“Whence comes this precious fellow that has not heard of La Belle Imperia?”
He was very much afraid that he and his money were gone to the devil when he heard the name, and knew into what a nice mess he had voluntarily fallen.
Imperia was the most precious, the most fantastic girl in the world, although she passed for the most dazzlingly beautiful, and the one who best understood the art of bamboozling cardinals and softening the hardest soldiers and oppressors of the people. She had brave captains, archers, and nobles, ready to serve her at every turn. She had only to breathe a word, and the business of any one who had offended her was settled. A free fight only brought a smile to her lips, and often the Sire de Baudricourt—one of the King’s Captains—would ask her if there was any one he could kill for her that day—a little joke at the expense of the abbots. With the exception of the potentates among the high clergy with whom Madame Imperia managed to accommodate her little tempers, she ruled every one with a high hand in virtue of her pretty babble and enchanting ways, which enthralled the most virtuous and the most unimpressionable. Thus she lived beloved and respected, quite as much as the real ladies and princesses, and was called Madame, concerning which the good Emperor Sigismund replied to a lady who complained of it to him, “That they, the good ladies, might keep to their own proper way and holy virtues, and Madame Imperia to the sweet naughtiness of the goddess Venus”—Christian words which very wrongly shocked the good ladies.
Philippe, then thinking over in his mind that which on the preceding evening he had seen with his eyes, doubted if more did not remain behind. Then was he sad, and without taking bite or sup, strolled about the town waiting the appointed hour, although he was well-favoured and gallant enough to find others less difficult to overcome than was Madame Imperia.
The night came; the little Tourainian, exalted with pride, caparisoned with desire, and spurred by his “alacks” and “alases” which nearly choked him, glided like an eel into the domicile of the veritable Queen of the Council—for before her bowed humbly all the authority, science, and wisdom of Christianity. The major domo did not know him, and was going to bundle him out again, when one of the chamber-women called out from the top of the stairs—“Eh, M. Imbert, it is Madame’s young fellow,” and poor Philippe, blushing like a wedding night, ran up the stairs, shaking with happiness and delight. The servant took him by the hand and led him into the chamber where sat Madame, lightly attired, like a brave woman who awaits her conqueror.
The dazzling Imperia was seated near a table covered with a shaggy cloth ornamented with gold, and with all the requisites for a dainty carouse. Flagons of wine, various drinking glasses, bottles of hippocras, flasks full of the good wine of Cyprus, pretty boxes full of spices, roast peacocks, green sauces, little salt hams—all that would gladden the eyes of the gallant if he had not so madly loved Madame Imperia. She saw well that the eyes of the young priest were all for her. Although accustomed to the curl-paper devotion of the churchmen, she was well satisfied that she had made a conquest of the young priest who all day long had been in her head.
The windows had been closed; Madame was decked out and in a manner fit to do the honours to a prince of the Empire. Then the rogue, beatified by the holy beauty of Imperia, knew that emperor, burgraf, nay, even a cardinal about to be elected pope, would willingly for that night have changed places with him, a little priest who, beneath his gown, had only the devil and love.
He put on a lordly air, and saluted her with a courtesy by no means ungraceful; and then the sweet lady said to him, regaling him with a piercing glance—
“Come and sit close to me, that I may see if you have altered since yesterday.”
“Oh, yes,” said he.
“And how?” said she.
“Yesterday,” replied the artful fellow, “I loved you: to-day, we love each other, and from a poor sinner I have become richer than a king.”
“Oh, little one, little one!” cried she, merrily; “yes, you are indeed changed, for from a poor priest I see well you have turned into an old devil.” And side by side they sat down before a large fire, which helped to spread their ecstasy around. They remained always ready to begin eating, seeing that they only thought of gazing into each other’s eyes, and never touched a dish. Just as they were beginning to feel comfortable and at their ease, there came a great noise at Madame’s door, as if people were beating against it, and crying out.
“Madame,” cried the little servant, hastily, “here’s another of them.”
“Who is it?” cried she in a haughty manner, like a tyrant, savage at being interrupted.
“The Bishop of Coire wishes to speak with you.”
“May the devil take him!” said she, looking at Philippe gently.
“Madame, he has seen the lights through the chinks, and is making a great noise.”
“Tell him I have the fever, and you will be telling him no lie, for I am ill of this little priest who is torturing my brain.”
But just as she had finished speaking, and was pressing with devotion the hand of Philippe who trembled in his skin, appeared the fat Bishop of Coire, indignant and angry. The officers followed him, bearing a trout canonically dressed, fresh drawn from the Rhine, and shining in a golden platter, and spices contained in little ornamental boxes, and a thousand dainties, such as liqueurs and jams, made by the holy nuns at his Abbey.
“Ah, ah,” said he, with his deep voice, “I haven’t time to go to the devil, but you must give me a touch of him in advance, eh! my little one.”
“Your belly will one day make a nice sheath for a sword,” replies she, knitting her brows above her eyes, which from being soft and gentle had become mischievous enough to make one tremble.
“And this little choir-boy? Has he already made his sacrifice?” said the bishop, insolently turning his great rubicund face towards Philippe.
“Monseigneur, I am here to confess Madame.”
“Oh, oh, do you not know the canons? To confess the ladies at this time of night is a right reserved to bishops, so take yourself off; go and herd with simple monks, and never come back here again under pain of excommunication.”
“Do not move,” cried the blushing Imperia, more lovely with passion than she was with love, because now she was possessed both with passion and love. “Stop, my friend. Here you are in your own house.” Then he knew that he was really loved by her.
“Is it not in the breviary, and an evangelical regulation, that you shall be equal before God in the valley of Jehoshaphat?” asked she of the bishop.
“’Tis an invention of the devil, who has adulterated the holy book,” replied the great numbskull of a bishop, in a hurry to fall to.
“Well, then, be equal now before me, who am here below your goddess,” replied Imperia, “otherwise one of these days I will have you delicately strangled between the head and shoulders; I swear it by the power of my tonsure, which is as good as the pope’s.” And wishing that the trout should be added to the feast as well as the sweets and other dainties, she added, cunningly, “Sit you down and drink with us.” But the artful minx, being up to a trick or two, gave the little one a wink which told him plainly not to mind the German, whom she would soon find a means to be rid of.
The servant-maid seated the bishop at the table and tucked him up, while Philippe, wild with a rage that closed his mouth, because he saw his plans ending in smoke, gave the archbishop to more devils than there ever were monks alive. Thus they got half way through the repast, which the young priest had not yet touched, hungering only for Imperia, near whom he was already seated, but speaking that sweet language which the ladies so well understand, that has neither stops, commas, accents, letters, figures, characters, notes, nor images. The fat bishop, sensual and careful enough of the sleek ecclesiastical garment of skin for which he was indebted to his late mother, allowed himself to be plentifully served with hippocras by the delicate hand of Madame, and it was just at his first hiccough that the sound of an approaching
cavalcade was heard in the street. The number of horses, the “Ho, ho!” of the pages, showed plainly that some great prince hot with love was about to arrive. In fact, a moment afterwards the Cardinal of Ragusa, against whom the servants of Imperia had not dared to bar the door, entered the room. At this terrible sight the poor courtezan and her young lover became ashamed and embarrassed, like fresh cured lepers; for it would be tempting the devil to try and oust the cardinal, the more so as at that time it was not known who would be pope, three aspirants having resigned their hoods for the benefit of Christianity. The cardinal, who was a cunning Italian, long bearded, a great sophist, and the life and soul of the Council, guessed, by the feeblest exercise of the faculties of his understanding, the alpha and omega of the adventure. He only had to weigh in his mind one little thought before he knew how to proceed in order to be able to hypothecate his manly vigour. He arrived with the appetite of a hungry monk, and to obtain its satisfaction he was just the man to stab two monks and sell his bit of the true cross, which was wrong.
“Holloa! friend,” said he to Philippe, calling him towards him.
The poor Tourainian, more dead than alive, and expecting the devil was about to interfere seriously with his arrangements, rose and said, “What is it?” to the redoubtable cardinal.
He taking him by the arm led him to the staircase, looked him in the white of the eye and said, without any nonsense—
“Ventredieu! you are a nice little fellow, and I should not like to have to let your master know the weight of your carcase. My revenge might cause me certain pious expenses in my old age, so choose to espouse an abbey for the remainder of your days, or to marry Madame to-night and die to-morrow.”
The poor little Tourainian in despair murmured, “May I come back when your passion is over?”
The cardinal could scarcely keep his countenance, but he said sternly, “Choose the gallows or a mitre.”
“Ah!” said the priest, maliciously; “a good fat abbey.” Thereupon the cardinal went back into the room, opened an escritoire, and scribbled upon a piece of parchment an order to the envoy of France.
“Monseigneur,” said the Tourainian to him while he was spelling out the order, “you will not get rid of the Bishop of Coire so easily as you have got rid of me, for he has as many abbeys as the soldiers have drinking shops in the town; besides, he is in the favour of his lord. Now I fancy to show you my gratitude for this so fine abbey I owe you a good piece of advice. You know how fatal has been and how rapidly spread this terrible pestilence which has cruelly harassed Paris. Tell him that you have just left the bedside of your old friend the Archbishop of Bordeaux; thus you will make him scutter away like straw before a whirlwind.”
“Oh, oh,” cried the cardinal, “thou meritest more than an abbey. Ah, Ventredieu! my young friend, here are 100 golden crowns for thy journey to the abbey of Turpenay, which I won yesterday at cards, and of which I make you a free gift.”
Hearing these words, and seeing Philippe de Mala disappear without giving her the amorous glances she expected, the beautiful Imperia, puffing like a dolphin, denounced all the cowardice of the priest. She was not then a sufficiently good Catholic to pardon her lover deceiving her, by not knowing how to die for her pleasure. Thus the death of Philippe was foreshadowed in the viper’s glance she cast at him to insult him, which glance pleased the cardinal much, for the wily Italian saw he would soon get his abbey back again. The Tourainian, heeding not the brewing storm, avoided it by walking out silently and with his ears down, like a wet dog being kicked out of church. Madame drew a sigh from her heart. She must have had her own ideas of humanity for the little value she held it in. The fire which possessed her had mounted to her head, and scintillated in rays about her, and there was good reason for it, for this was the first time that she had been humbugged by a priest. Then the cardinal smiled, believing it was all to his advantage: was not he a cunning fellow? Yes, he was the possessor of a red hat.
“Ah! ah! my friend,” said he to the bishop, “I congratulate myself on being in your company, and I am glad to have been able to get rid of that little wretch unworthy of Madame, the more so as if you had gone near him, my lovely and amiable creature, you would have perished miserably through the deed of a simple priest.”
“Ah! How?”
“He is the secretary of the Archbishop of Bordeaux. The good man was seized this morning with the pestilence.”
The bishop opened his mouth wide enough to swallow a Dutch cheese.
“How do you know that?” asked he.
“Ah!” said the cardinal, taking the good German’s hand, “I have just administered to him, and consoled him; at this moment the holy man has a fair wind to waft him to paradise.”
The Bishop of Coire demonstrated immediately how light fat men are; for when men are big-bellied, a merciful providence, in the consideration of their works, often makes their internal tubes as elastic as balloons. The aforesaid bishop sprang backwards with one bound, burst into a perspiration, and coughed like a cow who finds feathers mixed with her hay. Then becoming suddenly pale, he rushed down the stairs without even bidding Madame adieu. When the door had closed upon the bishop, and he was fairly in the street, the Cardinal of Ragusa began laughing fit to split his sides.
“Ah, my fair one, am I not worthy to be pope, and better than that, thy lover this evening?”
But seeing Imperia thoughtful, he approached her to take her in his arms, and pet her after the usual fashion of cardinals, men who embrace better than all others, even the soldiers, because they are leisurely, and do not waste their essential properties.
“Ha!” said she, drawing back, “you wish to cause my death, you ecclesiastical idiot. The principal thing for you is to enjoy yourself; my sweet carcase, a thing accessory. Your pleasure will be my death, and then you’ll canonize me perhaps? Ah, you have the plague, and you would give it to me. Go somewhere else, you brainless priest. Ah! touch me not,” said she, seeing him about to advance, “or I will stab you with this dagger.”
And the clever hussy drew from her armoire a little dagger which she knew how to use with great skill when necessary.
“But, my little paradise, my sweet one,” said the other, laughing, “don’t you see the trick? Wasn’t it necessary to get rid of that old bullock of Coire?”
“Well, then, if you love me, show it,” replied she. “I desire that you leave me instantly. If you are touched with the disease, my death will not worry you. I know you well enough to know at what price you will put a moment of pleasure at your last hour. You would drown the earth. Ah! ah! you have boasted of it when drunk. I love only myself, my treasures, and my health. Go, and if to-morrow your veins are not frozen by the disease, you can come again. To-day, I hate you, my good cardinal,” said she, smiling.
“Imperia!” cried the cardinal, on his knees, “my blessed Imperia, do not play with me thus.”
“No,” said she, “I never play with blessed and sacred things.”
“Ah! ribald woman, I will excommunicate thee tomorrow.”
“And now you are out of your cardinal sense.”
“Imperia, cursed daughter of Satan! Oh, my little beauty—my love——”
“Respect yourself more. Don’t kneel to me, fie for shame!”
“Wilt thou have a dispensation in articulo mortis? Wilt thou have my fortune—or better still, a bit of the veritable true cross?—Wilt thou?”
“This evening, all the wealth of heaven above and earth beneath would not buy my heart,” said she, laughing. “I should be the blackest of sinners, unworthy to receive the Blessed Sacrament if I had not my little caprices.”
“I’ll burn the house down. Sorceress, you have bewitched me. You shall perish at the stake. Listen to me, my love—my gentle dove—I promise you the best place in heaven. Eh? No. Death to you then—death to the sorceress.”
“Oh! oh! I will kill you, Monsiegneur.”
And the cardinal foamed with rage.
“You are maki
ng a fool of yourself,” said she. “Go away, you’ll tire yourself.”
“I shall be pope, and you shall pay for this!”
“Then you are no longer disposed to obey me?”
“What can I do this evening to please you?”
“Get out.”
And she sprang lightly like a wagtail into her room, and locked herself in, leaving the cardinal to storm that he was obliged to go. When the fair Imperia found herself alone, seated before the fire, and without her little priest, she exclaimed, snapping angrily the gold links of her chain, “By the double triple horn of the devil, if the little one has made me have this row with the cardinal, and exposed me to the danger of being poisoned to-morrow, unless I pay him over to my heart’s content, I will not die till I have seen him burnt alive before my eyes. Ah!” said she, weeping, this time real tears, “I lead a most unhappy life, and the little pleasure I have costs me the life of a dog, let alone my salvation.”
As she finished this jeremaid, wailing like a calf that is being slaughtered, she beheld the blushing face of the young priest, who had hidden himself, peeping at her from behind her large Venetian mirror.
“Ah!” said she, “thou art the most perfect monk that ever dwelt in this blessed and amorous town of Constance. Ah! ah! come my gentle cavalier, my dear boy, my little charm, my paradise of delectation, let me drink thine eyes, eat thee, kill thee with love. Oh! my ever-flourishing, ever-green sempiternal god; from a little monk I would make thee a king, emperor, pope, and happier than either. There, thou canst put anything to fire and sword, I am thine, and thou shalt see it well; for thou shall be all a cardinal, even when to redden thy hood I shed all my heart’s blood.” And with her trembling hands all joyously she filled with Greek wine the golden cup, brought by the Bishop of Coire, and presented it to her sweetheart, whom she served upon her knees, she whose slipper princes found more to their taste than that of the pope.
Droll Stories Page 2