all they could to save her from the fire, where they expected she would be condemned, as indeed she deserved. But all efforts seemed useless, for the duke remained determined to see justice done upon her. However, Maddalena, who was a beautiful young woman and had long been courted by the duke without ever yielding to his wishes, thought that by giving in she might save her sister from the fire. So, through a trustworthy messenger, she let him know that she was at his command in everything, provided two things happened: first, that her sister be returned safe and sound, and second, that it remain a secret. The message pleased the duke, and after long deliberation over whether to accept her terms, he finally agreed and said he was ready.

Accordingly, one night, with the lady’s consent and after having Folco and Ughetto detained—under the pretense of questioning them about the affair—he slipped away secretly to spend the night with Maddalena. Beforehand, he pretended to put Ninetta into a sack and acted as though he intended to drown her in the sea that night, but instead, he brought her to her sister. The next morning, as he departed, he left Ninetta with Maddalena as payment for the night passed together, requesting that this first night of their love not be the last and instructing her to send the guilty woman away, lest blame fall upon himself and force him to act against her more harshly.

The following morning, Folco and Ughetto, believing what they had heard—that Ninetta had been drowned in a sack the previous night—were released and returned home to console their lovers for their sister’s supposed death. However, despite Maddalena's attempts to hide Ninetta, Folco soon discovered her in the palace and was greatly astonished. Growing suspicious—having already heard of the duke’s desire for Maddalena—he questioned her about her sister’s presence. Maddalena began to recount a long, fabricated story she had prepared to explain Ninetta's appearance, but her shrewd lover barely believed a word of it and pressured her until, after much debate, she admitted the truth. Filled with grief and fury, Folco drew his sword and killed her, ignoring her desperate pleas for mercy. Fearing the duke’s anger and justice, he left her lifeless in the chamber, then went to find Ninetta. With a false air of cheerfulness, he told her, “Quick, let us go to the place your sister instructed me to take you, so you will not fall again into the duke’s hands.” Ninetta, believing him and anxious to get away, left with Folco at night, not stopping to say goodbye to her sister. Together, with whatever small amount of money Folco could gather, they headed to the sea-shore and set sail on a vessel; no one ever discovered where they went.

The next day, Maddalena was found murdered. Some people, out of envy and hatred for Ughetto, quickly informed the duke, who, loving Maddalena dearly, rushed in a rage to the house. He seized Ughetto and his lady, who still knew nothing of what had happened—not even Folco and Ninetta's flight—and forced them to confess to Maddalena’s death, implicating themselves and Folco. Facing certain death after this coerced confession, they bribed their captors with a hidden store of money kept for emergencies. Escaping with their guards by night, they fled to Rhodes, where they lived only a short while longer, in poverty and misery. Thus, Restagnone’s reckless love and Ninetta’s rage brought ruin upon themselves and others.”

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## THE FOURTH STORY

Day the Fourth

GERBINO, DEFYING THE PROMISE MADE BY HIS GRANDFATHER, KING GUGLIELMO OF SICILY, ATTACKS A SHIP BELONGING TO THE KING OF TUNIS IN ORDER TO CARRY OFF THE LATTER'S DAUGHTER; WHEN SHE IS KILLED BY THOSE ON BOARD, HE KILLS THEM IN TURN AND IS THEN BEHEADED HIMSELF

Lauretta, finishing her story, fell silent. The company mourned the lovers’ misfortune, some blaming Ninetta’s anger, each offering different opinions, until finally the king, raising his head as if awakening from deep thought, signaled to Elisa to continue the tales. She began modestly, “Charming ladies, many believe that Love strikes only when inspired by what is seen, dismissing those who think one can fall in love through rumor or hearsay. But these people are clearly mistaken, as you will see from the story I am about to tell, in which it is evident that talk and reputation alone created deep love between two people who never saw each other—and led both to a tragic end.

Guglielmo the Second, King of Sicily (as the Sicilians claim), had two children: a son, Ruggieri, and a daughter, Costanza. Ruggieri, dying before his father, left a son named Gerbino, who was carefully brought up by his grandfather and grew into a handsome youth renowned for his valor and courtesy. His fame spread far beyond Sicily and resounded especially in Barbary, which in those days was under the King of Sicily’s rule. Among those who heard of Gerbino’s famed valor and courtesy was the daughter of the King of Tunis—according to everyone who had seen her, one of the most beautiful and well-bred women ever born, with a noble and generous spirit. Delighting in tales of heroic deeds, she took great pleasure in hearing about Gerbino’s exploits, and the stories stirred her imagination so much that she became passionately enamored with him, enjoying talk of Gerbino above all others and eagerly listening whenever anyone spoke of him.

Similarly, the reports of her beauty and virtues reached Gerbino in Sicily and elsewhere, and he was as delighted by the tales as she was—and as inflamed by love for her as she for him. Longing above all to see her and searching for an excuse to gain his grandfather’s permission to travel to Tunis, he instructed every acquaintance traveling there to secretly declare his love to her and bring back news. One friend managed this cleverly, acting as a merchant exhibiting women’s jewels, and conveyed Gerbino’s deep passion to her, assuring her that the prince and everything he had was at her disposal. The princess gladly welcomed both messenger and message; in reply, admitting she burned with equal love for the prince, she sent him one of her most precious jewels as a token. Gerbino received it with all the joy imaginable, and wrote to her repeatedly through the same messenger, sending lavish gifts and arranging with her plans by which they might see and touch each other—had fortune allowed it.

As matters continued and their mutual longing grew ever stronger, it happened that the King of Tunis arranged for his daughter to marry the King of Granada. The young woman was distraught—not only would she be separated from her lover by a great distance, but now she would be entirely out of his reach. She would gladly have escaped to Gerbino if she saw any way to prevent this fate. Gerbino, when he heard of the marriage, was heartbroken and often considered seizing her by force, should she travel to her groom by sea. The King of Tunis, suspecting Gerbino’s feelings and intentions, and fearing his acclaimed courage, sent to King Guglielmo, informing him of his plans to send his daughter away and requesting assurance that Gerbino or anyone else would not interfere. King Guglielmo, an old man who knew nothing of Gerbino’s passion and saw no reason for such an assurance, readily gave it, sending the King of Tunis a glove in token of his promise. With this pledge, the King of Tunis prepared a splendid ship in the port of Carthage, fully equipping and furnishing it for the voyage, and waited only for favorable weather.

The princess, aware of all these arrangements, secretly sent a servant to Palermo with a message: he was to greet Gerbino on her behalf and tell him she would be setting sail for Granada in a few days—so now he would have an opportunity to prove whether he was as courageous as his fame suggested and if he truly loved her as he had repeatedly professed. The messenger fulfilled his mission and returned to Tunis, and Gerbino, upon hearing this and realizing that his grandfather had already sworn not to interfere, was filled with uncertainty. Yet love—and the fear of seeming cowardly—drove him to act: he hastily traveled to Messina, armed two swift galleys with men of tried valor, and sailed for the coast of Sardinia, intending to intercept her ship. He waited only a few days when, with a gentle breeze, the ship appeared within sight of the very place he had chosen to wait.

Seeing this, Gerbino spoke to his men: “Gentlemen, if you are the brave souls I believe you to be, I’m sure every one of you has known or knows love—without which, I think, no mortal can possess true valor or virtue. If you have been or are in love, you will easily understand my desire. I am in love, and love has led me to involve you in this endeavor. The one I love is on that ship becalmed over there, which, beyond containing what I most desire, is also full of great riches. Should you prove your bravery, we can win those treasures with little effort by fighting bravely. For myself, I ask only one lady—the rest of the spoils shall be yours. Come, let us boldly attack the ship: God favors our venture and holds it here fast, denying it a wind.”

The brave Gerbino needed few words, since the Messinese with him, eager for plunder, were already willing to do what he urged. So, when he finished speaking, they shouted their agreement, sounded the trumpets, grabbed their weapons, put the oars in the water, and made for the Tunisian ship. Those aboard, seeing the galleys approaching from afar and unable to flee, prepared to defend themselves. The bold Gerbino drew close to the ship and ordered that its masters be sent aboard the galleys, if they wished to avoid a fight; but the Saracens, having learned who they were and their intentions, declared they were being attacked in violation of the faith King Guglielmo had pledged. To prove this, they showed the king’s glove and firmly refused to surrender, except by force of battle, or to give up anything on the ship.

Gerbino, seeing the lady on the stern, far more beautiful than he had imagined, became more enamored than ever. Responding to the display of the glove, he said there were no falcons present and therefore no need for gloves. So, if they would not give up the lady, they should prepare for battle. Without further discussion, they began hurling arrows and stones at each other, fighting fiercely for a long time, with losses on both sides. Finally, Gerbino, seeing his efforts were in vain, took a small boat he had brought from Sardinia, set it alight, and, with the help of both galleys, drove it against the ship. The Saracens, seeing this and knowing they must either surrender or die, brought the king’s daughter—who was weeping below decks—up to the prow. Then, calling to Gerbino, they killed her before his eyes while she begged for mercy and help, and threw her into the sea, saying, “Take her; we give her to you, as best we can and as your broken faith deserves.”

Gerbino, witnessing their barbaric act, drew his ship alongside and, heedless of arrows or stones, boarded the ship as if seeking death, in spite of the defenders. Then—like a hungry lion among a herd of cattle, striking now this one, now that, satisfying his rage more than his hunger—he slaughtered many of the Saracens with his sword. After that, as the fire spread in the burning ship, he had his sailors salvage whatever they could as a reward for their efforts, then left the scene, having won nothing but a bitter victory over his enemies. Then, retrieving the lady’s body from the sea, he wept long and bitterly over her and, sailing to Sicily, buried her honorably on Ustica, a small island near Trapani. Afterward, he returned home, the most sorrowful man alive.

The King of Tunis, upon hearing the tragic news, sent his ambassadors, all dressed in black, to King Guglielmo, to complain about the broken promise he had made. They explained what had happened, which greatly angered King Guglielmo. Seeing no way to deny them justice, he had Gerbino arrested; then—even though all his barons pleaded with him to change his mind—he condemned Gerbino to death and had him executed in his presence, choosing rather to live without heirs than be considered faithless. Thus, as I have told you, these two lovers died miserably within a few days, violently and without ever knowing the fruits of their love.”

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## THE FIFTH STORY

Day the Fourth

LISABETTA’S BROTHERS SLAY HER LOVER, WHO APPEARS TO HER IN A DREAM AND SHOWS HER WHERE HE IS BURIED. SHE SECRETLY DISINTERS HIS HEAD AND PLACES IT IN A POT OF BASIL. THERE, MOURNING FOR IT EVERY DAY, HER BROTHERS TAKE IT FROM HER, AND SHE DIES OF GRIEF SOON AFTERWARD.

When Elisa’s story ended, and was somewhat praised by the king, Filomena was invited to speak. Deeply moved by compassion for the wretched Gerbino and his beloved, she heaved a sigh and began: “My story, gracious ladies, will not concern people of as high rank as those Elisa described, yet perhaps it will be no less pitiful. What brought it to mind was a recent mention of Messina, where this event happened.

There were, in Messina at that time, three young brothers—merchants, made very wealthy by their father from San Gimignano. They had a single sister named Lisabetta, a very beautiful and well-mannered young woman, whom, for whatever reason, they had not yet married off. These brothers had a young man from Pisa named Lorenzo in one of their warehouses, who managed all their business and was a handsome and pleasant fellow. Lisabetta, seeing him often, began to fancy him; Lorenzo, noticing her interest, likewise turned his affections to her, leaving his other loves. Thus, both being drawn to each other, it wasn’t long before, gaining confidence, they did what each desired most.

They continued this way, enjoying great pleasure and delight in each other, but could not keep it so secret that, one night, Lisabetta, visiting Lorenzo where he stayed, was seen—unwittingly—by her eldest brother. Though it pained him to know what he had seen, being a prudent young man, he was guided by a sense of honor and kept silent through the night, considering different courses of action. In the morning, he told his brothers what he had witnessed between Lisabetta and Lorenzo. After long deliberation, they decided (in order to avoid disgrace for themselves or their sister) to act as if they had seen and known nothing until they could get rid of this shame discreetly, before others learned of it. Holding fast to this plan, they continued their usual manner with Lorenzo, joking with him as before. Eventually, one day, pretending to go out of the city for pleasure, all three took him to a very remote and lonely place; there, finding an opportunity, they killed him unexpectedly and buried him so secretly that no one knew. Returning to Messina, they said they had sent him away on some business, which was easily believed as they often sent him out for such tasks.

When Lorenzo did not return and Lisabetta asked her brothers about him repeatedly—distressed by his long absence—it happened one day, when she questioned particularly insistently, that one of them said to her, ‘What’s your business with him? Why do you ask so much about him? If you keep on about Lorenzo, we’ll answer as you deserve.’ Sad, anxious, and afraid without knowing why, the girl stopped asking further. Still, at night she tearfully mourned his delay and often called for him to come to her. She spent her days grieving, never happy, always waiting for him. Until, one night, after grieving deeply for Lorenzo’s absence and finally falling asleep weeping, he appeared to her in a dream—pale, disheveled, his clothes torn and rotting—and she seemed to hear him say: ‘Listen, Lisabetta; you call for me constantly, grieving for my delay and blaming me in your tears. Know, then, that I can never return, for, on the last day you saw me, your brothers killed me.’ Then, revealing to her where he was buried, he told her not to call him or expect him anymore, and vanished; waking up, she believed the vision and wept bitterly.

In the morning, after rising and not daring to say anything to her brothers, she resolved to go to the appointed place to see if what she had dreamed was true. She got permission to go a short distance outside the city for her enjoyment, and went there as quickly as possible, accompanied by a woman who had sometimes been with them and knew all her affairs. There, clearing away the dead leaves, she dug where she thought the earth seemed less hard. She had not dug long before she found the body of her unfortunate lover, unchanged and uncorrupted, and so she knew without doubt that her vision was true, which left her the most grief-stricken of women. Wanting, if at all possible, to take the whole body away for a more fitting burial but realizing she could not, she cut off the head from the body as best she could with a knife and wrapped it in a napkin, placing it in her maid’s lap. Then, covering the trunk with earth again, she left unseen and returned home, where she shut herself in her room with her lover’s head, mourning it long and bitterly. Her tears bathed the head and she kissed it a thousand times in every place. Then, taking a large and fine pot, of the sort used for planting marjoram or sweet basil, she placed the head inside, wrapped in a clean linen cloth, covered it with earth, and planted various fine basil plants from Salerno in it. She never watered these with anything but her tears or with rose or orange flower water. She would sit near the pot, gazing longingly at it as if it held her hidden Lorenzo; and, after looking at it for a long while, she would bend over it and weep so much and so long that her tears bathed all the basil, which, due to her constant care and the richness of the soil nourished by the decaying head inside, grew exceedingly beautiful and wonderfully fragrant.

The young woman continued in this way without ceasing, and her neighbors saw her several times. Marveling at her fading beauty and that her eyes seemed to have left her head from weeping, they told her brothers, saying, “We have noticed she behaves like this every day.” The brothers, hearing and seeing this and having reproved her more than once but to no effect, secretly took the pot away from her. When she missed it, she desperately asked for it many times, and because it was not returned to her, she did not stop weeping and lamenting until she fell ill. Even in her sickness, she asked for nothing but the pot of basil. The young men were greatly puzzled by her constant pleas and decided to see what was in the pot. They turned out the earth and found the cloth with the head inside, not yet so decayed that they could not recognize it as Lorenzo by its curled hair. Amazed and fearful that the matter would become known, they buried the head and, without another word, secretly left Messina after making arrangements to leave, and went to Naples. The young woman, never ceasing her mourning and still pleading for her pot, died weeping; thus ended her unhappy love. But after a time, as the story became widely known, someone composed the song that is still sung to this day:

Alack! ah, who can the ill Christian be,  
That stole my pot away?” etc.

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## THE SIXTH STORY

Day the Fourth

ANDREVUOLA FALLS IN LOVE WITH GABRIOTTO AND TELLS HIM OF A DREAM SHE HAS HAD, WHEREUPON HE TELLS HER ONE OF HIS OWN AND SOON AFTER DIES SUDDENLY IN HER ARMS. WHILE SHE AND HER MAID CARRY HIM TO HIS HOUSE, THEY ARE TAKEN BY THE OFFICERS OF JUSTICE AND BROUGHT BEFORE THE PROVOST, TO WHOM SHE EXPLAINS THE MATTER. THE PROVOST TRIES TO FORCE HER, BUT SHE DOES NOT YIELD, AND HER FATHER, LEARNING OF THE MATTER, OBTAINS HER RELEASE AFTER SHE IS FOUND INNOCENT; WHEREUPON, REFUSING TO REMAIN IN THE WORLD, SHE BECOMES A NUN

Filomela’s story was very pleasing to the ladies, for they had often heard this song but never, for all their questions, learned its true origin. But the king, having heard the conclusion, instructed Pamfilo to carry on according to the order, so he began, “The dream in the previous story gives me an opportunity to tell one in which there are two dreams, which foretold something, just as the former dream revealed something that had happened; and scarcely had those who dreamed them finished telling of them before both were fulfilled. You must know, dear ladies, that it is natural for everyone to see many things in their sleep, and although, to the sleeper, all these things seem true while dreaming, when awake, some are considered true, others plausible, and others implausible—yet many dreams are found to come true. For this reason, many people give as much trust to dreams as to things they see while awake, and for their own dreams, they grieve or rejoice, depending on whether they hope or fear because of them. On the other hand, there are those who do not believe any dreams, unless they actually find themselves facing the danger the dream foretold. I approve of neither extreme, for dreams are neither always true nor always false. We all know that they are not all true from experience; and that they are not all false has already been demonstrated in Filomena’s story, and I intend, as I said before, to show it in mine. Therefore, I think that when it comes to living and acting virtuously, one should not fear any dream that suggests otherwise, nor abandon good intentions because of them. As for wicked and evil things, even if dreams make them seem likely or encourage someone with favorable omens, such dreams should not be believed, while all dreams that warn against them should be heeded. But now to the story.

There was once in the city of Brescia a gentleman named Messer Negro da Ponte Carraro, who among his many children had a daughter named Andrevuola, young, unmarried, and very beautiful. It happened that she fell in love with a neighbor named Gabriotto, a man of humble origins but of admirable character, comely and pleasant in appearance; and, with the help of the maidservant of the house, she arranged things so that not only did Gabriotto know she loved him, but he was many times secretly brought, to their mutual delight, into her father’s beautiful garden. Wanting to ensure that nothing but death could ever end their sweet love, they became, in secret, husband and wife, and meeting stealthily, it happened that the young lady, one night while asleep, dreamed that she was in her garden with Gabriotto and holding him in her arms, to their great pleasure. But while they were thus, she dreamed she saw something dark and terrifying come out of his body, the form of which she could not make out. This thing took Gabriotto and, with marvelous strength, tore him from her embrace despite her resistance and took him underground, so that she could never see either of them again.

Shaken by an indescribable grief, she woke up; and while she was glad upon waking that her dream was not true, she was nonetheless filled with fear because of it. So when Gabriotto wanted to visit her the next night, she did her best to prevent his coming; but seeing how much he wished to see her and not wanting him to suspect anything, she received him in the garden. After gathering many white and red roses, as it was the season, she sat with him by a beautiful, clear fountain in the garden. After taking great joy together for a long time, Gabriotto asked why she had tried to stop him from coming that night. She told him, recounting the dream she had the previous night and the fear it had given her.

He, hearing this, laughed and said it was foolish to believe in dreams, since they were caused by too much or too little food and were clearly seen every day to be vain. He added, “If I paid heed to dreams, I would not have come here tonight—not so much because of yours but because of one I myself dreamed last night. I dreamed I was in a beautiful and pleasant wood, hunting, and had caught the fairest and loveliest hind ever seen, whiter than snow, which soon became so tame it never left my side. I held it so dear that, to keep it from leaving, I put a gold collar around its neck and held it with a golden chain. Then I dreamed that once, while the hind lay with its head in my lap, a greyhound bitch, black as coal, starving and very frightening, appeared and came toward me. I offered no resistance, so it shoved its muzzle into my left side and gnawed until it reached my heart, which it seemed to tear out to carry away. The pain was so great that it woke me, and I clapped my hand to my side to see if anything was amiss, but finding nothing wrong, I laughed at myself. But what of it? I have dreamed many such and even more frightening ones, and nothing in the world has ever come of it; so let us forget the dream and just enjoy ourselves.”

The young lady, already greatly frightened by her own dream, was even more upset by his, but hid her fear as best she could so as not to disturb Gabriotto. Still, while enjoying herself with him, hugging and kissing him repeatedly and being hugged and kissed in return, she often looked at his face more than usual, feeling uneasy for reasons she could not name, and sometimes looked around the garden in case she saw anything black appear. Suddenly, as they were sitting together, Gabriotto gave a great sigh, hugged her, and said, “Alas, my soul, help me, for I am dying!” With that, he fell to the grass. The young lady, seeing this, lifted him into her lap and, nearly weeping, said, “Alas, my sweet lord, what ails you?” He did not answer, but, struggling for breath and sweating all over, soon after passed away.

How painful, how sorrowful this was for the young lady, who loved him more than her own life, each of you can imagine for herself. She wept bitterly and called him many times in vain; but after she had touched every part of his body and found him cold all over, realizing that he was truly dead and not knowing what else to do or say, she went, tearful and filled with anguish, to call her maid, who was already aware of their love, and revealed her misery and sorrow. After they had mourned together for some time over Gabriotto’s lifeless face, the young lady said to the maid, “Since God has taken from me the one I love, I intend not to continue living; but before I take my own life, I wish to take care to protect my honor and the secret of our love, and to see that the body, from which his gracious spirit has departed, is properly buried.”

“Dear daughter,” replied the maid, “do not talk of taking your own life, for if you have lost him in this world, by killing yourself you would lose him in the next as well, since you would go to hell, and I am sure that is not where his soul has gone, for he was a virtuous young man. It would be far better to comfort yourself and pray for his soul and do good works, in case he needs them for any sin he may have committed. We have the means to bury him here in the garden, and no one will ever know, for no one saw him come here. Or, if you do not want that, let us take him out of the garden and leave him to be found; he will be discovered in the morning and taken to his house, where his family can bury him.” The young lady, though heartbroken and weeping constantly, listened to her maid’s advice and, declining the first suggestion, agreed to the second, saying, “God forbid that I should allow one so dear to me, and so beloved, to be buried in the manner of a dog or left lying in the street! He has had my tears, and as much as I can, he shall have those of his family as well, and I already have a plan for what we should do.”

She then sent her maid for a piece of silk cloth she kept in her coffer, and spreading it on the ground, laid Gabriotto’s body upon it, placing his head on a pillow. With many tears she closed his eyes and mouth, then wove a chaplet of roses and covered him with all the roses they had gathered together. Afterwards, she said to the maid, “It is only a short distance to his house; so we will take him there, you and I, just as we have arranged him, and lay him before the door. It will not be long before it is day, and he will be found; and although this may not console his friends, it will bring some comfort to me, in whose arms he died.” So saying, she again threw herself upon his face, weeping greatly. At last, urged by her maid, who told her dawn was approaching, she rose and drew from her finger the ring by which Gabriotto had espoused her, placing it on his finger and saying, weeping, “Dearest, if your soul now sees my tears, or if any feeling remains in the body after death, kindly accept this last gift from her whom you so loved in life.” With this, she fainted upon him, but soon came to, rose, and together with her maid, carried the cloth with his body out of the garden and set out for his house.

As they went, they were discovered and apprehended with the dead body by the officers of the provost, who happened to be out at that hour on another matter. Andrevuola, more desirous of death than life, recognized the officers and said frankly, “I know who you are and that it would do me no good to flee; I am ready to go with you before the Seignory and there explain what truly happened; but let none of you dare touch me, as long as I cooperate, or take anything from this body, or I will accuse him.” Accordingly, without being touched by any of them, she went with Gabriotto’s body to the palace. The Provost, informed of what had happened, got up and had her brought into his chamber, where he questioned her about the matter. He called in several physicians to see if the man had been killed by poison or in some other way. They all confirmed this was not the case, but that some abscess had burst near the heart and suffocated him. Hearing this, and believing her guilt to be little, the magistrate pretended to grant her something he could not sell her, promising that if she would give in to his advances, he would release her; but, when these words failed, he shamelessly threatened to use force. However, Andrevuola, fired with indignation and strengthened by her anger, defended herself boldly, pushing him back with proud and scornful words.

By this time, daylight having come and these events being reported to Messer Negro, he, grief-stricken, went at once to the palace with many friends. After the Provost told him all that had happened, he angrily demanded that his daughter be returned to him. The Provost, preferring to accuse himself of attempted violence rather than be accused by her, first praised the young woman and her steadfastness and, to prove it, explained what he had done. Seeing her extraordinary resolve, he claimed to have developed a deep love for her and, if it pleased both her father and herself, would gladly marry her—even though her previous husband had been of humble status. While they spoke, Andrevuola appeared and, weeping, threw herself at her father’s feet, saying, “Father, I think there is no need for me to tell you the story of my boldness and my misfortune, for I am sure you have heard it. So, as best I can, I humbly beg your forgiveness for my wrongdoing—having, without your knowledge, taken as husband the one who most pleased me. I ask this favor of you not so that you will spare my life, but so I may die your daughter and not your enemy.” Saying this, she wept at his feet.

Messer Negro, who was an old man and kindly by nature, listened to her words and began to weep. With tears in his eyes, he raised his daughter tenderly and said, “My daughter, I would have preferred for you to have a husband as I thought proper for you; but that you took one whom you yourself liked would also have satisfied me, had I known. It pains me most of all that you hid him from me, showing little trust, and all the more so since you lost him before I ever met him. However, since things are so, what I would have gladly done for him if he had lived—to honor him as my son-in-law—I will have done now, though he is dead.” He then turned to his sons and relatives and ordered that great and honorable funeral rites be prepared for Gabriotto.

Meanwhile, Gabriotto’s kinsmen and women, on hearing the news, gathered there, along with almost all the men and women of the city. The body, laid out in the courtyard on Andrevuola’s silken cloth and covered with all her roses, was mourned not only by her and his family, but publicly by nearly all the ladies of the city and many men. Carried from the Seignory’s courtyard not as that of a commoner but as that of a nobleman, it was honored greatly as it was borne to the tomb on the shoulders of the noblest citizens. Some days later, the Provost, holding to his proposal, got Messer Negro to present it to his daughter, but she would not listen. Her father, willing to follow her wishes, allowed her and her maid to become nuns in a convent renowned for its sanctity, where they lived honorably for a long while after.”

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## THE SEVENTH STORY

Day the Fourth

SIMONA LOVES PASQUINO, AND, WHILE THEY ARE TOGETHER IN A GARDEN, PASQUINO RUBS A SAGE LEAF AGAINST HIS TEETH AND DIES. SIMONA, BEING TAKEN AND INTENDING TO SHOW THE JUDGE HOW HER LOVER DIED, RUBS ONE OF THE SAME LEAVES AGAINST HER TEETH AND DIES IN LIKE MANNER

Pamfilo having finished his story, the king, showing no compassion for Andrevuola, looked at Emilia and signaled that it was his wish for her to follow those who had already spoken with a story of her own. Without delay, she began as follows: “Dear friends, the story Pamfilo just told reminds me of one that is in no way like his, except that, just as Andrevuola lost her beloved in a garden, the woman I am to speak of did as well; and, being taken up in much the same way, managed to escape the court—not by strength or steadfastness, but by an unexpected death. As we have already said among ourselves, although Love prefers to dwell in the houses of the great, he does not therefore refuse to rule over those of the poor; indeed, sometimes in the latter he reveals his power so greatly that he is feared, as a mighty lord, even by the wealthy. This, if not always, will be shown in great part through my story, which I am pleased to use as a way to return to our own city, as today we have discussed many matters in places far and wide.

So, not very long ago, there was in Florence a maiden, very beautiful and pleasant for her station, who was the daughter of a poor man and named Simona. Although she had to earn her daily bread with her own hands and support herself by spinning wool, she was still spirited enough to let Love into her heart, which, through the sweet words and ways of a young man not much better off than herself, who came to deliver wool on behalf of his master, a wool-merchant, had long tried to do so. Having at last welcomed Love into her heart, encouraged by the youth who cared for her—his name was Pasquino—she gave a thousand sighs, hotter than fire, over every hank of yarn she wound, thinking of the one who had given it and longing for him, though not daring to take further action. On his side, anxious that his master’s wool should be well spun, Pasquino watched Simona’s spinning more closely than anyone else’s, as if only her handiwork was to make up the entire cloth. Thus, he openly courted her, and she delighted in being courted, until, as he grew bolder than before and she put aside much of her usual shyness, they mutually agreed to give themselves up to love’s pleasures—so pleasing, in fact, that neither waited for the other’s invitation, but each took the lead in suggesting it.

Ensuing their daily delight, which only grew stronger with time, it happened one day that Pasquino told Simona he wished she would find a way to come to a garden, where he wanted to meet her so they could spend time together more freely and without suspicion. Simona agreed readily, and so, on Sunday after lunch, she convinced her father that she was going to San Gallo for pardoning. Instead, she went, accompanied by her friend Lagina, to the garden Pasquino had arranged. There, she found him with a companion named Puccino, more commonly known as Stramba. Soon, Stramba grew enamored with Lagina, and after a brief introduction, Simona and Pasquino withdrew to another part of the garden to enjoy each other's company, while Stramba and Lagina remained elsewhere.

In the part of the garden where Pasquino and Simona sat, there was a large and lovely sage bush. They sat down at its base and enjoyed themselves for a long while, talking mainly about a picnic they planned to have there at their leisure. After some time, Pasquino turned to the big sage bush and plucked a leaf, which he used to rub his teeth and gums, claiming that sage cleaned them very well after eating. Once he had finished this, he returned to discussing their picnic plans. However, he soon began to change color completely; almost immediately, he lost his sight and speech, and within a short while, he died.

Simona, seeing this, began to weep and cry out, calling for Stramba and Lagina, who rushed over. Seeing Pasquino not only dead but already swollen and covered with dark spots on his face and body, Stramba suddenly cried out, “Ah, wicked woman! You have poisoned him!” Raising a great outcry, he attracted the attention of many who lived near the garden. They came running to the commotion and found Pasquino dead and swollen.

Hearing Stramba accuse Simona of poisoning him out of malice, while she, overwhelmed by grief at her lover’s sudden death, could hardly defend herself, all present believed his accusation. Accordingly, she was taken, still weeping intensely, to the Provost’s palace. There, at the urging of Stramba and two other companions of Pasquino, named Atticciato and Malagevole, who had also arrived, a judge immediately began to investigate her. Unable to find any evidence that she intended harm or was in any way guilty, he decided, in her presence, to examine the body and inspect the scene of the incident as she described it, since her words alone did not fully clarify the events for him.

Therefore, she was brought, without commotion, to where Pasquino’s swollen body still lay, and the judge followed her, marveling at the sight. He asked her how it had happened, and she approached the sage bush, recounted everything, and to make it clearer to the judge, she did exactly as Pasquino had, rubbing a sage leaf against her teeth. Then, while Stramba, Atticciato, and the other friends of Pasquino mocked her account as frivolous and false, loudly demanding that she be burned at the stake for such wickedness, the unfortunate girl—already consumed by grief for her lost lover and afraid of the punishment demanded by Stramba—succumbed, having rubbed the sage on her teeth, to the same fate as her lover, and dropped dead, to the great astonishment of everyone present.

O blessed souls, who in the same day ended both your passionate love and your mortal lives! Even happier, if you went to the same place together! And happiest of all, if there is love in the next life and you love there as you did here! But without comparison the happiest—at least to us who remain—was Simona’s soul, as fortune did not allow her innocence to be destroyed by the testimonies of Stramba, Atticciato, and Malagevole, who were perhaps wool-carders or men of even lower standing; instead, she found a more honorable way, through a death like her lover’s, to escape their lies and follow her beloved Pasquino.

The judge, astonished as were all present by this misadventure and not knowing what to say, remained silent for some time. Then, coming to himself, he said, “It seems this sage is poisonous, which is most unusual. Nevertheless, to prevent further harm, let it be cut down to the roots and burned.” The garden’s caretaker did so in the judge’s presence, and as soon as the great bush was removed, the cause of the two lovers’ deaths became apparent: beneath it was a huge toad, whose poisonous breath they concluded had contaminated the sage. No one dared approach the creature, so they built a thick hedge of brushwood around it and burned it along with the sage. This concluded the judge’s inquiry into the deaths of Pasquino and Simona, who, still swollen, were buried together by Stramba, Atticciato, Guccio Imbratta, and Malagevole at the church of St. Paul, which happened to be their parish.”

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## THE EIGHTH STORY

Day the Fourth

GIROLAMO LOVES SALVESTRA, AND WHEN HIS MOTHER’S PRAYERS FORCE HIM TO GO TO PARIS, HE RETURNS TO FIND HIS BELOVED MARRIED; SO HE SECRETLY ENTERS HER HOUSE AND DIES BY HER SIDE; AND WHEN HIS BODY IS TAKEN TO A CHURCH, SALVESTRA DIES THERE BESIDE HIM

With Emilia’s story ended, Neifile, at the king’s command, began as follows: “There are some, noble ladies, who believe they know more than others, although, in my opinion, they actually know less. These people, because of their arrogance, set their own judgment not only above the advice of others, but even against the natural order of things—such arrogance has often led to grave misfortune, and never has any good resulted from it. And since of all natural things, love is the least likely to tolerate contrary counsel or interference, and since its nature is such that it is more likely to burn itself out than be ended by advice, I have chosen to tell you a story of a lady who, thinking herself wiser than she truly was, and indeed wiser than was appropriate for her role, tried to eradicate from an enamored heart the love that perhaps the stars themselves had placed there—and in doing so, succeeded in expelling both love and life from her son's body.

There was, then, in our city, according to what the ancients relate, a very great and wealthy merchant named Lionardo Sighieri, who had a son by his wife called Girolamo. After Girolamo's birth, Lionardo arranged his affairs properly and passed away. The boy’s guardians, together with his mother, managed his estate loyally and wisely. Growing up among his neighbors’ children, Girolamo became especially close to a girl his own age, the tailor’s daughter, more so than to any other in the neighborhood. As he grew older, his affection for her deepened into such a strong and ardent love that he was never content except when he saw her, and indeed she loved him no less than he loved her. Girolamo’s mother noticed this and often scolded and reprimanded him, and when he wouldn’t give up his attachment, she complained to his guardians, saying to them, perhaps believing her son’s great wealth could change the natural order, “This boy of ours, though he is hardly fourteen yet, is so taken with the daughter of our neighbor the tailor, named Salvestra, that unless we remove her from his sight, he may one day secretly marry her, and I shall never find happiness again. Or else he will waste away if he sees her married to someone else. Therefore, I think it best that you send him far from here on business for the warehouse; with her out of sight, she will fade from his mind, and we may later find him a well-born woman to wed.”

The guardians agreed she was right and said they would do their best; so, calling Girolamo into the warehouse, one of them addressed him kindly: “My son, you are now older, and it is fitting that you begin to look after your affairs. We would be pleased if you would go stay for a while in Paris, where you can see how much of your fortune is invested, and you will also become better mannered and more worthy than you could here, learning from the many lords and noblemen there. Afterward, you can return home.” The youth listened attentively and replied curtly that he was unwilling to go, believing he could do just as well in Florence as anyone else. The guardians tried to persuade him with different arguments, but when they got no different answer, they told his mother, who, very annoyed, scolded him, not for his reluctance to go to Paris, but for his infatuation. Then she tried to coax him, urging him gently to do as his guardians wished. In the end, she managed to convince him to go to France and stay there for one year, no more.

So, deeply in love as he was, he went off to Paris and, being delayed again and again, ended up staying for two years. When he finally returned, more in love than ever, he found his Salvestra married to an honest young tentmaker. He was overwhelmed by grief, but seeing nothing could be done, tried to console himself. After discovering where she lived, he started, as young men in love often do, to walk by her house, hoping she remembered him as much as he did her. But it was not so; she remembered him no more than if she had never seen him, or if she did, she acted as if she hadn’t. Girolamo soon became aware of this, to his great unhappiness. Still, he tried everything to remind her, but failing in his efforts, resolved to speak with her face to face, even if it should cost him his life.

So, after learning the layout of her house from a neighbor, one evening when she and her husband went out to visit friends, he entered the house in secret and hid among some tent cloths. When the couple returned and went to bed, Girolamo waited until he was sure the husband was asleep. Then he went over to where Salvestra lay and, touching her breast, whispered, “Are you still awake, my soul?” Salvestra, who was indeed awake, was about to cry out, but he quickly said, “For God’s sake, do not cry out, for I am your Girolamo.” Trembling, she said, “Oh, for God's sake, Girolamo, please go. The time for childish love is past. I am, as you see, married, and it is no longer appropriate for me to think of any man but my husband. I beg you, for God’s sake, go away, because if my husband heard you, even if nothing else came of it, I could never live with him in peace or comfort again; but now, I am loved by him and live contentedly with him.”

These words grieved the youth deeply, and he tried to remind her of their past and of his love, which absence had not lessened, mixing in many prayers and promises, but to no effect. Desiring to die, he finally begged her, in return for so much love, to let him lie beside her just to warm himself, since he’d grown chilled waiting for her, promising he would speak no word or touch her and would leave once he was warmed a bit. Salvestra, feeling some pity, agreed on these terms, so he lay down next to her without touching her. Then, focusing on the long love he’d borne her, her present coldness, and his lost hope, he decided he would live no longer; and tightening his grasp on life, he clenched his hands and died at her side, without a sound or movement.

After a while, amazed at his self-control and worried her husband would awaken, Salvestra began saying, “Girolamo, why do you not go?” Receiving no reply, she thought he had fallen asleep. Reaching out to wake him, she found he was as cold as ice. Surprised, she shook him harder and, finding him motionless, felt him again and realized he was dead. Overwhelmed with grief and not knowing what to do, at last she decided to find out, using a story about another person, what her husband would advise in such a case. She woke him and told him, as if it had happened to someone else, what had just happened to her, and then asked what to do if it had happened to her personally. The good man replied that it seemed to him the dead man should be quietly carried home and left at his own house, and the woman, who had done nothing wrong, should not be blamed. Salvestra then said, “Then that is what we must do.” She took his hand and made him touch the dead youth; whereupon the husband, utterly shocked, got up without further words, lit a lamp, dressed the corpse in its own clothes, lifted it onto his shoulders, and, his innocence helping him, carried it without delay to Girolamo’s house and left it at the door.

When morning came and Girolamo was found dead at his own doorstep, there was a great outcry, especially from his mother. The physicians examined and searched his body but found no wound or bruise whatsoever and so concluded he had died of grief, as he truly had. The body was taken to a church, and the sorrowful mother, along with many other ladies, relatives, and neighbors, went there to weep and mourn over him, as is our custom. While the wailing was at its peak, the good man in whose house Girolamo had died said to Salvestra, “Put a veil or mantle on your head and go to the church where Girolamo has been taken and mingle with the women, and listen to what is being said; I will do the same among the men, so we can hear if anything is being said against us.” Salvestra agreed, having become pitiful too late and eager to look upon him dead, whom living she had not granted even one poor kiss, and so she went. It is truly remarkable how mysterious love’s ways are! The heart that Girolamo’s luck in life could not soften was suddenly moved by his misfortune. When she saw his dead face, all her old feelings returned, and she pressed through the women, veiled as she was, and did not stop until she reached him. There, giving a terrible cry, she threw herself face-down on the dead youth and, without shedding a flood of tears, for as soon as she touched him grief took her life, just as it had his.

The women tried to comfort her and urged her to get up, not knowing who she was yet; but after they called to her in vain, they tried to lift her and found she was motionless, and when they raised her, they saw that it was Salvestra and that she was dead. Seeing this, everyone was overcome with double grief and the wailing increased. The news quickly spread among the men outside the church and soon reached her husband, who was there. Ignoring all attempts at comfort, he wept for a long time; then he told many of those present the story of what had happened that night between his wife and the dead youth, and so the cause of each death became known, which grieved everyone. Then, taking up the dead girl and dressing her as is customary, they laid her beside Girolamo on the same bier, and there was much mourning over them both; afterward, they were buried together in the same tomb, and so those whom love had not joined in life, death joined in an inseparable union.

## THE NINTH STORY

Day the Fourth

SIR GUILLAUME DE ROUSSILLON GIVES HIS WIFE THE HEART OF SIR GUILLAUME DE GUARDESTAING, WHOM HE SLEW AND WHO WAS LOVED BY HER; AFTER SHE DISCOVERS THIS, SHE THROWS HERSELF FROM A HIGH WINDOW TO HER DEATH AND IS BURIED WITH HER LOVER

Neifile had finished her story, which stirred not a little compassion in all the ladies present. The king, intending not to infringe upon Dioneo’s privilege, since only they two remained to tell, began, “Gentle ladies, since you have shown such compassion for ill-fated love, I will now tell you a story that will call for no less pity than the last, for those involved were of higher rank than those previously mentioned and their misfortune was even greater.

You must know, then, that according to what the Provençals relate, there were once in Provence two noble knights, each with his own castles and vassals, one named Sir Guillaume de Roussillon and the other Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing. Because both were men of great skill in arms, they loved each other dearly and always went together, dressed in the same colors, to every tournament, joust, or other feats of arms. Though each lived in his own castle about ten miles apart, it happened that Sir Guillaume de Roussillon had a very beautiful and charming wife. Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, despite the close friendship between them, became passionately in love with her, and by various means, he made his feelings known to the lady. Knowing him to be a very valiant knight, it pleased her, and she returned his love, desiring nothing more than to be desired by him and waiting only to be pursued—which happened soon enough, and they met together on more than one occasion.

Loving each other greatly and speaking together less discreetly than they ought, it happened that the husband became aware of their closeness and was deeply angered by it, so much so that the great love he had for Guardestaing turned into deadly hatred. However, he knew better how to hide his feelings than the two lovers had known how to conceal their love, and he resolved that he would kill Guardestaing. While Roussillon was in this state of mind, it happened that a grand tournament was proclaimed in France, which he immediately informed Guardestaing about, inviting him to come if he wished so they could discuss whether and how they should attend. Guardestaing replied very cheerfully that he would definitely come to supper with him the following day. When Roussillon heard this, he thought the time had come when he could successfully kill him. So, on the next day, he armed himself and, with a servant, mounted his horse and waited in ambush in a wood about a mile from his castle, where Guardestaing would have to pass.

After waiting for quite a while, he saw Guardestaing approaching, unarmed and accompanied by two similarly unarmed servants, as someone who suspected nothing. When Guardestaing came to the place where Roussillon wanted him, Roussillon charged out, lance in hand, full of rage and malice, yelling, “Traitor, you are dead!” Saying this and plunging the lance into his chest happened almost at the same moment. Guardestaing, unable to defend himself or even say a word, fell from his horse, pierced by the lance, and soon after died. His servants, not stopping to find out who had done this, turned their horses and fled as quickly as they could toward their lord’s castle. Roussillon dismounted, and, opening Guardestaing’s chest with a knife, tore out his heart with his own hands, wrapped it in the pennon of a lance, and gave it to one of his men to carry. Then, forbidding anyone to speak of the matter, he remounted, and as it was now night, returned to his castle.

The lady, having heard that Guardestaing was to dine with them that evening and awaiting him impatiently, was greatly surprised not to see him. She asked her husband, “How is it, sir, that Guardestaing has not come?” “Wife,” he answered, “I have word from him that he cannot be here until tomorrow.” The lady was troubled by this. Roussillon then dismounted and called the cook, saying, “Take this wild boar’s heart and make from it the most delicious and refined dish you can, and when I am at table, bring it to me in a silver bowl.” The cook, taking the heart and applying all his skill and effort, minced it and, seasoning it with many rich spices, prepared a very fine ragout.

When it was time to eat, Sir Guillaume sat at the table with his wife and the courses were served, but he ate little, being distracted by the terrible deed he had committed. Soon the cook sent the ragout, which he had placed before the lady, pretending to feel unwell that evening and recommending the dish to her with enthusiasm. The lady, not at all squeamish, tasted it, found it very good, and ate it all. When the knight saw this, he asked, “Wife, what do you think of this dish?” “Truly, my lord,” she replied, “I find it excellent.” Whereupon Roussillon said, “So help me God, I do believe you. Nor do I wonder that what pleased you dead should appeal to you, since it pleased you more than anything else when alive.” The lady hesitated for a moment and asked, “What do you mean? What have you made me eat?” The knight replied, “What you have eaten is indeed the heart of Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, whom you, faithless wife, so loved. Know for certain it was his heart, for I tore it from his chest with my own hands, just before returning here.”

There is no need to ask if the lady was overwhelmed with grief at hearing this about the man she loved above all others. After a short time she said, “You have acted like the disloyal and base knight that you are; for if I, willingly, made him master of my love and offended you, it should have been I, not he, to bear the penalty. But God forbid that any other food should ever pass my lips after I have tasted such noble fare as the heart of so valiant and courteous a gentleman as Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing!” Then, without hesitation, she stood up and threw herself backward from a window behind her, which was very high above the ground; thus, as she fell, she was killed instantly and nearly smashed to pieces.

Sir Guillaume, seeing this, was terribly shaken and realized he had done wrong; fearful of the local people and the Count of Provence, he had his horses saddled and fled. The next day, the whole country learned what had happened; and the two bodies, amid the deepest sorrow and mourning, were taken by Guardestaing’s family and the lady’s family and laid together in the same tomb in the chapel at the lady’s castle. A verse was inscribed over them, recounting who they were and how and why they had died.

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## THE TENTH STORY

# Day the Fourth

A PHYSICIAN’S WIFE HIDES HER LOVER, THOUGHT DEAD, IN A CHEST THAT TWO USURERS THEN STEAL AND CARRY TO THEIR OWN HOUSE, LOVER AND ALL. THE LOVER, WHO IS ONLY DRUGGED, EVENTUALLY AWAKES AND, WHEN DISCOVERED, IS TAKEN FOR A THIEF; BUT THE LADY’S MAID TESTIFIES BEFORE THE AUTHORITIES THAT SHE HERSELF HAD HIDDEN HIM IN THE CHEST THAT THE USURERS HAD STOLEN, ALLOWING HIM TO ESCAPE THE GALLOWS WHILE THE THIEVES ARE FINED A CERTAIN SUM OF MONEY.

Filostrato having finished his story, only Dioneo was left to tell his, and when the king commanded him, he began as follows: “The sad stories of unlucky loves told today have saddened not only your eyes and hearts, ladies, but mine as well, so I have long wished for them to be over. Now that—praise be to God—they are finished (unless I foolishly add a sad story to such sorry company, from which God preserve me!), I will, rather than dwell further on such somber subjects, start something lighter and happier, perhaps providing a fitting lead-in for what will be told on the following day.

You must know then, lovely ladies, that not so long ago in Salerno there lived a very famous surgeon, Master Mazzeo della Montagna, who, though already extremely old, married a beautiful and gentle young woman from his city and kept her better supplied with fine clothes, jewels, and all sorts of comforts than any other woman in town. However, she was often left cold at night, as her husband would seldom join her in bed. Just as Messer Ricardo di Chinzica (whom we have already mentioned) taught his wife to observe saints’ days and holidays, so too did the doctor claim that every time he lay with a woman, he needed many days of study to regain his strength, and similar excuses, leaving her deeply dissatisfied. Being wise and high-spirited, she decided, in order to better manage the household’s wealth, to look for pleasure elsewhere. After considering various young men, she finally found one who suited her, and placed all her hopes in him. He, realizing her interest, and being greatly taken with her, devoted all his love to her in return.

The spark in question was called Ruggieri da Jeroli, a man of noble birth but of disreputable habits and blameworthy conduct, so much so that he had no friends or relatives left who wished him well or cared to see him, and he was infamous throughout all Salerno for thefts and the basest misdeeds. Yet this mattered little to the lady, who was pleased by him for other reasons, and with the aid of one of her maids, she managed to bring him to her. After they had enjoyed each other, the lady began to reproach him for his past way of life, begging him, for her sake, to give up his bad habits. To help him do so, she supported him—sometimes with one sum of money, sometimes with another. In this way, they shared their time together discreetly, until it happened that a sick man with a gangrened leg came under the doctor’s care. Master Mazzeo, after examining the case, told the patient’s family that unless a decayed bone in the leg was removed, the man would have to lose the entire limb or die. However, if the bone was taken out, there was a chance of recovery, but otherwise, he wouldn’t guarantee the outcome. The family agreed and gave the patient into his care. The doctor, knowing the man likely couldn’t endure the pain or submit to treatment without an opiate, planned to operate at vespers. That morning, he distilled a certain potion, which, when drunk by the patient, would put him to sleep for as long as needed for the procedure. He brought it home and left it in his room, telling no one what it was.

When vespers came and the doctor was about to visit the patient, a messenger arrived from some very close friends in Malfi, insisting he come immediately, as a great fight had broken out there with many wounded. Master Mazzeo postponed the surgery until the next morning and took a boat to Malfi. When his wife knew he wasn’t returning that night, she called for Ruggieri as usual, brought him to her room, and locked him in while others in the house were still awake. While waiting for his lover, Ruggieri, whether from the fatigue of his day, something he had eaten, or habit, became very thirsty. He spotted the flagon of water the doctor had prepared for the patient, standing at the window, and, thinking it was just drinking water, drank it all. It wasn’t long before a great drowsiness overtook him and he fell asleep.

The lady entered the room as soon as she could and, seeing Ruggieri asleep, nudged him and quietly told him to get up, but he didn’t answer or move. Becoming slightly annoyed, she pushed him harder, saying, “Get up, lazybones! If you wanted to sleep, you should have stayed at your own house and not come here.” With her pushing, Ruggieri rolled off the chest he was sleeping on and didn't show any more sign of life than a dead body. The lady, now truly anxious, tried to lift him, shaking him harder, tweaking his nose and pulling his beard—but all in vain; he was completely insensible. She started to fear that he was dead. Nevertheless, she pinched him hard and even burned his flesh with a lighted taper, but nothing worked. Knowing little of medicine despite being married to a doctor, she believed, without doubt, that he was truly dead. Since she loved him above all else, there’s no need to say how grief-stricken she was. Fearing to make an outcry, she silently wept over him, mourning her misfortune.

After a while, worried about bringing shame on top of her loss, she realized she had to find a way to get the body out of the house as soon as possible. Not knowing how to manage it herself, she quietly called her maid, explained what had happened, and sought her advice. The maid was astounded and, trying herself, pinched and pulled at Ruggieri, but when he didn’t react, she agreed with her mistress that he must really be dead and advised that they take him out of the house. The lady asked, “And where can we put him, so that when he is found in the morning, no one will suspect he was brought from this house?” “Madam,” the maid replied, “I saw this evening, across from our neighbor the carpenter’s shop, a chest that’s not too big, and if the owner hasn’t brought it in, it would be perfect for us. We can put him inside, maybe give him a few cuts with a knife, and leave him there. If someone finds him, why should they think he came from this house rather than somewhere else? And since he was known for his misconduct, they will more likely believe he was killed by an enemy while trying to do something wrong and then left in the chest.”

Her suggestion pleased the lady—except she refused to wound Ruggieri, saying she could never bring herself to do that. So she sent the maid to check if the chest was still there; soon, the maid confirmed it was. Then, being young and strong, with her mistress’s help, she carried Ruggieri on her shoulders outside, the lady going ahead to see that no one was coming, and put him in the chest, closing the lid. It happened that, a couple of days before, two young men who worked as moneylenders had moved into a house nearby. They needed household goods and, hoping to profit without spending much, had seen that same chest and decided, if it remained there overnight, to take it for themselves. So, around midnight, they went out, and finding the chest still there, quickly carried it home, even though it felt a bit heavy. They left it beside a bedroom where their wives slept and, without worrying to arrange it properly, went to bed.

Near morning, Ruggieri, who had slept a long time and had now worn off the effects of the sleeping potion, woke up. Though still groggy and his wits not fully clear (a haze that would last not just that night but for several days), he opened his eyes but saw nothing. Reaching around and finding himself in the chest, he thought, “What is this? Where am I? Am I asleep or awake? I remember coming to my lover’s chamber this evening, and now I seem to be in a chest. What does this mean? Could the doctor have returned or some accident made the lady hide me here while I was asleep? Yes, it must have been so.” He decided to keep still and listen for any sound. After waiting a long time—uncomfortable and unable to turn over in the small chest—he managed to shift in such a way that, pressing his back against one side, he made the chest tip over, owing to where it had been set. In falling, it made a loud noise that woke the women sleeping nearby, who, frightened, held their breath in silence. Ruggieri, startled by the fall and finding the chest had opened, chose to get out rather than stay inside if anything else went wrong. He got out and, not knowing where he was or what was happening, began to grope his way through the house, hoping to find an exit.

The women, hearing noises, called out, “Who’s there?” Ruggieri, not recognizing their voices, didn’t answer. They called for the two young men, who were sleeping so soundly after staying up late that they didn’t hear any of this. The women, growing more afraid, got up and went to the windows, crying, “Thieves! Thieves!” Hearing this, several neighbors rushed in—some through the roof, some by other ways—and the young men also awoke, ran out, and caught Ruggieri, who, stunned to find himself there, saw no way to escape. They handed him over to the governor’s officers, who, hearing at the commotion, brought him before their chief. Owing to his reputation as a notorious scoundrel, he was immediately interrogated, and he confessed to having entered the usurers’ house to steal. So the governor decided to hang him at once.

By morning, all of Salerno had heard that Ruggieri was caught stealing from the moneylenders’ house; when the lady and her maid learned of this, they were so astonished they nearly believed they had only dreamed what they’d done the night before. The lady, especially, was almost driven mad with worry for the danger Ruggieri faced. Around midmorning, the physician, having returned from Malfi and ready to treat his patient, asked for his special water and, finding the flagon empty, made a great fuss, insisting that nothing in his house was ever left alone. The lady, tormented by another worry entirely, answered sharply, “Why do you make so much of a little water spilled? Isn’t there more water in the world?” “Woman,” replied the physician, “you think this was ordinary water; it wasn’t. It was a sleeping draught made for my patient,” and he explained what it was for. Hearing this, she instantly realized Ruggieri had drunk the potion and had only seemed dead. “Doctor, we didn’t know. So make some more,” she told her husband, and, seeing no other way, he did so.

Soon after, the maid, sent by her mistress to learn what was being said of Ruggieri, returned. “Madam, everyone speaks ill of Ruggieri; no friend or family member, as far as I can tell, is trying to help him, and it’s certain the prefect will have him hanged tomorrow. More than that, I’ve heard something odd and think I know how he turned up at the moneylenders’ house. Just now, I saw the carpenter, whose shop is by where we left the chest, in a heated argument with a man who seemed to own the chest. The owner wanted payment, but the carpenter insisted he never sold it, only that someone must have stolen it that night. The owner replied, ‘Not so, you sold it to the two young moneylenders, as they told me last night when I saw it in their house after Ruggieri was found.’ ‘They lie,’ said the carpenter, ‘I didn’t sell it—they stole it like I said. Come see them with me.’ Then both went to the moneylenders’ house, and I came back. So you see, Ruggieri ended up in their place by accident, but how he came back to life, I can’t imagine.”

The lady now understood perfectly what had happened and, telling the maid what she had learned from the physician, begged her for help to save Ruggieri, explaining she could do so while keeping her own honor safe. The maid replied, “Tell me what to do, madam, and I’ll gladly do it.” Thinking quickly, the lady explained exactly what was needed. The maid immediately went to the physician and, in tears, confessed, “Sir, I must beg your pardon for a great wrong I’ve done you.” “For what?” asked the doctor. She continued, still weeping, “Sir, you know what sort of man Ruggieri da Jeroli is. He became fond of me some time ago and, partly out of fear, partly for love, I became his lover. Last night, knowing you were away, he persuaded me to let him inside to sleep with me. He was thirsty, and I, not wishing your lady to see me searching for water or wine, remembered the flagon in your room. So I fetched it and gave it to him to drink, then put it back. I admit I was wrong, but who is without fault at times? I’m truly sorry—not so much for what I did as for what has happened since, which now threatens Ruggieri’s life. Please, forgive me and let me go help him.” The physician, though annoyed, answered with a jest, “You’ve given yourself a fitting punishment; you expected a lively companion last night and got a sleeper instead. Go on then, try to save your lover—but don’t bring him back here, or you’ll answer for both times at once.”

Pleased with this outcome, the maid hurried to the prison where Ruggieri was held and coaxed the jailer to let her speak with him. After coaching Ruggieri on what answers to give the prefect if he wanted to escape, she also managed to get an audience with the magistrate. The magistrate, taken with her beauty, wanted his own “payment” before hearing her, and she, wanting to be listened to, did not hesitate. Then she began: “Sir, you have Ruggieri da Jeroli here as a thief, but that isn’t the truth.” She then told the whole story from the start—how she, being Ruggieri’s lover, brought him to the doctor’s house, gave him the drugged water without knowing, and put him for dead into the chest. She also repeated what she’d overheard about the carpenter and the chest’s owner, showing how Ruggieri wound up at the moneylenders’ house.

The magistrate, seeing it would be easy to discover the truth, first questioned the physician about the water and learned it was just as the maid had said. Then he summoned the carpenter, the chest’s owner, and the two moneylenders, and, after hearing from each, learned that the moneylenders had in fact stolen the chest that night and put it in their house. Finally, he sent for Ruggieri and asked where he had spent the night. Ruggieri said he didn’t know where he’d been, only that he had entered Master Mazzeo’s maid’s chamber, had drunk water for his thirst, and remembered nothing until he woke up in a chest at the moneylenders’ house. The magistrate, greatly entertained by the full account, made all the parties tell their story over and over; and, realizing Ruggieri was innocent, he released him and fined the moneylenders ten ounces for stealing the chest. How delighted Ruggieri was, no one need ask. His lover was beside herself with relief, and she, Ruggieri, and the maid—who had once suggested slashing him with a knife—often laughed and joked about what happened, continuing their affair with even greater enjoyment; which, I sincerely wish could happen to me, except the part about being put in the chest.

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If the earlier stories had saddened the hearts of the lovely ladies, this last one of Dioneo’s made them laugh heartily, especially when he spoke of the prefect casting his grapnel upon the maid, so that they were able to recover from the melancholy caused by the previous tales. But the king, seeing the sunlight turning golden and knowing his reign was ending, courteously excused himself to the fair ladies for having required such sorrowful tales about the misfortune of lovers. When he had finished, he rose and, taking the laurel wreath from his own head—with the ladies waiting to see whom he would crown—he set it delicately on Fiammetta’s beautiful head, saying, “I pass this crown to you, as to the one who will, better than anyone else, know how to console these ladies with tomorrow’s pleasures after today’s sorrows.”

Fiammetta, whose golden, long, and curled locks flowed over her delicate white shoulders, whose rounded face shone with mingled white lilies and rosy red, and whose eyes sparkled like those of a falcon, with a dainty mouth as red as twin rubies, replied with a smile, “And I, Filostrato, accept it gladly. So you may better know what you have done, I declare and command that tomorrow everyone shall prepare to tell stories of WHAT GOOD FORTUNE HAS COME TO LOVERS AFTER MANY CRUEL AND UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURES.” Her proposal pleased everyone, and after she called the seneschal and consulted with him about necessary preparations, she happily dismissed the company until supper time. 

Accordingly, each went to enjoy themselves as they wished—some wandering around the garden, whose beauties were not easily exhausted, and others making their way to the mills outside, while the rest scattered here and there until supper hour. Once the time arrived, they all gathered, as was their custom, near the beautiful fountain, and there they supped with great pleasure and attentive service. Afterward, they rose, as usual, for dancing and singing. As Filomena led the dance, the queen said, “Filostrato, I don’t plan to depart from the custom of those who came before me as sovereign, so as they have done, I want a song to be sung at my command. And since I’m sure your songs are as moving as your stories, so that no more days than this are troubled by your misfortunes, I ask that you sing whichever one of them pleases you most.” Filostrato answered that he would, and immediately began to sing as follows:

Weeping, I show  
How justly my heart complains  
Of love betrayed and broken promises in vain.

Love, when you first impressed  
Upon my heart the image of her for whom I sigh,  
With no hope of relief,  
You painted her so full of virtue  
That every hardship seemed light to me  
That through you came to my breast,  
Which grew so full of sorrow

And grief, but now, alas! I admit  
My mistake, not without pain.

Yes, I first learned of the deceit  
When I saw myself completely abandoned  
By the one I hoped for;  
For when I believed I had truly  
Won her favor and become her dear servant,

Without her thought or care  
For the despair I was soon to feel,  
I found that she had chosen someone else’s virtues  
And cast me aside with disdain.

When I realized I was banished from my place,  
A sorrowful lament grew straightaway in my heart,  
Which still has power over me,  
And often I curse the day and even the hour  
When I first saw her lovely face,  
Blessed with great beauty;  
And even more than my eyes, my soul continues its dying song,  
My faith, passion, and hope still crying out in blasphemy.  
How empty my misery is, with no relief,  
You might even feel it, for I call to you, father,  
With a voice full of sorrow;

Yes, and I tell you it pains me so much  
That I wish for death for a lesser torment.  
Come, death, then; gather  
This harvest of my life filled with grief  
And with your blow cure my madness as well;  
Wherever I may go, my suffering will be less harsh.

No other way but death remains for my spirit,  
Yes, and no other comfort for my sorrow;  
Then grant it to me at once,  
Love; bring an end to my distress:  
Ah, do it; since fate’s cruelty  
Has taken away my joy;  
Bring her happiness, lord, with my love-slain death,  
As you have cheered her with another lover.

My song, though no one cares to listen to you,  
I mind it less, in truth, because no one else  
Could sing you as I have;  
I give you only this charge before I die,  
That you seek out Love and to him alone  
Fully show how worthless  
This bitter and dreary life  
Is to me, asking him if he might grant  
Some better refuge I may find.

Weeping, I show  
How justly my heart complains  
Of love betrayed and promises broken in vain.

The words of this song clearly revealed the state of Filostrato’s mind and the reason for it, which perhaps the expression of a certain lady who was at the dance would have shown even more clearly, had not the shades of the now fallen night hidden the blushes that rose to her face. But when he had finished his song, many others were sung until the time for sleep arrived, whereupon, at the queen’s command, each of the ladies withdrew to her chamber.

**HERE ENDS THE FOURTH DAY  
OF THE DECAMERON**

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# *Day the Fifth*

Here Begins the Fifth Day of the Decameron, During Which, Under the Leadership of Fiammetta, Stories Are Told About Lovers Who Found Happiness After Many Cruel and Unfortunate Adventures

The East was already bright, and the rays of the rising sun had illuminated our whole hemisphere, when Fiammetta, drawn by the sweet songs of the birds cheerfully singing the first hour of the day in the branches, rose and summoned all the other ladies and the three young men. Then, strolling leisurely into the fields, she wandered with her companions across the wide plain on the dewy grass, conversing with them about various topics, until the sun had risen a bit higher and its rays began to grow warm. At that point, she led them back to their dwelling. There, with excellent wines and treats, she revived them from their light fatigue, and they enjoyed themselves in the delightful garden until mealtime. When the hour came and everything was prepared by the discreet steward, they cheerfully sat down to eat, according to the queen's wishes, after singing several roundelays and a couple of ballads. Having dined in good order and good spirits, and remembering their usual custom of dancing, they performed several short dances to the sound of songs and drums. Afterward, the queen dismissed everyone until the time for rest had passed. Some went off to nap, while others returned to their amusements around the beautiful garden; but, following their habit, they all gathered again a little after noon near the lovely fountain, just as the queen wished. Then she, having seated herself in the place of honor, looked toward Pamfilo and, with a smile, asked him to begin the day's tales of good fortune; to which he gladly agreed and spoke as follows:

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## THE FIRST STORY

Day the Fifth

CIMON, THROUGH LOVE, BECOMES WISE AND CARRIES OFF IPHIGENIA, HIS BELOVED, TO SEA. BEING IMPRISONED AT RHODES, HE IS FREED BY LYSIMACHUS AND, TOGETHER WITH HIM, ABDUCTS IPHIGENIA AND CASSANDRA ON THEIR WEDDING DAY; THE FOUR FLEE TO CRETE, WHERE THE TWO WOMEN BECOME THEIR WIVES, AND SOON AFTER, ALL FOUR ARE CALLED HOME

“Many stories, delightful ladies, suitable for beginning so joyful a day as this promises to be, come to mind for me to tell; among them, one especially pleases me, because through it, besides the happy outcome that is to mark the tales of this day, you may also understand how sacred, how powerful, and how full of every good thing is the power of Love—a force that many, not knowing what they say, wrongly condemn and disparage. And this, if I am not mistaken, must be especially pleasing to you, for I believe you are all in love.

There was, then, in the island of Cyprus (as we have read in the old histories of the Cypriots) a very noble gentleman named Aristippus, who was wealthier in worldly goods than anyone else in the country and might have considered himself the happiest man alive, had not fortune afflicted him in only one thing; namely, that among his other children he had a son who surpassed all other youths of his age in height and physical beauty, but was hopelessly dull and nearly an idiot. His real name was Galesus, but since no efforts of teacher, coaxing, punishment from his father, study, or attempts by anyone else could get the slightest trace of learning or good manners into his head—and because he had a harsh voice, an awkward way, and manners more fitting for a beast than a person—he was, almost by everyone and as a joke, called Cimon, which in their language meant the same as brute beast in ours. His father endured his good-for-nothing life with the greatest sorrow, and having finally given up all hope for him, told him to leave for the country house and stay there with the farm workers, so he wouldn't constantly have before him the cause of his grief. This was very agreeable to Cimon, since the habits and company of peasants and laborers were much more to his taste than those of townspeople.

Cimon, then, went to the country and occupied himself with rural activities. One day, a little after noon, as he was crossing from one farm to another with his staff on his shoulder, he entered a very lovely copse nearby, which was then fully leafed out since it was the month of May. As he walked through it, chance (or perhaps his fate) led him into a little meadow surrounded by tall trees, in one corner of which there was a very clear, cool spring. There he saw a beautiful young woman lying asleep on the green grass, wearing such a thin garment that it covered almost none of her fair skin. She was covered only from the waist down by a very white and light coverlet; and at her feet slept, likewise, two women and a man—her servants. When Cimon saw the young lady, he stopped and, leaning on his staff, gazed at her with the utmost admiration, as if he had never seen a woman before. In his rough heart, where all previous attempts to teach him urban civility had failed, a feeling began to stir, suggesting to his coarse and simple mind that this maiden was the most beautiful thing any living being had ever seen. He then looked closely at her features—praising her hair, which he thought was golden, her forehead, nose, mouth, throat, and arms, and above all, her chest, just starting to develop—and, suddenly transformed from a simpleton into a judge of beauty, he longed intensely to see her eyes, which she kept closed in deep sleep. Several times he considered waking her; but since she seemed much more beautiful to him than any other woman he had ever seen, he suspected she must be a goddess. He did have enough sense to understand that divine things were worthy of more respect than earthly ones, so he refrained, waiting for her to wake on her own. Even though the wait seemed far too long, he was so enraptured by this new pleasure that he couldn't bring himself to leave.

It happened, then, that after some time, the young woman, whose name was Iphigenia, regained consciousness before any of her companions. Opening her eyes, she saw Cimon—who, because of his appearance and roughness, as well as his father’s wealth and noble status, was known to nearly everyone in the region—standing before her, leaning on his staff. She was greatly surprised and said, “Cimon, what are you doing in this wood at this hour?” He gave her no answer, but seeing her eyes open, began to gaze intently at them, feeling a sweetness emanating from them that filled him with a pleasure he had never experienced before. Iphigenia, noticing this, began to fear that his prolonged staring, along with his rustic nature, might lead him to do something that would shame her. Therefore, she called her women and rose, saying, “Cimon, go with God.” To which he replied, “I will go with you,” and though the young lady, still fearful, would have preferred not to have his company, she could not rid herself of him until he had escorted her home.

Afterward, he returned to his father’s house and declared that he would by no means agree to go back to the countryside—news that annoyed Aristippus and his kinsfolk; nevertheless, they left him alone, waiting to see what had caused this change. The arrow of love, thanks to Iphigenia’s beauty, had pierced Cimon’s heart, a place that no teaching had ever reached, and in a very short time, moving from one idea to another, he amazed his father, family, and everyone who knew him. First, he begged his father to dress him with proper clothes and all the trappings, just like his brothers, which Aristippus happily arranged. Then, associating with young men of good standing and learning the ways proper to gentlemen—and especially to lovers—he, to the astonishment of all, quickly learned not only his first letters but also became quite eminent among students of philosophy. Afterward, thanks to his love for Iphigenia, he refined his rough manner of speech until it was civil and proper, and became skilled in music, song, and exceedingly adept at riding and martial exercises both on land and sea. In short, without detailing every merit, four years had not passed from the day he first fell in love before he became the most lively and accomplished young man on the island of Cyprus, and the best endowed with every kind of excellence. What, dear ladies, should we say of Cimon? Certainly, nothing other than that the noble virtues granted by heaven to his generous soul had been tightly bound by cruel fortune and locked in the darkest part of his heart—until Love, being stronger than fortune, broke and shattered these bonds, awakening those virtues and bringing them forth into the light, after long being obscured by a barbaric darkness, thus showing how far Love can lift those souls subject to it and to what heights it can raise them.

Though Cimon, loving Iphigenia as he did, might have exceeded in certain things, as young men in love often do, Aristippus, considering that Love had transformed his son from a dunce into a man, not only tolerated whatever excesses this might lead to but even encouraged him to seek out every pleasure love could offer. But Cimon, who now rejected the name Galesus, remembering Iphigenia had called him Cimon, wanted to give an honorable conclusion to his passion. Several times, he asked Cipseus, Iphigenia’s father, to give her to him as his wife; but Cipseus always replied that he had promised her to Pasimondas, a young nobleman from Rhodes, and did not intend to break his promise. When the time of the wedding approached, and the bridegroom sent for Iphigenia, Cimon said to himself, “Now, O Iphigenia, is the time to prove how much I love you. Because of you I became a man; and if I can have you, I do not doubt I shall become more glorious than any god; but if not, I will win you or die.”

So, he secretly recruited some young noble friends and privately outfitted a ship equipped for naval battle. He set sail and lay in wait for the ship that would be carrying Iphigenia to Rhodes to meet her husband. After much honor was shown by her father to the groom’s friends, the bride boarded the ship and they set off for Rhodes. The next day, Cimon, who had not slept, sailed toward them and called out loudly from his ship to those aboard Iphigenia’s vessel: “Stop, lower your sails, or be prepared to be beaten and sunk at sea!” The men on Iphigenia’s ship armed themselves and prepared to defend against attack; and Cimon, having spoken, threw a grappling hook onto the Rhodian ship, which was fleeing as fast as possible, and with force secured it to the prow of his own. Then, bold as a lion, he jumped onto their ship without waiting for any companion, as if he had no fear of them. Spurred on by love, he attacked his enemies with extraordinary might, wielding his cutlass, striking now here, now there, mowing them down like sheep.

The Rhodians, seeing this, dropped their weapons and surrendered as prisoners. Cimon then said to them, “Young men, it is neither greed nor hatred against you that has made me leave Cyprus to attack you at sea with weapons in hand. What brought me here is the desire for something that is very important to me and costs you little to give peacefully: that is, Iphigenia, whom I have loved above all else, whom I could not obtain by peaceful means from her father, and whom Love has forced me to win by force. Therefore, I will be to her what your friend Pasimondas would have been. Give her to me, then, and go your way, and may God’s grace go with you.”

The Rhodians, compelled more by force than goodwill, handed Iphigenia, in tears, over to Cimon, who, seeing her weep, said, “Noble lady, do not despair; I am your Cimon, who through long love has deserved you far more than Pasimondas through a mere promise.” Then he had her brought onto his own ship, let the Rhodians go without taking anything else from them, and, overjoyed at having won such a prize, spent some time comforting the weeping lady. He then consulted with his companions not to return immediately to Cyprus; so, in agreement, they set a course for Crete, where nearly all of them, especially Cimon, had relatives and friends, and where they believed they would be safe with Iphigenia. But fickle fortune, which had gladly allowed Cimon to possess the lady, suddenly turned his indescribable joy into sorrow and mourning. For not four hours had passed since leaving the Rhodians when the night fell (which Cimon expected to be the most delightful ever), bringing with it a storm that filled the sky with clouds and the sea with raging winds, so that no one could see what to do or what direction to take, nor could anyone stay on deck to carry out any task.

There is no need to ask how distressed Cimon was; he felt the gods had granted his desire only to make death more bitter for him, which, until then, he had hardly cared about. His comrades lamented as well, but Iphigenia cried most of all, weeping bitterly and fearing each wave. In her misery, she cursed Cimon’s love and his boldness, declaring that the storm had arisen only because the gods did not wish him, who sought to have her as wife against their will, to fulfill his audacious desire, but wanted him to see her die first and then perish himself miserably.

Amid such laments, as the wind grew ever fiercer and the sailors were at a loss, they drifted near to the island of Rhodes, not realizing where they were, and tried with all their efforts to land for the sake of saving their lives. In this, fortune favored them, bringing them into a small inlet near where the Rhodians, whom Cimon had released the day before, had landed. They did not realize it was Rhodes until dawn broke and the sky cleared a bit; then they found themselves only a bowshot from the ship they had left the previous day. At this, Cimon was deeply upset, fearing, with good reason, what soon happened. He urged his companions to do everything possible to set back out to sea, for he believed they could not be in a worse situation anywhere else. They tried as hard as they could to leave, but the wind was so strong against them that not only could they not escape the harbor, but it forced them ashore.

As soon as they landed, the Rhodian sailors recognized them; one ran quickly to a nearby village where the young Rhodian gentlemen had gone and told them that, by chance, Cimon and Iphigenia had arrived with their ship, driven by the same storm. The young gentlemen, greatly delighted by this news, rushed to the shore with a group of villagers, captured Cimon, Iphigenia, and all their company—who, after landing, had discussed fleeing into some nearby wood—and brought them to the village. News reached Pasimondas, who complained to the island’s senate, and according to his arrangements with them, Lysimachus, the chief magistrate for that year, came from the city with a large guard and threw Cimon and his men into prison. Thus, the wretched and lovesick Cimon lost Iphigenia, whom he had only just gained, without having even more than a kiss or two from her; while she herself was received by many noble ladies of Rhodes and comforted, both for the distress caused by her capture and her exhaustion from the storm. With them, she remained until the appointed day for her marriage.

As for Cimon and his companions, their lives were spared in return for their having freed the young Rhodians the day before—though Pasimondas did all he could to have them put to death—and they were condemned to perpetual imprisonment, where, as you may imagine, they languished without hope. However, while Pasimondas hurried preparations for his wedding, fortune, as if regretting the harm done to Cimon, set in motion a new chance for his rescue, which happened as follows. Pasimondas had a brother named Ormisdas, younger but no less worthy than himself, who had long been seeking to marry a fair and noble lady of the city named Cassandra, whom Lysimachus passionately loved. The match had been broken off several times by unfortunate events. Now, as Pasimondas prepared to celebrate his own wedding with great splendor, he thought it would be even better if Ormisdas married at the same time, to save on expenses and festivities. So, he resumed negotiations with Cassandra’s family and successfully concluded them. He and his brother agreed with Cassandra’s relatives that Ormisdas would marry Cassandra on the same day that Pasimondas married Iphigenia.

Lysimachus, hearing this, was very displeased, as it deprived him of the hope he had cherished—if Ormisdas did not marry Cassandra, he certainly would. However, being wise, he hid his unhappiness and pondered how he might prevent this marriage, but saw no way except by abducting her. This seemed easy enough considering his office, but he felt it would be even more dishonorable because of his position. In the end, however, after much deliberation, love triumphed over honor and he resolved, come what may, to carry off Cassandra. Reflecting on who might help him and how to do it, he recalled Cimon, now in prison with his companions, and decided there could be no better or more loyal partner than Cimon for such a task.

That night, therefore, he secretly brought Cimon to his chamber and spoke to him as follows: “Cimon, just as the gods are excellent and generous in bestowing gifts on men, so too are they the wisest in testing their worth. Those they find steadfast and resilient in all circumstances they judge most worthy of the highest rewards. They wished to test your virtue beyond what could be shown at your father’s house, where I know there are riches aplenty. First, through the piercing influence of love, they raised you from a dull animal to a man, and then with misfortune, and now with the hardness of prison, they want to see if your spirit is changed from what it was when not long ago you rejoiced in your prize. If you are as you were, they have never prepared anything so joyful for you as what they are now ready to give, should you regain your former resolve and courage—which I purpose to reveal to you.

Pasimondas, happy with your misfortune and eager for your death, works as hard as he can to celebrate his marriage to your Iphigenia, so he may have the prize which fortune at first kindly granted you and then, in a turn, snatched away. How much this must grieve you, if you love as I believe, I know from my own heart: for Ormisdas, his brother, intends in the same day to inflict a similar harm on me by marrying Cassandra, whom I love above all else. To overcome such a wrong and misfortune, I see no way forward but through the courage of our souls and the power of our right hands; we must take up our swords and make a way to carry off our two beloveds, you for the second time, me for the first. If it is dear to you to have again—not just your freedom, which I think you value little without your lady, but your beloved herself—the gods have put her in your hands, if you are willing to join me in my endeavor.”

All of Cimon’s lost spirit was revived in him by these words, and he replied eagerly, “Lysimachus, you can have no bolder or more loyal companion than myself in such an undertaking, as long as what you promise will come to pass for me; so command me to do whatever you think best, and you’ll find me a most powerful supporter.” Then Lysimachus said, “On the third day from now, the newly wedded wives will, for the first time, enter their husbands’ houses. At nightfall, you and your armed companions, and I with some trusted friends of my own, will slip inside. Snatching our beloveds from the midst of the guests, we’ll carry them to a ship I’ve secretly prepared, cutting down anyone who dares oppose us.” Cimon approved of the plan and remained quietly in prison until the appointed time.

When the wedding day arrived, the festival was grand and joyful, with every part of the two brothers’ house filled with merriment and celebration. Lysimachus, having prepared everything, divided Cimon, his own friends, and Cimon’s companions— all armed under their clothes—into three parties. After encouraging them with a rousing speech, he secretly sent one group to the harbor, to make sure no one prevented their boarding the ship when the time came. Then, when the moment seemed right, he and the remaining two groups went to Pasimondas’ house. He stationed one party at the door to ensure no one could shut them in or block their retreat, and then went upstairs with Cimon and the rest. When they reached the hall where the newlyweds sat at dinner among many other ladies, they burst in, overturned the tables, grabbed their beloveds, and handed them to their comrades, telling them to take them straight to the waiting ship. The brides began weeping and screaming, as did the other ladies and servants, and suddenly the house was filled with chaos and sorrow.

Cimon, Lysimachus, and their companions, with swords drawn, headed for the stairs. No one dared resist them; all made way. As they descended, Pasimondas appeared before them with a large cudgel, drawn by the commotion. But Cimon struck him a mighty blow on the head, splitting it and killing him on the spot. The unfortunate Ormisdas, running to help his brother, was likewise killed by one of Cimon’s blows. Several others who tried to get close were wounded and driven off by Cimon, Lysimachus, and their companions, who, leaving the house filled with blood, screams, and grief, regrouped and made their way unhindered to the ship with their prizes. They quickly boarded with their beloveds and all their companions, as the shore became crowded with armed men come to rescue the women, and rowed away, rejoicing in their success. 

They arrived in Crete, where they were welcomed with joy by many friends and relatives. There, they married their beloveds with great celebration and enjoyed the happiness of their new lives. There was much uproar and dispute in Cyprus and Rhodes because of their actions, but eventually, with the intervention of friends and family on both sides, things were settled so that, after some time in exile, Cimon joyfully returned to Cyprus with Iphigenia, while Lysimachus likewise returned to Rhodes with Cassandra. Each lived with his beloved long and happily in his homeland.”

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## THE SECOND STORY

### Day the Fifth

### COSTANZA LOVETH MARTUCCIO GOMITO AND HEARING THAT HE IS DEAD, EMBARKETH FOR DESPAIR ALONE IN A BOAT, WHICH IS CARRIED BY THE WIND TO SUSA. FINDING HER LOVER ALIVE AT TUNIS, SHE DISCOVERETH HERSELF TO HIM AND HE, BEING GREAT IN FAVOUR WITH THE KING FOR COUNSELS GIVEN, ESPOUSETH HER AND RETURNETH RICH WITH HER TO LIPARI

When Pamfilo’s story ended, the queen, after much praise, asked Emilia to continue with another tale. So Emilia began: “Everyone naturally delights in stories where love is rewarded according to one’s true feelings. Since love, in the end, deserves happiness rather than sorrow, I will tell my story for today with much more pleasure than I did yesterday’s, as the queen commands.

Know then, dear ladies, that near Sicily there is a small island called Lipari, where not long ago there lived a very beautiful young woman named Costanza, born to a family of high standing. It happened that a young man of the same island, Martuccio Gomito—who was very charming, well-mannered, and accomplished in his craft—fell in love with her; and she, equally, was so enamored of him that she was never happy except in his presence. Martuccio, wanting to marry her, had her hand requested of her father, who replied that Martuccio was too poor and therefore would not allow the match. Angered at being rejected for his poverty, the young man, together with some friends and relatives, fitted out a light ship and swore never to return to Lipari unless he was rich. So he departed and became a corsair, raiding along the Barbary coast and preying on all weaker than himself. Fortune favored him enough, if only he’d known how to be content; but when he was not satisfied with his wealth and tried to gain even more, it happened that after a hard fight, he and all his companions were captured and plundered by some Saracen ships. The Saracens scuttled the vessel, killed most of the crew, and took Martuccio prisoner to Tunis, where he was imprisoned and kept in misery for a long time.

Word was brought back to Lipari, not by one or two but by many people, that he and everyone on board had drowned. The girl, already deeply sorrowful over her lover’s departure, hearing now that he was dead, grieved terribly and decided she would not live any longer. However, unable to bring herself to commit violence against herself, she resolved to let fate take her life in another way. One night, she sneaked out of her father’s house and went to the harbor, where she found a fishing boat, just landed and still equipped with mast, sail, and oars. She quickly boarded, rowed out to sea, and then, being somewhat skilled in navigation—as were most women of that island—she set sail, tossed the oars and rudder overboard, and left herself entirely to the mercy of the waves, thinking that the wind would either overturn the little boat or drive it onto rocks, destroying it and causing her to drown, which is what she wanted. Wrapping her head in a cloak, she lay down weeping at the bottom of the boat.

But things turned out quite differently than she had imagined. The wind was from the north and very light, and the sea was nearly calm, so the boat floated safely and, by evening the next day, carried her to a beach near a town called Susa, about a hundred miles beyond Tunis. The girl, intending never to lift her head again no matter what happened, did not realize she was ashore any more than when at sea. As it happened, at that moment there was on the beach a poor woman, gathering the nets belonging to her fisherman employers from the sun. Seeing the little boat come ashore under full sail, she wondered why it had been left to drift. Thinking the fishermen must be asleep aboard, she went to the boat and, finding only the sleeping young woman inside, called out to her repeatedly. When at last she managed to wake her, and recognizing from her clothing that she was a Christian, she asked in Latin how she came to be alone in the boat. The girl, hearing Latin, feared at first that a wind had blown her back to Lipari, and, startled, sat up and looked around. Not recognizing the country but seeing she was on dry land, she asked the woman where she was. The woman replied, “My daughter, you are near Susa in Barbary.” Upon hearing this, the girl was distraught that God had not granted her the death she wanted. Ashamed and uncertain what to do, she sat down at the edge of the boat and began to weep.

The kind woman, seeing her distress, took pity on her and coaxed her into her modest hut, where she gently persuaded her to share her story. Learning how Costanza had come there and seeing that she had eaten nothing, she set before her some dry bread, a little fish, and water, which the girl finally accepted. Costanza then asked why she spoke Latin so well, and the woman explained that she was from Trapani and called Carapresa, and served some Christian fishermen there. Hearing the name Carapresa, despite her overwhelming sadness and not knowing why, Costanza felt this was a good omen and began to hope, without knowing what for, her will to die somewhat diminished. Without yet revealing her identity, she begged the good woman, for the love of God, to have pity on her youth and advise her how she might avoid dishonor.

Carapresa, being a good woman, upon hearing this, left her in her hut while she quickly gathered up her nets. Then, returning, she wrapped Costanza from head to foot in her own mantle and carried her to Susa. She said, “Costanza, I will bring you into the house of a very kind Saracen lady whom I often serve and who is old and compassionate. I will recommend you to her as well as I can, and I am certain she will welcome you gladly and treat you as a daughter. Stay with her and do your best to serve her and win her favor, until God grants you better fortune.” And as she said, so she did. The lady, well advanced in years, heard the woman’s story, looked at Costanza, and began to weep. Then, taking her by the hand, she kissed her on the forehead and brought her into her house, where she and several other women lived—without any men present—working at various crafts, including silk, palm-fiber, and leather. Costanza soon learned to do some of these crafts and, joining in with the others, gained such favor with the lady and the rest that it was remarkable. With their guidance, she soon learned their language.

While she stayed at Susa, now mourned at home as lost and dead, it happened that, during the reign of Mariabdela, King of Tunis, a young man of high birth and great power in Granada claimed that kingdom for himself. He raised a large force and invaded King Mariabdela’s lands to drive him from the throne. News of this reached Martuccio Gomito in prison. Knowing the language of Barbary well and hearing of the king’s efforts to defend his kingdom, Martuccio said to one of his keepers, “If I could speak to the king, I believe I could give him counsel to help him win this war.” The keeper reported this to his superior, who in turn told the king. The king ordered Martuccio brought before him and asked what his counsel might be. Martuccio answered, “My lord, from my time in your lands, I have observed how your armies fight—mainly with archers. If you could ensure that your enemy’s bowmen lacked arrows while your own had plenty, I believe you would win.” The king replied, “Without doubt, if this could be done, victory would be certain.” Martuccio then continued, “My lord, this can be done, if you wish, and I’ll explain how. Have thinner strings made for your archers’ bows than are commonly used, and arrows notched so they fit only those thin strings. Do this in secret, so your enemy does not find a remedy. The reason is this: after both sides have shot their arrows and need to collect them to continue, the enemy will not be able to use your arrows because the notches won’t fit their thick strings, while your men can use the enemy’s arrows, as your thin strings will fit the wide notches. Thus, your men will never lack arrows, but the enemy will run out.”

The king, a wise ruler, was pleased with Martuccio’s advice and, following it exactly, won his war. Martuccio came into great favor and rose to high status and wealth. News of this spread through the land, and eventually reached Costanza, who had long thought Martuccio dead. The love that had grown faint in her heart was suddenly reignited, greater than before, and hope revived. She revealed her story to the kind lady she lived with and said she wished to go to Tunis, so she could see for herself what she had heard about Martuccio in the reports. The old lady praised her decision, and taking ship together, she accompanied Costanza to Tunis as if she were her mother. They were graciously received by a relative of hers in Tunis. There, she sent Carapresa, who had come with them, to find out what she could about Martuccio. When she learned he was alive and in great status and reported this, the old lady decided she would personally tell Martuccio that Costanza had come for him. She went to him one day and said, “Martuccio, there is a servant of yours from Lipari at my house who wishes to speak with you privately. Not wanting to rely on others, I came myself to tell you.” Martuccio thanked her and followed her to her house. When Costanza saw him, she was almost overcome with joy, and unable to restrain herself, she ran with open arms and threw herself on his neck; embracing him, she was unable to speak and began to weep—both in sympathy for their past hardships and in joy for the present moment.

Martuccio, seeing his beloved, was speechless with amazement for a moment, then sighed and said, “Oh my Costanza, are you truly alive? I heard long ago that you were lost, and no one at home knew what had become of you.” He embraced her, weeping, and kissed her tenderly. Costanza then recounted everything that had happened to her and the honorable treatment she had received from the gentlewoman she was with. After much discussion, Martuccio went to his king and told him everything—his own adventures and those of the young woman—adding that, with his leave, he wished to marry her according to their law. The king marveled at it all, and sending for Costanza and hearing that her story matched Martuccio’s, said, “You have well deserved to have him for your husband.” Then, having fine and magnificent gifts brought, he gave some to her and some to Martuccio, granting them permission to do whatever pleased them most. Martuccio thanked the gentlewoman who had taken Costanza in and treated her with such honor, bestowed her with gifts suitable to her rank, commended her to God, and took his leave with Costanza, not without many tears from the latter. With the king’s permission, they then sailed home with Carapresa on a small ship and, with fair winds, returned to Lipari, where the celebrations were so great they could not be described. There, Martuccio married Costanza and held grand and joyful nuptials; after which, they enjoyed many years of peaceful and happy life together.

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## THE THIRD STORY

### Day the Fifth

PIETRO BOCCAMAZZA, FLEEING WITH AGNOLELLA, FALLS AMONG THIEVES; THE GIRL ESCAPES THROUGH A WOOD TO A CASTLE, WHILE PIETRO IS CAPTURED BY THE THIEVES, BUT ESCAPES AND, AFTER ADVENTURES, ARRIVES AT THE CASTLE WHERE HIS BELOVED IS, THEN RETURNS TO ROME WITH HER AFTER THEIR MARRIAGE

Everyone in the company praised Emilia’s story, and when the queen saw it finished, she turned to Elisa and asked her to continue. Kindly obeying, Elisa began, “What comes to my mind, lovely ladies, is a troublesome night endured by a pair of imprudent young lovers; but since many happy days followed, I am pleased to tell it, as it fits our theme.

Not long ago in Rome—the city once the head and now the tail of the world—there was a youth named Pietro Boccamazza, from a very noble Roman family, who fell in love with a beautiful and charming young woman named Agnolella, daughter of Gigliuozzo Saullo, a commoner but well-loved by the Romans. Pietro loved her so much that, in time, she came to love him equally. Driven by passionate love and feeling he could no longer bear the torment of longing for her, he asked for her hand in marriage. As soon as his family heard, they came to him and rebuked him sternly for his intentions. Meanwhile, they told Gigliuozzo not to take Pietro’s words seriously, warning that if he did, they would never again consider him friend or kinsman. Pietro, finding his only path to happiness blocked, felt nearly overcome by sadness; and had Gigliuozzo agreed, he would have married his daughter despite all his family’s objections. Pietro resolved, if Agnolella agreed, to carry out their wishes by elopement. Through an intermediary, he was assured she was willing, and the two agreed she should escape with him from Rome.

So they made preparations, and Pietro rose very early one morning. Taking horses with Agnolella, he set out for Anagni, where he had trustworthy friends. There was no time for a proper wedding ceremony, as they feared pursuit, but they rode on, talking of their love and sometimes kissing. It happened that, about eight miles from Rome, Pietro misread the road—not knowing it well—and took a left path instead of the right. After riding about two more miles, they found themselves near a small castle. As soon as they were spotted, a dozen footmen rushed out at them. The girl, seeing them, cried, “Pietro, let’s go—they’re attacking!” Turning her horse toward a nearby great wood, she spurred him on and held tight, and the steed, feeling the spur, carried her at a gallop into the woods.

Pietro, who had been watching her face rather than the road and had not noticed the men as quickly, was overtaken and captured while he still looked to see where the threat might be coming from. The men forced him off his horse and questioned him. After learning his identity, they conferred and said, “This fellow is a friend of our enemies. What should we do but take his clothes and his horse and hang him from one of those oaks—to anger the Orsini?” They all agreed on this and ordered Pietro to strip. As he was doing so—realizing the ill fate ahead—a group of about twenty-five footmen sprang from ambush, shouting “Kill! Kill!” The attackers, caught off guard, dropped Pietro and turned to defend themselves, but, seeing themselves greatly outnumbered, fled, while the new arrivals pursued them.

Pietro, seeing his chance, quickly gathered his things and mounted his horse, aiming to follow the path Agnolella had taken. Unable to find her and seeing neither road nor trail in the woods, nor any sign of hoof prints, he was filled with despair; and as soon as he believed he was out of danger from both groups of men, he wandered through the wood, weeping and calling for his beloved. No answer came, and he dared not turn back. Unsure where any road might lead, and afraid of the wild beasts known to roam those woods—for himself and especially for his lady, whom he feared might be attacked by a bear or wolf—he searched all day, sometimes unknowingly going the wrong way. Exhausted by shouting, crying, fear, and hunger, he grew so weak that, with night falling and not knowing what else to do, he dismounted, tied his horse to a large oak, and climbed up into it. He hoped to protect himself from wild animals until morning. The moon soon rose, and the clear, bright night found him keeping watch, sighing and weeping and cursing his misfortune, for he dared not sleep for fear of falling, and even if he could have rested, his grief and concern for his beloved would not have let him sleep.

Meanwhile, the young lady, fleeing as mentioned before, and knowing not where else to go except where her horse chose to lead her, rode so deep into the woods that she lost track of her entry point, wandering all day through that desolate place, much as Pietro had done, sometimes stopping, sometimes riding on, weeping and calling out, and lamenting her misfortune. At last, noticing Pietro did not come and that evening had fallen, she found a small path into which her horse turned. After following it for two or more miles, she saw a small house in the distance. She made her way there as quickly as possible and found an old man and his wife, both well advanced in years. Seeing her alone, the man asked, “Daughter, what are you doing here alone at this hour?” The damsel replied, weeping, that she had lost her companions in the woods and asked how near she was to Anagni. The old man answered, “My child, this is not the way to Anagni; it’s more than a dozen miles away.” The girl asked, “And how far is it to any place where I could spend the night?” The good man replied, “There isn’t one near enough for you to reach it before nightfall.” Then the damsel said, “Since I can't go anywhere else, will you please shelter me here tonight for the love of God?” “Young lady,” replied the old man, “you are very welcome to stay with us tonight; still, we must warn you that there are many unsavory groups—both friends and foes—who roam these parts by day and night and often do us great harm and mischief. If, by bad luck, while you are here, any of them arrive and, seeing you young and fair, should wish to harm or shame you, we would not be able to protect you. We tell you this, so you cannot blame us should such a thing occur.”

The girl, seeing how late it was, though frightened by the old man’s words, replied, “If it pleases God, He will protect both you and me from such harm; and even if it happens, it would be far better to suffer something from men than to be torn apart by wild beasts in the woods.” So saying, she dismounted and entered the old couple’s humble home, where she ate supper with them on what poor fare they had. Still clothed, she lay down on their small bed with them that night, never ceasing to sigh and mourn her misfortune and that of Pietro, not knowing whether to hope for any good from him. When morning was near, she heard a loud noise of people approaching, so she got up and, going to a large yard behind the house, saw a big pile of hay in a corner and hid in it to escape notice if the newcomers came looking. She had barely finished hiding when a group of many rough men came to the little house, forced the door open, and entered. Finding Agnolella’s saddled and bridled horse, they asked who was there. The old man, not seeing the girl, said, “No one is here but us; this horse came here last night—where from, I do not know—and we brought it in so the wolves would not eat it.” “Then,” said the leader, “since it has no other owner, it is fair loot for us.”

They then spread out around the house: some entered the yard, laid down their lances and shields, and one of them, with nothing better to do, thrust his lance into the hay, nearly killing the hidden girl and exposing her, since the lance passed so close to her left breast that it tore her dress. She was about to cry out in fear of being wounded, but remembering where she was, she remained as still as she could, terrified. After the bandits prepared and ate some meat, they left, some going one way and some another, taking the girl's horse with them. Once they were gone, the old man asked his wife, “What happened to our young guest from last night? I haven't seen her since we got up.” The old woman replied that she didn’t know and went looking for the girl, who, hearing the men had left, came out from the hay, much to her hosts’ relief. Delighted to see she was unharmed, the old man said, now that daylight had come, “Now that it’s morning, if you wish, we’ll take you to a castle five miles from here where you will be safe; but you’ll have to go on foot, for those ruffians just left with your horse.” The girl thought little of the loss of her horse but begged them, for God's sake, to lead her to the castle. They set out and arrived there about mid-morning.

This castle belonged to a member of the Orsini family, Lionello di Campodifiore. By chance, his wife was staying there—a very pious and good lady—who, seeing the girl, immediately recognized her and welcomed her warmly, eager to learn how she came there. Agnolella told her all that had happened. The lady, who also knew Pietro, since he was a friend of her husband’s, grieved over the misfortune. Learning where he had been taken, she felt certain he was dead, so she said to Agnolella, “Since you don’t know what’s become of Pietro, stay here until I can safely send you on to Rome.”

Meanwhile, Pietro, as miserable as could be, remained in the oak tree. Around midnight, he saw about twenty wolves appear and gather around his horse as soon as they saw it. The frightened horse broke free and tried to run, but, surrounded and unable to escape, defended itself for a long time with its teeth and hooves. Finally, though, the wolves brought it down, killed it, and quickly tore it apart, eating their fill and leaving nothing but bones. Pietro, who had looked on his horse as a companion and support in his troubles, was deeply distressed and feared he might never make it out of the woods. However, toward dawn, half frozen in the tree and still looking around, he spotted a large fire about a mile away. When daylight came, though fearful, he climbed down and made his way to the fire, where he found shepherds eating and celebrating. They took pity on him and welcomed him.

After warming and eating, Pietro told them what had happened and asked if there was a village or castle nearby where he might go. The shepherds answered that about three miles away was a castle belonging to Lionello di Campodifiore, whose wife was there now. Pietro was overjoyed to hear this and begged someone to accompany him to the castle, and two agreed. There he found people who knew him and was about to organize a search for the damsel when he was summoned to the lady, and at once went to her. His joy was beyond words when he saw Agnolella with her, and though he longed to embrace her, he respectfully refrained in the lady’s presence. If he was happy, the girl’s joy was equally great. The noble lady welcomed him warmly, heard his story, and gently scolded him for acting against the wish of his family. But seeing that he was firmly resolved, and that the girl agreed, she thought to herself, “Why should I trouble myself any further? These two love each other, are friends of my husband, and their desire is honorable. God must be pleased, since one escaped the gallows, the other escaped a lance-thrust, and both survived the wild beasts of the woods; so let it be as they wish.” Then, turning to the lovers, she said, “If you still wish to be husband and wife, it is my pleasure as well. Let your wedding be celebrated here at Lionello’s expense. I will see to making peace with your families afterward.” And so, they were married at once, to Pietro’s great contentment and even greater joy for Agnolella. The lady gave them as grand a celebration as possible in the mountains, and they sweetly enjoyed the first days of their love. A few days later, they set out with the lady and her escort to Rome, where Pietro’s family was at first angry with him, but she managed to reconcile them, and Pietro lived happily with Agnolella into old age.

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## THE FOURTH STORY

Day the Fifth

RICCIARDO MANARDI, BEING FOUND BY MESSER LIZIO DA VALBONA WITH HIS DAUGHTER, ESPOUSES HER AND LIVES AT PEACE WITH HER FATHER

Elisa fell silent and listened as the ladies praised her story. The Queen then asked Filostrato to tell his own, so he began, laughing, “I have so often been scolded by many of you ladies for making you discuss sorrowful matters—stories that make you weep—that I think I owe it to you, if I want to make up for those troubles, to tell something that might make you laugh a little instead. So, I plan to tell you, in a very brief story, about a love affair that ended happily after nothing more than a few sighs and a short fright mixed with a bit of shame.

So, noble ladies, not long ago, there lived in Romagna a gentleman of great worth and breeding, Messer Lizio da Valbona, who, in his later years, had a daughter by his wife, Madonna Giacomina. She grew fairer and more pleasant than anyone else in the region, and as their only child, her parents loved and treasured her dearly, guarding her with exceptional care, hoping to arrange a great marriage for her. Now, a young man from the Manardi family of Brettinoro, handsome and strong, named Ricciardo, frequently visited Messer Lizio’s house and spent much time with him. Messer Lizio and his wife thought no more of him than they would have of their own son. Ricciardo, gazing often at the young lady and finding her exceptionally beautiful, lively, and well-mannered, fell desperately in love, though he was very careful to keep his feelings secret. The young woman soon became aware and, rather than resisting, began to fall in love with him, too—much to Ricciardo’s joy. He often wanted to speak to her, but out of fear, kept silent; but one day, taking heart and finding an opportunity, he said, ‘Please, Caterina, don’t make me die of love.’ To which she instantly replied, ‘God grant you don’t cause *me* to die!’

This answer gave Ricciardo much courage and joy, and he said to her, “Never shall anything that pleases you fail on my account; but it is up to you to find a way to save both your life and mine.” “Ricciardo,” she replied, “you can see how closely I am watched; so, for my part, I don’t know how you could possibly reach me. But if you can think of anything I might do without shaming myself, tell me, and I will do it.” Ricciardo, after considering various possibilities, quickly replied, “My sweet Caterina, I can see no way except for you to find a way to get to the gallery adjoining your father’s garden. If I knew you would be there at night, I would surely find a way to come to you, no matter how high it is.” “If you have the courage to come there,” Caterina replied, “I believe I can manage to get there.” Ricciardo agreed, and they exchanged a quick kiss before going their separate ways.

The next day, as it was near the end of May, Caterina complained to her mother that she hadn’t been able to sleep the previous night because of the intense heat. Her mother said, “What heat do you speak of, daughter? It was not hot at all.” Caterina replied, “Mother, that’s how it seemed to you, and perhaps you’re right. But you should consider that young girls feel the heat more than older ladies.” Her mother responded, “That’s true, my daughter; but I can’t make it cold or hot as I wish, as you might like me to do. We have to put up with the weather as the seasons bring it. Perhaps tonight will be cooler and you’ll sleep better.” “God grant it may be so!” cried Caterina. “But it isn’t usual for the nights to get cooler as summer approaches.” “Then what would you have done?” asked her mother. She answered, “If it pleases you and Father, I would love to have a little bed set up in the gallery beside his chamber and overlooking his garden, and sleep there. I could hear the nightingale sing, and with a cooler spot to sleep, I’d do much better than in your room.” Her mother replied, “Comfort yourself, daughter; I will speak to your father, and as he wishes, so shall we do.”

Messer Lizio, hearing this from his wife—being an older man and perhaps a bit grumpy—said, “What nightingale is this whose song she wants to hear to sleep? I’ll make her sleep to the sound of crickets.” When Caterina heard this, she was so irritated—not really by the heat but his response—that not only did she not sleep, but she kept her mother up all night, still complaining about the great heat. So the next morning, her mother went to her husband and said, “Sir, you have little care for our daughter; what does it matter to you if she sleeps in the gallery? She couldn’t rest a wink last night because of the heat. Besides, can you blame her for wanting to hear the nightingale, since she’s still a child? Young people are curious about things, just as they are themselves.” Messer Lizio, hearing this, said, “Very well, prepare a bed for her there as you think best, hang up a curtain around it, and let her lie there and listen to the nightingale as much as she likes.”

The girl, learning this, immediately had a bed made in the gallery and, intending to sleep there that night, watched for Ricciardo and made him the sign they had agreed upon, so he would know what to do. When Messer Lizio heard the girl had gone to bed, he locked the door leading from his chamber to the gallery and went to bed himself. Ricciardo, once all was quiet, climbed a wall using a ladder, and then, grabbing hold of parts of another wall, made his way—at great risk, for a fall would have been dangerous—up to the gallery, where the girl welcomed him with great joy. After many kisses, they got into bed together and enjoyed each other's company nearly all night, making the nightingale “sing” many times. The nights were short and their pleasure great and, although they didn’t realize it, morning was near when, overcome by both the heat and their play, they fell asleep without covers, Caterina’s right arm around Ricciardo’s neck, and her left hand holding onto that thing which you ladies would be embarrassed to name among men.

While they slept like this, unaware, morning came. Messer Lizio, remembering his daughter lay in the gallery, quietly opened the door, saying to himself, “Let’s see how the nightingale helped Caterina sleep last night.” He stepped in, gently lifted the serge curtain around the bed, and saw his daughter and Ricciardo fast asleep, naked and uncovered, embraced as described before. Recognizing Ricciardo, he left and went straight to his wife’s room, calling to her, “Quick, wife, get up and come see—your daughter has been so eager for the nightingale that she has caught it and holds it in her hand.” “How can that be?” she replied, and he answered, “You’ll see if you come quickly.” So she quickly dressed and quietly followed her husband to the bed, where, drawing back the curtain, Madam Giacomina plainly saw how her daughter had caught the nightingale she had so longed to hear sing. The lady, feeling deeply deceived by Ricciardo, wanted to cry out and scold him; but Messer Lizio said, “Wife, for the love you bear me, do not say a word, for truly, since she has got it, it shall be hers. Ricciardo is young, wealthy, and well born; he’ll make a good son-in-law. If he wants to remain on good terms with me, he must first marry her—so the nightingale will be in his own cage, not in someone else’s.”

The lady was reassured to see her husband was not angry, and, considering her daughter had spent a good night, rested well, and caught the nightingale as well, she said nothing. They had barely finished speaking when Ricciardo awoke, saw it was broad daylight, and believed he was as good as lost. He called to Caterina, saying, “Alas, my love, what shall we do? The day has come and found me here!” At this, Messer Lizio stepped forward, lifted the curtain, and said, “We shall do well.” When Ricciardo saw him, he felt as if his heart was torn from his chest, and sitting up in bed, he said, “My lord, for God’s sake, I beg your pardon. I know I have earned death, as an unfaithful and wicked man; do with me as you see fit. But please, if it’s possible, have mercy and let me live.” “Ricciardo,” replied Messer Lizio, “the love I had for you and the trust I placed in you did not deserve such a return. But, since what’s done is done, and youth carried you away into this fault, save yourself from death and spare me shame by taking Caterina as your lawful wife. So, just as she has been yours this night, she may be yours as long as she lives. This way you can gain my pardon and your own safety; but if you choose not to, then commend your soul to God.”

While these words were being spoken, Caterina let go of the nightingale, covered herself, and began to weep, begging her father to forgive Ricciardo, while at the same time asking her lover to do as Messer Lizio wished, so they could enjoy such nights together safely. But there was no need for excessive pleading; for shame over what he had done, his desire to make up for it, his fear of death, his wish to escape, and above all his ardent love and longing for Caterina, made Ricciardo immediately and willingly agree to do as Messer Lizio required. Messer Lizio borrowed one of Madam Giacomina’s rings, and there, without leaving, Ricciardo took Caterina as his wife in their presence. This done, Messer Lizio and his wife left, saying, “Now rest—you probably need that more than getting up.” Left alone, the young couple embraced again, and, having only had the chance for half a dozen “courses” the night before, they ran two more before getting up and so finished their first day’s tilting. Then they rose, and after Ricciardo had spoken more formally with Messer Lizio, a few days later, as was fitting, he married Caterina again in front of their friends and family, and brought her with great pomp to his own house. There he held a grand and honorable wedding and thereafter went long nightingale-fowling with her to his heart’s content, in peace and happiness, both by night and by day.

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## THE FIFTH STORY

Day the Fifth

GUIDOTTO DA CREMONA LEAVES TO GIACOMINO DA PAVIA HIS DAUGHTER AND DIES. GIANNOLE DI SEVERINO AND MINGHINO DI MINGOLE BOTH FALL IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL AT FAENZA AND EVENTUALLY FIGHT OVER HER. IT TURNS OUT SHE IS GIANNOLE’S SISTER AND SHE IS GIVEN TO MINGHINO AS HIS WIFE.

All the ladies, listening to the story of the nightingale, laughed so much that, even after Filostrato had finished telling it, they could not stop laughing. After they had laughed for a while, the queen said to Filostrato, “Truly, if you made us ladies suffer yesterday, today you have so entertained us that none of us has cause to complain of you.” Then, turning to Neifile, she instructed her to tell the next story, and Neifile cheerfully began: “Since Filostrato has set his story in Romagna, I too will roam that region with my own tale.

I say, then, that there once lived in the city of Fano two Lombards: one was Guidotto da Cremona, and the other Giacomino da Pavia. Both were advanced in years and had spent nearly all their youth as soldiers and men of arms. Guidotto, being near death and having neither son nor other kinsman nor friend he trusted more than Giacomino, left to him a little daughter of about ten years old and all he possessed. After discussing his affairs at length with Giacomino, he died. At that time, it happened that the city of Faenza, which had long suffered from war and misfortune, was restored to a better condition, and anyone who wished was allowed to return. So Giacomino, who had previously lived there and liked the place, returned there with all his goods and brought with him the girl left to him by Guidotto, whom he loved and cared for as his own child.

The girl grew up to become as beautiful a young woman as any in the city—indeed, just as virtuous and well-mannered as she was lovely. As a result, she began to have many admirers, but most notably, two very agreeable young men of equal merit and status became deeply enamored of her, to the point that their jealousy made them hate each other intensely. Their names were Giannole di Severino and Minghino di Mingole. Both would gladly have married the young lady, who was now fifteen, if only their families had allowed it. Since they were not permitted to wed her honorably, each began to scheme how to win her for himself.

Giacomino had an old serving-woman and a serving-man named Crivello, a very cheerful and obliging fellow, in his household. Giannole struck up a fast friendship with Crivello, and at what seemed an opportune time, confided his feelings to him. He asked for Crivello’s help to win the girl’s favor, promising him great rewards if he succeeded. Crivello replied, “Look, I can't do much for you except this: when Giacomino next goes out to supper, I'll let you know and bring you to where she is, because if I tried to speak a word in your favor, she wouldn't even stop to listen. If that suits you, I promise I’ll do it; then, if you know how, do whatever you think best serves your purpose.” Giannole said that was all he wanted, and so their plan was set. Meanwhile, Minghino had taken the maid-servant into his confidence and persuaded her to carry messages to the girl, nearly inflaming her with love for him. She had also promised Minghino she would arrange for him to meet the girl as soon as Giacomino was out one evening.

Not long afterward, by Crivello’s arrangement, Giacomino went out to supper with a friend. Crivello informed Giannole and arranged that when he gave a certain signal, Giannole would find the door open. The maid, unaware of this, let Minghino know about Giacomino’s absence and told him to wait nearby for her signal so he could enter. That evening, both lovers—unaware of each other’s plans but each suspicious of his rival—gathered with a few armed companions, intending to seize their opportunity. Minghino and his group waited at a nearby friend’s house, while Giannole and his friends stationed themselves close to Giacomino’s. Inside, Crivello and the maid, after Giacomino left, each tried to get the other to go away. Crivello said, “Why aren’t you off to bed? Why wander through the house?” The maid retorted, “And why haven’t you gone after your master? What are you waiting for, having finished supper?” So neither succeeded in sending the other away; but when it was time, Crivello decided, “What do I care about her? If she won’t be quiet, she’ll just have to deal with it.”

Crivello gave the agreed signal and went to open the door. Giannole, arriving in haste with two companions, entered, found the young lady in the hall, and tried to carry her off. She resisted and cried out loudly, as did the maid. When Minghino heard the commotion, he rushed over with his companions; seeing the girl being dragged outside, they drew their swords, shouting, “Villains, you’re dead men! This won’t stand. What violence is this?” They began to fight, and the neighbors, drawn by the noise and armed with lights and weapons, blamed Giannole’s behavior and supported Minghino. After a long struggle, Minghino managed to rescue the girl and return her to Giacomino’s house. Before the fight ended, however, the town captain’s officers arrived and arrested many involved—including Minghino, Giannole, and Crivello—taking them to prison. When things finally settled down, Giacomino returned home, upset at what had happened, but after learning the girl was blameless, he felt somewhat better and resolved to marry her as soon as possible, to prevent any more such incidents.

The next morning, the families of the two young men, having heard what really happened and fearing the trouble it could cause their imprisoned sons if Giacomino pursued charges, came to beg his pardon. They entreated him not to dwell on the insult from the foolish young men but to consider the friendship and good will they believed he felt toward them, submitting themselves and the young men to whatever penalty he wished. Giacomino, who was a wise, experienced man, said briefly, “Gentlemen, if I were in my own country as I am in yours, I am so much your friend that in this, and in everything, I would only do what pleases you; besides, I am even more obliged to do as you wish because your own kin are involved, for the girl is not, as many might think, from Cremona or Pavia. She is from Faenza, though neither I, nor she, nor the man from whom I received her ever learned whose daughter she was. So regarding what you ask, I will do whatever you direct me to do.”

The gentlemen were amazed at this and, thanking Giacomino for his generous answer, asked if he would tell them how the girl came into his care and how he knew she was from Faenza. He replied, “Guidotto da Cremona, a friend and companion of mine, told me on his deathbed that when this city was captured by Emperor Frederick and left to be plundered, he and his companions entered a house full of riches but deserted, except for this girl, who was about two years old. When she saw him come upstairs, she called him ‘father,’ and he, feeling pity for her, took her with him to Fano along with all the house’s contents. He died there, leaving her and his possessions with me, charging me to marry her suitably and give her a dowry from what had been hers. Since she reached marriageable age, I haven’t yet found a suitable match for her, though I’d gladly do so rather than risk another incident like last night.”

Among those present was Guiglielmino da Medicina, who had been with Guidotto during that event and knew whose house it was. Seeing Bernabuccio—whom he recognized—he said, “Bernabuccio, are you hearing what Giacomino says?” “Yes, I am,” replied Bernabuccio, “and I was just thinking of it, since I remember losing a little daughter of the very age Giacomino mentions during those troubles.” Guiglielmino said, “This is certainly her. I once heard Guidotto tell where he had looted, and it was your house. Think if you can identify her by some mark, and have her examined; you’ll surely find she’s your daughter.”

Bernabuccio remembered his daughter had a cross-shaped scar over her left ear from a tumor he had had removed shortly before those events. Without delay, he approached Giacomino and asked to see the girl. Giacomino readily agreed and summoned her. As soon as Bernabuccio saw her, it seemed to him she had her mother’s very face, but he wasn’t satisfied by looks alone. He told Giacomino he’d like permission to move her hair above her left ear, which was granted. So, approaching the shy girl, he lifted her hair with his right hand and found the cross-shaped scar. Realizing she was truly his daughter, he began to weep and embraced her, despite her resistance. Then, turning to Giacomino, he exclaimed, “Brother, this is my daughter. Guidotto plundered my house, and in the chaos, my wife and her mother accidentally left the girl behind. We had believed she perished in the fire that destroyed my house that same day.”

The girl, hearing this and seeing the man’s age, believed his words and, moved by some deep instinct, submitted to his embrace and wept tenderly with him. Bernabuccio soon sent for his wife, her kinswomen, and for her sisters and brothers, presenting her to them all and recounting the tale. After countless embraces, he brought her home with great joy, much to Giacomino’s satisfaction. The town captain, a man of honor, learned of this and, finding that Giannole—the prisoner—was Bernabuccio’s son and thus the girl’s brother, decided to overlook Giannole’s offense and released him along with Minghino, Crivello, and the others involved. The captain also mediated between Bernabuccio and Giacomino, reconciling the two young men and giving the girl, whose name was Agnesa, to Minghino in marriage, to the enormous delight of both families. Minghino, overjoyed, held a grand wedding and brought Agnesa home to live with him happily for many years.

## THE SIXTH STORY

Day the Fifth

GIANNI DI PROCIDA, FOUND WITH A YOUNG LADY HE LOVES—WHO HAD BEEN GIVEN TO KING FREDERICK OF SICILY—IS BOUND WITH HER TO A STAKE TO BE BURNED, BUT, RECOGNIZED BY RUGGIERI DELL’ORIA, ESCAPES AND MARRIES HER

Neifile’s story, which had greatly pleased the ladies, having ended, the queen directed Pampinea to begin her own. Pampinea, raising her bright face, began: “Exceedingly great, dear ladies, is the power of Love, which exposes lovers to severe trials and to unforeseen dangers, as we’ve heard in many tales today and before. Yet, I wish to demonstrate it to you once more with the story of a passionate youth.

Ischia is an island very close to Naples, and there once lived a beautiful and lively young woman named Restituta, the daughter of a gentleman of the island called Marino Bolgaro. A young man named Gianni, who was from a small island near Ischia called Procida, loved her more than his own life, and she loved him just as deeply. Not only would he travel from Procida during the day to see her, but sometimes, when he couldn’t find a boat at night, he would swim from Procida to Ischia, just to gaze at the walls of her house if he could do nothing more. During the height of this passionate love, it happened that the girl, who was alone one summer day on the seashore, happened to wander along the rocks, prying shellfish off with a knife. She came to a hidden spot among the cliffs, where, for the shade and the benefit of a cool spring, some young Sicilian men traveling from Naples had anchored their pinnace and set up camp. Seeing her alone, very beautiful, and unaware of their presence, they plotted together to capture her and carry her off—and quickly put their plan into action. They seized her, despite her cries for help, and brought her aboard their boat, making for Calabria as fast as possible. Once there, they quarreled over who would have her, but none could agree. Fearing worse trouble and not wanting to ruin themselves entirely over her, they decided to present her to Frederick, King of Sicily, who was then a young man fond of such entertainments. Traveling to Palermo, they gave the maiden as a gift to the king. Seeing that she was beautiful, he considered her dear, but since he was at that time somewhat unwell, he ordered that, until he regained his strength, she should be housed in a fine pavilion within a royal garden called La Cuba and cared for there. So it was arranged.

There was a great outcry in Ischia over the abduction of the maiden, and what pained them most was not knowing who the captors were. But Gianni, who was affected most of all, realizing he’d get no answers in Ischia and learning the direction the kidnappers had gone, procured another pinnace and, as quickly as possible, sailed along the coast from La Minerva to La Scalea in Calabria, searching everywhere for news of the girl. At La Scalea he heard she had been taken to Palermo by some Sicilian sailors, so off he went immediately, and, after a lengthy search, learned she had been presented to the king and was being held under guard at La Cuba. He was deeply troubled and nearly lost all hope—not just of having her again, but even of seeing her. Still, compelled by love, and as he was unknown there, he stayed in Palermo, sent his boat away, and often passed by La Cuba. One day, he saw her at a window, and she saw him, filling both with happiness.

Gianni, noticing the secluded surroundings, drew as close as he dared and spoke with her. She instructed him on what to do if he wanted to speak with her again. After carefully studying the layout of the place, he left her. Later that night, when much of it had passed, he returned and, climbing up spots where barely even a woodpecker could get a grip, managed to enter the garden. There he found a long pole, propped it against the window she had shown him, and climbed up easily enough. The young woman, feeling she had already lost her honor (for which she’d once been shy with him), reasoned she could give herself more worthily to none other than to him and was confident she could convince him to carry her away. She left the window open for him to come in immediately. Gianni entered quietly and lay beside her, she awake. Before more happened, she told him of her intentions and begged him to take her away with him. Gianni answered that nothing would please him more and promised to get everything ready to help her escape at his next visit. Embracing joyfully, they indulged in the highest delight that love can offer and, after repeating it again and again, fell asleep in each other’s arms without realizing it.

Meanwhile, the king, who had been smitten with the maiden, found himself well again and, though it was nearly daybreak, decided he would visit her. He secretly made his way to La Cuba with a handful of attendants and, entering the pavilion, quietly opened the chamber where he knew the girl slept. Carrying a large torch before him, he entered and saw her and Gianni fast asleep and naked in each other’s arms. Suddenly, he was filled with furious rage and very nearly killed them both then and there with a dagger he had at his side. However, thinking it a dishonorable act—especially for a king—to kill two unarmed, sleeping people, he restrained himself, deciding instead to put them to death publicly by fire. Turning to his only companion, he asked, “What do you think of this shameless woman, on whom I had placed my hope?” Then he asked if the companion knew the young man who had dared to insult him so outrageously by entering his house. The other said he did not recognize him. The king then left the chamber, seething with anger, and ordered that the lovers be seized and bound as they were and, at daybreak, be taken to Palermo and tied to a stake, back to back, in the public square—where everyone could see them—then burned as they deserved. Having given these orders, he returned to his palace in Palermo, furious.

After the king left, several people came in and rudely awakened the lovers, quickly binding them with no compassion. Naturally, they were filled with terror, weeping and fearing for their lives. Following the king’s orders, they were taken to Palermo and tied to a stake in the public square, while wood and fire were readied before their eyes for their scheduled execution. All the townsfolk, men and women alike, rushed there to see. The men pressed in to view the young woman, praising her beauty; the women crowded in to see the young man, greatly admiring his handsomeness. Meanwhile, the miserable lovers, deeply ashamed, stood with bowed heads, lamenting their fate and waiting every hour for a cruel death by fire.

While they awaited their doom, word of what they had done quickly spread everywhere and reached Ruggieri dell’Oria, a man of immense worth who was then the king’s admiral. He hurried to where they were bound. After admiring the girl’s beauty, he turned and immediately recognized the young man. Drawing closer, he asked if he was not Gianni di Procida. The youth, looking up and recognizing the admiral, replied, “My lord, I was indeed the one you ask about; but soon I will be no more.” The admiral then asked how he had come to this, and Gianni replied, “Love and the king’s anger.” The admiral got the full story from him and, as he was leaving, Gianni called him back, saying, “For God’s sake, my lord, if you can, grant me one favor from the man who makes me suffer so.” “What is that?” Ruggieri asked, and Gianni explained, “I see I will die—and soon. I ask only, as a favor, that since I am bound with my back to this young woman whom I have loved more than life itself, as she has loved me, that we might be turned face-to-face, so that dying, I can look upon her and find comfort.” Ruggieri laughed and said, “Gladly—I’ll make sure you see her as long as you like.”

Ruggieri then told the executioners to proceed no further until further orders from the king and immediately went to the king himself. Though he found him still angry, Ruggieri did not hesitate to speak his mind: “Sire, what have these young people done to offend you, that you have commanded they be burned in public?” The king explained, and Ruggieri replied, “Their offense deserves punishment, but not from you. Just as wrongs deserve punishment, good deeds deserve reward—let alone grace and mercy. Do you know who these two are?” The king said he did not. Ruggieri continued, “Then let me tell you, so you may see how rashly passion guides you. The young man is the son of Landolfo di Procida, brother to Messer Gian di Procida, by whose help you are king and lord of this island; the girl is Marino Bolgaro’s daughter, whose influence has kept your officers from being driven from Ischia. What’s more, they are lovers who have long loved each other and were compelled by love rather than intent to offend your authority. If this is a sin, it is one of love, not malice. Why should you put them to death? You should honor them with gifts, not burn them.”

The king, hearing this and realizing Ruggieri spoke the truth, not only refrained from proceeding further but repented of what he had already done. He immediately ordered the two lovers to be untied and brought before him, which was quickly done. After learning the whole story, he decided to make up for the harm he had caused with gifts and honors. Having them dressed beautifully, and finding them of one mind, he had Gianni marry the maiden. Then, giving them splendid gifts, he sent them home joyfully, where they were welcomed with the utmost happiness and celebration.

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## THE SEVENTH STORY

Day the Fifth

TEODORO, IN LOVE WITH VIOLANTE, DAUGHTER OF MESSER AMERIGO HIS MASTER, GETS HER PREGNANT AND IS CONDEMNED TO BE HANGED; BUT, AS HE IS BEING LED TO THE GALLOWS AND WHIPPED, HE IS RECOGNIZED AND SAVED BY HIS FATHER, AND HE MARRIES VIOLANTE

The ladies, who had anxiously waited to see if the lovers would be burned, were grateful to God for their rescue and rejoiced. Seeing that Pampinea’s story was finished, the queen asked Lauretta to continue, who began cheerfully: “Dearest ladies, in the days when good King William ruled Sicily, there was a nobleman named Messer Amerigo Abate of Trapani. Among his many worldly possessions, he was blessed with a large family. Needing servants, and hearing that some galleys from Genoese corsairs who had captured many boys off the coast of Armenia had arrived from the Levant, he bought several—believing them to be Turks. Among them was one named Teodoro, who was of nobler appearance and demeanor than the others, who seemed like mere shepherds. Though Teodoro was treated as a slave, he was raised alongside Messer Amerigo’s children and, behaving more according to his noble nature than his unfortunate circumstances, proved so capable and well-mannered that Messer Amerigo set him free. Still thinking him a Turk, he had him baptized, named Pietro, and put him in charge of all his affairs, trusting him greatly.

As Messer Amerigo’s children grew up, his daughter Violante, a beautiful and delicate young woman, matured alongside them. Since her father delayed too long in marrying her off, she happened by chance to fall in love with Pietro. She admired and loved him deeply, holding his character and behavior in high regard, yet was too shy to reveal her feelings. But Love spared her that trouble, for Pietro, after having secretly glimpsed her several times, became so passionately in love with her that he found no relief except when he saw her. However, he was deeply afraid anyone might find out, thinking he was doing wrong. The young lady, who also enjoyed looking at him, soon noticed his feelings and, to reassure him, revealed her own pleasure in their mutual glances, as indeed she truly felt. Thus, they lived for quite some time, neither daring to speak, though both longed to. While both, equally in love, suffered under love’s fire, fortune—as if by design—gave them the opportunity to overcome the shyness that held them back.

Messer Amerigo owned a lovely estate about a mile from Trapani, where his wife often went for recreation with her daughter and other women. One very hot day, they went there, taking Pietro with them. While they were there, as sometimes happens in summer, the sky suddenly became overcast with dark clouds. Worried about being caught in bad weather, the lady and her company hurried back toward Trapani as fast as they could. But Pietro and Violante, being young, outpaced her mother and the rest by a good distance, driven perhaps not just by fear of the weather, but equally by love. They were so far ahead they were barely visible when, after several thunderclaps, a heavy and intense hailstorm began, forcing the lady and her group to take refuge in a farmer's house.

Pietro and Violante, having no nearer shelter, found cover in a small, old, nearly ruined hut where no one lived, and together huddled beneath what little roof remained. The cramped shelter required them to press close together, and this intimacy encouraged them to finally reveal the passion consuming them both. Pietro began, saying, “Would to God this hail would never end, so that I could stay just as I am!” “Indeed,” she replied, “I would like that as well.” From those words, they moved on to holding and squeezing each other's hands, then to embracing, then to kissing while the hail fell on. In short—not to recount every detail—the weather did not improve until they had experienced love’s ultimate pleasures and arranged to continue their relationship in secret. When the storm ended, they went to the city gate, which was nearby, and waited there for her mother before returning home together.

After that, using careful and secret planning, they met together again and again in the same place, to their great delight. Their relationship progressed so far that Violante became pregnant, which distressed them both greatly. She tried every method she could to rid herself, against nature, of her pregnancy, but her efforts were in vain. Meanwhile, Pietro, fearing for his life, thought about fleeing and told her so, to which she replied, “If you go, I’ll surely kill myself.” Pietro, loving her deeply, answered, “My lady, how can I stay here? Your pregnancy will expose our failing, and while you may be forgiven, I, poor wretch, must bear the penalty for both your sin and mine.” Violante replied, “My sin must indeed come out, but rest assured no one will discover yours, unless you confess it yourself.” He answered, “If you promise me this, I’ll stay; but make sure you keep your word.”

After a while, when Violante had hidden her pregnancy as long as she could, but could no longer conceal it because her body was changing, she revealed her condition to her mother, begging her with many tears to save her. Her mother, deeply saddened, scolded her harshly and wanted to know how it had happened. Violante, to spare Pietro from harm, invented a story and disguised the truth. The lady believed her, and to hide her daughter's shame, sent her away to one of their country houses. There, as the time for the birth approached and the girl cried out in labor, her mother had no idea that Messer Amerigo—who rarely visited there—would arrive unexpectedly while returning from hawking. Passing near the room where his daughter was giving birth and surprised by her cries, he suddenly entered and demanded to know what was happening. The lady, shocked by her husband’s unexpected arrival, told him what had happened. But he, less trusting than his wife, insisted that she could not possibly not know who the father was and demanded the truth, adding that by confessing she might regain his favor; otherwise, she must prepare to die without mercy.

The lady did everything she could to persuade her husband to accept what she had told him, but without success. He became furious and, drawing his sword, ran at his daughter, who, while her mother tried to reason with her father, had just given birth to a son. He said, “Either you tell me who the father is, or you will die immediately.” Afraid for her life, the girl broke her promise to Pietro and told all that had happened between them. When her father heard this, he flew into a rage and almost killed her then and there.

However, after venting his anger, he rode back to Trapani and told the story of Pietro’s offense against him to Messer Currado, who was the king’s captain there. Messer Currado immediately had Pietro arrested, catching him off guard, and put him to torture, whereupon Pietro confessed everything. A few days later, he was sentenced by the captain to be flogged through the city and then hanged. Messer Amerigo—whose rage was not satisfied even by Pietro’s impending death—decided that both lovers and their child must die at the same hour. He put poison in a cup with wine and, along with a naked dagger, gave them to a servant, saying, “Take these to Violante and tell her, on my behalf, to choose at once which death she will have: poison or steel. Otherwise, I will have her burned alive before the townsfolk, as she deserves. Then, take the child she has just borne, smash its head against the wall, and throw it to the dogs.” The servant, who was more willing to do evil than good, went off to carry out this inhuman order.

Meanwhile, as Pietro was led to the gallows by the officers, being whipped as they went, they passed by an inn where three noblemen from Armenia, ambassadors sent by their king to Rome for matters involving the Pope and an upcoming crusade, were staying for rest and refreshment. These ambassadors had been well received by Trapani’s nobles, especially Messer Amerigo. Hearing the commotion as Pietro was led past, they came to a window to see. Pietro, bare to the waist with his hands bound behind him, was seen by one of the ambassadors, a distinguished elderly man named Fineo, who noticed a large red mark on Pietro’s chest—not painted, but naturally on his skin, like what women here call “roses.” This sight reminded Fineo of his own son, who had been taken by pirates fifteen years before on the coast of Lazistan and from whom he had never heard again. Considering Pietro’s apparent age, he thought, if his son were alive, he would now look just as Pietro did. Suspecting the truth, he decided that if Pietro was his son, he would remember his name and father's name, and still know the Armenian language. As Pietro drew near, Fineo called out, “Ho, Teodoro!” Pietro, hearing this, immediately lifted his head, and Fineo—now speaking in Armenian—asked, “Where are you from, and whose son are you?” Out of respect for Fineo, the guards stopped, allowing Pietro to answer, “I was from Armenia and the son of Fineo. I was brought here as a little child by people I do not know.”

Fineo, upon hearing this, knew for certain that Pietro was his lost son, and, weeping, came down with his companions to embrace him among the guards. Throwing over Pietro’s shoulders a rich silken cloak he wore, he begged the officer escorting Pietro to wait there until further orders came. The officer agreed. Fineo had already heard the reason for Pietro’s condemnation, for the news had spread through the city; so he went with his companions and retinue to Messer Currado and said: “Sir, the man condemned as a slave is freeborn, my son, and is ready to marry the woman whose honor he is said to have taken; so I ask you to delay the execution until it can be seen if she will have him as husband, lest you act against the law.” Messer Currado, amazed to hear that the condemned was Fineo’s son, was convinced, and, a little ashamed by fortune’s injustice, immediately had Pietro brought back to his house, then summoned Messer Amerigo to inform him of all that had happened.