XVII
THE CHATELAINE OF VERGI
There are divers men who make a great show of loyalty, and pretend tosuch discretion in the hidden things they hear, that at the end folkcome to put faith in them. When by their false seeming they havepersuaded the simple to open out to them their love and their deeds,then they noise the matter about the country, and make it their songand their mirth. Thus it chances that the lesser joy is his who hasbared to them his heart. For the sweeter the love, the more bitter isthe pang that lovers know, when each deems the other to have bruitedabroad the secret he should conceal. Oftentimes these blabbers do suchmischief with their tongue, that the love they spoil comes to itsclose in sorrow and in care. This indeed happened in Burgundy to abrave and worthy knight, and to the Lady of Vergi. This knight lovedhis lady so dearly that she granted him her tenderness, on suchcovenant as this--that the day he showed her favour to any, that veryhour he would lose the love and the grace she bestowed on him. To sealthis bond they devised together that the knight should come a days toan orchard, at such hour as seemed good to his friend. He must remaincoy in his nook within the wall till he might see the lady's lapdogrun across the orchard. Then without further tarrying he should enterher chamber, knowing full well she was alone, whom so fondly hedesired to greet. This he did, and in this fashion they met togetherfor a great while, none being privy to their sweet and stolen love,save themselves alone.
The knight was courteous and fair, and by reason of his courage wasright welcome to that Duke who was lord of Burgundy. He came and wentabout the Court, and that so often that the Duchess set her mind uponhim. She cared so little to hide her thought, that had his heart notbeen in another's keeping, he must surely have perceived in her eyesthat she loved him. But however tender her semblance the knight showedno kindness in return, for he marked nothing of her inclination.Passing troubled was the dame that he should treat her thus; so thaton a day she took him apart, and sought to make him of her counsel.
"Sir, as men report, you are a brave and worthy knight, for the whichgive God thanks. It would not be more than your deserts, if you hadfor friend a lady in so high a place that her love would bring to youboth honour and profit. How richly could such a lady serve you!"
"Lady," said he, "I have never yet had this in my thought."
"By my faith," she answered, "it seems to me that the longer you wait,the less is your hope. Perchance the lady will stoop very readily fromher throne, if you but kneel at her knee."
The knight replied, "Lady, by my faith, I know little why you speaksuch words, and I understand their meaning not at all. I am neitherduke nor count to dare to set my love in so high a seat. There isnought in me to gain the love of so sovereign a dame, pain me how Imay."
"Such things have been," said she, "and so may chance again. Many moremarvellous works have been wrought than this, and the day of miraclesis not yet past. Tell me, know you not yet that you have gained thelove of some high princess, even mine?"
The knight made answer forthwith, "Lady, I know it not. I would desireto have your love in a fair and honourable fashion; but may God keepme from such love between us, as would put shame upon my lord. In nomanner, nor for any reason, will I enter on such a business as wouldlead me to deal my true and lawful lord so shrewd and foul a wrong."
Bitter at heart was the dame to see her love so scorned.
"Fie upon you," she cried, "and who required of you any such thing?"
"Ah, lady, to God be the praise; you have said enough to make yourmeaning passing plain."
The lady strove no more to show herself kind to him. Great was thewrath and sharp the malice that she hid within her heart, and well shepurposed that, if she might, she would avenge herself speedily. Allthe day she considered her anger. That night as she lay beside theDuke she began to sigh, and afterwards to weep. Presently the Dukeinquired of her grief, bidding her show it him forthwith.
"Certes," said the dame, "I make this great sorrow because no princecan tell who is his faithful servant, and who is not. Often he givesthe more honour and wealth to those who are traitors rather thanfriends, and sees nothing of their wrong."
"In faith, wife," answered the Duke, "I know not why you speak thesewords. At least I am free of such blame as this, for in nowise would Inourish a traitor, if only a traitor I knew him to be."
"Hate then this traitor," cried she,--and she named a name--"who givesme no peace, praying and requiring me the livelong day that I shouldgrant him my love. For a great while he had been in this mind--as hesays--but did not dare to speak his thoughts. I considered the wholematter, fair lord, and resolved to show it you at once. It is likelyenough to be true that he cherished this hope, for we have never heardthat he loves elsewhere. I entreat you in guerdon, to look well toyour own honour, since this, as you know, is your duty and right."
Passing grievous was this business to the Duke. He answered to thelady,
"I will bring it to a head, and very quickly, as I deem."
That night the Duke lay upon a bed of little ease. He could neithersleep nor rest, by reason of that lord, his friend, who, he waspersuaded, had done him such bitter wrong as justly to have forfeitedhis love. Because of this he kept vigil the whole night through. Herose very early on the morrow, and bade him come whom his wife had putto blame, although he had done nothing blameworthy. Then he took himto task, man to man, when there were but these two together.
"Certes," he said, "it is a heavy grief that you who are so comelyand brave, should yet have no honour in you. You have deceived me themore, for I have long believed you to be a man of good faith, givingloyalty, at least, to me, in return for the love I have given to you.I know not how you can have harboured such a felon's wish, as to prayand require the Duchess to grant you her grace. You are guilty of suchtreachery that conduct more vile it would be far to seek. Get youhence from my realm. You have my leave to part, and it is denied toyou for ever. If you return here it will be at your utmost peril, forI warn you beforehand that if I lay hands upon you, you will die ashameful death."
When the knight heard this judgment, such wrath and mortificationwere his that his members trembled beneath him. He called to mind hisfriend, of whom he would have no joy, if he might not come and go andsojourn in that realm from which the Duke had banished him. Moreoverhe was sick at heart that his lord should deem him a disloyal traitor,without just cause. He knew such sore discomfort that he held himselfas dead and betrayed.
"Sire," said he, "for the love of God believe this never, neitherthink that I have been so bold. To do that of which you wrongfullycharge me, has never entered my mind, not one day, nor for one singlehour. Who has told you this lie has wrought a great ill."
"You gain nothing by such denials," answered the Duke, "for of asurety the thing is true. I have heard from her own lips the veryguise and fashion in which you prayed and required her love, like theenvious traitor that you are. Many another word it may well be thatyou spoke, as to which the lady of her courtesy keeps silence."
"My lady says what it pleases her to say," replied the dolorousknight, "and my denials are lighter than her word. Naught is there forme to say; nothing is left for me to do, so that I may be believedthat this adventure never happened."
"Happen it did, by my soul," said the Duke, remembering certain wordsof his wife. Well he deemed that he might be assured of the truth,if but the lady's testimony were true that this lord had never lovedotherwhere. Therefore the Duke said to the knight, "If you will pledgeyour faith to answer truly what I may ask, I shall be certified byyour words whether or not you have done this deed of which I misdoubtyou."
The knight had but one desire--to turn aside his lord's wrath, whichhad so wrongfully fallen upon him. He feared only lest he should bedriven from the land where lodged the dame who was the closest to hismind. Knowing nothing of what was in the Duke's thought, he consideredthat his question could only concern the one matter; so he repliedthat without fraud or concealment he would do as his lord had said.Thus he pledged his faith, and the Duke accepted his affiance.
When this was done the Duke made question,
"I have loved you so dearly that at the bottom of my heart I cannotbelieve you guilty of such shameless misdoing as the Duchess tells me.I would not credit it a moment, if you yourself were not the cause ofmy doubtfulness. From your face, the care you bestow upon your person,and a score of trifles, any who would know, can readily see that youare in love with some lady. Since none about the Court perceivesdamsel or dame on whom you have set your heart, I ask myself whetherindeed it may not be my wife, who tells me that you have entreated herfor love. Nothing that any one may do can take this suspicion from mymind, except you tell me yourself that you love elsewhere, making itso plain that I am left without doubt that I know the naked truth. Ifyou refuse her name you will have broken your oath, and forth from myrealm you go as an outlawed man."
The knight had none to give him counsel. To himself he seemed to standat the parting of two ways, both one and the other leading to death.If he spoke the simple truth (and tell he must if he would not be aperjurer) then was he as good as dead; for if he did such wrong as tosin against the covenant with his lady and his friend, certainly hewould lose her love, so it came to her knowledge. But if he concealedthe truth from the Duke, then he was false to his oath, and had lostboth country and friend. But little he recked of country, so only hemight keep his Love, since of all his riches she was the most dear.The knight called to heart and remembrance the fair joy and the solacethat were his when he had this lady between his arms. He consideredwithin himself that if by reason of his misdoing she came to harm, orwere lost to him, since he might not take her where he went, how couldhe live without her. It would be with him also, as erst with theCastellan of Couci, who having his Love fast only in his heart, toldover in his song,
Ah, God, strong Love, I sit and weep alone, Remembering the solace that was given; The tender guise, the semblance that was shown By her, my friend, my comrade, and my Heaven.
When grief brings back the joy that was mine own, I would the heart from out my breast were riven. Ah, Lord, the sweet words hushed, the beauty flown; Would God that I were dead, and low, and shriven.
The knight was in anguish such as this, for he knew not whether tomake clear the truth, or to lie and be banished from the country.
Whilst he was deep in thought, turning over in his mind what it werebest to do, tears rose in his heart and flowed from his eyes, so thathis face was wet, by reason of the sorrow that he suffered. The Dukehad no more mirth than the knight, deeming that his secret was soheavy that he dared not make it plain. The Duke spoke swiftly to hisfriend,
"I see clearly that you fear to trust me wholly, as a knight shouldtrust his lord. If you confess your counsel privily to me, you cannotthink that I shall show the matter to any man. I would rather have myteeth drawn one by one, than speak a word."
"Ah," cried the knight, "for God's love, have pity, Sire. I know notwhat I ought to say, nor what will become of me; but I would ratherdie than lose what lose I shall if she only hears that you have thetruth, and that you heard it from my lips, whilst I am a living man."
The Duke made answer,
"I swear to you by my body and my soul, and on the faith and love Iowe you again by reason of your homage, that never in my life will Itell the tale to any creature born, or even breathe a word or make asign about the business."
With the tears yet running down his face the knight said to him,
"Sire, right or wrong, now will I show my secret. I love your niece ofVergi, and she loves me, so that no friends can love more fondly."
"If you wish to be believed," replied the Duke, "tell me now, if any,save you two alone, knows anything of this joy?"
And the knight made answer to him,
"Nay, not a creature in the world."
Then said the Duke,
"No love is so privy as that. If none has heard thereof, how do youmeet together, and how devise time and place?"
"By my faith, Sire, I will tell you all, and keep back nothing, sinceyou know so much of our counsel."
So he related the whole story of his goings to and fro within thepleasaunce; of that first covenant with his friend, and of the officeof the little dog.
Then said the Duke,
"I require of you that I may be your comrade at such fair meeting.When you go again to the orchard, I too, would enter therein, andmark for myself the success of your device. As for my niece she shallperceive naught."
"Sire, if it be your will it is my pleasure also; save, only, that youfind it not heavy or burdensome. Know well that I go this very night."
The Duke said that he would go with him, for the vigil would in nowise be burdensome, but rather a frolic and a game. They accordedbetween them a place of meeting, where they would draw together onfoot, and alone. When nightfall was come they fared to the hostel ofthe Duke's niece, for her dwelling was near at hand. They had nottarried long in the garden, when the Duke saw his niece's lapdog runstraight to that end of the orchard where the knight was hidden.Wondrous kindness showed the knight to his lady's dog. Immediately hetook his way to her lodging, and left his master in his nook by thewall. The Duke followed after till he drew near the chamber, and heldhimself coy, concealing him as best he might. It was easy enough todo this, for a great tree stood there, high and leafy, so that he wascovered close as by a shield. From this place he marked the little dogenter the chamber, and presently saw his niece issue therefrom, andhurry forth to meet her lover in the pleasaunce. He was so close thathe could see and hear the solace of that greeting, the salutation ofher mouth and of her hands. She embraced him closely in her fair whitearms, kissing him more than a hundred times, whilst she spoke manycomforting words. The knight for his part kissed her again, and heldher fast, praising her with many tender names.
"My lady, my friend, my love," said he, "heart and mistress and hope,and the sum of all that I hold dear, know well that I have yearned tobe with you as we are now, every day and all day long since we met."
"Sweet lord, sweet friend, sweet love," replied the lady, "never has aday nor an hour gone by but I was awearied of its length. But I grieveno longer over the past, for I have my heart's desire when you arewith me, joyous and well. Right welcome are you to your friend."
And the knight made answer,
"Love, you are welcome and wellmet."
From his place of hiding, near the entrance to the chamber, the Dukehearkened to every word. His niece's voice and face were so familiarto him, that he could not doubt that the Duchess had lied. Greatly washe content, for he was now assured that his friend had not done amissin that of which he had misdoubted him. All through the night he keptwatch and ward. But during his vigil the dame and the knight, closeand sleepless in the chamber, knew such joy and tenderness as it isnot seemly should be told or heard, save of those who hope themselvesto attain such solace, when Love grants them recompense for all theirpains. For he who desires nothing of this joy and quittance, evenif it were told him, would but listen to a tongue he could notunderstand, since his heart is not turned to Love, and none can knowthe wealth of such riches, except Love whisper it in his ear. Of suchkingdom not all are worthy: for there joy goes without anger, andsolace is crowned with fruition. But so fleet are things sweet, thatto the lover his joy seems to find but a brief content. So pleasantis the life he passes that he wishes his night a week, his week tostretch to a month, the month become a year, and one year three, andthree years twenty, and the twenty attain to a hundred. Yea, when theterm and end were reached, he would that the dusk were closing, ratherthan the dawn had come.
This was the case with the lover whom the Duke awaited in the orchard.When day was breaking, and he durst remain no longer, he came with hislady to the door. The Duke marked the fashion of their leave-taking,the kisses given and granted, the sighs and the weeping as they badefarewell. When they had wept many tears, and devised an hour for theirnext meeting, the knight departed in this fashion, and the lady shutthe door. But so long as she might see him, she followed his goingwith her pretty eyes, since there was nothing better she could do.
When the Duke knew the postern was made fast, he hastened on his roaduntil he overtook the knight, who to himself was making his complaintof the season, that all too short was his hour. The same thoughtand the self same words were hers from whom he had parted, for thebriefness of the time had betrayed her delight, and she had no praisesfor the dawn. The knight was deep in his thought and speech, when hewas overtaken by the Duke. The Duke embraced his friend, greeting himvery tenderly. Then he said to him,
"I pledge my faith that I will love you all the days of my life, neveron any day seeking to do you a mischief, for you have told me the verytruth, and have not lied to me by a single word."
"Sire," he made answer, "thanks and gramercy. But for the love ofGod I require and pray of you that it be your pleasure to hide thiscounsel; for I should lose my love, and the peace and comfort of mylife--yea, and should die without sin of my own, if I deemed that anyother in this realm than yourself knew aught of the business."
"Now speak of it never," replied the Duke. "Know that the counselshall be kept so hidden, that by me shall not a syllable be spoken."
On this covenant they came again whence they had set forth together.That day, when men sat at meat, the Duke showed to his knight afriendlier semblance and a fairer courtesy than ever he had donebefore. The Duchess felt such wrath and despitefulness at this,that--without any leasing--she rose from the table, and makingpretence of sudden sickness, went to lie upon her bed, where she foundlittle softness. When the Duke had eaten and washed and made merry, heafterwards sought his wife's chamber, and causing her to be seated onher bed, commanded that none should remain, save himself. So all menwent forth at his word, even as he had bidden. Thereupon the Dukeinquired of the lady how this evil had come to her, and of what shewas sick. She made answer,
"As God hears me, never till I ate at table did I deem that you had solittle sense or decency, as when I saw you making much of him, who, Ihave told you already, strove to bring shame and disgrace on me. WhenI watched you entreat him with more favour than even was your wont,such great sorrow and such great anger took hold on me, that I couldnot contain myself in the hall."
"Sweet friend," replied the Duke, "know that I shall neverbelieve--either from your lips or from those of any creature in theworld--that the story ever happened as you rehearsed it. I am so deepin his counsel that he has my quittance, for I have full assurancethat he never dreamed of such a deed. But as to this you must ask ofme no more."
The Duke went straightway from the chamber, leaving the lady sunk inthought. However long she had to live, never might she know an hour'scomfort, till she had learnt something of that secret of which theDuke forbade her to seek further. No denial could now stand in herway, for in her heart swiftly she devised a means to unriddle thiscounsel, so only she might endure until the evening, and the Duke wasin her arms. She was persuaded that, beyond doubt, such solace wouldwin her wish more surely than wrath or tears. For this purpose sheheld herself coy, and when the Duke came to lie at her side she betookherself to the further side of the bed, making semblance that hiscompany gave her no pleasure. Well she knew that such show of angerwas the device to put her lord beneath her feet. Therefore she turnedher back upon him, that the Duke might the more easily be drawn bythe cords of her wrath. For this same reason when he had no more thankissed her, she burst out,
"Right false and treacherous and disloyal are you to make such apretence of affection, who yet have never loved me truly one singleday. All these years of our wedded life I have been foolish enough tobelieve, what you took such pains in the telling, that you lovedme with a loyal heart. To-day I see plainly that I was the moredeceived."
"In what are you deceived?" inquired the Duke.
"By my faith," cried she, who was sick of her desire, "you warn methat I be not so bold as to ask aught of that of which you know thesecret."
"In God's name, sweet wife, of what would you know?"
"Of all that he has told you, the lies and the follies he has put inyour mind, and led you to believe. But it matters little now whether Ihear it or not, for I remember how small is my gain in being your trueand loving wife. For good or for ill I have shown you all my counsel.There was nothing that was known and seen of my heart that you werenot told at once; and of your courtesy you repay me by concealing yourmind. Know, now, without doubt, that never again shall I have in yousuch affiance, nor grant you my love with such sweetness, as I havebestowed them in the past."
Thereat the Duchess began to weep and sigh, making the most tendersorrow that she was able. The Duke felt such pity for her grief thathe said to her,
"Fairest and dearest, your wrath and anger are more heavy than I canbear; but learn that I cannot tell what you wish me to say withoutsinning against my honour too grievously."
Then she replied forthwith,
"Husband, if you do not tell me, the reason can only be that you donot trust me to keep silence in the business. I wonder the more sorelyat this, because there is no matter, either great or small, that youhave told me, which has been published by me. I tell you honestly thatnever in my life could I be so indiscreet."
When she had said this, she betook her again to her tears. The Dukekissed and embraced her, and was so sick of heart that strength failedhim to keep his purpose.
"Fair wife," he said to her, "by my soul I am at my wits' end. I havesuch trust and faith in you that I deem I should hide nothing, butshow you all that I know. Yet I dread that you will let fall someword. Know, wife--and I tell it you again--that if ever you betraythis counsel you will get death for your payment."
The Duchess made answer,
"I agree to the bargain, for it is not possible that I should deal youso shrewd a wrong."
Then he who loved her, because of his faith and his credence in herword, told all this story of his niece, even as he had learned it fromthe knight. He told how those two were alone together in the shadow ofthe wall, when the little dog ran to them. He showed plainly of thatcoming forth from the chamber, and of the entering in; nothing washid, he concealed naught of that he had heard and seen. When theDuchess understood that the love of a mighty dame was despised for thesake of a lowly gentlewoman, her humiliation was bitter in her mouthas death. She showed no semblance of despitefulness, but made covenantand promise with the Duke to keep the matter close, saying that shouldshe repeat his tale he might hang her from a tree.
Time went very heavily with the lady, till she could get speech withher, whom she hated from the hour she knew her to be the friend of himwho had caused her such shame and grief. She was persuaded that forthis reason he would not give her love, in return for that she set onhim. She confirmed herself in her purpose, that at such time and placeshe saw the Duke speaking with his niece, she would go swiftly to thelady, and tell out all her mind, hiding nothing because it was evil.Neither time nor place was met, till Pentecost was come, and the Dukeheld high Court, commanding to the feast all the ladies of his realm,amongst the first that lady, his niece, who was the Chatelaine ofVergi. When the Duchess looked on her, the blood pricked in her veins,for reason that she hated her more than aught else in the world. Shehad the courage to hide her malice, and greeted the lady more gladlythan ever she had done before. But she yearned to show openly theanger that burned in her heart, and the delay was much against hermind. On Pentecost, whilst the tables were removed, the Duchessbrought the ladies to her chamber with her, that, apart from thethrong, they might the more graciously attire them for the dance. Shedeemed her hour had come, and having no longer the power to refrainher lips, she said gaily, as if in jest,
"Chatelaine, array yourself very sweetly, since there is a fair andworthy lord you have to please."
The lady answered right simply,
"In truth, madam, I know not what you are thinking of; but for my partI wish for no such friendship as may not be altogether according to myhonour and to that of my lord."
"I grant that readily," replied the Duchess, "you are a good mistress,and have an apt pupil in your little dog."
The ladies returned with the Duchess to the hall, where the danceswere already set. They had listened to the tale, but could not markthe jest. The chatelaine remained in the chamber. Her colour came andwent, and because of her wrath and trouble the heart throbbed thicklyin her breast. She passed within a tiring chamber, where a littlemaiden was lying at the foot of the bed; but for grief she might notperceive her. The chatelaine flung herself upon the bed, bewailing herevil plight, for she was exceedingly sorrowful. She said,
"Ah, Lord God, take pity on me! What may this mean, that I havelistened to my lady's reproaches because of the training of my littledog! This she can have learned from none--as well I know--save fromhim whom I have loved, and who has betrayed me. He would never haveshown her this thing, except that he was her familiar friend, anddoubtless loves her more dearly than me, whom he has betrayed. I seenow the value of his oaths, since he finds it so easy to fail in hiscovenant. Sweet God, and I loved him so fondly, more fondly than anywoman has loved before; who never had him from my thoughts one singlehour, whether it were night or day. For he was my mirth and my carol;in him were my joy and my pleasure; he alone was my solace andcomfort. Ah, my friend, how can this have come; you who were alwayswith me, even when I might not see you with my eyes! What ill hasbefallen you, that you durst prove false to me? I deemed you morefaithful--God take me in His keeping--than ever was Tristan to Isoude.May God pity a poor fool, I loved you half as much again than I hadlove for myself. From the first to the last of our friendship, neverby thought, or by word, or by deed, have I done amiss; there is nowrong doing, trifling or great, to make plain your hatred, or toexcuse so vile a betrayal as this scorning of our love for a fresherface, this desertion of me, this proclaiming of our secret. Alas, myfriend, I marvel greatly; for as God is my witness my heart was notthus towards you. If God had offered me all the kingdoms of the world,yea, and His Heaven and its Paradise besides, I would have refusedthem gladly, had my gain meant the losing of you. For you were mywealth and my song and my health, and nothing can hurt me any more,since my heart has learnt that yours no longer loves me. Ah, lasting,precious love! Who could have guessed that he would deal this blow, towhom I gave the grace of my tenderness--who said that I was his ladyboth in body and in soul, and he the slave at my bidding. Yea, he toldit over so sweetly, that I believed him faithfully, nor thought in anywise that his heart would bear wrath and malice against me, whetherfor Duchess or for Queen. How good was this love, since the heart inmy breast must always cleave to his! I counted him to be my friend, inage as in youth, our lives together; for well I knew that if he diedfirst I should not dare to endure long without him, because of thegreatness of my love. The grave, with him, would be fairer, than lifein a world where I might never see him with my eyes. Ah, lasting,precious love! Is it then seemly that he should publish our counsel,and destroy her who had done him no wrong? When I gave him my lovewithout grudging, I warned him plainly, and made covenant with him,that he would lose me the self same hour that he made our tenderness asong. Since part we must, I may not live after so bitter a sorrow; norwould I choose to live, even if I were able. Fie upon life, it has nosavour in it. Since it pleases me naught, I pray to God to grant medeath, and--so truly as I have loved him who requites me thus--to havemercy on my soul. I forgive him his wrong, and may God give honour andlife to him who has betrayed and delivered me to death. Since itcomes from his hand, death, meseems, is no bitter potion; and when Iremember his love, to die for his sake is no grievous thing."
When the chatelaine had thus spoken she kept silence, save only thatshe said in sighing,
"Sweet friend, I commend you to God."
With these words she strained her arms tightly across her breast, theheart failed her, and her face lost its fair colour. She swooned inher anguish, and lay back, pale and discoloured in the middle of thebed, without life or breath.
Of this her friend knew nothing, for he sought his delight in thehall, at carol and dance and play. But amongst all those ladies he hadno pleasure in any that he saw, since he might not perceive her towhom his heart was given, and much he marvelled thereat. He took theDuke apart, and said in his ear,
"Sire, whence is this that your niece tarries so long, and comes notto the dancing? Have you put her in prison?"
The Duke looked upon the dancers, for he had not concerned himselfwith the revels. He took his friend by the hand, and led him directlyto his wife's chamber. When he might not find her there he bade theknight seek her boldly in the tiring chamber; and this he did of hiscourtesy that these two lovers might solace themselves with clasp andkiss. The knight thanked his lord sweetly, and entered softly in thechamber, where his friend lay dark and discoloured upon the bed. Timeand place being met together, he took her in his arms and touched herlips. But when he found how cold was her mouth, how pale and rigid herperson, he knew by the semblance of all her body that she was quitedead. In his amazement he cried out swiftly,
"What is this? Alas, is my dear one dead?"
The maiden started from the foot of the bed where she still lay,making answer,
"Sir, I deem truly that she be dead. Since she came to this roomshe has done nothing but call upon death, by reason of her friend'sfalsehood, whereof my lady assured her, and because of a little dog,whereof my lady made her jest. This sorrow brought her to her death."
When the knight understood from this that the words he had spoken tothe Duke had slain his friend, he was discomforted beyond measure.
"Alas," said he, "sweet love, the most gracious and the best that everknight had, loyal and true, how have I slain you, like the faithlesstraitor that I am! It were only just that I should receive the wagesfor my deed, so that you could have gone free of blame. But you wereso faithful of heart that you took it on yourself to pay the price.Then I will do justice on myself for the treason I have wrought."
The knight drew from its sheath a sword that was hanging from thewall, and thrust it throught his heart. He pained himself to fallupon his lady's body; and because of the mightiness of his hurt, bledswiftly to death. The maiden fled forth from the chamber, when shemarked these lifeless lovers, for she was all adread at what she saw.She lighted on the Duke, and told him all that she had heard and seen,keeping back nothing. She showed him the beginning of the matter, andalso of the little dog, whereof the Duchess had spoken.
Hearken all to what befell. The Duke went straightway to the tiringchamber, and drew from out the wound that sword by which the knightlay slain. He said no word, but hastened forthwith to the hall wherethe guests were yet at their dancing. Entering there he acquittedhimself of his promise, for he smote the Duchess on the head with thenaked sword he carried in his hand. He struck the blow without oneword, since his wrath was too deep for speech. The Duchess fell at hisfeet, in the sight of the barons of his realm, whereat the feast wassorely troubled, for in place of mirth and carol, now were blood anddeath. Then the Duke told loudly and swiftly, before all who cared tohear, this pitiful story, in the midst of his Court. There was not onebut wept, and his tears were the more piteous when he beheld those twolovers who lay dead in the chamber, and the Duchess in her hall. Sothe Court broke up in dole and anger, for of this deed came mightymischief. On the morrow the Duke caused the lovers to be laid in onetomb, and the Duchess in a place apart. But of this adventure the Dukehad such bitterness that never was he known to laugh again. He tookthe Cross, and went beyond the sea, where joining himself to theKnights Templar, he never returned to his own realm.
Ah, God! all this mischief and encumbrance chanced to the knight byreason of his making plain that he should have hid, and of publishingwhat his friend forbade him to speak, if he would keep her love. Fromthis ensample we may learn that it is not seemly to love, and tell. Hewho blabs and blazons his friendship gets not one kiss the more; buthe who goes discreetly preserves life and love and fame. For thefriendship of the discreet lover falls not before the mine of suchfalse and felon pryers as burrow privily into their neighbour's secretlove.
