Now on a certain great feast-day the Duke held his Court, to which he had bidden all the ladies of that country, and among the rest his niece.  When the dances began, all did their duty save the Duchess, who, tormented by the sight of her niece’s beauty and grace, could neither make merry nor prevent her spleen from being perceived.  At last she called all the ladies, and making them scat themselves around her, began to talk of love; and seeing that the Lady du Vergier said nothing, she asked her, with a heart which jealousy was rending—­

“And you, fair niece, is it possible that your beauty has found no lover or true knight?”

“Madam,” replied the Lady du Vergier, “my beauty has not yet made such a conquest.  Since my husband’s death I have sought to love none but his children, with whom I deem myself happy.”

“Fair niece, fair niece,” replied the Duchess, with hateful spleen, “there is no love so secret that it is not known, and no little dog so well broken in and trained that it cannot be heard to bark.”

I leave you to imagine, ladies, what sorrow the poor Lady du Vergier felt in her heart on finding a matter, so long concealed, thus made known to her great dishonour.  Her honour, which had been so carefully guarded and was now wofully lost, tortured her, but still more so her suspicion that her lover had failed in his promise to her.  This she did not think he could have done, unless it were that he loved some lady fairer than herself, to whom his love had constrained him to make the whole matter known.  Yet so great was her discretion that she gave no sign, but replied laughing to the Duchess that she did not understand the language of animals.  However, beneath this prudent concealment her heart was filled with sadness, so that she rose up, and, passing out of the chamber, entered a closet in sight of the Duke, who was walking up and down.

Having thus reached a place where she believed herself to be alone, the poor lady let herself fall helplessly upon a bed, whereat a damsel, who had sat down beside it to sleep, rose up and drew back the curtains to see who this might be.  Finding that it was the Lady du Vergier, who believed herself to be alone, she durst say nothing to her, but listened, making as little noise as she was able.  And in a stifled voice the poor Lady du Vergier began to lament, saying—­

“O unhappy one, what words have I heard? to what decree of death have I hearkened? what final sentence have I received?  O best beloved of men, is this the reward of my chaste, honourable and virtuous love?  O my heart, hast thou made so parlous an election, and chosen for the most loyal the most faithless, for the truest the most false, for the discreetest the most slanderous?  Alas! can it be that a thing hidden from every human eye has been revealed to the Duchess?  Alas, my little dog, so well taught and the sole instrument of my love and virtuous affection, it was not you who betrayed me, it was he whose voice