On the morrow, they were all three re-united, to the great disgust of Marie, who, with the high jurisprudence of women, made a great fuss with her good husband, but with her finger she indicated her heart in an artless manner to Lavalliere, as one who said, “This is thine!”

At supper Lavalliere announced his departure for the wars.  Maille was much grieved at this resolution, and wished to accompany his brother; that Lavalliere refused him point blank.

“Madame,” said he to Marie d’Annebaut, “I love you more than life, but not more than honour.”

He turned pale saying this, and Madame de Maille blanched hearing him, because never in their amorous dalliance had there been so much true love as in this speech.  Maille insisted on keeping his friend company as far as Meaux.  When he came back he was talking over with his wife the unknown reasons and secret causes of this departure, when Marie, who suspected the grief of poor Lavalliere said, “I know:  he is ashamed to stop here because he has the Neapolitan sickness.”

“He!” said Maille, quite astonished.  “I saw him when we were in bed together at Bondy the other evening, and yesterday at Meaux.  There’s nothing the matter with him; he is as sound as a bell.”

The lady burst into tears, admiring this great loyalty, the sublime resignation to his oath, and the extreme sufferings of this internal passion.  But as she still kept her love in the recesses of her heart, she died when Lavalliere fell before Metz, as has been elsewhere related by Messire Bourdeilles de Brantome in his tittle-tattle.

THE VICAR OF AZAY-LE-RIDEAU

In those days the priests no longer took any woman in legitimate marriage, but kept good mistresses as pretty as they could get; which custom has since been interdicted by the council, as everyone knows, because, indeed, it was not pleasant that the private confessions of people should be retold to a wench who would laugh at them, besides the other secret doctrines, ecclesiastical arrangements, and speculations which are part and parcel of the politics of the Church of Rome.  The last priest in our country who theologically kept a woman in his parsonage, regaling her with his scholastic love, was a certain vicar of Azay-le-Ridel, a place later on most aptly named as Azay-le-Brule, and now Azay-le-Rideau, whose castle is one of the marvels of Touraine.  Now this said period, when the women were not averse to the odour of the priesthood, is not so far distant as some may think, Monsieur D’Orgemont, son of the preceding bishop, still held the see of Paris, and the great quarrels of the Armagnacs had not finished.  To tell the truth, this vicar did well to have his vicarage in that age, since he was well shapen, of a high colour, stout, big, strong, eating and drinking like a convalescent, and indeed, was always rising from a little malady that attacked him at certain times; and, later on, he would have been his own executioner, had he determined to observe