Thereupon the good dyer staggered by the paternal majesty of cuckoldom, and perhaps also by the fire of his wife’s eyes, let the sword fall upon the foot of the hunchback, who had followed him, and thus killed him.

This teaches us not to be spiteful.

EPILOGUE

Here endeth the first series of these Tales, a roguish sample of the works of that merry Muse, born ages ago, in our fair land of Touraine, the which Muse is a good wench, and knows by heart that fine saying of her friend Verville, written in Le Moyen de Parvenir:  It is only necessary to be bold to obtain favours.  Alas! mad little one, get thee to bed again, sleep; thou art panting from thy journey; perhaps thou hast been further than the present time.  Now dry thy fair naked feet, stop thine ears, and return to love.  If thou dreamest other poesy interwoven with laughter to conclude these merry inventions, heed not the foolish clamour and insults of those who, hearing the carol of a joyous lark of other days, exclaim:  Ah, the horrid bird!

                             VOLUME II
                        THE SECOND TEN TALES

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE THE THREE CLERKS OF SAINT NICHOLAS THE CONTINENCE OF KING FRANCIS THE FIRST THE MERRY TATTLE OF THE NUNS OF POISSY HOW THE CHATEAU D’AZAY CAME TO BE BUILT THE FALSE COURTESAN THE DANGER OF BEING TOO INNOCENT THE DEAR NIGHT OF LOVE THE SERMON OF THE MERRY VICAR OF MEUDON THE SUCCUBUS DESPAIR IN LOVE EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Certain persons have reproached the Author for knowing no more about the language of the olden times than hares do of telling stories.  Formerly these people would have been vilified, called cannibals, churls, and sycophants, and Gomorrah would have been hinted at as their natal place.  But the Author consents to spare them the flowery epithets of ancient criticism; he contents himself with wishing not to be in their skin, for he would be disgusted with himself, and esteem himself the vilest of scribblers thus to calumniate a poor little book which is not in the style of any spoil-paper of these times.  Ah! ill-natured wretches! you should save your breath to cool your own porridge!  The Author consoles himself for his want of success in not pleasing everyone by remembering that an old Tourainian, of eternal memory, had put up with such contumely, that losing all patience, he declared in one of his prologues, that he would never more put pen to paper.  Another age, but the same manners.  Nothing changes, neither God above nor men below.  Thereupon of the Author continues his task with a light heart, relying upon the future to reward his heavy labours.