getting playful, the cunning lord, who had not been used to maidens, but knew from experience the little tricks that women will practice, seeing that he had much associated with ladies of the town, feared those handy tricks, little kisses, and minor amusements of love which formerly he did not object to, but which at the present time would have found him cold as the obit of a pope.  Then he drew back towards the end of the bed, afraid of his happiness, and said to his too delectable spouse, “Well, darling, you are a seneschal’s wife now, and very well seneschaled as well.”

“Oh no!” said she.

“How no!” replied he in great fear; “are you not a wife?”

“No!” said she.  “Nor shall I be till I have had a child.”

“Did you while coming here see the meadows?” began again the old fellow.

“Yes,” said she.

“Well, they are yours.”

“Oh!  Oh!” replied she laughing, “I shall amuse myself much there catching butterflies.”

“That’s a good girl,” says her lord.  “And the woods?”

“Ah!  I should not like to be there alone, you will take me there.  But,” said she, “give me a little of that liquor which La Ponneuse has taken such pains to prepare for us.”

“And why, my darling?  It would put fire in your body.”

“Oh!  That’s what I should like,” said she, biting her lip with vexation, “because I desire to give you a child as soon as possible; and I’m sure that liquor is good for the purpose.”

“Ah! my little one,” said the seneschal, knowing by this that Blanche was a virgin from head to foot, “the goodwill of God is necessary for this business, and women must be in a state of harvest.”

“And when should I be in a state of harvest?” asked she, smiling.

“When nature so wills it,” said he, trying to laugh.

“What is it necessary to do for this?” replied she.

“Ah!  A cabalistical and alchemical operation which is very dangerous.”

“Ah!” said she, with a dreamy look, “that’s the reason why my mother cried when thinking of the said metamorphosis; but Bertha de Breuilly, who is so thankful for being made a wife, told me it was the easiest thing in the world.”

“That’s according to the age,” replied the old lord.  “But did you see at the stable the beautiful white mare so much spoken of in Touraine?”

“Yes, she is very gentle and nice.”

“Well, I give her to you, and you can ride her as often as the fancy takes you.”

“Oh, you are very kind, and they did not lie when they told me so.”

“Here,” continued he, “sweetheart; the butler, the chaplain, the treasurer, the equerry, the farrier, the bailiff, even the Sire de Montsoreau, the young varlet whose name is Gauttier and bears my banner, with his men at arms, captains, followers, and beasts—­all are yours, and will instantly obey your orders under pain of being incommoded with a hempen collar.”