The young man was not at all pleased with this idea, and his condition immediately took a severe turn for the worse. On seeing this, the lady took Jeannette into her confidence, only to find that she was more adamant than ever. So she acquainted her husband with what she had done, and although both of them thought it a grave step to take, they mutually decided to let him marry her, preferring their son to be alive with an unsuitable wife than dead without any wife at all. And after a great deal of further heart searching, they announced their consent.
This made Jeannette very happy, and she thanked God from the depths of her devout heart for not deserting her; nor, despite everything, did she once reveal that she was anyone other than a Picard’s daughter.
The young man recovered, married the girl thinking himself the happiest of men, and proceeded to enjoy her to his heart’s content.
Meanwhile, Perrot, who had remained in Wales in the household of the King of England’s Marshal, had likewise become a favourite of his lord and master. He was an outstandingly handsome and fearless youth, and there was no one in the island who could match his skill at jousts, tournaments and other contests of arms. Everybody called him Perrot the Picard, and his fame resounded through the length and breadth of the country.
And just as God had not forgotten his sister, so too He showed that He had not lost sight of Perrot. For a great plague descended on that region, carrying off half the population and causing a large number of the remainder to take refuge in other parts, so that the country appeared to be totally deserted. The victims of the plague included Perrot’s master and mistress, their son, and several of his master’s brothers, grandchildren and other relatives, so that only a daughter of marriageable age survived, together with some members of the household, among them Perrot. Once the plague had abated somewhat, the young woman, knowing Perrot to be strong and capable, and having received encouragement and advice from her few surviving neighbours, made him her husband and proclaimed him master of all the goods and property she had inherited. Nor was it long before the King of England, having heard of the Marshal’s death and knowing the worth of Perrot the Picard, appointed him his marshal in the dead man’s place.
And that, in brief, was what happened to the two innocent children of the Count of Antwerp after he was forced to abandon them.
More than eighteen years had elapsed since his hurried departure from Paris when the Count, who was now an old man and still living in Ireland, having led a truly wretched life and endured all manner of hardships, was seized by a longing to discover what had become of his children. His physical appearance, as he could see for himself, had changed beyond all recognition, but because of the years he had spent in manual toil he felt much fitter now than when he was young and living a life of leisure. And so, very poor and badly dressed, he left the person in whose household he had served for all those years, returned to England,4 and made for the place where he had left Perrot. Much to his delight and amazement, he discovered that his son was now a marshal and a great lord, and that he was a vigorous, fine-looking fellow. But he did not want to reveal himself before learning what had become of Jeannette.
He therefore set out once more, and never stopped until he arrived in London, where he made discreet inquiries about the lady with whom he had left his daughter and the life she was now leading. On discovering that Jeannette was married to the lady’s son, he almost wept for joy. And now that he had traced both his children and found them so comfortably established, he forgot about all of his earlier misfortunes. Being anxious to see her, he began to loiter near her house in the guise of a pauper, until one day he was noticed by Jeannette’s husband, whose name, by the way, was Jacques Lamiens. Seeing how poor and decrepit he looked, Jacques took pity on the old man and ordered one of his servants to bring him into the house and provide him with something to eat for charity’s sake, which the servant readily did.
Jeannette had already presented Jacques with several children, of whom the eldest was no more than eight, and they were the prettiest and most delightful infants imaginable. When they saw the Count at his meal, they all gathered round and made a fuss of him, as though impelled by some mysterious instinct which told them that this was their grandfather. Knowing them to be his grandchildren, the old man began to show them his affection and fondle them, with the result that the children were unwilling to come away, however much their tutor cajoled and threatened them. Hearing the commotion, Jeannette left the room she was in, came to where the Count was sitting, and spoke sharply to the children, threatening to chastise them if they did not obey their tutor’s instructions. The children began to cry, protesting that they wanted to stay with this worthy fellow who loved them more than their tutor, whereupon the lady and the Count smiled broadly at one another.
The Count had risen to his feet, not in the manner of a father greeting his daughter but rather in the role of a pauper paying his respects to a fine lady, and as soon as he set eyes upon her, his heart was filled with a marvellous joy. But she never suspected for a moment who he was, either then or later, for he was thin and elderly-looking, and what with his beard, his greying hair and his dark complexion, he no longer seemed the same person. But on seeing how reluctant the children were to be parted from the old man, and how dismally they wailed whenever any attempt was made to dislodge them, the lady told their tutor to leave them for the present where they were.
It was while the children were playing with this worthy fellow that Jacques’ father, who now loathed Jeannette, happened to return home and hear the whole story from their tutor.
‘Let them stay where they are,’ he said, ‘and to hell with them. It’s obvious which side of the family they take after, for they are descended from a vagrant on their mother’s side, and it’s hardly surprising if they feel at home in a vagrant’s company.’
The Count overheard these words, and was deeply wounded. But he simply shrugged his shoulders, and suffered the insult as patiently as he had borne countless others.
Although Jacques was displeased when he heard the children making such a fuss of the worthy fellow, or in other words the Count, he was nevertheless so fond of them that, rather than see them cry, he gave instructions that if the man was willing to stay, he should be offered some job or other in the household. The Count gladly agreed to stay, but pointed out that the only thing he was good at was looking after horses, which he had been accustomed to handling all his life. A horse was therefore allotted to him, and when he had finished grooming it, he would occupy himself in keeping the children amused.
Whilst Fortune was treating the Count of Antwerp and his children in the manner we have just described, it happened that the King of France died, and was succeeded by the son whose wife had been responsible for the Count’s exile. The old King had negotiated a series of truces with the Germans, and now that the last of these had expired, the new King reopened hostilities5 with a vengeance. The King of England, having recently become a relative of his, offered him assistance in the form of a large expeditionary force under the command of his marshal, Perrot, and Jacques Lamiens, the son of the second marshal. Our worthy fellow, or the Count, was a member of Jacques’ contingent, for a long time serving in the army as a groom without ever being recognized; and being an able man, he made himself extremely useful by giving timely advice and performing various tasks over and above his normal duties.
During the war, the Queen of France happened to fall seriously ill, and realizing instinctively that she was about to die, she repented of all her sins, making a devout confession before the Archbishop of Rouen, who was famous for his excellence and saintliness. Among her other sins, she told him of the great wrong that had been perpetrated on the Count of Antwerp at her own instigation. Nor was she content solely with telling the Archbishop, but she gave a true account of the whole affair in the presence of many other gentlemen, requesting them to use their good offices with the King in order to secure the rehabilitation of the Count if he was still alive, or if he was d
ead, of his children. Not long afterwards she died, and was buried with full regal honours.
When the King was told about her confession, he heaved many an anguished sigh over the wrongs to which this excellent man had been so unjustly subjected. He then issued an edict, which was published far and wide, both throughout the army and elsewhere, to the effect that he would pay substantial rewards to anyone bringing him information concerning the whereabouts of the Count of Antwerp or any of his children. Because of the Queen’s confession – so the edict continued – the King held him to be innocent of the charges which had led to his exile, and it was his intention, not only to restore him to his former position, but to grant him still higher honours. Rumours of the announcement reached the ears of the Count, who was still working as a groom, and when he had confirmed them he went at once to Jacques and asked him to arrange a meeting with Perrot so that he could show them what the King was looking for.
When all three of them had come together, the Count said to Perrot, who was already thinking of announcing his identity:
‘Perrot, Jacques here is married to your sister, and never received any dowry from her. In order, therefore, that your sister should not remain without a dowry, I propose that he alone should claim these huge rewards that the King is offering. This he will do by declaring you to be the Count of Antwerp’s son, his wife to be your sister Violante, and myself to be your father, the Count of Antwerp.’
On hearing this, Perrot looked intently at the old man, and it dawned upon him that this was indeed his father. Dissolving into tears, he threw himself at the Count’s feet and embraced him, saying:
‘Father, what a joy it is to see you!’
Jacques, having listened to the Count’s words and witnessed Perrot’s response, was so delighted and astonished that he hardly knew where to put himself. But being convinced that it was all true, and bitterly ashamed for occasionally having spoken harshly to the groom or Count, he too burst into tears and sank to his knees at the old man’s feet, humbly begging his pardon for all the wrongs he had done him. Whereupon the Count, having first of all persuaded him to stand up again, assured him very graciously that he was forgiven.
When the three of them had finished telling one another about their adventures, weeping and laughing endlessly together, Perrot and Jacques offered to supply the Count with new clothes, but he could in no way be persuaded to accept them. On the contrary, he was determined that Jacques, once he had claimed the promised reward, should present him exactly as he was, in his groom’s clothing, so that the King would feel all the more ashamed for what had happened.
Jacques therefore presented himself to the King along with the Count and Perrot, and offered to produce the Count and his children if and when, in accordance with the terms of the edict, the reward was forthcoming. The King promptly ordered all three portions to be displayed, making Jacques’ eyes pop out with astonishment, and told him he could take away the reward whenever he had made good his offer to show him the Count and his children.
Jacques then turned and made way for his groom and Perrot.
‘My lord,’ he said. ‘Here are the father and son. The daughter, who is my wife, is not here at present, but God willing you will see her soon.’
On hearing this, the King stared at the Count, and although his features were greatly altered, after surveying him at length he none the less knew him again. Restraining his tears with an effort, he raised the Count from his knees to his feet, and kissed and embraced him. And after having warmly greeted Perrot, he ordered that the Count should instantly be provided with all the clothes, servants, horses and accoutrements that were proper to his noble rank. This was no sooner said than done, and moreover the King did much honour also to Perrot and insisted on hearing a full account of his past adventures.
When Jacques accepted the three enormous rewards for locating the Count and his children, the Count said to him:
‘Take away these gifts so generously endowed by His Royal Highness, and remember to tell your father that your children, who are his grandchildren as well as mine, are not descended from a vagrant on their mother’s side.’
Jacques took away the treasure, and arranged for his wife and his mother to come to Paris. Perrot’s wife came too, and they all stayed with the Count, who entertained them on a truly lavish scale, having been reinstated in all his lands and property, and granted higher rank than he had ever had before. Then they all obtained the Count’s leave to return to their respective homes, whilst he remained to the end of his days in Paris, covering himself with ever greater glory.
NINTH STORY
Bernabò of Genoa is tricked by Ambrogiuolo, loses his money, and orders his innocent wife to be killed. She escapes, however, and, disguising herself as a man, enters the service of the Sultan. Having traced the swindler, she lures her husband to Alexandria, where Ambrogiuolo is punished and she abandons her disguise, after which she and Bernabò return to Genoa, laden with riches.
Elissa’s touching tale being at an end and her duty done, their queen, the tall and lovely Filomena, than whom none possessed more pleasing and cheerful a countenance, composed herself and said:
‘The contract we made with Dioneo must be honoured, and since only he and I are left to speak, I shall tell my story first, and Dioneo, who laid special claim to that privilege, will be the last to address us.’ And having said this, she began as follows:
There is a certain proverb, frequently to be heard on the lips of the people, to the effect that a dupe will outwit his deceiver – a saying which would seem impossible to prove but for the fact that it is borne out by actual cases. And therefore, dearest ladies, I would like, without overstepping the limits of our theme, to show you that the proverb is indeed true. Nor should you find my story unpalatable, for it will teach you to be on your guard against deceivers.
A number of very prosperous Italian merchants were once staying at the same inn in Paris, a city which people of their sort frequently have cause to visit for one reason or another. One evening, after they had all dined merrily together, they began talking about this and that, one subject led to another, and they eventually came round to discussing the womenfolk they had left behind in Italy.
‘I don’t know what my wife gets up to,’ laughed one of them, ‘but I do know this, that whenever I meet a girl here in Paris who takes my fancy, I have as much fun with her as I can manage, and forget about my wife.’
’I do the same,’ said the second man, ‘because whether or not I believe my wife is behaving herself, she will be making the most of her opportunities. So it’s a case of tit for tat. Do as you would be done by, that’s my motto.’
The third man was of more or less similar opinion. And indeed, it looked as though they were unanimous in agreeing that the women they had left behind would not be allowing the grass to grow under their feet.
Only one of them, a Genoese called Bernabò Lomellin, took a different line, maintaining that he, on the contrary, was blessed with a wife who was possibly without equal in the whole of Italy, for not only was she endowed with all the qualities of the ideal woman, but she also possessed many of the accomplishments to be found in a knight or esquire. She was extremely good looking and still very young, she was lithe and lissom, and there was no womanly pursuit, such as silk embroidery and the like, in which she did not outshine all other members of her sex. Furthermore, he claimed it was impossible to find a page or servant who waited better or more efficiently at a gentleman’s table, for she was a paragon of intelligence and good manners, and the very soul of discretion. He then turned to her other accomplishments, praising her skill at horse-riding, falconry, reading, writing and book-keeping, at all of which she was superior to the average merchant. And finally, after a series of further eulogies, he came round to the subject they were discussing, stoutly maintaining that she was the most chaste and honest woman to be found anywhere on earth. Consequently, even if he stayed away for ten years or the rest of his life, he felt quite certain
that she would never play fast and loose in another man’s company.
Among the people present at this discussion, there was a young merchant from Piaccnza called Ambrogiuolo, who, on hearing the last of Bernabò’s laudatory assertions about his lady, began roaring with laughter and jokingly asked him whether it was the Emperor himself who had granted him this unique privilege.
Faintly annoyed, Bernabò replied that this favour had been conceded to him, not by the Emperor, but by God, who was a little more powerful than the Emperor.
Then Ambrogiuolo said:
‘Bernabò, I do not doubt for a moment that you believe what you say to be true. But as far as I can judge, you have not devoted much attention to the study of human nature. For if you had, you surely possess enough intelligence to have discovered certain things that would cause you to think twice before making such confident assertions. When the rest of us spoke so freely about our womenfolk, we were merely facing facts, and so as not to let you run away with the idea that we suppose our wives to be any different from yours, I would like to pursue this subject a little further with you.
‘I have always been told that man is the most noble of God’s mortal creatures, and that woman comes second. Moreover, man is generally considered the more perfect, and the evidence of his works confirms that this is so. Being more perfect, it inevitably follows that he has a stronger will, and this too is confirmed by the fact that women are invariably more fickle, the reasons for which are to be found in certain physical factors which I do not propose to dwell upon.
‘Man, then, has the stronger will. Yet quite apart from being unable to resist any woman who makes advances to him, he desires any woman he finds attractive, and not only does he desire her, but he will do everything in his power to possess her. And this is how he carries on, not just once a month, but a thousand times a day. What chance then do you think a woman, fickle by nature, can have against all the entreaties, the blandishments, the presents, and the thousand other expedients to which any intelligent lover will resort? Do you think she is going to resist him? Of course not, and you know it, no matter what you claim to the contrary. Why, you told us yourself that your wife is a woman, made of flesh and blood like the rest, in which case her desires are no different from any other woman’s, and her power to resist these natural cravings cannot be any greater. So that, however virtuous she may be, it’s quite possible that she acts like all the others. And whenever a thing is possible, one should not discount it prematurely or affirm its opposite, as you are doing.’
Tales From the Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 36