The Decameron

This is an AI-assisted modernization of Giovanni Boccaccio's Decameron, originally written in 1353, working from the John Payne translation (1886). The goal is a faithful but accessible retelling in contemporary English, preserving the wit, warmth, and storytelling brilliance of the original while making it genuinely enjoyable for modern readers.

Proem

Here begins the book called Decameron, also known as "Prince Galahalt," containing one hundred stories told over ten days by seven ladies and three young men.

It's a good and natural thing to feel compassion for people who are suffering. We all ought to, really — but it's especially expected of those who once needed comfort themselves and found it. And if anyone has ever needed comfort, cherished it, and taken solace from it, I am certainly that person.

From my earliest youth up to the present day, I was consumed by a passionate, all-encompassing love — nobler and more exalted, perhaps, than you might expect from someone of my humble station. People of good judgment who knew about it actually praised me for it and thought more highly of me because of it. But even so, it was agonizing to bear. Not because the lady I loved was cruel to me, but because of the uncontrollable fire of desire burning in my chest. It left me restless, unable to stay within any reasonable bounds, and it made me suffer far more than I ever had cause to.

During that difficult time, a dear friend's pleasant conversation and wonderful encouragement gave me such relief that I truly believe it saved my life. But as it pleased God — who, being infinite Himself, has set it as unbreakable law that all earthly things must come to an end — my love, which had been so intense that no amount of reasoning, no good advice, no shame, and no threat of danger had been able to break it or even bend it, eventually faded on its own, little by little, until now it has left me with nothing but the pleasant memory that love tends to grant to those who don't venture too far out into its deepest waters. Where it once was painful, it has become something sweet.

Yet even though the pain is gone, I haven't forgotten the kindness I received or the help given to me by those whose own goodwill made them share in my troubles. That memory, I believe, will stay with me until I die. And since gratitude is, to my mind, one of the most admirable of all virtues — and ingratitude one of the most shameful — I've decided, now that I can call myself free, to try to give something back. It may be a small thing, but I want to offer some measure of comfort in return for what I once received. If I can't repay those who actually helped me — who, thanks to their own good sense or good fortune, have no need of it — then at least I can offer it to those who do.

And however modest my comfort may be, it seems to me it should be directed where the need is greatest, both because it will do more good there and because it will be more gratefully received.

And who could deny that this comfort, whatever it may be worth, is needed far more by women in love than by men? Women carry hidden in their tender hearts the fires of love — and anyone who has experienced it knows that concealed passion burns far hotter than passion openly expressed. Constrained by the wishes, the expectations, and the commands of fathers, mothers, brothers, and husbands, women spend most of their time shut up in the small confines of their rooms, sitting nearly idle, wanting something and not wanting it in the same breath, turning over all kinds of thoughts in their minds — and not all of them happy ones. If melancholy takes root there, born from frustrated desire, it has no way out. It just sits and festers, unless some new conversation or story comes along to drive it away. And on top of everything, women have less strength to endure it than men do.

For men in love, it's different — as anyone can plainly see. If some sadness or heavy thought weighs on them, they have a hundred ways to ease it or shake it off. If they feel like it, nothing stops them from going out — seeing and hearing new things, hawking, hunting, fishing, riding, gambling, doing business. Every one of these activities has the power, in whole or in part, to occupy the mind and distract it from painful thoughts, at least for a while. And sooner or later, either relief comes or the pain grows smaller.

So then, to correct in some small way this injustice of Fortune — which has been stingiest with its support precisely where there is the least strength to endure, as we see in the case of delicate ladies — I intend, for the aid and comfort of women in love (for everyone else, the needle, the spindle, and the spinning wheel are entertainment enough), to tell one hundred stories. Call them tales, fables, parables, or histories — whatever you like. They were told over ten days by an honorable company of seven ladies and three young men during the time of the recent deadly plague, along with several songs that these ladies sang for their own amusement.

In these stories you'll find love affairs both joyful and tragic, and all sorts of twists of fortune from both the present day and times long past. The ladies who read them may take pleasure in the entertaining events described — and also draw some useful lessons about what to pursue and what to avoid. And I don't believe that can happen without their troubles easing somewhat.

If it does — and God grant that it may — let them give their thanks to Love, who, by releasing me from his chains, has given me the freedom to devote myself to their pleasure.

Day 1 — Introduction

Here begins the first day of the Decameron, in which — after the author describes how it came about that the people you're about to meet gathered together to tell stories — the company, under the leadership of Pampinea, speaks freely on whatever subject pleases them most.

—-

Dear ladies, whenever I stop to think about how naturally compassionate you all are, I realize that this book is going to seem like it has a grim and exhausting opening, since it begins with the painful memory of the recent deadly plague — a memory that's still awful for anyone who lived through it or heard about it. But I don't want that to scare you off from reading further, as though every page ahead were nothing but sighs and tears. Think of this dark beginning as nothing more than a steep, rugged mountain that travelers have to climb before they reach the beautiful, sunlit valley on the other side — a valley that feels all the more delightful because of how hard the climb was. Just as the height of happiness gives way to sorrow, so too does suffering come to an end with the arrival of joy. This brief stretch of ugliness — and it really is brief, just a few pages — is immediately followed by the sweetness and pleasure I've already promised you, which you might not expect from such a beginning. And honestly, if I could have found any other way to get where I'm going without leading you along this rough path, I would have gladly taken it. But I had no choice, because without this account of our past miseries, there'd be no way to explain what brought about the events you're about to read. So here we are.

I'll begin, then, by saying this: in the year of our Lord 1348, the death-dealing plague arrived in Florence, that most distinguished of Italian cities. Whether it was sent by the influence of the heavenly bodies or by the just wrath of God as punishment for our wicked ways, the pestilence had appeared some years earlier in the East, where it wiped out countless lives. Spreading relentlessly from place to place, it had now, to our great misfortune, reached the West.

No amount of human wisdom or foresight could stop it. The city had been cleaned of its filth by specially appointed officials. The sick were forbidden from entering its gates. Endless advice was given on how to stay healthy. Humble prayers were offered to God — not just once, but many times, in formal processions and in every other way the devout could devise. And yet none of it mattered. Around the beginning of spring that year, the plague began to show its horrifying effects in ways that were almost miraculous in their cruelty.

It didn't manifest the way it had in the East, where a nosebleed was a sure sign of death. Instead, in both men and women, the first symptoms were certain swellings — either in the groin or under the armpits. Some grew to the size of an apple, others to the size of an egg, some larger, some smaller. Ordinary people called them plague-boils. From those two areas, these deadly swellings quickly spread to every part of the body. Before long, the disease changed its appearance: black or livid blotches began to show up on the arms, the thighs, and everywhere else — large and scattered on some people, small and densely clustered on others. And just as the plague-boils had been a sure sign of approaching death, so too were these blotches a death sentence for anyone on whom they appeared.

No doctor's advice and no medicine seemed to help. Whether the nature of the disease simply defied treatment, or whether the physicians — whose ranks had swelled enormously with men and women who had never studied medicine in their lives — simply didn't understand what they were dealing with and therefore couldn't fight it, the result was the same: almost no one recovered. Nearly all the sick died within three days of the first symptoms appearing, some sooner, some later, most without fever or any other complication.

What made this plague even more vicious was the way it spread. It leaped from the sick to the healthy the way fire leaps to anything dry or oily when you bring it close. And the horror didn't stop there. It wasn't just that talking to or spending time with the sick could infect and kill the healthy — merely touching the clothes or belongings of a sick person seemed enough to pass the disease to whoever touched them.

What I have to tell you next is so extraordinary that if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes — and many others saw it too — I would hardly dare believe it, let alone write it down, even if I'd heard it from the most trustworthy source. The plague was so ferociously contagious that it didn't just pass from person to person. Far beyond that — and this is the truly astonishing part — if an animal touched something that had belonged to a person who was sick or dead from the plague, it didn't just catch the disease. It died, and quickly. I saw this happen myself one day, with my own eyes. Some rags belonging to a poor man who had died of the plague were tossed into the street. Two pigs came along and, as pigs do, rooted through the rags with their snouts, then picked them up in their mouths and shook them around. Within minutes, both pigs began to stagger as if they'd been poisoned. They spun around and around, then dropped dead right there on the rags they should never have touched.

These horrors, and countless others like them — or stranger still — gave rise to all kinds of fears and wild theories among the survivors, and nearly all of them pointed to the same brutal conclusion: stay away from the sick and everything that had anything to do with them. Everyone thought that this was the way to save themselves.

Some people believed that living moderately and avoiding all excess was the best defense. They formed small groups, shut themselves up in houses where no one had fallen ill, and lived as carefully as possible. They ate the most delicate foods, drank the finest wines, and avoided any kind of overindulgence. They entertained themselves with music and whatever other amusements they could find, and refused to speak to anyone from outside or hear any news of the dead and dying.

Others took the exact opposite approach. They maintained that the best medicine against the plague was to drink heavily, have a good time, go around singing and carousing, satisfy every appetite, and laugh at the whole disaster. And they practiced what they preached as enthusiastically as they could, going from one tavern to the next, day and night, drinking without limit. They did even more of this in other people's houses, especially whenever they spotted something that appealed to them — which wasn't hard, since everyone had given up caring about their possessions, or even about themselves, as if each day were their last. Most houses had become public property: strangers walked in and made themselves at home as freely as the rightful owner might have. And for all their wild behavior, these people still avoided the sick as much as they could.

In the midst of all this suffering and misery, the authority of every law — human and divine alike — had essentially collapsed. The officials and ministers who were supposed to enforce those laws were themselves dead or sick, or else had so few people left under them that they couldn't do their jobs. The result was that everyone was free to do exactly as they pleased.

Many others steered a middle course between these two extremes. They didn't restrict their diet as severely as the first group, nor did they throw themselves into the drinking and debauchery of the second. They simply ate and drank in reasonable amounts, according to their appetites. They didn't shut themselves away, but went about their business carrying flowers in their hands, or fragrant herbs, or various kinds of spices, which they pressed to their noses frequently. They considered it an excellent idea to fortify the brain with such scents, especially since the air itself seemed thick and foul with the stench of dead bodies, the smell of the sick, and the reek of whatever remedies people were using.

Still others — more ruthless in their thinking, though perhaps more practical — declared that there was no better defense against the plague than simply running from it. Convinced by this logic and caring about no one but themselves, great numbers of men and women abandoned their own city, their own homes, their relatives, and their possessions. They fled to country estates — other people's, or at least their own — as though God's wrath, which had been roused to punish humanity's wickedness through the plague, would only strike those found within the city walls and would spare anyone who happened to be elsewhere. Or perhaps they just believed that no one was meant to survive and that Florence's final hour had come.

Not everyone who held these various views died, of course — but not all of them survived, either. Many people from every camp and in every location fell sick and wasted away, abandoned on all sides. They had, after all, set the example of abandonment themselves while they were still healthy.

Leaving aside the fact that neighbor avoided neighbor, that relatives rarely or never visited each other and never spoke except from a distance — the sheer terror of this disaster had struck so deep into every heart, man and woman alike, that brother abandoned brother, uncle abandoned nephew, sister abandoned brother, and wives often abandoned husbands. And — what is most staggering and almost impossible to believe — fathers and mothers refused to visit or care for their own children, as though they weren't even theirs.

Because of all this, those who fell sick — and there were uncountable numbers of them, both men and women — had no one to turn to except the kindness of friends (and those were few) or the greed of hired servants. These servants were lured by outrageously high wages, and even so there weren't many of them. Those who did take the work were mostly simple, untrained men and women who did little more than hand the sick whatever they asked for and watch them die. And in performing these services, many of the servants perished right along with the wages they'd earned.

From this abandonment of the sick by neighbors, relatives, and friends, and from the shortage of servants, there arose a practice almost unheard of before. No woman, however beautiful, charming, or wellborn she might be, had any qualms about being attended in her illness by a man — whether he was young or old — and about revealing every part of her body to him without shame, just as she would have done with another woman, if the nature of her sickness required it. This, perhaps, was the cause of the looser morals that followed among those who survived.

Beyond this, the abandonment itself killed many people who might have recovered if they'd had proper care. And between the lack of help that the sick couldn't get and the sheer virulence of the plague, the number of people dying in the city day and night was staggering to hear about, let alone to witness. Out of all this, as if by necessity, customs arose among the survivors that were nothing like the way Florentines had once behaved.

It had always been the tradition — and we still see it practiced — for the female relatives and neighbors of the deceased to gather in his house and mourn with those closest to him, while his male neighbors and other citizens assembled in front of the house with his nearest kin. Priests would come, according to the dead man's station in life, and with funeral songs and candles, the body would be carried on the shoulders of his peers to the church he had chosen before his death.

But as the plague intensified, these customs were either abandoned entirely or drastically reduced. People no longer died with a crowd of women mourning around them. Many departed this life with no witnesses at all, and very few were given the loving tears and grief of their families. Instead, what took the place of weeping was, more often than not, laughter, jokes, banter, and celebration — a practice that women, setting aside their natural tenderness, had learned very well for the sake of their own survival.

Few bodies were escorted to church by more than a handful of neighbors, and those were no longer the distinguished, respected citizens of Florence. Instead, a kind of gravedigging underclass had sprung up from the dregs of the population — people who called themselves "pickmen" and did the work for pay. They shouldered the coffin and hauled it with quick steps, not to the church the dead person had chosen, but to whatever church was nearest. A few priests led the way, sometimes with candles and sometimes with none at all, and with the help of these pickmen, they shoved the body into the first open grave they could find, without bothering with any lengthy or formal ceremony.

The condition of the common people — and probably much of the middle class too — was even more heartbreaking. Most of them, kept in their homes by hope or by poverty, stayed in their own neighborhoods, fell sick by the thousands every day, and died almost to a person without any help or care at all. Many breathed their last in the open streets. Others died in their homes, and it was the stench of their rotting bodies, more than anything else, that alerted the neighbors to the fact that they were dead. The entire city was full of corpses.

The neighbors mostly followed the same routine, driven more by the fear that the decaying bodies would infect them than by any compassion for the dead. Either on their own or with the help of whatever bearers they could find, they dragged the bodies out of the houses and laid them in front of their doors. Anyone who walked around early in the morning — especially in the morning — could see corpses beyond counting. Then they sent for coffins, and when coffins weren't available, they laid the bodies on boards or planks. It was common for one coffin to carry two or three corpses, and this happened not once but many times over: husband and wife in the same box, two or three brothers, a father and his son, and so on.

Countless times it happened that two priests would set out with a cross to bury one person, only to have three or four coffins, borne by bearers, fall in line behind them. The priests who had expected to bury one body wound up burying six or eight, and sometimes more. And the dead were given no tears, no candles, no funeral procession. Things had reached such a point that people cared no more about dead human beings than we would today about dead goats. It had become painfully clear that what the ordinary course of life had failed to teach the wise — namely, to endure small misfortunes with patience — the sheer enormity of this disaster had taught even the simplest people to expect and shrug off.

The consecrated ground of the churches couldn't hold the vast numbers of corpses arriving daily, almost hourly, in huge crowds — especially if the old tradition of giving everyone their own burial plot was to be followed. So when every other space was full, enormous trenches were dug throughout the churchyards. The bodies were lowered in by the hundreds, stacked in layers the way cargo is packed into the hold of a ship, each layer covered with a thin sprinkling of earth, until the trenches were filled to the brim.

Rather than continue searching out and recounting every detail of our city's past miseries, let me just say this: while this terrible time raged in Florence, the surrounding countryside was hardly spared. In the smaller towns — which were just miniature versions of the city — and out across the scattered villages and farms, the poor, wretched peasants and their families died like animals, not like human beings, out in the fields, along the roads, and in their houses, day and night, with no doctors to treat them and no servants to help them. As a result, they grew just as lawless in their behavior as the city-dwellers had. They stopped caring about their possessions or their responsibilities. Instead of working to bring their crops and livestock to maturity, and instead of preserving the fruits of all their past labor, they devoted all their energy to consuming whatever was immediately at hand, as though each day were their last.

And so the oxen, the donkeys, the sheep, the goats, the pigs, the chickens — even the dogs, those most faithful companions of humankind — were driven out of their homes and left to wander freely through the fields. The grain stood uncut in the fields, let alone harvested. Many of the animals, almost as if they were rational creatures, grazed all day on their own and then returned home at night, full and content, without any herdsman to guide them.

But to leave the countryside and return to the city — what more can be said? The cruelty of heaven was so vast, and perhaps the cruelty of men as well, that between March and the following July, what with the ferocity of the plague and the number of sick people abandoned or poorly cared for out of the terror of the healthy, it is reliably believed that more than a hundred thousand people died within the walls of Florence alone — a city that, before this catastrophe struck, might not even have been thought to hold so many.

How many grand palaces, how many fine houses, how many noble estates, once filled with families, with lords and ladies, were left empty down to the last servant! How many distinguished families, how many great fortunes, how many famous legacies were left without a single lawful heir! How many brave men, how many beautiful women, how many lively young people — whom even Galen, Hippocrates, or Aesculapius himself would have pronounced in perfect health — ate breakfast one morning with their family, their companions, their friends, and that same evening dined with their ancestors in the next world!

—-

I'm tired of wandering so long among such miseries. So, leaving aside whatever I reasonably can, let me tell you this: with the city in this desperate state, nearly empty of inhabitants, it happened one Tuesday morning — as I later heard from a person I trust completely — that seven young women found themselves together in the venerable church of Santa Maria Novella, when almost no one else was there. They had just attended the morning service, dressed in the dark mourning clothes that the times demanded.

All of them were connected to one another by friendship, by being neighbors, or by family ties. None of them was older than twenty-eight, and none younger than eighteen. Each was sensible, wellborn, beautiful, graceful, and full of honest spirit.

I would give you their real names, but I have good reason not to. I wouldn't want any of them to feel embarrassed in the future by the stories they're about to tell and hear. The rules about what people can and can't talk about for entertainment have gotten quite a bit stricter these days than they were back then, when — for the reasons I've just described — the boundaries were as wide as they'd ever been, not just for people their age, but for those much older. And I certainly don't want to hand ammunition to the envious, who are always ready to attack any praiseworthy life with ugly gossip and drag good women's reputations through the mud.

So, to keep things clear without revealing anyone's identity, I'll give them names that suit — more or less — who each one really was.

The first, and the eldest, I'll call Pampinea. The second, Fiammetta. The third, Filomena. The fourth, Emilia. The fifth will be Lauretta, the sixth Neifile, and the last — not without reason — we'll call Elisa.

These seven women, drawn together not by any prearranged plan but by chance, found themselves sitting in a circle in a corner of the church. After a while, they stopped saying their prayers, let out various sighs, and began talking to each other about the state of the world and everything that was happening. Eventually, after the others had fallen silent, Pampinea spoke up:

"Dear ladies, you've surely heard, as I have, many times, that anyone who honestly exercises their rights does no one any wrong. It's the natural right of every person born into this world to protect, preserve, and defend their own life as best they can. This principle is so widely accepted that people have sometimes killed others in self-defense without any blame. If even the laws — which exist for the well-being of all people — allow this much, then how much more lawful must it be for us, or for anyone, to take whatever steps we can for the preservation of our lives, without harming a soul?

"Every time I think about what we've been doing these past mornings, and many mornings before that, and about the kinds of conversations we've been having, I can tell — and you must feel it too — that every one of us is afraid for herself. I don't wonder at that in the least. But what does astonish me is this: we all have good sense, and yet we're doing absolutely nothing to protect ourselves against the very thing each of us rightly fears.

"We sit here as if our only purpose were to count how many corpses are brought in for burial, or to listen for whether the friars — whose numbers have dwindled to almost nothing — are still chanting their prayers at the proper hours, or to display our grief and misery to anyone who happens to walk through the door by the black clothes we're wearing. And if we step outside the church, what do we see? Dead bodies and sick people being carried through the streets. We see people who were once banished from the city for their crimes now running wild everywhere, mocking the law, because they know that the people who were supposed to enforce it are either dead or bedridden. And the lowest dregs of the city — gorged on our blood, calling themselves 'pickmen' — swagger around on horseback, riding in every direction, taunting us with our own suffering in filthy songs.

"All we hear is 'So-and-so is dead' and 'So-and-so is dying.' And if there were anyone left to weep, the whole city would echo with grief. When we go back to our houses — I don't know if it's the same for you as it is for me — but when I find that out of a once-large household, only my maid is left, I'm terrified. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Wherever I go in the house, I seem to see the ghosts of the departed, and their faces aren't the ones I remember. They wear some horrible new expression I can't explain, and it fills me with dread.

"Because of all this, I feel equally miserable here, out in the streets, and at home — especially when I realize that no one with the means and the freedom to leave seems to be left in Florence, except for us. Or if anyone else has stayed, I've seen and heard enough to know that they've thrown out every distinction between right and wrong and, whether alone or in groups, day and night, do nothing but whatever their appetites demand. And it's not just laypeople: even those who are cloistered in monasteries have convinced themselves that what's permissible for everyone else is just as permissible for them. They've broken their vows of obedience and given themselves over to physical pleasures, thinking it will somehow save them. They've become dissolute and depraved.

"If all of this is true — and we can see plainly that it is — then what are we doing here? What are we waiting for? What are we dreaming about? Why are we slower and more reluctant to look after ourselves than everyone else in this city? Do we think we're worth less than other people? Do we imagine our souls are chained to our bodies more tightly than theirs, so that we have nothing to worry about? We are wrong. We are deceiving ourselves. What foolishness, if we really believe that! Every time we stop to remember how many young men and women have been struck down by this merciless plague, we can see the proof staring us in the face.

"And so, to keep ourselves from falling through stubbornness or carelessness into a disaster that we could perhaps escape if we simply chose to — I don't know if you feel the same way I do, but it seems to me that the best thing we could possibly do is leave this city. Many have done so before us. We should turn our backs on the shameful example of others and go quietly to our country estates — we each have plenty of them — and find whatever amusement, pleasure, and enjoyment we can there, without ever crossing the line of what's reasonable.

"Out there, we can hear the birds sing. We can see the hills and plains dressed in green, the fields of grain rippling like the sea. We can see a thousand kinds of trees. And the sky opens wide above us — and even though heaven is angry with us, it doesn't deny us the sight of its eternal beauty, which is far lovelier to look at than the empty walls of our city. The air is fresher out there. There's more of everything you need to live, and less to grieve over. Yes, the country people are dying too, just like people here in the city. But there are fewer homes and fewer inhabitants there, so the pain is less.

"And if we leave, we're not abandoning anyone. We can say, in all truth, that we are the ones who have been abandoned. Our relatives have either died or fled from death and left us alone in the middle of this enormous catastrophe, as if we meant nothing to them. No one can blame us for following this plan. But sorrow, anguish, and perhaps death itself may come to us if we don't.

"So if you agree, I think we should take our maids, have them follow us with whatever we need, and move from one place to another — spending today here and tomorrow there — taking whatever pleasure and comfort the season has to offer. We'll keep this up until we see what heaven has in store for these troubles, unless death finds us first. And let me remind you: it's no more improper for us to leave honorably than it is for so many other women to stay behind in dishonor."

The other ladies listened to Pampinea's speech and not only approved of her plan — they were so eager to follow it that they had already begun working out the details among themselves, as though they meant to walk right out of the church and leave that very moment.

But Filomena, who was exceptionally level-headed, said: "Ladies, what Pampinea says is perfectly well put. But there's no need to rush into this the way you seem to be doing. Remember: we are all women, and none of us is so young that she doesn't know how badly women get along when they try to manage things among themselves, and how poorly they organize their affairs without a man's guidance. We're changeable, headstrong, suspicious, fainthearted, and easily frightened. For all these reasons, I'm very much afraid that if we don't find some guidance beyond our own, this little company of ours will fall apart far too quickly, and with less dignity than any of us would like. We'd better sort this out before we start."

"That's true enough," said Elisa. "Men are the heads of women, and without their leadership, our plans rarely come to anything. But where are we going to find these men? Every one of us knows that most of our male relatives are dead, and the ones who are still alive have scattered in every direction, fleeing the same thing we want to flee. We have no idea where they are. And we can't exactly invite strangers along — because if we're serious about looking after ourselves, we need to find a way to arrange things so that wherever we go for rest and enjoyment, no scandal or trouble follows."

While the women were having this discussion, who should walk into the church but three young men — though not so young that the youngest was under twenty-five. Neither the horrors of the times, nor the loss of friends and family, nor even fear for their own lives had been enough to cool the fire of love in their hearts, let alone put it out.

The first was called Panfilo, the second Filostrato, and the third Dioneo. All three were charming and well-mannered, and in the midst of all this chaos, they had come to the church looking for their greatest comfort: the sight of the women they loved. As it happened, all three of their ladies were among the seven already there, and several of the other women were close relatives of one or another of the young men.

The moment the ladies spotted the men — and the men spotted the ladies — Pampinea smiled and said: "Look at that! Fortune is smiling on our plans. She's sent us these worthy and sensible young men, who'll gladly serve as our guides and escorts, if we're willing to accept them."

But Neifile, whose face had turned bright red with embarrassment — because one of the young men was in love with her — said: "For God's sake, Pampinea, think about what you're saying! I'll freely admit that nothing but good can be said about any of them, and I believe they're capable of far greater things than this. I also think they'd be perfectly good and honorable company, not just for us, but for women far more beautiful and noble. But it's obvious that some of them are in love with some of us. And I'm afraid that if we bring them along, it could lead to gossip and blame — through no fault of ours or theirs."

"That doesn't matter one bit," said Filomena. "As long as I live honestly and my conscience is clear, let anyone who wants to say otherwise. God and the truth will fight on my side. If these men are willing to come, then we really can say, as Pampinea did, that fortune is on our side."

When the other women heard Filomena speak so decisively, they not only dropped the subject but unanimously agreed that the young men should be called over, told about the plan, and invited to join the expedition. Without another word, Pampinea — who was related by blood to one of them — stood up, walked over to the three men, who had been watching the women from where they stood, and greeted them with a warm smile. She explained the group's plan and asked them, on behalf of herself and all her companions, whether they would be willing to accompany them in a spirit of pure and brotherly friendship.

At first the young men thought they were being teased. But when they saw that Pampinea was completely serious, they happily agreed. Without wasting any time, they immediately began making arrangements for the departure.

The next morning — a Wednesday — just before dawn, after having everything they needed prepared and sent ahead to their destination, the ladies set out from Florence with a few of their waiting-women, and the three young men with the same number of their own servants.

They hadn't gone more than two miles from the city when they arrived at the place they'd chosen. It was set on a small hill, a little ways off from the main road on every side, covered in shrubs and plants, all lush and green and lovely to look at. On top of the hill stood a palace, with a handsome, spacious courtyard in its center, and galleries and halls and bedrooms, each one beautiful in its own right, decorated with charming paintings. Around the palace lay lawns and flower gardens, gorgeous beyond belief, along with wells of ice-cold water and cellars stocked with fine wines — the kind of thing that would delight a connoisseur rather more than it would a group of sensible, modest ladies.

When the newcomers arrived, they found, to their great pleasure, that the entire place had been swept clean, the beds made up in every room, and every corner filled with whatever flowers the season provided and strewn with fresh rushes.

As soon as they had settled in and sat down, Dioneo — who was the most cheerful young man in the world and full of witty remarks — spoke up: "Ladies, it was your good sense that brought us here, not our foresight. I don't know what you plan to do with your worries, but I left mine behind at the city gates when I walked out with you a little while ago. So either get ready to enjoy yourselves and laugh and sing with me — as much as your dignity allows, of course — or give me permission to go back and collect my worries and sit in that miserable city."

Pampinea answered cheerfully, as though she too had cast off every care: "Well said, Dioneo! We should absolutely live joyfully. That's the only reason we fled from all that misery in the first place. But things that lack structure can't last long, and since it was my idea that started the conversation that brought this lovely group together, I think that if we want our happiness to continue, we need to choose one person to be our leader — someone we'll all honor and obey, and whose main job will be to plan how we spend our time enjoyably.

"And so that everyone gets to feel both the burden of responsibility and the pleasure of being in charge — and so that no one feels left out, since jealousy could arise from exclusion — I propose that each of us takes the role for one day, in turn, men and women alike. We'll all choose the first leader together. After that, whoever is in charge for the day will pick their successor as evening approaches. Each leader will decide, for the duration of their reign, where we go and how we spend our time."

Everyone loved this idea, and they elected Pampinea queen of the first day by unanimous vote. Filomena ran lightly to a laurel tree — she had heard many times about the honor that laurel leaves bestowed on those who wore them — and plucked several sprays. She wove them into a beautiful wreath and placed it on Pampinea's head. For the rest of their time together, that crown would be the unmistakable sign of royal authority and leadership.

Once she'd been made queen, Pampinea called for silence. She summoned the three young men's servants and the waiting-women of all the ladies — four in all — and when everyone was quiet, she spoke:

"To set the first example for all of you — one that, if we build on it, will allow our company to live in good order, with pleasure and without reproach, for as long as we wish — I'm going to start by assigning duties.

"First: Parmeno, Dioneo's servant, I appoint as our steward. He'll be in charge of managing the entire household, and especially everything to do with the dining hall. Sirisco, Panfilo's man, will be our treasurer and provisioner, taking his orders from Parmeno. Tindaro will attend to Filostrato and the other two gentlemen in their bedrooms whenever the other servants are busy with their own duties.

"My own maid, Misia, and Filomena's Licisca will stay in the kitchen and diligently prepare whatever dishes Parmeno prescribes. Lauretta's Chimera and Fiammetta's Stratilia will be responsible for keeping the ladies' rooms in order and making sure every place where we gather is kept clean.

"And I want every one of you — if you value our good favor — to make sure that wherever you go and wherever you come from, whatever you hear and whatever you see, you bring back no news from the outside world unless it's cheerful."

These orders, given crisply and approved by all, were followed by Pampinea rising briskly to her feet. "Here we have gardens," she said, "and meadows, and all sorts of delightful places. Let everyone go and enjoy themselves as they please. When the bell rings for mid-morning, come back here so we can eat while it's still cool."

The happy company, released by their new queen, wandered off at a leisurely pace — young men and beautiful women together — through a garden, talking pleasantly, weaving garlands of leaves, and singing love songs. When the appointed hour came, they returned to the house and found that Parmeno had thrown himself into his new role with impressive energy. Entering a ground-floor hall, they saw the tables laid with the whitest cloths and gleaming silver-like goblets, and everything decorated with sprays of yellow broom flowers.

They washed their hands and, at the queen's command, took their seats in the order Parmeno had arranged. Beautifully prepared dishes were brought out, and the finest wines were poured. The three serving-men attended the tables quietly and efficiently. Everyone was delighted by how elegant and orderly it all was, and they ate happily, with plenty of cheerful conversation.

When the tables were cleared, the queen called for musical instruments — all the ladies knew how to dance, as did the young men, and several of them could play and sing beautifully. At her command, Dioneo picked up a lute and Fiammetta a viol, and they began to play a soft dance tune. The queen and the other ladies, along with the two remaining young men, sent the servants off to eat, then formed a circle and began dancing a slow, stately round. When the dance was done, they broke into lively, playful songs.

They carried on like this until the queen decided it was time for a rest. She dismissed them all, and the young men withdrew to their rooms — set apart from the ladies' quarters — where they found the beds neatly made and the rooms as full of flowers as the dining hall had been. They undressed and went to sleep, and the ladies did the same.

It was not long past the noon bell when the queen arose and roused all the other ladies and the three young men, declaring that too much sleep during the day was bad for you. They made their way to a little meadow where the grass grew tall and green and the sun didn't reach any corner. There, feeling the breath of a gentle breeze, they all sat down in a circle on the grass, as the queen directed. She spoke to them like this:

"As you can see, the sun is high and the heat is fierce. The only sound is the crickets chirping in the olive trees over there. It would be foolish to go anywhere right now. This spot is cool and pleasant, and as you can see, there are chess boards and backgammon sets for anyone who wants them. But if you'll take my advice, we won't spend this hottest part of the day playing games — where one player always ends up frustrated while the other and the spectators get no real pleasure from it. Instead, let's tell stories. One person telling a tale can entertain the whole group at once. By the time each of us has told a story, the sun will have gone down, the heat will have broken, and we can go out and amuse ourselves wherever we like. So — if this idea appeals to you, and I'm happy to go along with whatever you prefer — let's do it. And if it doesn't appeal to you, then let everyone do as they please until vespers."

The ladies and the men all agreed that storytelling was an excellent plan.

"Then," said the queen, "since you're all in favor, I'll say this: on this first day, everyone is free to tell a story on whatever subject they like."

She turned to Panfilo, who was sitting on her right, and with a smile, asked him to begin. Hearing her command, he launched into his story at once, while everyone listened.

Day 1, Story 1

Master Ciappelletto deceives a holy friar with a false confession and dies; and though he was the worst man alive, he is after death revered as a saint and called Saint Ciappelletto.

"It is only right, dearest ladies, that whatever a man does, he should begin with the holy and wonderful name of God, who made all things. And so, since I am the first to tell a story, I intend to start with one of His marvels, so that when you've heard it, our faith in Him — as something unchangeable — may be strengthened, and His name forever praised.

It's clear enough that everything in this world is fleeting and mortal, and that both inside and out, our lives are full of trouble, suffering, and danger. We who live tangled up in all of it — who are, in fact, part and parcel of it — could never endure or protect ourselves unless God's special grace gave us strength and foresight. And we shouldn't think that this grace comes down to us because of any merit of our own. No, it flows from His own goodness and from the prayers of those who were once mortal like us but who, having faithfully followed His commandments during their lives, now dwell with Him in eternal blessedness. To these saints we offer our prayers for the things we need, as if to advocates who know from experience what it's like to be human — perhaps because we don't dare approach so great a Judge directly ourselves.

And yet we can see something even more wonderful about God's compassionate generosity toward us. It sometimes happens that we, with our limited mortal vision, unable to penetrate the secrets of God's will, are fooled by reputation into choosing as our advocate before Him someone who has actually been cast out from His presence with an eternal banishment. And yet God, from whom nothing is hidden, pays more attention to the sincerity of the person praying than to their ignorance or to the damned state of the one they're praying to, and He answers those prayers just as if the supposed saint were truly blessed in His sight.

All of which will become perfectly clear from the story I'm about to tell you — clear, I mean, by human judgment, not by God's.

So here's what happened. Musciatto Franzesi, having risen from being a very wealthy and important merchant in France to the rank of a knight, was obliged to travel to Tuscany with Messer Charles Sansterre, brother of the King of France, who had been summoned there by Pope Boniface. Musciatto found that his business affairs were tangled up in a hundred different directions, the way merchants' affairs usually are, and he couldn't quickly or easily sort them all out. So he decided to hand them off to various agents and managed to find someone for everything — except one problem. He couldn't figure out who to leave in charge of collecting some debts owed to him by certain Burgundians.

The reason for his hesitation was that he knew the Burgundians to be quarrelsome, dishonest, treacherous people, and he couldn't think of a single man he trusted who was also nasty enough to match their wickedness move for move. After mulling it over for a long time, he remembered a certain Master Ciapperello da Prato, who was a frequent visitor to his house in Paris. This fellow was small in stature and extremely fussy about his appearance. The French, not knowing what "Cepparello" meant and assuming it was the same as "cappello" — which in their language would be "chaplet," a little garland — didn't call him Cappello but Ciappelletto. And so he was known as Ciappelletto everywhere, while hardly anyone knew his real name.

Now, this Ciappelletto led the following sort of life. He was a notary by trade, and he considered it a terrible disgrace if any of his legal documents was found to be anything other than fraudulent — and he drew very few honest ones. He would gladly have produced as many false documents as anyone wanted, and he'd have done it for free more willingly than another man would for a hefty fee. He gave false testimony with particular delight, whether anyone asked him to or not. And since oaths were taken very seriously in France in those days, and since he had absolutely no qualms about perjuring himself, he won every lawsuit he was called to testify in through sheer dishonesty.

He took wicked pleasure, and went to extraordinary lengths, in stirring up feuds and hatred and scandals between friends, between relatives, between anyone at all. The worse the fallout, the happier he was. If you invited him to a murder or any other crime, he never once said no, and he jumped into it with enthusiasm. On more than a few occasions, he had been known to wound and kill people with his own hands, and gladly.

He was a world-class blasphemer of God and the saints, flying into a rage over the smallest trifle — he was the most hot-tempered man alive. He never set foot in a church and mocked all the sacraments in the most disgusting terms, calling them worthless. On the other hand, he was a devoted regular at taverns and other disreputable establishments.

As for women, he was about as interested in them as a dog is in being beaten with a stick. But when it came to the opposite — well, he was more enthusiastic about that than any depraved man who ever lived.

He robbed and stole with as clear a conscience as a devout man would give to charity. He was an enormous glutton and a heavy drinker, to the point where it sometimes made him violently ill. And on top of everything else, he was a notorious gambler who used loaded dice.

But why go on and on? He was quite possibly the worst man ever born. His wickedness had been propped up for years by the wealth and influence of Messer Musciatto, who had often protected him from the consequences of his crimes — both from the private citizens he wronged and from the law, which he offended constantly.

So when this Master Ciappelletto came to Musciatto's mind, Musciatto — who knew perfectly well what kind of man he was — decided he was exactly the kind of person that the treachery of the Burgundians called for. He sent for him and spoke to him like this:

"Master Ciappelletto, as you know, I'm about to leave France for good. Among the people I have business with are some Burgundians, men absolutely full of tricks, and I can't think of anyone better suited to collecting what they owe me than you — especially since you're not doing anything at the moment. So if you'll take this on, I'll secure the support of the royal court for you and give you a fair share of whatever you recover."

Ciappelletto, who was unemployed at the time and hard up for cash, seeing that the man who had long been his shield and protector was about to leave, didn't waste a second deliberating. Driven more by necessity than anything else, he said he'd be happy to do it.

Once they'd come to an agreement, Musciatto left. Ciappelletto, armed with his patron's power of attorney and letters of recommendation from the king, headed off to Burgundy, where almost no one knew him. There, going completely against his nature, he began collecting debts in the most pleasant and agreeable manner you can imagine, as if he were saving the hostility and violence for a last resort.

While he was going about his business this way, he was staying in the home of two Florentine brothers who were moneylenders there and who treated him with great respect out of regard for Messer Musciatto. And it was during this time that he fell ill.

The two brothers immediately brought in doctors and servants to care for him and provided everything he could possibly need to recover. But none of it did any good. The doctors all agreed the old man's case was hopeless — he'd lived hard, and he was getting worse by the day with what was clearly a fatal illness.

This worried the two brothers enormously. One day, standing just outside the room where Ciappelletto lay sick, they began talking it over between themselves.

"What are we going to do about this man?" said one to the other. "We've got a terrible problem on our hands. If we throw him out of our house while he's this sick, people would think the worst of us. They'd say, 'What kind of idiots are these? First they take the man in, then they go to all the trouble and expense of having him treated, and now, when he's at death's door and couldn't possibly have done anything to offend them, they toss him out into the street?' That would look awful.

"But on the other hand, he's been such a wicked man his whole life that he'll never agree to confess or receive any sacrament of the Church. And if he dies without confession, no church will accept his body — they'll throw him in a ditch like a dog. And even if he does confess, his sins are so many and so horrible that it'll come to the same thing, because there's no priest or friar alive who can or will absolve him. So either way, without absolution, he'll end up in the ditches.

"And if that happens, the people of this town — who already hate our profession and are always looking for an excuse to rob us — will see it and rise up in a riot. They'll be screaming, 'These Italian dogs! The Church won't even bury them, and we have to put up with them here?' They'll come to our houses and strip us of everything we own, and maybe our lives too. So no matter what happens, if this man dies, we're in trouble."

Now Master Ciappelletto, who was lying near the spot where the two brothers were having this conversation, had the sharp hearing that sick people often have. He heard every word they said. He called them over and spoke to them like this:

"I don't want you to worry about me for one second, and I don't want you to be afraid you'll suffer any harm on my account. I heard what you said about me, and I'm quite sure things would go exactly the way you expect if matters took the course you're imagining. But it's going to go differently.

"I've done the Lord God so many wrongs in my lifetime that doing Him one more at the point of death won't make a bit of difference. So here's what I want you to do: find me the holiest and most worthy friar you can get your hands on — if such a man exists — and leave the rest to me. I guarantee I'll sort out your problems and mine so that everything goes smoothly, and you'll have nothing to complain about."

The two brothers didn't have a lot of hope in this, but they went off to a Franciscan monastery and asked for a holy and learned man to hear the confession of a Lombard who was sick in their house. They were given a venerable old friar, a man of spotless life and deep learning in the Scriptures, whom all the townspeople held in the highest reverence. They brought him home.

When the friar came to the room where Master Ciappelletto lay and sat down beside him, he began by gently comforting him. Then he asked how long it had been since his last confession.

Master Ciappelletto, who had never confessed once in his entire life, replied: "Father, it's been my habit to confess at least once a week, and often more. But it's true that since I fell ill — these past eight days — I haven't confessed at all, the sickness has been so hard on me."

"My son," said the friar, "you've done well, and you should keep that up. I can see that since you confess so often, this won't take me much effort in the way of listening or questioning."

"Oh, don't say that, Father," answered Ciappelletto. "No matter how often I've confessed, I've always wanted to make a full general confession of every sin I can remember, from the day I was born to the day of confession. So please, good Father, question me about absolutely everything, point by point, as thoroughly as if I'd never confessed before. Don't go easy on me just because I'm sick. I'd much rather be hard on this body of mine than pamper it and do something that might cost me my soul — my soul, which my Savior redeemed with His precious blood."

These words greatly pleased the holy man and seemed to him a sign of a very devout mind. After warmly commending Ciappelletto for this habit, the friar began his questioning by asking whether he had ever sinned through lust with any woman.

"Father," Ciappelletto replied with a sigh, "on this point I'm ashamed to tell you the truth, because I'm afraid of sinning through vanity."

"Speak freely," said the friar. "No one ever sinned by telling the truth, whether in confession or anywhere else."

"Well then," said Ciappelletto, "since you assure me of that, I'll tell you. I am a virgin, as pure as the day I came out of my mother's womb."

"Oh, bless you!" cried the friar. "What a wonderful thing! And your virtue is all the greater because, if you'd wanted to, you had far more freedom to do otherwise than we friars or anyone else bound by a religious rule."

After this, the friar asked whether he had offended God through the sin of gluttony.

Ciappelletto gave a heavy sigh and said yes, many times. He explained that although he observed the Lenten fasts that all devout Christians keep, and although he also made it his practice to fast on bread and water at least three days every week, he had to confess that he sometimes drank the water with as much eagerness and pleasure as any drunkard guzzling wine — especially after he'd worn himself out with prayer or pilgrimages. And many times he'd craved the simple salads of fresh herbs that women throw together when they go to the country. And every so often, eating had given him more pleasure than he felt it should have for a man who was fasting out of devotion, as he was.

"My son," said the friar, "those sins are perfectly natural and very minor. I wouldn't want you to burden your conscience with them more than necessary. It happens to every man, no matter how devout, that food tastes good after a long fast, and drink tastes good after hard work."

"Oh, Father," Ciappelletto replied, "please don't tell me that just to make me feel better. You must understand that I know perfectly well that things done in God's service ought to be done wholeheartedly and with a willing spirit. Anyone who does otherwise is sinning."

The friar, deeply pleased, said: "I'm glad you see it that way. Your pure and good conscience delights me beyond measure. But tell me — have you sinned through avarice? Have you desired more than was proper, or kept what you should have given away?"

"Father," replied Ciappelletto, "please don't hold it against me that I'm staying in the house of these moneylenders. I have absolutely nothing to do with their business. In fact, I came here to counsel them and scold them and try to turn them away from their sinful line of work — and I think I would have succeeded, too, if God hadn't struck me down like this.

"But I should tell you that my father left me a wealthy man. When he died, I gave most of it to charity. Since then, to support myself and to have something to give to the poor, I've done a little trading. And yes, in my business I've tried to make a profit. But whatever I earned, I always split it with God's poor — keeping half for my own needs and giving them the other half. And my Creator has so blessed me in this that my affairs have gone from good to better ever since."

"Well done," said the friar. "But tell me, have you often given in to anger?"

"Oh!" cried Ciappelletto. "I certainly have, more times than I can count! And who wouldn't, seeing the disgusting things people do every single day? Ignoring God's commandments, showing no fear of His judgment? Many times a day I've wished I were dead rather than alive, watching young people chase after worldly vanities, hearing them curse and swear, haunting the taverns, never setting foot in church, following the ways of the world instead of the ways of God."

"My son," said the friar, "that is a righteous anger, and for my part I couldn't assign you any penance for it. But tell me, has your anger ever led you to commit murder, or to speak abusively to anyone, or to do any other wrong?"

"Good Lord, sir!" exclaimed the sick man. "You seem to me a man of God — how can you even say such things? If I had ever had so much as a passing thought of doing any of those things, do you think God would have let me prosper as He has? Those are the doings of criminals and thugs. And whenever I've encountered such a person, all I've ever said is, 'Go your way — may God set you right.'"

"Well said," the friar continued. "Now tell me, my son — and God bless you — have you ever borne false witness against anyone, or spoken ill of another person, or taken what wasn't yours without permission?"

"Oh yes, Father," replied Ciappelletto. "I have spoken ill of someone. I once had a neighbor who, with absolutely no justification, did nothing but beat his wife. One time I said something about it to her relatives, I felt such pity for the poor woman. You can't imagine how he treated her every time he'd had too much to drink."

"I see," said the friar. "Now, you tell me you've been a merchant. Have you ever cheated anyone, as merchants sometimes do?"

"Oh, yes, I have," answered Ciappelletto. "But I don't know who it was. There was a man who once brought me money he owed for cloth I'd sold him. I tossed it into a chest without counting it. About a month later, I found it was four pennies more than it should have been. I waited a full year, hoping to see the man again so I could return the money, but I never did. So I gave it away to charity."

"That's a trifling matter," said the friar, "and you dealt with it perfectly."

The friar then questioned him about many other things, and Ciappelletto answered every one in the same fashion. Just as the holy man was about to proceed to absolution, Ciappelletto spoke up.

"Father, there are still a few sins I haven't told you about."

The friar asked what they were.

"Well," said Ciappelletto, "I remember that one Saturday afternoon I had my servant sweep the house, and I failed to show proper reverence for the Lord's holy day."

"Oh, my son," said the friar, "that's nothing."

"No, don't call it nothing!" Ciappelletto protested. "Sunday deserves the highest honor. It was on that day that our Lord rose from the dead."

"All right then," said the friar. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, Father," said Ciappelletto. "One time, without thinking, I spat in the church."

At this, the friar couldn't help smiling. "My son, that's nothing to worry about. We clergy spit in the church all day long."

"And you are very wrong to do so!" Ciappelletto shot back. "There is nothing in this world that ought to be kept as clean as the holy temple where sacrifice is offered to God."

He went on in this vein for quite some time, coming up with one trivial thing after another. And then, at last, he began to sigh. And then he began to weep — and weep heavily — which was something he knew very well how to do on demand.

"What's wrong, my son?" asked the friar.

"Oh, Father," sobbed Ciappelletto, "there is one sin left that I've never confessed, because I'm so deeply ashamed of it. Every time I think of it, I cry, just as you see me crying now. And I feel absolutely certain that God will never forgive me for it."

"Come now, my son," said the friar. "What are you saying? If all the sins that every person in the world has ever committed or ever will commit, from the beginning of time to the end, were gathered into one man, and that man repented and was as contrite as I can see you are — God's mercy and lovingkindness are so great that He would freely forgive them all upon confession. So tell me what it is."

But Ciappelletto just kept weeping and said nothing. The friar urged him again. Ciappelletto wept harder. He kept the friar in suspense for a good long while. Finally, he heaved a deep, shuddering sigh and said:

"Father, since you promise to pray to God for me, I'll tell you. Know, then, that when I was a little boy... I once cursed my mother."

And with that, he burst into a fresh storm of tears.

"Oh, my son!" said the friar. "Does that really seem so terrible to you? Listen — people blaspheme God every day and He freely forgives anyone who repents. Do you really think He won't forgive you for this? Don't weep. Take comfort. Truly, even if you had been one of those who nailed Him to the cross, He would forgive you, seeing the depth of contrition I see in you."

"Oh, Father, what are you saying?" cried Ciappelletto. "My dear, sweet mother, who carried me in her body for nine months, day and night, and held me at her breast a hundred times and more — for me to have cursed her was a terrible, terrible thing, an enormous sin. And unless you pray to God for me, it will never be forgiven."

The friar, seeing that Ciappelletto had nothing more to say, gave him absolution and his blessing, fully convinced that everything he'd heard was the truth and that he was dealing with one of the holiest men alive. And really, who wouldn't have believed it, hearing a man speak this way on his deathbed?

When all this was done, the friar said to him: "Master Ciappelletto, with God's help you'll be well again soon. But if it should happen that God calls your blessed and well-prepared soul to Himself, would it please you to have your body buried in our monastery?"

"Oh yes, Father, very much," replied Ciappelletto. "I wouldn't want to be buried anywhere else, since you've promised to pray to God for me. Besides, I've always had a special devotion to your order. And when you return to your monastery, please have them send me the true Body of Christ, which you consecrate each morning on the altar. Unworthy as I am, I wish to receive it, with your permission. And after that, I'd like to receive holy unction as well, so that even if I've lived as a sinner, I may at least die as a Christian."

The good friar told him that this was wonderfully spoken and that it pleased him greatly, and he promised to have the sacrament brought right away. And so it was.

Meanwhile, the two brothers, terrified that Ciappelletto might be pulling some kind of trick on them, had planted themselves behind a thin partition that divided his room from the next one, where they could hear everything. They listened to his entire exchange with the friar, and at times they had to clamp their hands over their mouths to keep from exploding with laughter at the things he confessed.

"What kind of man is this?" they said to each other. "Not old age, not sickness, not the fear of death with its jaws around him, not even the fear of God — before whose judgment seat he expects to stand any moment now — none of it has been enough to turn him from his wicked ways or stop him from choosing to die exactly as he lived!"

Still, since his performance had been convincing enough that he'd be given a church burial, they didn't care about the rest.

Shortly after, Master Ciappelletto took communion. Then he grew rapidly worse and received last rites. And a little after vespers, on the same day he had made his magnificent confession, he died.

The two brothers, using his own money, arranged for an honorable burial. They sent word to the monastery to let the friars know, asking them to come that evening to hold the traditional vigil and to carry the body away for burial in the morning. They saw to all the necessary preparations.

The holy friar who had heard Ciappelletto's confession, learning that he had passed away, went straight to the prior of the monastery. He had the bell rung to summon the chapter, and when the friars were all assembled, he announced that Master Ciappelletto had been a truly holy man — as was clear beyond any doubt from the confession he had heard. He urged the brothers to receive the body with the utmost reverence and devotion, expressing his confidence that God would perform many miracles through him. The prior and the rest of the friars, trusting his word completely, agreed at once.

That evening, they all went to the house where Ciappelletto's body lay, and they held a grand and solemn vigil over him. The next morning, dressed in their vestments — white albs and embroidered copes — carrying their books and processional crosses, chanting as they went, they came for the body and carried it back to their church with enormous pomp and ceremony. Behind them followed nearly the entire population of the city, men and women alike.

Once the body had been set down in the church, the holy friar who had taken his confession climbed into the pulpit and began to preach. He spoke in glowing terms about the dead man and his life — his fasting, his virginity, his simplicity, his innocence, his sanctity. Among other things, he told the congregation about what Ciappelletto had confessed as his greatest sin, and how he could barely convince him that God would forgive it.

From there, the friar turned on the congregation and scolded them. "And yet you, miserable sinners that you are," he thundered, "every time the wind blows a piece of straw between your feet, you blaspheme God and the Virgin and every saint in heaven!" He went on at great length about Ciappelletto's faithfulness and purity of heart.

In short, through his sermon — to which the people of the town gave absolute and unquestioning belief — he planted the dead man so deeply in everyone's reverent devotion that the moment the service was over, the entire congregation rushed forward in a frenzy to kiss his hands and feet. They tore the clothes from his body, each person counting themselves blessed if they could carry off even the tiniest scrap. And they had to leave the body on display all day long so that everyone in town could come to see and venerate him.

The following night, he was honorably laid to rest in a marble tomb in one of the church's chapels. The very next morning, people began streaming in to light candles, to pray, to make vows, and to hang wax images at his tomb in fulfillment of their promises. The fame of his holiness and the people's devotion to him grew and grew, until there was hardly anyone in trouble who would pray to any other saint. They called him — and still call him — Saint Ciappelletto, and they swear that God has worked many miracles through him, and continues to work them every day for anyone who devoutly seeks his help.

Thus lived and died Master Cepperello da Prato, and became a saint, as you have heard. I wouldn't want to deny the possibility that he might actually be among the blessed in God's presence, because even though his life was wicked and depraved, he might have shown such genuine contrition at the very end that God took pity on him and welcomed him into His kingdom. But since that's hidden from us, I'll go by what we can see, and on that basis I'd say he's far more likely in the hands of the devil in Hell than in Paradise.

And if that is the case, we can see from it how incredibly generous God's lovingkindness is toward us. He pays no attention to our mistakes, but only to the sincerity of our faith. When we unknowingly choose as our go-between an enemy of God — thinking he is God's friend — God hears our prayers just as graciously as if we had turned to a truly holy intercessor.

And so, that through His grace we may all be kept safe and sound during these troubled times, in this happy company of ours, let us praise His name — in which we began our storytelling — and hold Him in reverence, and commend ourselves to Him whenever we are in need, trusting that we will always be heard."

And with that, she fell silent.

Day 1, Story 2

Abraham the Jew visits the papal court in Rome. What he sees there should destroy his faith in Christianity forever — but instead, he converts on the spot.

When Pamfilo's story was done and had drawn both laughter and praise from the group, the queen asked Neifile, who was sitting beside him, to take her turn. Neifile — as graceful in manner as she was beautiful — agreed happily and began:

"Pamfilo's story showed us that God's goodness overlooks our mistakes when they come from honest ignorance. In mine, I want to show you something even more remarkable: how that same goodness patiently endures the failings of the very people who are supposed to represent it — the clergy themselves — and how, despite their corruption, God still gives us undeniable proof of the truth of our faith. And perhaps that proof will strengthen our own belief.

There was once in Paris a wealthy merchant named Jehannot de Chevigny, a man of great honesty and integrity who dealt in silks and fine fabrics. He had a close friendship with a very rich Jew named Abraham, also a merchant, and also a thoroughly decent and trustworthy man. Jehannot could see how wise, upright, and good Abraham was, and it began to genuinely trouble him that the soul of such an excellent person was headed for damnation simply because he held the wrong faith. So he started, in a friendly way, urging Abraham to abandon the errors of Judaism and embrace the truth of Christianity. Look, he'd say, your religion is clearly declining, while ours keeps growing and flourishing — doesn't that tell you something?

Abraham replied that as far as he was concerned, no faith was holy or good except the Jewish one. He'd been born into it, he intended to live and die in it, and nothing would ever change his mind.

But Jehannot didn't give up. A few days later he was back at it, laying out — in the blunt, plain-spoken way that merchants tend to argue — all the reasons why Christianity was superior to Judaism. And even though Abraham was deeply learned in his own scriptures, something began to shift. Whether it was his deep affection for Jehannot, or perhaps the Holy Spirit working through this good, simple man's words, Abraham found himself genuinely moved by his friend's arguments. Still, he clung stubbornly to his own beliefs and wouldn't let himself be converted.

But Jehannot was just as stubborn as Abraham, and he never stopped pressing the case. Finally, worn down by his friend's relentless persistence, Abraham said: "All right, Jehannot, look — you want me to become a Christian, and I'm actually willing to consider it. But here's what I'm going to do first. I'm going to Rome to see this man you call God's Vicar on Earth. I want to observe his way of life, his conduct, and that of the cardinals too. If what I see there, combined with everything you've been telling me, convinces me that your faith really is better than mine, then I'll do it — I'll convert. But if it doesn't, I'll stay a Jew."

When Jehannot heard this, his heart sank. "I've completely wasted my time," he thought. "I really believed I was getting through to him. But if he goes to the court of Rome and sees the disgusting, wicked lives those clergy lead, not only will he never become a Christian — if he were already a Christian, he'd turn Jewish on the spot."

Turning to Abraham, he said: "Come on, my friend, why put yourself through such a difficult, expensive journey all the way to Rome? Not to mention the dangers on the road, both by land and sea, for a wealthy man like yourself. Can't you find someone right here in Paris to baptize you? And if you have any doubts about the faith I've described, where will you find greater scholars and theologians than right here — people who can answer any question you might have? This trip seems completely unnecessary. Believe me, the churchmen in Rome are exactly the same as the ones you've seen here — only even better, since they're closer to the Chief Pastor himself. Take my advice: save this journey for some future jubilee year. Maybe I'll even come with you."

Abraham replied: "I'm sure everything you say is true, Jehannot. But let me put it simply: if you really want me to do what you've been begging me to do all this time, I'm going to Rome. Otherwise, I'll never do it. Period."

Jehannot saw there was no changing his mind, so he said, "Well then, go — and good luck." But privately he was certain that once Abraham saw the court of Rome, he would never become a Christian. Still, there was nothing more he could do, so he let it go.

Abraham mounted his horse and rode to Rome as quickly as he could. When he arrived, the Jewish community there received him with great honor. He settled in without telling anyone the real purpose of his visit and began quietly but carefully observing the behavior of the Pope, the cardinals, the other prelates, and everyone at the papal court.

And what he discovered — being a sharp and perceptive man, and supplementing his own observations with what others told him — was this: from the highest to the lowest, every single one of them was shamelessly addicted to lust. Not just the ordinary kind, either, but sodomy too, without the slightest hint of conscience or embarrassment. And the influence of prostitutes and young male lovers was no small factor in getting things done at the papal court.

On top of that, he could plainly see they were all gluttons, drunkards, and slaves to their appetites — more like animals than anything else, lust aside. Looking further, he found them universally greedy and obsessed with money. They bought and sold human blood — Christian blood — just as readily as they trafficked in sacred objects, holy offices, and church appointments. They ran a bigger commercial operation in these things than any silk merchant in Paris ran in fabrics. They'd put a polite label on their blatant corruption: outright bribery they called "procurement fees," and their gluttonous feasting they called "sustenance" — as if God couldn't see past the euphemisms to the rotten intentions underneath, as if He could be fooled by fancy names the way people can.

All of this, along with much else best left unsaid, thoroughly disgusted Abraham, who was himself a sober and decent man. Having seen enough, he decided to head back to Paris.

As soon as Jehannot heard his friend had returned, he went to see him — though expecting the worst. After the two had greeted each other warmly and Abraham had rested for a few days, Jehannot finally asked what he thought of the Holy Father, the cardinals, and the rest of the papal court.

"What do I think?" Abraham said immediately. "God curse every last one of them, that's what I think. Because as far as I could tell, there wasn't a shred of holiness, devotion, good works, or decent example of Christian living in any of them. Not one. What I saw instead was lust, greed, gluttony, and worse — if worse is even possible. The place struck me as a workshop of the devil, not of God. As far as I can tell, your Chief Pastor and all his people are working as hard as they possibly can, using every ounce of cleverness and skill they possess, to destroy the Christian religion and wipe it from the face of the earth — when they're supposed to be its very foundation and support.

"And yet — here's the thing, Jehannot — I can see that despite everything they do, your religion doesn't collapse. It doesn't shrink. It keeps growing, and it shines brighter and more glorious all the time. So there can only be one explanation: the Holy Spirit truly is its foundation and support, because it is truer and holier than any other faith. And so, whereas before I stood firm against all your arguments and refused to convert, now I'm telling you plainly: nothing in the world could stop me from becoming a Christian. Let's go to church and have me baptized, right now, according to the proper rites of your holy faith."

Jehannot, who had been bracing himself for exactly the opposite conclusion, was the happiest man alive when he heard this. He went with Abraham to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris and asked the clergy there to baptize his friend. When they heard that the Jew himself was requesting it, they performed the sacrament at once. Jehannot stood as his godfather, lifting him from the baptismal font, and gave him the name Giovanni. Afterward, he arranged for Abraham to be thoroughly instructed in the tenets of the Christian faith by the most learned men available. Abraham understood it all quickly, and from that day forward, he was a good, worthy, and devout man.

Day 1, Story 3

Melchizedek the Jew escapes a dangerous trap set by Saladin by telling him the parable of the three rings.

When Neifile finished her story and everyone had praised it, Filomena spoke up next, at the queen's invitation:

"The story Neifile just told reminds me of a dangerous situation that once befell a Jew. Since we've already spoken so well about God and the truth of our faith, it shouldn't be off-limits now to come down to earth and talk about human affairs and what happens to people. So I'll tell you this story, and once you've heard it, perhaps you'll be more careful about how you answer tricky questions.

"You should know, dear companions, that just as foolishness often drags people from happiness down into total misery, good sense can rescue a wise person from the worst dangers and set them safely on solid ground. That foolishness leads to ruin — well, we see a thousand examples of that every single day, so there's no need to go into it. But that good sense can save you? Let me show you that with a short story.

Saladin was a man whose sheer ability raised him from humble origins all the way to the sultanate of Egypt, and won him countless victories over both Saracen and Christian kings. But through his many wars and his extraordinary generosity, he had spent his entire treasury. Now he found himself urgently needing a large sum of money, with no obvious way to get it quickly enough. Then he remembered a wealthy Jew named Melchizedek, who ran a moneylending business in Alexandria. This man certainly had the means to help — and would have the willingness too, if he chose. But Melchizedek was famously tight-fisted and would never part with his money voluntarily, and Saladin didn't want to simply take it by force. So, since necessity was pressing, he set his mind to finding some pretext — some scheme with at least the appearance of legitimacy — to get what he needed from the Jew.

He summoned Melchizedek and received him warmly, inviting him to sit beside him. Then he said: "My good man, I've heard from many people that you are very wise and deeply learned in matters of religion. So tell me: which of the three great faiths do you consider the true one — Judaism, Islam, or Christianity?"

Now, Melchizedek was indeed a man of real learning and sharp understanding, and he saw immediately that Saladin was trying to trap him with his own words in order to pick a quarrel. If he praised any one of the three faiths above the others, the Sultan would have exactly the opening he was looking for. So he sharpened his wits — as a man must when he feels the noose tightening — and quickly found the answer he needed.

"My lord," he said, "the question you've asked is a fine one. But to explain what I think, I need to tell you a little story.

"If I'm not mistaken, I remember hearing many times about a great and wealthy man who possessed, among the precious jewels in his treasury, a ring of extraordinary beauty and value. Wanting to honor this ring and ensure it stayed in his family forever, he declared that whichever of his sons was found to possess it at his death should be recognized as his true heir and honored by all the others as the head of the family.

"The son who received that ring followed the same tradition with his own sons, and did exactly as his father had done. In short, the ring passed from hand to hand through many generations until it came to a man who had three sons — all of them fine, virtuous young men, and all equally obedient to their father. He loved all three the same. The young men each knew about the tradition of the ring, and each one, naturally wanting to be the most honored among their kin, privately begged his father to leave the ring to him when the time came to die.

"The father loved them all equally and couldn't bring himself to choose one over the others. He had promised the ring to each of them, and now he wanted to find a way to satisfy all three. So he secretly went to a master craftsman and had two more rings made, so perfectly identical to the original that even he himself could barely tell which was the real one.

"When he was on his deathbed, he privately gave each son a ring. After his death, each one naturally claimed the inheritance and the position of honor, and each one denied the claims of the other two. And each produced his ring as proof of his right. But the three rings were found to be so perfectly alike that no one could tell which was the original. And so the question of who was the father's true heir remained unresolved — and it remains unresolved to this day.

"And that, my lord, is exactly what I say about the three faiths given by God the Father to three peoples, which is the subject of your question. Each people believes it possesses the true inheritance, the true law, the true commandments. But as to which one actually does — well, just like the rings, that question is still open."

Saladin recognized that the Jew had brilliantly slipped free of the trap he'd set for him. So he decided to simply come clean: he told Melchizedek openly what he needed, and asked whether the Jew would be willing to help him — admitting frankly that if Melchizedek hadn't answered so cleverly, he would have tried to take what he wanted by other means.

Melchizedek freely lent him everything he required. Saladin later repaid him in full, and then some — giving him magnificent gifts, keeping him as a close and valued friend, and maintaining him at court in a position of high honor for the rest of his days.

Day 1, Story 4

A monk gets caught in a sin that deserves severe punishment, but cleverly escapes by pointing out that his abbot has committed the very same offense.

When Filomena finished and fell silent, Dioneo — who was sitting next to her and knew by the established order that it was his turn — didn't wait for any further instructions from the queen. He just started talking:

"Lovely ladies, if I've understood everyone correctly, we're here to entertain ourselves with stories. So as long as we stick to that purpose, I think each of us should be free to tell whatever story we think will be the most fun — as our queen herself told us earlier. Now, we've heard how Abraham saved his soul through Jehannot's good advice, and how Melchizedek used his wits to protect his wealth from Saladin's schemes. So I hope you won't hold it against me if I briefly tell you how a certain monk used his quick thinking to save his body from a very severe punishment.

In Lunigiana, not far from here, there was once a monastery that used to be far more populated with monks and holiness than it is today. Among its members was a young monk whose vigor and energy couldn't be tamed by fasting or sleepless nights of prayer, no matter how hard he tried. One day around noon, while all the other monks were sleeping, he happened to be walking alone around the grounds of the monastery, which stood in a very isolated spot. That's when he spotted a very attractive young woman — probably some farmer's daughter from the area — gathering herbs in the fields. The instant he laid eyes on her, he was hit with a powerful wave of lust.

He went over and struck up a conversation. One thing led to another, and before long they'd reached a very agreeable understanding. He brought her back to his cell without anyone noticing. But while he was enjoying himself with her — getting a little too carried away in his enthusiasm and making more noise than was wise — the abbot happened to wake up from his nap. Passing quietly by the monk's cell, he heard the commotion the pair were making inside. He crept up to the door to listen more carefully, and realized beyond any doubt that there was a woman in there. His first impulse was to order the door opened, but then he thought better of it, deciding to handle the matter differently. He went back to his own room and waited for the monk to come out.

The monk, as wrapped up as he was in his pleasure and delight with the girl, was still keeping one ear open. When he thought he heard soft footsteps in the hallway, he pressed his eye to a crack in the door — and clearly saw the abbot standing there, listening. He understood perfectly well that the abbot must know there was a woman in his cell, and he knew that severe punishment was headed his way. He was deeply worried. But without letting any of his anxiety show to the girl, his mind raced through one possibility after another, searching for a way out. And suddenly he hit on a truly brilliant scheme — one that would accomplish exactly what he needed.

Pretending he'd had enough fun for the moment, he said to the girl: "I need to go figure out how to get you out of here without being seen. Stay here quietly and wait for me."

He stepped out, locked the cell door behind him, and went straight to the abbot's chamber. Every monk was required to hand his cell key to the abbot whenever he left the monastery grounds, so this was perfectly normal. With a calm, innocent expression, he presented his key and said: "Sir, I wasn't able to finish hauling all the firewood I cut this morning. With your permission, I'd like to go out to the woods now and bring back the rest."

The abbot, who believed the monk had no idea he'd been caught, was delighted at this stroke of luck — a chance to investigate the crime more thoroughly. He took the key, granted permission, and watched the monk leave. Then he began to consider his options. Should he open the cell in front of all the other monks and let them see the evidence, so that later they'd have no grounds to complain when he punished the offender? Or should he first hear from the girl herself how the whole thing had happened?

It occurred to him that she might be the wife or daughter of someone important — someone he wouldn't want to embarrass by parading the girl in front of a crowd of monks. So he decided to see for himself first and then figure out what to do. He went to the cell, opened it, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

When the girl saw the abbot walk in, she was terrified and began to cry, sure that she was about to be shamed. But the abbot, getting a good look at her and seeing how young and pretty she was, suddenly felt the sting of desire — old as he was — every bit as sharply as his young monk had. And he began reasoning with himself:

"Well now, why shouldn't I take a little pleasure when I can? Trouble and grief are always available whenever I want them. This is a beautiful girl, and nobody in the world knows she's here. If I can persuade her to go along with it, I don't see any reason not to. Who's going to find out? Nobody will ever know, and a sin that's hidden is half forgiven. An opportunity like this might never come again. I say it's only wise to enjoy a good thing when God sends it your way."

Having completely reversed the purpose of his visit, he approached the girl and gently began to comfort her, telling her not to cry. One soft word led to another, and before long he'd made his intentions perfectly clear. The girl, who was neither made of iron nor carved from stone, was willing enough to oblige. The abbot kissed her and embraced her repeatedly, then climbed up onto the monk's little bed. Perhaps out of respect for the considerable weight of his dignity — or perhaps mindful of her youth and not wanting to crush her — he didn't climb on top of her but rather placed her on top of him. And in that fashion, he enjoyed himself with her for quite a while.

Meanwhile, the monk — who had only pretended to go to the woods and had actually hidden himself in the hallway — was completely reassured when he saw the abbot enter his cell alone. He was confident his plan would work. And when he saw the abbot lock the door from the inside, he was certain of it. He crept out of his hiding place and put his eye to the same crack through which he both heard and saw everything the abbot did and said.

Eventually the abbot decided he'd spent enough time with the girl. He locked her back in the cell and returned to his own room. A little while later, hearing the monk moving about and assuming he'd returned from the woods, the abbot decided to come down hard on him — rebuke him severely and throw him in the monastery's prison, so that he alone could enjoy the prize he'd found. He sent for the monk and, with a stern, furious expression, gave him a savage tongue-lashing and ordered him locked up.

The monk answered very calmly: "Sir, I haven't been a member of the Order of Saint Benedict long enough to have learned every detail of the rule. And until just now, you hadn't shown me that monks are supposed to mortify themselves under the weight of women the same way they do with fasting and prayer vigils. But now that you've demonstrated the practice for me, I promise you — if you'll forgive me this one time — I'll never sin that way again. Instead, I'll always do exactly as I've seen you do."

The abbot was a sharp man. He immediately understood that the monk had outsmarted him — and had witnessed everything. His own guilt pricked his conscience, and he felt ashamed to inflict a punishment on the monk that he himself deserved just as much. So he pardoned him, swore him to silence about what he'd seen, and together they quietly smuggled the girl out of the monastery.

And it is widely believed that they arranged for her to come back many times after that.

Day 1, Story 5

The Marchioness of Monferrato, with a dinner of nothing but chicken and a few well-chosen words, cools the King of France's misguided passion.

Dioneo's story pricked the hearts of the listening ladies with a touch of embarrassment — you could see it in the blush that crept across their faces — but after exchanging glances and barely holding back their expressions, they ended up laughing behind their hands. When it was over, they gently scolded him, letting him know that such tales weren't really appropriate to tell in front of ladies. Then the queen turned to Fiammetta, who was sitting next to him on the grass, and told her to take her turn. Fiammetta began gracefully and with a cheerful expression:

"It occurred to me, dear ladies — since we've begun showing through our stories just how powerful a well-timed, clever response can be — to tell you a tale that touches on this from both sides. Just as it's a mark of good sense in men to seek the love of women above their station, it's a mark of great wisdom in women to know how to protect themselves from the attentions of men more powerful than they are. So in the story I'm about to tell you, a noble lady used both her actions and her words to guard herself — and to steer a king away from his intentions.

The Marquis of Monferrato was a man of great distinction and a standard-bearer of the Church. He had gone overseas during one of the general Crusades, and one day his merits happened to come up in conversation at the court of King Philippe le Borgne, who was then preparing to leave France on the same Crusade. A courtier declared that there wasn't a couple in the world to match the Marquis and his wife — for just as the Marquis was celebrated among knights for every virtue, his lady was the most beautiful and most noble woman alive. These words lodged themselves in the King of France's mind, and though he had never once laid eyes on the Marchioness, he fell instantly and passionately in love with her. He decided that when he sailed for the Crusade, he would embark from Genoa and nowhere else — so that by traveling overland he'd have a perfectly respectable excuse to visit the Marchioness. With the Marquis away, he had no doubt he could get what he wanted.

He carried out this plan exactly as he'd conceived it. He sent his main forces ahead and set out with only a few gentlemen in his company. When he was about a day's journey from the Marquis's lands, he sent a messenger ahead to tell the lady to expect him for dinner the following morning. The Marchioness, who was as shrewd as she was well-mannered, sent back a cheerful reply that this was the greatest honor she could imagine and that he would be most welcome. But then she asked herself: what could it mean that a king like this would come to visit her while her husband was away? And she wasn't wrong in the conclusion she reached — it was the reports of her beauty that drew him there. Still, like the courageous lady she was, she resolved to receive him with full honors. She summoned several of the gentlemen who had remained in the territory and, with their help, made arrangements for everything the visit required. But the menu and the food itself she kept entirely to herself. She immediately had every hen in the countryside rounded up, and she ordered her cooks to prepare the entire royal dinner from chicken alone — every last dish.

The king arrived at the appointed time and was received by the lady with great honor and celebration. When he saw her, she struck him as even lovelier, nobler, and more graceful than the courtier's words had suggested. He was amazed, and he praised her lavishly — his desire growing hotter by the minute, since the real woman so far surpassed the picture he'd built in his imagination. After he had rested for a while in chambers decorated to the fullest for a guest of his stature, the dinner hour arrived. The king and the Marchioness sat together at one table, while the rest of the company was seated at other tables according to their rank.

The king was served course after course, accompanied by the finest and most expensive wines, and all the while he gazed with pleasure at the lovely Marchioness. He was thoroughly delighted with his meal. But after a while, as one dish followed another, he began to notice something peculiar: no matter how varied and inventive the preparations were, every single dish was made of chicken. He knew perfectly well that the region should have been rich in all kinds of game, and he had given the lady advance notice of his visit — plenty of time to organize a hunt. Still, however much this puzzled him, he chose not to press the point except on the subject of her hens.

Turning to her with a playful smile, he said, "Madam, are only hens born in these parts, and never a rooster?"

The Marchioness understood the king's question perfectly. It seemed to her that God had granted her, exactly as she had wished, the perfect opportunity to make her feelings clear. She turned to him and answered boldly: "No, my lord. But women here, though they may differ somewhat from others in their clothing and their rank, are made the same way as they are everywhere else."

When the king heard this, he understood perfectly well what the all-chicken banquet meant and what wisdom lay hidden in her words. He realized that eloquence would be wasted on a woman like this and that force was out of the question. And so, just as he had foolishly caught fire for her, he now had to wisely — for the sake of his own honor — smother that ill-conceived passion. He said nothing more on the subject, fearing her replies, and finished his dinner without any remaining hope. When the meal was over, he thanked her for the gracious hospitality she had shown him, commended her to God, and departed for Genoa — so that his quick exit might make up, at least in part, for his inappropriate visit."

Day 1, Story 6

An honest man, with one offhand remark, puts the shameless hypocrisy of a greedy friar right where it belongs.

After everyone had praised the Marchioness's courage and the elegant way she'd put the King of France in his place, Emilia, who was sitting next to Fiammetta, began to speak at the queen's invitation:

"I, too, have a story I won't keep to myself — about a stinging rebuke that an honest layman delivered to a greedy monk, with a remark every bit as funny as it was well-deserved.

Not so very long ago, dear ladies, there was a Franciscan friar in our city who also served as an inquisitor of heretical depravity. Now, he worked very hard to appear a devout and tender lover of the Christian faith — they all do — but he was every bit as diligent in sniffing out who had a fat wallet as he was in tracking down anyone lacking in religious orthodoxy. Thanks to this particular diligence of his, he stumbled upon a good, simple man who was far richer in coin than in wit. This fellow hadn't committed any real offense against the faith, but one day, speaking carelessly — probably overheated from too much wine or too much good cheer — he happened to tell some friends that he had a wine so fine that Christ himself would drink it.

When this got back to the inquisitor, and the inquisitor learned that the man's estate was large and his purse was full, he came rushing in cum gladiis et fustibus — with swords and clubs, as the saying goes — to slap a devastating lawsuit on the poor man. He wasn't looking for any improvement in the defendant's beliefs. He was looking to fill his own pockets with florins, which is exactly what happened. He had the man summoned and asked whether the accusation was true.

The good man said it was and explained how it had come about. At which point the most holy inquisitor — who was a devoted follower of Saint John Goldenbeard, if you take my meaning — thundered at him: "So! You've made Christ out to be a wine guzzler, a connoisseur of fine vintages, as if he were some Cinciglione or one of your other drunken louts and tavern rats! And now you come crawling in here speaking humbly, trying to make it sound like nothing! It is not nothing! You've earned yourself a burning at the stake — if we chose to deal with you as we ought!" With these words and plenty more like them, delivered with a face as menacing as if the poor wretch had been Epicurus himself denying the immortality of the soul, the friar terrified the man so badly that the good simple fellow, through certain go-betweens, greased the inquisitor's palm with a generous dose of Saint John Goldmouth's ointment — which is a sovereign remedy for the pestilential greed of the clergy, especially the Franciscans, who aren't supposed to touch money.

This ointment, being of extraordinary potency — though Galen doesn't mention it anywhere in his medical writings — worked so well that the threatened burning was mercifully commuted to the wearing of a cross as penance. And to make it an even finer banner, as though the man were heading off on a Crusade, the inquisitor made sure the cross was yellow on black. What's more, once he had the money in hand, the inquisitor kept the man hanging around for several days, requiring him as penance to attend mass every morning at Santa Croce and then present himself before the friar at lunchtime. After that, he was free to do as he pleased for the rest of the day. The man obeyed all of this dutifully.

Now one morning, among others, it happened that at mass he heard a passage from the Gospel in which these words were chanted: "For every one you give, you shall receive a hundred, and you shall possess eternal life." He tucked this firmly into his memory, and following his orders, presented himself at mealtime before the inquisitor, whom he found eating dinner.

The friar asked if he'd heard mass that morning.

"I certainly have, sir," he answered promptly.

"And did you hear anything in it that raises a question — anything you doubt?" said the inquisitor.

"Well," the good man replied, "I don't doubt a single thing I heard. I believe it all firmly to be true. But I did hear something that filled me — and still fills me — with the deepest compassion for you and your brother friars, thinking of the terrible trouble you're all going to be in over there in the next life."

"And what was it," asked the inquisitor, "that moved you to such compassion for us?"

"Sir," answered the man, "it was the verse from the Gospel that says: 'For every one you give, you shall receive a hundred.'"

"That is indeed true," said the inquisitor. "But why did those words move you so?"

"Sir, I'll tell you," the good man replied. "Every day since I've been coming here, I've seen them hand out to a crowd of poor people one and sometimes two enormous cauldrons of leftover broth — the surplus taken from your table and the tables of the other brothers in this convent. So if for every one of those cauldrons you receive a hundred in the next world, you're going to have so much broth that you'll all surely drown in it."

Everyone at the inquisitor's table burst out laughing. But the inquisitor himself, feeling the jab at the broth-guzzling hypocrisy of himself and his fellow friars, was furious. If he hadn't already drawn criticism for what he'd done to the man, he would have slapped him with another prosecution for making a mockery of him and his worthless brothers with that little joke. Instead, seething with resentment, he told the man to go do whatever he pleased and never show his face again."

Day 1, Story 7

Bergamino tells a story about Primasso and the Abbot of Cluny to politely shame Messer Can Grande della Scala out of a sudden fit of stinginess.

Emilia's wit and her story drew laughter and applause from the queen and all the rest, and everyone agreed the newfangled crusader's comeback was brilliant. Then, after the laughter died down and silence settled again, it was Filostrato's turn to speak, and he began:

"It's a fine thing, noble ladies, to hit a target that never moves. But it's practically a miracle when something unexpected suddenly appears and an archer strikes it on the spot. The sleazy, corrupt life of the clergy, which in so many ways stands there like a permanent target for criticism, gives anyone with a mind to talk about it plenty of easy material. So while the good man who skewered the inquisitor over the friars' hypocritical charity — giving away to the poor what they really ought to feed to the pigs or throw in the garbage — certainly did well, I think the man I'm about to tell you of deserves even more credit. The previous story put him in my mind. He was someone who, through a clever tale, rebuked Messer Can Grande della Scala — a magnificently generous nobleman — for a sudden and uncharacteristic fit of stinginess. And he did it by telling a story about someone else, when what he really meant to say was about the two of them. Here's how it went.

As his well-established reputation proclaimed throughout practically the whole world, Messer Can Grande della Scala — a man whom fortune had favored in many ways — was one of the most distinguished and most generous gentlemen Italy had known since the days of the Emperor Frederick the Second. He had planned to throw a spectacular, truly extraordinary festival in Verona, with guests coming from all over and especially talented performers of every kind. But then, for whatever reason, he suddenly called the whole thing off. He more or less compensated the people who had already arrived and sent them all on their way — all except one. This was a man named Bergamino, as quick with words and as brilliantly entertaining as anyone who hadn't heard him would never believe. Bergamino had received neither a gift nor a dismissal, so he stayed on, hoping that his patience would eventually pay off. But Messer Can Grande had gotten it into his head that anything he might give this man would be worse than money thrown into a fire — and he didn't say a word to him about it, or have anyone else tell him either.

After a few days, Bergamino found himself neither called upon nor asked to perform anything related to his craft, and meanwhile he was burning through his own money at the inn, paying for his horses and his servants. He started to worry. But he waited, thinking it wouldn't be right to just leave. Now, he had brought with him three fine, expensive suits of clothing that other noblemen had given him so he could make a good impression at the festival. When his innkeeper pressed him for payment, Bergamino gave him the first suit. He stayed on longer, and it became necessary to hand over the second suit if he wanted to keep his room. And then he started living on the third, determined to wait it out as long as this last suit would carry him, and then leave.

While he was wearing out his third suit, he happened one day to show up in front of Messer Can Grande at dinnertime, looking thoroughly miserable. Messer Can Grande spotted him and, more to needle him than because he actually wanted to hear any of his performances, said: "What's wrong with you, Bergamino? You look miserable. Tell us something."

Without a moment's hesitation, as though he'd been rehearsing it for days, Bergamino immediately told the following story — which happened to be perfectly suited to his own situation.

"My lord," he said, "you should know that Primasso was an extraordinarily learned scholar of grammar and the cleverest, most gifted poet of his time — talents that made him so famous that even if not everyone could recognize his face, there was hardly a soul alive who didn't know him by name and reputation. It happened that he once found himself in Paris in rather poor shape, which was actually his usual condition, since talent is rarely valued by those who have the most to give. While he was there, he heard about the Abbot of Cluny, who is believed to be — after the Pope — the richest prelate in all of Christendom. People told him marvelous and magnificent things about this Abbot: that he kept perpetual open house, and that food and drink were never denied to anyone who showed up while the Abbot was at his table. Primasso, hearing this and being a man who loved to see greatness in action, decided to go witness the Abbot's magnificence for himself. He asked how far away the Abbot was from Paris. The answer: about six miles. Primasso figured he could get there by dinnertime if he set out early in the morning.

"He asked for directions, but couldn't find anyone heading that way. He worried that he might take a wrong turn and end up somewhere without any food readily available. So, to make sure he wouldn't go hungry if that happened, he decided to bring three loaves of bread with him — figuring that water, though it wasn't exactly to his taste, he could find anywhere. He tucked the bread into his shirt and set out. He was lucky enough to reach the Abbot's residence before the dinner hour.

"He went inside and looked around at everything — the enormous number of tables being set, the massive preparations underway in the kitchen, all the provisions being readied for dinner — and he said to himself: 'This Abbot really is as magnificent as people say.' He spent a while taking it all in. Then, when dinnertime arrived, the Abbot's steward ordered water brought for washing hands, and after that, everyone was seated. As it happened, Primasso was placed at a seat directly facing the door through which the Abbot would have to pass to enter the dining hall.

"Now, it was the custom of the house that no wine, no bread, no food or drink of any kind would be placed on the tables until the Abbot himself had come to sit at his own table. So the steward sent word to the Abbot that whenever he pleased, dinner was ready. The Abbot had the door of his chamber opened to pass through into the hall, and as he came out, looking ahead, the very first person his eyes fell on was Primasso — shabbily dressed and a complete stranger to him by sight. The moment the Abbot saw him, a mean thought popped into his mind, one he'd never had before. He said to himself: 'Look at the kind of person I'm feeding.' Then he turned around, went back into his chamber, ordered the door shut behind him, and asked if anyone recognized that ragged fellow sitting across from his door. Everyone said no.

"Meanwhile, Primasso, who had worked up quite an appetite from the journey and wasn't accustomed to fasting, waited a while. When the Abbot didn't appear, he pulled one of the three loaves out of his shirt and started eating. The Abbot, after waiting a while himself, sent a servant to check if Primasso was gone. 'No, my lord,' the servant reported. 'In fact, he's eating bread — it seems he brought some with him.' 'Well then,' said the Abbot, 'let him eat his own food, if he has any. He won't be eating ours today.' The Abbot would have preferred that Primasso leave on his own — it didn't seem right to actually throw him out. But Primasso, having finished the first loaf and the Abbot still not appearing, started on the second. This, too, was reported to the Abbot, who had sent someone to check whether he'd gone.

"At last, with the Abbot still not coming, Primasso finished the second loaf and started on the third. This was reported to the Abbot as well, and it gave him pause. He began to reflect. 'What has gotten into me today?' he thought. 'What is this — avarice? Spite? And against whom? For years I've given my food to anyone who wanted it, without caring whether they were highborn or common, poor or rich, merchant or beggar. I've watched it devoured by hordes of worthless freeloaders with my own eyes, and never once did a thought like this enter my mind. Greed can't have overtaken me on account of some nobody. No — this man who looks like a beggar to me must be someone of real importance, since my very soul has rebelled against showing him hospitality.'

"With that, the Abbot wanted to know who the man was. When he discovered it was Primasso — a man he had long known by reputation to be brilliant — come to see with his own eyes the magnificence he'd heard so much about, the Abbot was ashamed. Eager to make amends, he went out of his way in every possible manner to show Primasso honor. After dinner, he had him dressed in splendid clothes befitting his stature, gave him money and a horse, and left it to Primasso's own choice whether to stay or go. Primasso, thoroughly satisfied with his reception, thanked the Abbot as warmly as he could and rode back to Paris on horseback — a man who had set out on foot."

Messer Can Grande, who was a man of understanding, grasped Bergamino's meaning perfectly without needing any further explanation. He smiled and said: "Bergamino, you've laid out your grievances and your worth very neatly, along with my stinginess and exactly what you'd like from me. And truthfully, I've never been struck by a fit of miserliness before — until now, on your account. But I'll drive it off with the very same stick you've shown me." Then he had Bergamino's innkeeper paid in full, dressed him magnificently in one of his own suits of clothing, gave him money and a horse, and told him he was free, for the time being, to stay or go as he pleased.

Day 1, Story 8

Guglielmo Borsiere delivers a clever put-down that shames the notoriously cheap Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi into becoming a generous man.

Sitting next to Filostrato was Lauretta, who, having heard Bergamino's story praised by the group, realized it was her turn. Without waiting to be called on, she cheerfully began: "Dear friends, the last story reminds me of another one I'd like to tell you — about how an upstanding entertainer similarly took aim at a rich man's greed, and with equally good results. It's a lot like the previous tale, but that shouldn't make it any less enjoyable, since something good came of it in the end.

So then — there was once a gentleman in Genoa named Messer Ermino de' Grimaldi, who was widely believed to be the wealthiest man in all of Italy, bar none. And just as he surpassed everyone in riches, he also surpassed every other miser and skinflint in the entire world when it came to sheer stinginess. He didn't just pinch pennies when it came to hosting guests — he deprived himself of basic necessities, in food, drink, and everything else, just to avoid spending a single coin. This was completely against the usual Genoese custom, mind you, since the people of Genoa generally like to dress well and live large. Because of his legendary cheapness, everyone had dropped the 'de' Grimaldi' from his name and simply called him 'Messer Ermino Avarice.'

Now, while Ermino was busy multiplying his fortune by never spending a dime of it, a worthy entertainer named Guglielmo Borsiere arrived in Genoa. He was a well-bred, well-spoken man — nothing at all like the so-called entertainers of today. The entertainers of our time, I'm sorry to say, deserve to be called jackasses raised in the filth and depravity of the lowest dregs of society, rather than the cultured courtiers they pretend to be. In the old days, an entertainer's job was to negotiate peace treaties between feuding noblemen, to arrange marriages and alliances, to lift people's spirits with witty and pleasant conversation, and to rebuke bad behavior with sharp, fatherly words — all for modest pay. But nowadays? They spend their time spreading gossip, stirring up trouble, talking filth, and — even worse — doing filthy things in public. They accuse people of crimes and scandals, real or invented, and they lure men of standing into shameful behavior with crafty temptations. The one who says and does the most despicable things is the one who gets the most praise, honor, and lavish rewards from the sorry, ill-mannered nobles of our age. It's a terrible indictment of the times we live in, and clear proof that every virtue has abandoned this world, leaving us to wallow in vice.

But let me get back to my story — righteous anger carried me a bit further off track than I intended. As I was saying, this Guglielmo was honored and warmly received by all the gentlemen of Genoa. After spending a few days in the city and hearing story after story about Messer Ermino's staggering cheapness, he decided he had to see this man for himself.

Messer Ermino had already heard what a worthy fellow Guglielmo was, and since he did retain at least a trace of good breeding despite being a colossal miser, he received him with friendly words and a pleasant expression. They fell into a wide-ranging conversation, and in the course of it, Ermino led Guglielmo and several other Genoese gentlemen through a splendid new house he'd recently had built. After showing them every room, he said, "Well now, Messer Guglielmo — you're a man who has seen and heard a great many things. Can you suggest something that has never been seen before, something I could have painted in the great hall of this house?"

Guglielmo, hearing this absurd request, replied, "Sir, I doubt I could think of anything that's truly never been seen — unless maybe a sneeze, or something like that. But if you'd like, I can suggest something that I believe you yourself have never laid eyes on."

"Oh?" said Messer Ermino, not expecting the answer he was about to get. "Please, tell me what it is."

And Guglielmo answered without missing a beat: "Have Generosity painted here."

When Messer Ermino heard this, he was hit by such a sudden wave of shame that it practically transformed his character on the spot, reversing it completely. "Messer Guglielmo," he said, "I will have it painted here in such a fashion that neither you nor anyone else will ever again have cause to say I've never seen it or known it."

And from that day forward — such was the power of Guglielmo's words — Ermino became the most generous and gracious gentleman in all of Genoa, and the one who most warmly welcomed both locals and visitors into his home."

Day 1, Story 9

The King of Cyprus, shamed by a sharp-tongued Gascon lady, transforms himself from a spineless ruler into a man of courage and resolve.

The queen's last assignment fell to Elisa, who didn't even wait for the command before launching cheerfully into her tale: "Young ladies, it has often happened that what countless lectures and great effort couldn't accomplish in a person has been achieved by a single remark — one spoken more by chance than by any deliberate plan. Lauretta's story shows this perfectly, and now I'd like to prove the same point with another tale — a very short one. After all, a good story is a good story regardless of who's telling it, and you should always listen with an open mind.

In the days of the first King of Cyprus, after Godfrey of Bouillon had conquered the Holy Land, a gentlewoman from Gascony went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. On her way home, she landed in Cyprus, where she was viciously assaulted by a gang of thugs. She tried to file a complaint and get justice, but was told she'd be wasting her time. The king, people said, was such a weak and worthless man that he not only failed to punish wrongs done to others — he meekly endured endless insults done to himself. In fact, anyone who had a grudge to settle would simply take it out on the king with some fresh humiliation, knowing full well he'd do nothing about it.

The lady, hearing this and giving up all hope of getting justice, decided that she could at least get some small satisfaction by giving the king a piece of her mind about his cowardice. She went before him in tears and said: "My lord, I don't come before you expecting any justice for the wrong that's been done to me. But as a consolation, I beg you — teach me how you manage to endure all the insults that people heap on you. That way, I can learn from your example to bear my own suffering patiently. And God knows, if I could, I'd gladly hand my troubles over to you, since you're clearly such an expert at putting up with them."

The king, who until that moment had been sluggish and passive, woke up as if from a deep sleep. He started with the wrong done to the lady, which he avenged harshly. And from that day on, he became a fierce enforcer of justice against anyone who dared offend the honor of his crown."

Day 1, Story 10

Master Alberto of Bologna elegantly turns the tables on a lady who tried to embarrass him for being an old man in love.

With Elisa now finished, the final story of the day fell to the queen herself. She began with womanly grace: "Noble young ladies, just as the stars are the jewels of a clear night sky, and flowers are the glory of a green meadow in spring, so too are good manners and pleasant conversation adorned by flashes of wit. And since witty remarks are brief by nature, they're even more becoming to women than to men — because long-winded speeches, when they aren't necessary, are considered more unacceptable in women than in men. Though these days, to our collective shame, there are few women left who can recognize a clever remark when they hear one, much less come up with a good reply.

That quality of mind that women once had in abundance has been redirected — entirely — to the decoration of the body. The woman with the most eye-catching outfit, the most elaborate trim and embroidery, the gaudiest lace and the flashiest accessories, considers herself vastly superior to her peers and demands to be treated accordingly. She doesn't stop to consider that if it were simply a matter of loading someone's back with finery, a donkey could carry far more of it than she can — and nobody would honor a donkey for that.

I'm ashamed to say it, since I can't criticize other women without criticizing myself. But these women, all done up and painted and color-coordinated, either stand around mute and lifeless as marble statues, or, if someone speaks to them, they give answers so dim-witted they'd have been better off staying silent. And they'd like you to believe their inability to hold a conversation with people of intelligence comes from modesty and purity of mind. They call their stupidity 'propriety,' as if the only truly modest woman were the one who speaks to no one but her maid, her laundress, or her kitchen girl. If that were what Nature had intended, she would have found some other way to limit their chatter.

It's true that in these matters, as in everything, one must consider the time, the place, and the audience. Sometimes it happens that a man or a woman, thinking to embarrass someone with a clever jab, misjudges the other person's abilities and finds the embarrassment bouncing right back at them. So — to help you avoid this — and so you won't become an example of that popular saying, 'Women always get the short end' — I want the last story of today's session, which falls to me, to serve as a lesson: that just as you are distinguished from other women by nobility of mind, you should also set yourselves apart by excellence of manners.

Not many years ago in Bologna — and he may even still be alive — there was a very great and famous physician, known by reputation throughout nearly the entire world. His name was Master Alberto, and despite being close to seventy years old, with hardly any natural warmth left in his body, his spirit was so lively that he didn't hesitate to let himself fall in love. He'd seen a stunningly beautiful widow at a party — some say she was Madonna Malgherida de' Ghisolieri — and he was so captivated by her that the flames of love took root in his seasoned heart as fiercely as if he'd been a young man. He found he couldn't sleep well at night unless he'd gazed upon the lady's lovely face during the day. And so he began making a habit of passing by her house, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, whenever an occasion presented itself.

She and several other ladies soon figured out the reason for his constant appearances, and they had plenty of laughs among themselves at the sight of a man so ripe in years and wisdom being in love — as though they believed the sweet madness of love could only take root in the foolish minds of the young and nowhere else.

This went on for a while. Then one holiday, as the lady was sitting outside her door with a group of other women, they spotted Master Alberto approaching from a distance. They hatched a plan together: they would welcome him graciously, entertain him with all due honor — and then tease him about his infatuation. Which is exactly what they did. They all stood up to greet him, invited him inside, and led him into a cool, shady courtyard where fine wines and sweets were brought out. Then, in the most polite and pleasant terms, they asked him how it was possible that he'd fallen in love with this beautiful lady — knowing, as he surely must, that she was pursued by many handsome, young, and spirited gentlemen.

The physician, finding himself under this courteous ambush, put on a cheerful expression and replied: "Madam, that I'm in love should come as no surprise to anyone with any sense — and especially that I'm in love with you, because you deserve it. It's true that old men are denied by nature the physical vigor required for the acts of love. But they're not denied the desire, and certainly not the ability to recognize what's worthy of being loved. In fact, they appreciate it all the more, since they have more knowledge and experience than the young.

"As for what gives me hope — an old man courting a woman who is sought after by so many young suitors — it's this: I've been in many places where I've watched ladies having lunch, and I've seen them eat lupins and leeks. Now, no part of a leek is particularly good, but the head is the least offensive and the most pleasant to the taste. Yet you ladies, driven by some perverse instinct, typically hold the head in your hand and chew on the leaves instead — which are worthless and taste awful. How do I know, madam, that you don't do the same thing when choosing your lovers? Because if you do, then I'd be the one you'd choose — and all the others would be tossed aside."

The lady and her companions were quite taken aback. After a moment, she said: "Doctor, you have very neatly and graciously put us in our place for our presumptuous little scheme. Still, your love is dear to me, as anyone would value the affection of a man of such worth and learning. You may consider me yours to command in all things — saving only my honor."

The physician rose with his companions, thanked the lady, and amid laughter and good spirits, took his leave. And so the lady, who hadn't thought twice about who she was trying to embarrass, set out to make a fool of someone else — and wound up the fool herself. If you're wise, you'll be very careful not to make the same mistake."

—-

The sun had begun its descent toward evening, and the heat had largely faded, when the young women and the three young men finished their stories for the day. The queen spoke cheerfully: "From this point on, dear friends, there's nothing left for me to do in my role as today's ruler except to give you a new queen, who will arrange tomorrow's activities — and our lives — as she sees fit, all in the service of honest pleasure. The day could be considered to last from now until nightfall, but since anyone who doesn't plan ahead can't properly prepare for what's to come, I think it's best that the days going forward should begin at this hour. So in reverence of Him in whom all things live, and for our own enjoyment, Filomena — a most sensible young woman — shall rule our little kingdom as queen for the coming day."

With that, she rose to her feet, took off the laurel wreath, and placed it reverently on Filomena's head. First the queen herself, then all the other ladies and the young men saluted Filomena as their new ruler, cheerfully pledging themselves to her governance.

Filomena blushed a little at finding herself crowned queen, but remembering the words Pampinea had spoken earlier — and not wanting to appear foolish — she gathered her composure. First she confirmed all the appointments Pampinea had made. Then she gave orders for the next morning's activities and for that evening's supper. After that, she spoke:

"Dearest friends, although Pampinea has made me your queen more out of her own kindness than for any merit of mine, I don't intend to rely on my judgment alone in deciding how we spend our time. I want your input as well as my own, and so I'll briefly lay out my plan — you're free to add to it or change it as you see fit.

"It seems to me that the way Pampinea organized today was both praiseworthy and delightful, and unless it starts to feel stale from too much repetition, I don't think we should change it. So we'll continue what we've already begun. We'll get up from here, go enjoy ourselves for a while, and when the sun starts to set, we'll have supper in the cool of the evening. After some songs and other entertainment, we'll go to bed. Tomorrow morning we'll rise early in the cool air and find some pleasant way to spend the morning. We'll come back to eat at the usual hour, then dance, and after our afternoon rest, we'll return here to tell our stories — which, to my mind, are the perfect blend of pleasure and benefit.

"Now, there's one thing Pampinea didn't have time to do, since she was elected so late in the day, and I'd like to introduce it now: I want to set a theme for our stories, announced in advance, so each of you has time to think of a good tale on the subject. And if it pleases you, here's the theme I propose: since the beginning of the world, people have been tossed about by all kinds of reversals of fortune — and will be until the end of time. So each of us shall tell a story about someone who, after being knocked around by various misfortunes, ultimately arrived at a happy ending they never expected."

The ladies and the young men all praised this plan and agreed to follow it. Only Dioneo, once everyone else had fallen silent, spoke up: "Madam, I'll say the same as everyone else — your plan is delightful and commendable. But I'd like to ask a special favor, and I'd like it to stand for as long as our group stays together: that I not be forced to tell a story on the assigned theme if I don't feel like it, and that I'm always free to tell whatever story pleases me most. And so nobody thinks I'm asking this because I'm short on material, I'm perfectly content to always go last."

The queen — who knew Dioneo was a witty and fun-loving fellow, and was quite sure he was asking this privilege so he could lift everyone's spirits with a good laugh whenever they grew weary of the day's theme — cheerfully granted his request, with the others' consent.

Then they all rose and strolled at a leisurely pace toward a stream of crystal-clear water that ran down from a small hill, flowing through great rocks and green foliage into a valley shaded by many trees. There, wading barefoot and bare-armed in the water, they amused themselves with various games until suppertime drew near. Then they returned to the villa and ate a merry supper.

When supper was over, the queen called for musical instruments and asked Lauretta to lead a dance while Emilia sang a song, accompanied by Dioneo on the lute. Lauretta promptly started up a dance and led it off, while Emilia sang this song with tender feeling:

I burn for my own beauty with such fire > That I believe I'll never > Feel need of any other love's desire. > > Each time I see myself within my glass > I find that perfect good > That fills the heart and mind with joy to spare; > No twist of fortune, new or old, could pass > Into my solitude > To steal away a pleasure half so fair. > What other sight could fill my longing stare, > Or kindle in me ever > Another flame to rival this desire? > > This beauty never flees when I would gaze > Anew upon it for my consolation; > No — at my pleasure, always and always, > It offers such a gracious presentation > That words cannot convey its full sensation, > Nor mortal understand it ever, > Unless he too should burn with equal fire. > > And I, more captivated every hour, > The closer that I fix my eyes upon it, > Surrender all myself unto its power, > Already tasting what it once had promised, > And hope for greater joy than any sonnet > Has ever named — for never > Was such bliss proved below, born of desire.

When Lauretta had finished her ballad — in whose refrain all had joined with gusto, though the lyrics gave more than a few of them something to think about — they danced several more rounds. By now a good portion of the short night had passed, and it pleased the queen to bring the first day to an end. She ordered the torches lit and sent everyone off to rest until morning. And so they all retired to their rooms and did just that.

Here ends the First Day of the Decameron.

Day 2 — Introduction

Here begins the second day of the Decameron, in which, under the rule of Filomena, the company tells stories of people who were knocked around by misfortune but ultimately found their way to a happy ending they never expected.

The sun had already ushered in the new day, and the birds were singing cheerfully among the green branches, their bright songs announcing the morning to anyone within earshot. The ladies and the three young men all rose and made their way into the gardens, where they wandered here and there through the dewy grass at a leisurely pace, weaving garlands and enjoying themselves for a good long while.

They followed the same routine as the day before: they ate in the cool shade, danced for a bit, then retired for an afternoon rest. When they woke, they gathered at their queen's command in the fresh meadow, arranging themselves in a circle around her. Filomena was lovely to look at and had a wonderfully warm presence. She sat for a moment wearing her laurel wreath, surveying the faces of her companions, and then called on Neifile to begin the day's storytelling. Without a word of protest, Neifile cheerfully began.

Day 2, Story 1

Martellino pretends to be a cripple and fakes a miraculous cure at the shrine of Saint Arrigo. When his trick is discovered, he gets beaten senseless, arrested as a pickpocket, and nearly hanged — but in the end, he escapes.

"It happens all the time, dear ladies, that someone who sets out to make fools of other people — especially when it comes to sacred things — ends up as the butt of the joke himself, and sometimes doesn't walk away unscathed. So, to obey the queen's command and get us started on today's theme, I'd like to tell you about something that happened to a fellow Florentine of ours — something that began with terrible luck and ended, beyond anything he could have hoped for, quite happily.

Not so long ago, there was a German named Arrigo living in Treviso. He was a poor man who made his living hauling loads for whoever would hire him. Despite his humble station, everyone regarded him as a genuinely holy and good person. Whether it was true or not, the Trevisans swear that when Arrigo died, at the very hour of his death, the bells of the great cathedral of Treviso began ringing all by themselves, with no one pulling the ropes. The townsfolk took this as a miracle and promptly declared Arrigo a saint. Everyone rushed to the house where his body lay and carried it to the cathedral as if it were a sacred relic, and they started bringing in the lame, the sick, and the blind — anyone afflicted with any sort of ailment or disability — as if a single touch of the body would cure them all.

Right in the middle of this uproar and chaos, three Florentines happened to arrive in Treviso. One was called Stecchi, another Martellino, and the third Marchese. These were men who made their living visiting the courts of princes and lords, entertaining audiences by putting on disguises and impersonating anyone you could name, with the most outrageous gestures and facial contortions. They'd never been to Treviso before, and seeing everyone running through the streets, they were curious. When they heard the reason, they were eager to go see for themselves. They dropped off their bags at an inn, and Marchese said, "We should go have a look at this saint, but I don't see how we'll get near the place. I hear the cathedral square is packed with German soldiers and other men-at-arms the lord of the city stationed there to prevent a riot. On top of that, the church itself is supposed to be so crammed with people that practically no one else can squeeze in."

"Don't let that stop you," said Martellino, who was dying to see the spectacle. "I'll find us a way to get to the holy body."

"How?" asked Marchese.

Martellino said, "I'll tell you. I'll pretend to be a cripple, and you two will hold me up on either side, as if I can't walk on my own, acting like you're bringing me to the saint so he can heal me. Everyone who sees us will step aside and let us through."

Marchese and Stecchi loved the idea, and the three of them left the inn without a moment's delay. When they reached a quiet spot, Martellino twisted up his hands, his fingers, his arms, his legs, and even his mouth and eyes — contorting his whole face into such a horrifying grimace that anyone who saw him would have sworn he was truly wrecked and paralyzed from head to toe. Marchese and Stecchi took hold of him in this state and headed straight for the church, putting on a great show of piety, humbly begging everyone in their path to please make way for the love of God — which people were happy to do.

In short, with everyone staring at them and nearly the whole crowd shouting "Make way! Make way!" they reached the spot where Saint Arrigo's body lay. Several gentlemen standing nearby immediately lifted Martellino up and placed him on the body so that the saint's healing power might restore him to health. Martellino lay there for a while as the entire crowd held its breath, waiting to see what would happen. Then, with perfect timing — because he knew exactly what he was doing — he began by slowly straightening one finger. Then a whole hand. Then he stretched out an arm. And finally, with a great flourish, he uncurled his entire body and stood up straight. When the people saw this, they erupted in such a deafening roar of praise for Saint Arrigo that you couldn't have heard a thunderclap over the noise.

But as luck would have it, there was a Florentine standing nearby who knew Martellino quite well. He hadn't recognized him when they brought him in, twisted up as he was, but the moment he saw him standing straight again, he knew exactly who it was. He burst out laughing and said, "God damn him! Who wouldn't have thought he was really paralyzed, the way he looked coming in?"

Some Trevisans overheard this and immediately demanded, "What? You mean he wasn't actually crippled?"

"God forbid!" the Florentine replied. "He's always been as straight as any of us. He's just better than anyone alive at pulling stunts like this — contorting himself into whatever shape he wants."

That was all the crowd needed to hear. People shoved their way forward by brute force, shouting, "Grab that blasphemous fraud! He came here pretending to be a cripple to mock us and our saint, and there's nothing wrong with him!" They seized Martellino and dragged him down from where he lay. Then they grabbed him by the hair, tore every stitch of clothing off his back, and started pounding him with punches and kicks. It seemed like every single person in the place was rushing over to get a hit in. Martellino screamed, "Mercy! For God's sake!" and tried to defend himself as best he could, but it was useless — the mob just kept piling on, growing thicker by the second.

Stecchi and Marchese, watching all this, started saying to each other that things had gone very badly indeed. But they were afraid for their own skins and didn't dare come to his rescue. In fact, they were shouting along with the rest of the crowd that he should be killed — while at the same time racking their brains for a way to pull him out of the mob's clutches, because the crowd would certainly have beaten him to death if not for a quick-thinking move by Marchese. The entire force of the city watch was posted outside the church, so Marchese rushed over to the officer in command as fast as he could and said, "Help! For God's sake! There's a criminal in there who cut my purse — it had a good hundred gold florins in it! I beg you, arrest him so I can get my money back!"

Hearing this, a dozen officers charged straight into the church, pushing through to where the wretched Martellino was being thrashed within an inch of his life. With enormous difficulty they fought through the crowd and dragged him out, bruised and battered, and hauled him off to the palace. A good number of people followed, furious at having been mocked by him. When they heard he'd been arrested as a pickpocket, they figured this was as good a reason as any to make his life miserable, so they all started chiming in that he'd stolen their purses too.

The judge assigned to the case by the Provost was a sour, nasty piece of work. Hearing these accusations, he pulled Martellino aside and began interrogating him. But Martellino answered flippantly, as though his arrest were some kind of joke. This infuriated the judge, who had him strung up on the strappado — hoisted by his wrists tied behind his back — and given two or three good yanks, with the intention of making him confess to the charges so he could then have him hanged.

When they let him down, the judge asked him again whether the accusations were true. Martellino, realizing that denials were getting him nowhere, said, "My lord, I'm ready to confess the truth. But first, make each of my accusers say when and where I supposedly cut his purse, and then I'll tell you what I did and what I didn't do."

"Fair enough," said the judge, and he called several of the accusers forward. One of them said Martellino had stolen his purse eight days ago, another said six days, another four, and some even said that very day.

Hearing this, Martellino said, "My lord, every one of them is lying through his teeth, and I can prove it. I wish to God it were as certain that I'd never set foot in this city as it is that I only arrived a few hours ago! The minute I got here, I went — to my everlasting regret — to see that holy body in the church, where I got the beating you can see the marks of. The officer who keeps the register of arriving strangers can confirm everything I'm saying, and so can his book, and so can my innkeeper. So if you find that what I'm telling you is true, I beg you — don't torture me and don't have me killed on the word of these scoundrels."

While things stood like this, Marchese and Stecchi heard that the judge was going hard after Martellino and had already given him the strappado. They were terrified and said to each other, "We've really made a mess of this. We pulled him out of the frying pan and dropped him straight into the fire." They went looking for their innkeeper as quickly as they could, and when they found him and told him the whole story, he had a good laugh. Then he took them to see a man named Sandro Agolanti, who lived in Treviso and had considerable influence with the city's lord. The innkeeper laid out the entire situation, and the three of them together begged Sandro to intervene on Martellino's behalf. Sandro laughed heartily at the tale, then went to the Prince and persuaded him to send for Martellino.

The Prince's messengers found Martellino still standing before the judge in nothing but his shirt, shaking with fear, because the judge refused to hear a word in his defense. In fact, the judge happened to have some personal grudge against Florentines, and he was absolutely determined to hang Martellino by the neck. He flatly refused to hand him over to the Prince until he was forced to do so against his will.

When Martellino was finally brought before the lord of the city, he told him everything that had happened from start to finish and begged, as a special favor, to be allowed to leave. Because, he said, until he was safely back in Florence, he was going to feel like the noose was still around his neck. The Prince laughed long and hard at the whole misadventure and gave each of the three friends a new suit of clothes. And with that, they made it home safe and sound, having escaped — far beyond anything they ever hoped for — from the most terrifying scrape of their lives."

Day 2, Story 2

Rinaldo d'Asti is robbed on the road and left in his shirtsleeves. He makes his way to Castel Guglielmo, where a widow takes him in and shows him very generous hospitality indeed. Having more than made up for his losses, he returns home safe and sound.

The ladies laughed uproariously at the tale of Martellino's misfortunes as Neifile told it, and the young men laughed just as hard — especially Filostrato, who was sitting next to Neifile. Since it was his turn, the queen told him to go next. He began without hesitation.

"Lovely ladies, I have to tell you a story that involves matters of faith, a dash of misfortune, and a healthy dose of romance — a combination that should be worth hearing, especially for those of you who have traveled through the dangerous territory of love. Because anyone who hasn't said Saint Julian's prayer is liable to end up with a bad night's lodging, no matter how fine a bed they might deserve.

In the days of the Marquis Azzo of Ferrara, a merchant named Rinaldo d'Asti was traveling to Bologna on business. Having wrapped up his affairs, he was heading home, and as he rode out of Ferrara toward Verona, he fell in with some men who looked like fellow merchants but were actually highwaymen — dangerous criminals, the lot of them. Rinaldo, not suspecting a thing, struck up a friendly conversation and joined their company. For their part, the robbers could see he was a merchant and figured he was carrying money, so they quietly agreed among themselves to rob him at the first good opportunity. To keep him unsuspecting, they chatted with him like perfectly decent, respectable people, talking about honest, upstanding topics, treating him with all the courtesy and deference they could muster. Rinaldo actually counted himself lucky to have met them, since he was traveling with only a single servant on horseback.

As they rode along, the conversation drifted from one subject to another, as it tends to do, and eventually they got to talking about the prayers people offer up to God. One of the three highwaymen turned to Rinaldo and asked, "And you, sir — what prayer do you usually say when you're traveling?"

Rinaldo answered, "To tell the truth, I'm a simple, practical sort of man. I don't know much about that kind of thing, and I don't have a big collection of prayers at the ready. I live the old-fashioned way and call a spade a spade. But one thing I've always done when I'm on the road: every morning when I leave the inn, I say a Our Father and a Hail Mary for the souls of Saint Julian's mother and father, and then I pray to God and the saint to grant me a good night's lodging. And I have to tell you, many times in my life I've been in serious danger while traveling, and I've come through every single time. What's more, I've always managed to find myself safe and well-lodged by nightfall. So I firmly believe that Saint Julian, in whose honor I say that prayer, has gotten me this favor from God. And honestly, I don't think I'd have a safe day's journey or a decent night's rest if I hadn't said it that morning."

"And did you say it this morning?" asked the man who'd raised the subject.

"I certainly did," said Rinaldo.

At which point the robber thought to himself, knowing perfectly well what was about to happen, "Well, you're going to need it — because if things go our way, I have a feeling you're in for a rough night." Then, turning back to Rinaldo, he said, "You know, I've traveled a lot too, and I've never once said that prayer, even though I've heard people swear by it. But I've always found perfectly good lodging. We'll see this evening which one of us ends up better housed — you who said it, or me who didn't. Although I will say, instead of your prayer, I tend to recite the Dirupisti, or the Intemerata, or the De Profundis. According to my grandmother — rest her soul — those are supposed to be terrifically effective."

So they continued along, chatting about this and that, the three robbers biding their time and watching for the right moment and place. Late in the day, at a river crossing just past Castel Guglielmo, the three men saw their chance. The hour was late, the spot was deserted and hemmed in on all sides. They fell on Rinaldo and stripped him of his money, his clothes, and his horse. Then, leaving him standing there on foot in nothing but his shirt, they called back as they rode off, "Let's see if your Saint Julian gives you as good a lodging tonight as ours is sure to give us!" And with that they crossed the river and disappeared.

Rinaldo's servant, the worthless coward, did absolutely nothing to help when he saw his master attacked. He just wheeled his horse around and rode without stopping all the way to Castel Guglielmo, where he found himself an inn and went to bed without another thought for Rinaldo.

Left standing in his shirt, barefoot, in bitterly cold weather with the snow coming down hard, Rinaldo had no idea what to do. Night was already falling. Shivering and with his teeth chattering, he looked around desperately for any kind of shelter where he could survive the night without freezing to death. But he couldn't see a thing — there'd been fighting in that area recently, and everything had been burned down. Driven by the cold, he set off at a run toward Castel Guglielmo. He had no idea whether his servant had gone there or somewhere else, but he figured that if he could just get inside the walls, God would send him some kind of help.

But darkness caught up with him when he was still about a mile from the town. He arrived so late that the gates were shut and the drawbridges raised, and there was no getting in. Desperate and miserable, he looked around through his tears for someplace — anyplace — where at least the snow wouldn't fall on him. He spotted a house that jutted out a bit beyond the town walls and decided to huddle underneath the overhang until morning. He made his way there and found a door — locked, of course — but he scraped together some straw that was lying nearby, settled himself at the foot of the door, and lay there, wretched and dejected, cursing Saint Julian and complaining that this was no way to treat a faithful devotee.

But the saint hadn't forgotten him and was about to arrange quite comfortable lodging indeed.

Now, in the town there lived a widow — as beautiful a woman as you could find anywhere — whom the Marquis Azzo loved dearly and kept there for his pleasure. She happened to live in that very house, the one whose overhanging upper story Rinaldo was sheltering beneath. As it turned out, the Marquis had come to town that day planning to spend the night with her, and had secretly arranged for a bath and a lavish supper to be prepared at her house. Everything was ready and the lady was waiting for him when a messenger arrived at the gate with news that forced the Marquis to ride off immediately. He sent word to his mistress not to expect him, and departed in a hurry.

The lady was somewhat disappointed. Not knowing what else to do with herself, she decided she might as well enjoy the bath that had been drawn for the Marquis, have the supper, and go to bed.

She stepped into the bath, which happened to be right next to the outer door — the very door where the miserable Rinaldo was huddled on the other side of the wall. As she soaked in the warm water, she could hear someone weeping and shivering outside. It sounded like the man's teeth were chattering so violently he'd turned into a stork. She called her maid and said, "Go upstairs and look over the wall. See who's down by the postern door, and what he's doing there."

The maid went up, and in the clear night air she could see Rinaldo sitting there in his shirt, barefoot, shaking miserably, just as I described. She called down and asked who he was. Rinaldo, trembling so badly he could barely get the words out, told her as briefly as he could who he was and how he'd ended up there. Then he begged her, for the love of God, not to leave him out there to freeze to death — to help him, if there was any way she could.

The maid felt a rush of pity. She went back to her mistress and told her everything. The lady felt the same compassion, and remembering that she had the key to that door — the one the Marquis sometimes used for his private visits — she said, "Go quietly and let him in. Here we have this supper with no one to eat it, and we've got plenty of room to put him up."

The maid warmly praised her mistress's kindness, then went and opened the door. She brought Rinaldo inside, and the lady, seeing him half-dead with cold, said, "Quick, good man — get into this bath. It's still warm."

Rinaldo didn't need to be told twice. He climbed in gratefully, and the heat of the water brought him back to life so thoroughly that he felt as though he'd been snatched from death itself. The lady sent for a set of clothes that had belonged to her recently deceased husband. When Rinaldo put them on, they fit as if they'd been tailored for him. While he waited to see what would happen next, he offered silent thanks to God and Saint Julian for rescuing him from the terrible night that had seemed so certain and delivering him, as far as he could tell, to very good lodging indeed.

After the lady had rested a while, she had a large fire built in her dining hall. She went in and asked her maid how their guest was doing.

"Very well, madam," the maid replied. "He's dressed now, and he's a handsome man — looks like a person of quality, very well-mannered."

"Go call him, then," said the lady. "Tell him to come sit by the fire and have supper. I know he hasn't eaten."

Rinaldo entered the hall and, seeing the lady, judged her to be a woman of high standing. He greeted her with deep respect and thanked her as eloquently as he could for her kindness. The lady took one look at him and saw that he matched her maid's description exactly — tall, good-looking, with a pleasant face and easy, agreeable manners. She received him warmly, had him sit down beside her by the fire in a familiar, comfortable way, and asked him to tell her what had happened. Rinaldo laid out the whole story in detail. The lady had actually heard a version of it already, since his servant had arrived in town earlier, so she believed every word. She told him what she knew about his servant and assured him the man would be easy to find in the morning.

Then the table was set, and at the lady's urging, Rinaldo washed his hands and sat down to eat with her. He was tall and well-built, with handsome features and a warm, engaging presence — a man in the prime of his life. The lady found herself glancing at him again and again, and liking more and more what she saw. Her desires had already been stirred up in anticipation of the Marquis, who was supposed to have shared her bed that night, and now she found those desires fixing themselves quite firmly on Rinaldo.

After supper, when they'd risen from the table, the lady took her maid aside and asked whether she thought it would be such a bad idea — seeing as the Marquis had stood her up — to make use of the good fortune that had landed on her doorstep. The maid, reading her mistress's inclination perfectly, encouraged her to go for it with all her heart.

The lady went back to the fireside where she'd left Rinaldo sitting alone. She gazed at him with unmistakable warmth in her eyes and said, "Now then, Rinaldo — why so gloomy? Do you really think you can't be compensated for a horse and a few pieces of clothing? Cheer up! Make yourself at home — you might as well be in your own house. In fact, I'll tell you something more. Seeing you sitting there in my late husband's clothes, looking so much like him, I've had the urge — oh, a hundred times tonight at least — to throw my arms around you and kiss you. And honestly, if I hadn't been afraid of making you uncomfortable, I would have done it."

Rinaldo was no fool. Hearing these words and seeing the sparkle in her eyes, he stepped toward her with open arms and said, "My lady, considering that I owe my life to you, and considering what you rescued me from, it would be the worst kind of rudeness if I didn't do everything in my power to please you. So by all means — embrace me and kiss me to your heart's content, and I will kiss you and hold you more than willingly."

No more words were needed. The lady, burning with desire, threw herself into his arms. She pressed him hungrily to her breast and kissed him a thousand times, and he kissed her just as many times in return. Then they went to her bedroom, and without any further delay they got into bed, where they satisfied their desires — fully and repeatedly — before the night was through.

When the first light of dawn appeared, they got up. The lady didn't want anyone to suspect what had happened, so she gave him some plain, worn clothes to wear and a purse full of money. Then she showed him which way to go to get into the town and find his servant, and she let him out through the same postern door he'd entered by, asking him to keep the whole affair a secret.

As soon as it was fully light and the town gates were open, Rinaldo walked in, pretending he was arriving from a distance. He found his servant, changed into the clothes from his saddlebags, and was about to mount the man's horse and leave when — almost miraculously — it turned out that the three highwaymen who'd robbed him the night before had been arrested shortly afterward for another crime. They'd confessed, and Rinaldo's horse, clothes, and money were all returned to him. He didn't lose a thing except a pair of garters that the robbers couldn't account for.

And so Rinaldo gave thanks to God and Saint Julian, climbed onto his horse, and rode home safe and sound — leaving the three robbers to swing in the wind the next day."

Day 2, Story 3

Three young men squander their inheritance and end up broke. But a nephew of theirs, heading home in despair, falls in with an abbot who turns out to be the daughter of the King of England. She takes him as her husband and restores all his uncles' losses, setting the whole family right again.

The adventures of Rinaldo d'Asti were listened to with admiration, and the ladies commended his devotion, thanking God and Saint Julian for coming to his rescue in his hour of greatest need. Nor — though this was said only half under their breath — was the lady considered foolish for knowing how to enjoy the good thing God had sent right to her own door. But while they were still talking and laughing behind their hands about the pleasant night she'd had, Pampinea, seeing that she sat next to Filostrato and guessing (correctly, as it turned out) that her turn would come next, began gathering her thoughts. After receiving the queen's signal to begin, she spoke up with confidence and good cheer:

"Noble ladies, the more we talk about the workings of Fortune, the more there is to say — if you're willing to look closely at what she actually does. Nobody should be surprised at this, if you stop and think about it: all the things we foolishly call 'ours' are really in her hands, and she shuffles them around endlessly — from one person to another and back again — according to some hidden plan that none of us can fathom. Now, even though this truth has been proved over and over, in all kinds of situations, and has already been illustrated by several of our earlier stories, since our queen wishes us to keep to this theme, I'll add a story of my own. And I think you'll find it was worth the telling.

There was once in our city a gentleman named Messer Tedaldo who, according to some, was of the Lamberti family, though others insist he was one of the Agolanti — basing this mostly on the trade his sons later took up, which was the same one the Agolanti have always practiced. But leaving aside which family he actually belonged to, I'll just say this: in his day, he was an extremely wealthy man. He had three sons — the eldest named Lamberto, the second Tedaldo, and the third Agolante — all handsome, high-spirited young men, the oldest not yet eighteen when their father died and left them everything he had, both property and cash, as his rightful heirs.

Finding themselves suddenly very rich in both land and money, the young men began spending without any restraint or plan beyond whatever struck their fancy at the moment. They kept a huge household, fine horses by the dozen, dogs and hawks, threw open their doors to everyone, gave lavish gifts, held tournaments and jousting matches, and did not only everything that befitted men of their station, but everything else their youthful appetites could dream up besides.

They hadn't been living this way very long before the fortune their father had left them melted away completely. Their regular income alone wasn't enough to cover their expenses, so they started selling off and mortgaging their properties. One estate went today, another tomorrow, and before they even realized it, they were left with almost nothing. Poverty opened their eyes — eyes that wealth had kept firmly shut.

At that point, Lamberto called the other two together and reminded them how great their father's wealth had been, how great their own had been, and what they'd been reduced to through reckless spending. He urged them, as strongly as he knew how, to sell what little was left and get out of town before their ruin became public knowledge. They took his advice. Without saying goodbye to anyone or making any fuss, they left Florence and didn't stop until they reached England, where they rented a small house in London, cut their expenses to the bone, and threw themselves into moneylending. Fortune smiled on them in this venture, and within a few years they'd amassed a huge sum. One by one, they returned to Florence, bought back most of their old estates and plenty of new ones besides, and took wives.

But even after all that, they kept up the lending business in England. They sent a young nephew of theirs, a man named Alessandro, to manage things over there. Meanwhile, back in Florence, all three brothers — now fathers with families — promptly forgot where reckless spending had landed them before and began living more extravagantly than ever. Every merchant in town gave them credit for any amount, no matter how large. Alessandro's remittances helped for a while — he'd been lending to English barons against their castles and properties, and the returns were excellent. But then, just as the three brothers were borrowing more and more and confidently counting on the money from England, something no one expected happened: war broke out between the King of England and his son, tearing the whole island into two factions. Every one of the barons' castles was seized, and Alessandro's entire revenue stream dried up overnight.

Day after day, Alessandro held on, hoping that peace would come and everything would be restored — principal and interest alike. So he stayed in England. And the three brothers in Florence didn't slow down one bit, borrowing more every day. But when years passed and their hopes came to nothing, the brothers lost their credit entirely. Their creditors demanded payment, and the brothers were suddenly arrested. Their assets didn't come close to covering what they owed, so they stayed in prison for the rest, while their wives and small children scattered — some to the countryside, some here, some there — in desperate straits, expecting nothing but misery for the rest of their lives.

Meanwhile, Alessandro had been waiting in England for a peace that never came. Realizing that staying was not only pointless but actually dangerous — his life might be at risk — he decided to return to Italy. He set out alone, and as luck would have it, coming out of Bruges, he spotted an abbot in white robes also leaving the city, accompanied by a large retinue of monks, a great number of servants, and a long train of baggage. Behind the abbot rode two elderly knights who were kinsmen of the King. Alessandro recognized them as acquaintances and greeted them, and they gladly took him into their company.

As they traveled together, he quietly asked them who the monks up ahead were, with such a grand entourage, and where they were headed. One of the knights replied, "The one riding up there is a young relative of ours, recently elected abbot of one of the most important abbeys in England. But he's younger than the law allows for such a position, so we're accompanying him to Rome to ask the Holy Father for a dispensation regarding his youth and to confirm him in the office. But this needs to stay between us."

The new abbot, riding sometimes ahead of the retinue and sometimes behind — the way travelers of rank tend to do — happened to notice Alessandro nearby. He was a strikingly handsome young man, well-mannered, agreeable, and as fine-looking as anyone you'd ever see. The abbot was taken with him immediately, more than he'd ever been taken with anyone, and calling Alessandro to his side, struck up a pleasant conversation, asking who he was, where he'd come from, and where he was going. Alessandro told him the whole story openly and offered his services in whatever small way he could.

The abbot, hearing his polished and articulate speech, took careful note of his manners and inwardly judged him to be a man of good breeding, despite his humble line of work. He grew even more charmed by Alessandro's company and, full of compassion for his troubles, spoke to him with genuine warmth, urging him to keep his hopes up — if he was a man of true worth, God would yet restore him to the position from which fortune had cast him down, and perhaps even raise him higher. The abbot also asked Alessandro, since he was heading toward Tuscany, to please travel with him, as he too was bound in that direction. Alessandro thanked him for the encouragement and said he was entirely at the abbot's disposal.

And so the abbot continued his journey, stirred by new feelings that the sight of Alessandro had awakened in him. After some days of travel, they arrived at a village with poor accommodations. Since the abbot wanted to spend the night there, Alessandro arranged for him to stay at the home of an innkeeper he knew well, setting up a bedroom for him in the least uncomfortable room in the house. By now Alessandro had become something like the abbot's chief steward, a capable man who knew how to get things done, and he found lodgings for the rest of the company around the village as best he could.

After the abbot had eaten supper and the night was well advanced and everyone had gone to bed, Alessandro asked the innkeeper where he himself could sleep.

"Honestly, I don't know," the innkeeper said. "You can see every spot is taken. My own family will be sleeping on benches tonight. But there are some grain sacks in the abbot's room — I could throw some bedding on top of those, and you could sleep there if you want."

"How am I supposed to go into the abbot's room?" said Alessandro. "You know how small it is — it was too tight for even one of his monks to sleep there. If I'd thought of this before the bed curtains were drawn, I'd have put the monks on the grain sacks and taken their spot."

"Well, that's how things stand," the innkeeper said. "But if you're willing, you can sleep in there perfectly well. The abbot's asleep and the curtains are drawn. I'll slip a pallet in there quietly, and you can make the best of it."

Seeing that this could be done without disturbing the abbot, Alessandro agreed and settled himself on the grain sacks as quietly as he could.

The abbot, however, was not asleep at all. His thoughts were consumed by new desires. He'd heard the whole exchange between Alessandro and the innkeeper and noticed where Alessandro had lain down. Thoroughly pleased, he began thinking: "God has sent me exactly the opportunity I've been wishing for. If I don't take it, it may be a long time before another one comes along."

Resolved to seize the moment, and satisfied that all was quiet in the inn, the abbot called to Alessandro in a low voice and told him to come lie beside him. After some hesitation, Alessandro undressed and lay down next to the abbot. The abbot placed a hand on Alessandro's chest and began caressing him the way a lovesick girl caresses her sweetheart. Alessandro was completely astonished and strongly suspected that the abbot was driven by some unnatural desire. Whether the abbot guessed these suspicions from Alessandro's stiffening or from some gesture, he smiled. Then, suddenly pulling open the shirt he was wearing, he took Alessandro's hand and placed it on his own chest.

"Alessandro," he said, "put your foolish thoughts aside. Feel what I'm hiding, and you'll understand."

Alessandro pressed his hand against the abbot's chest and found there two small breasts — round, firm, and delicate, as if carved from ivory. In that instant he understood: the abbot was a woman. Without waiting for any further invitation, he took her in his arms and moved to kiss her, but she stopped him.

"Before you come any closer," she said, "listen to what I have to tell you. As you can now see, I'm a woman, not a man. I left home a virgin and was on my way to the Pope to arrange my marriage. Whether it's your good fortune or my misfortune, the moment I saw you the other day, love blazed up in me so fiercely that no woman has ever loved a man as I love you. I've decided to take you as my husband before anyone else. But if you don't want me as your wife, leave right now and go back to your own bed."

Alessandro didn't know who she was, but judging from her retinue and the whole grand operation, he concluded she must be both noble and rich. He could also see that she was very beautiful. So without overthinking it, he replied that if this was what pleased her, it was enormously agreeable to him.

She sat up in bed, placed a ring in his hand, and had him pledge himself to her before a picture of Christ that hung on the wall. After that, they embraced and spent the rest of the night in passionate enjoyment — to the immense satisfaction of both parties.

When dawn came, they agreed on a plan. Alessandro got up and left the room the same way he'd entered, without anyone knowing where he'd spent the night. Then, overjoyed beyond measure, he took to the road again with the abbot and the rest of the company. After many days of travel, they arrived in Rome.

They stayed there for a few days, and then the abbot, along with the two knights and Alessandro — and no one else — went before the Pope. After paying the proper respects, the abbot addressed him:

"Holy Father, as you know better than anyone, a person who wants to live well and honestly should avoid every occasion that might lead them astray. And it's precisely to do that — to live honestly and fully — that I, having secretly fled with a great portion of the treasures of my father, the King of England, who intended to marry me off to the King of Scotland — a very old man, while I, as you can see, am a young woman — set out in this disguise to come before Your Holiness, so that you might arrange my marriage.

"It wasn't the King of Scotland's age alone that made me run. It was the fear that if I married him, the frailty of youth might lead me to do something contrary to God's laws and to the honor of my father's royal blood. And so I traveled, determined to live rightly. And as I came, God — who alone truly knows what each of us needs — placed before my eyes, as I believe by His mercy, the man He wished to be my husband. That man is this young man here" — she indicated Alessandro — "whom you see beside me, and whose character and worth are fit for any lady of the highest rank, even if his birth may not be as illustrious as royal blood.

"Him I have taken, and him I want. I will never accept any other, no matter what my father or anyone else may think. So the main purpose of my journey is accomplished. But I wished to complete the trip — both to visit the holy places with which this city overflows and Your Holiness as well — and through you, to publicly declare, in your presence and therefore before all the world, the marriage that Alessandro and I contracted in the presence of God alone. I humbly pray that what has pleased God and me may also find favor with you, and that you will grant us your blessing, so that we may live — and ultimately die — together with the greater assurance of His approval, whose Vicar you are."

Alessandro was astonished to learn that the young woman was the daughter of the King of England, and he was flooded with joy. But the two knights were even more astonished — and so furious that, had they been anywhere other than in the Pope's presence, they might have done Alessandro serious harm, and possibly the lady too.

The Pope himself was greatly surprised, both by the lady's disguise and by her choice. But seeing that what was done could not be undone, he agreed to grant her request. First he calmed the two knights, who he could see were livid, and reconciled them with the lady and Alessandro. Then he made the necessary arrangements.

On the appointed day, before all the cardinals and a great many other distinguished guests who had been invited to a magnificent wedding feast he'd prepared, the Pope presented the lady, now dressed in royal finery. She looked so beautiful and so radiant that everyone praised her. Alessandro, too, was splendidly dressed, and in his bearing and appearance he looked nothing like a young man who'd been lending money — he looked like royalty. The two knights now treated him with full honors. The Pope solemnly celebrated the marriage, and after a grand and magnificent reception, he gave them his blessing and sent them on their way.

It pleased both Alessandro and his bride to go to Florence, where news of the marriage had already arrived. The citizens received them with the highest honors. The lady had the three brothers released from prison, having first paid off every one of their debts. She restored them and their wives to their properties, and with everyone's goodwill she and her husband then left Florence, taking Agolante with them. They traveled to Paris, where the King of France received them with great ceremony.

From there, the two knights crossed over to England and worked on the King so effectively that he forgave his daughter, and with enormous rejoicing received both her and his new son-in-law. Shortly after, he knighted Alessandro with the highest honors and granted him the Earldom of Cornwall.

In this role, Alessandro proved himself so capable and so skilled that he managed to reconcile the King with his rebellious son — a feat that brought enormous benefit to the whole island and earned him the love and respect of the entire English people.

Agolante, meanwhile, recovered every penny that was owed to the family and returned to Florence fabulously rich, having been knighted by Count Alessandro himself.

The Count lived a long and glorious life with his lady. And some say that, through his own wits and courage — aided by his father-in-law — he eventually conquered Scotland and was crowned its King.

Day 2, Story 4

Landolfo Rufolo, having lost his fortune, turns pirate. Captured by the Genoese, he's shipwrecked at sea but saves himself by clinging to a chest full of precious jewels. Taken in by a woman on Corfu, he returns home a wealthy man.

Lauretta, who sat next to Pampinea, saw her reach the glorious end of her story and began without waiting to be asked:

"Dear ladies, in my opinion, there's no greater feat of Fortune than seeing someone raised from the lowest misery to a royal throne, as Pampinea's story just showed us with Alessandro. And since from here on, whoever tells a story on our theme must stay within these bounds, I won't be embarrassed to tell one that, while it involves even greater hardships, doesn't end quite so splendidly. I realize that, compared to the last one, my story may hold your attention a little less — but you'll have to forgive me, since I can't do otherwise.

The coastline from Reggio to Gaeta is generally considered one of the most beautiful stretches in all of Italy, and along it, not far from Salerno, there's a hillside overlooking the sea that the locals call the Amalfi Coast. It's dotted with small towns, gardens, and springs, and its people are as rich and enterprising in trade as any in the world. Among these towns is one called Ravello, and there — though there are wealthy people there today — there once lived a man named Landolfo Rufolo who was extraordinarily rich. But his wealth wasn't enough for him. In trying to double it, he nearly lost everything, including himself.

Here's what happened. After laying his plans the way merchants do, Landolfo bought a large ship, loaded it entirely with his own money's worth of merchandise, and sailed for Cyprus. When he arrived, he found that several other ships had come with the exact same kind and quality of goods he'd brought. Not only was he forced to sell his cargo at a steep discount, but he practically had to give it away just to move it — and it nearly ruined him.

Sick with frustration and not knowing what to do — a man who'd been very rich and was now, in the blink of an eye, nearly broke — he decided he would either die or make back his losses through plunder. He refused to go home poor after leaving rich. So he found a buyer for his big ship, and with the proceeds from that and from his bargain-sale goods, he bought a small, fast vessel perfect for raiding. He armed and outfitted it with everything needed for the job and set about helping himself to other people's merchandise — especially that of the Turks.

In this line of work, Fortune was far kinder to him than she'd been in legitimate trade. Within about a year, he'd plundered and captured so many Turkish ships that he'd not only recovered everything he'd lost as a merchant, but more than doubled his original fortune. Schooled by the sting of his earlier loss, and calculating that he now had enough, he talked himself into being satisfied with what he had rather than risking another disaster. He resolved to take his profits and head home. Wary of trade by now, he didn't bother reinvesting the money — he simply put his oars in the water and set sail for home in the same little raiding vessel that had made him rich.

He'd already reached the Aegean when one evening a violent southeast wind blew up — not only dead against his course, but raising such mountainous seas that his little ship couldn't take it. He ducked into a sheltered cove formed by a small island and anchored there to wait for better weather. He hadn't been there long when two large Genoese merchant ships, coming from Constantinople, struggled into the same little harbor to escape the same storm.

The Genoese spotted the small ship and learned it belonged to Landolfo, whom they already knew by reputation to be very wealthy. Being the sort of men who are rapacious and greedy by nature, they blocked his way out and prepared to seize his vessel. They landed a group of well-armed men with crossbows and positioned them so that no one could leave the little ship without being shot. Then the rest of them, using longboats and the current, pulled alongside Landolfo's vessel and took it in short order — crew and all, without losing a single man. They hauled Landolfo aboard one of the big ships, leaving him nothing but the thin jacket on his back, and after stripping everything from his vessel, they scuttled it.

The next morning the wind shifted and the two ships made sail westward, enjoying fair weather all day. But toward evening a violent storm blew up, driving the waves to terrifying heights and separating the two ships from each other. By sheer bad luck, the ship carrying the wretched Landolfo was hurled with tremendous force onto a shoal off the island of Cephalonia. It split apart amidships and shattered like a glass thrown against a wall.

In an instant the sea was full of floating bales of merchandise, chests, and planks — the way it always is in such disasters — and the poor souls aboard, those who could swim, began grabbing at whatever came within reach in the pitch darkness and the towering waves. Among them was Landolfo. Though he'd called for death many times that day — preferring to die rather than go home penniless — now that death was actually staring him in the face, he was terrified of it. Like everyone else, he grabbed hold of a plank that drifted his way, hoping that if he could just keep from drowning a little while longer, God might send him some way out.

Straddling the plank, he kept himself afloat as best he could, tossed back and forth by the sea and the wind. When daylight finally came, he looked around and saw nothing but clouds and water — and a chest bobbing on the waves. Every now and then it drifted dangerously close to him, and he was terrified it would slam into him and do him in. Whenever it floated near, he shoved it away with his hand, though he had barely any strength left.

But then a sudden gust of wind came out of nowhere, struck the sea, and drove the chest straight into Landolfo's plank with such force that the plank flipped over and Landolfo went under. He kicked and clawed his way back to the surface, helped more by terror than by strength, and saw the plank now far away. Realizing he might never reach it again, he made for the chest instead, which was close by, and threw himself flat across its lid, steering it with his arms as best he could.

And so, tossed by the sea this way and that, without a bite to eat — since he had nothing — but drinking far more saltwater than he would have liked, not knowing where he was, seeing nothing but ocean, he drifted all that day and all the following night. The next day, whether by the will of God or the force of the wind, he arrived — by now swollen like a sponge and gripping the edges of the chest with both hands the way drowning people do — at the coast of Corfu. There, a poor woman happened to be scrubbing her pots and pans, polishing them with sand and seawater.

She saw Landolfo drifting toward shore but couldn't make out anything human in what she was looking at. She drew back with a cry of fright. He couldn't speak and could barely see, so he said nothing. But as the sea carried him closer to land, the woman made out the shape of the chest and, looking more carefully, recognized first the arms stretched across it, then the face, and finally understood what she was seeing.

Moved by compassion, she waded out a little way into the sea — which was calm by now — grabbed Landolfo by the hair, and dragged him ashore, chest and all. With some difficulty she pried his hands from the chest, set it on the head of her young daughter to carry, and took Landolfo himself to her cottage, carrying him like a small child. She put him in a warm bath and scrubbed and rubbed him until the warmth returned to his body along with some of his lost strength. When she thought the time was right, she took him out of the bath, restored him with some good wine and a bit of food, and nursed him for several days as best she could. Eventually he recovered his strength and knew where he was, and she judged it was time to give him back his chest, which she'd kept safe, and to tell him he should be on his way.

Landolfo had no memory of the chest at all. Still, when the good woman handed it to him, he took it, figuring it couldn't be so worthless that it wouldn't at least cover his expenses for a few days. But when he picked it up and found it very light, his hopes sank considerably. Nevertheless, while his hostess was out, he broke it open to see what was inside — and found it packed with precious stones, both set and unset. He knew something about gems, and when he saw these, he recognized immediately that they were worth a fortune.

He praised God for not having abandoned him after all, and his spirits soared. But having been cruelly battered by Fortune twice in quick succession, he was wary of a third blow. He decided he'd need to be extremely careful if he wanted to get these treasures home safely. So he wrapped the stones as well as he could in some rags, told the good woman he had no more use for the chest, and asked if she'd give him a sack and keep the chest for herself. She was happy to oblige.

Having thanked her as warmly as he could for all her kindness, he slung the sack over his shoulder, boarded a boat, and crossed over to Brindisi. From there he made his way up the coast to Trani, where he ran into some fellow townsmen who were cloth merchants. Out of charity, they gave him clothes — he'd told them the whole story of his adventures, minus the part about the chest — and even lent him a horse and arranged an escort back to Ravello, where he said he wanted to go.

Back home at last, feeling safe and thanking God for guiding him there, he opened his sack and examined everything more carefully than he'd been able to before. He found that the quantity and quality of the stones were such that, even selling them below market value, he'd be twice as rich as when he'd left.

He found a way to sell the jewels. Then he sent a generous sum of money to the good woman in Corfu who had pulled him from the sea, in repayment for her kindness, and another sum to the men in Trani who had given him clothes. The rest he kept for himself, and he lived out the rest of his days in comfort and honor — never tempted to try his hand at trade again.

Day 2, Story 5

Andreuccio of Perugia comes to Naples to buy horses and in a single night is hit with three terrible misadventures — but escapes them all and goes home with a ruby.

"The jewels that Landolfo found," began Fiammetta, whose turn it was to tell the next story, "have reminded me of a tale nearly as full of dangerous scrapes as the one Lauretta just told — but different in this respect: her story's adventures unfolded over what may have been several years, while the ones I'm about to tell you happened in the space of a single night. Here's how it went.

There once lived in Perugia, so I've heard, a young man named Andreuccio di Pietro who dealt in horses. When he heard that horses were selling cheap in Naples, he stuffed five hundred gold florins into his purse and headed south with some other merchants — his first time ever away from home. He arrived on a Sunday evening around vespers, and after getting some advice from his innkeeper, he went out the next morning to the horse market. He saw plenty of horses that he liked and haggled over one after another but couldn't close a deal on any of them. And the whole time — to show that he was a serious buyer — this raw, clueless newcomer kept pulling out his fat purse of gold florins in front of every passerby.

While he was going about his business with his purse on display, a young Sicilian woman happened to walk past. She was very beautiful and perfectly willing — for the right price — to make any man happy. He didn't notice her, but she noticed the purse, and immediately thought to herself: "Who'd be better off than me if that money were mine?" And she walked on.

Now, there was an old woman with her, also Sicilian. When the old woman spotted Andreuccio, she let her companion go ahead, ran up to him, and threw her arms around him in a warm greeting. The young woman saw this, stepped aside, and waited without saying a word. Andreuccio turned, recognized the old woman, and gave her a hearty hello. She promised to come visit him at his inn, then left without chatting too long, and he went back to his bargaining — though he didn't buy anything that morning.

The young woman, who had first noticed Andreuccio's purse and then noticed her old companion's familiarity with him, began carefully pumping the old woman for information — looking for a way to get her hands on all or part of that money. She asked who Andreuccio was, where he was from, what he was doing in Naples, and how the old woman knew him. The old woman laid out Andreuccio's whole story nearly as completely as he could have done himself — she'd lived with his father for years, first in Sicily and then in Perugia. She also told the young woman where he was staying and why he'd come.

Armed with this thorough intelligence — his name, his father's name, every detail of his family — the young woman built her plan with cunning precision. When she got home, she kept the old woman busy with errands for the rest of the day so she couldn't go back to visit Andreuccio. Then, toward evening, she sent a maid of hers — a girl she'd trained well in this kind of work — to the inn where Andreuccio was staying.

The maid found him alone at the door and asked him if he was Andreuccio. When he said yes, she drew him aside and said: "Sir, if you'd be willing, a gentlewoman of this city would like a word with you."

Andreuccio heard this and immediately gave himself a thorough once-over. Concluding that he was a pretty good-looking fellow — as if there weren't any other handsome young men in all of Naples — he decided the lady in question must have fallen in love with him. Without a moment's hesitation, he said he'd be glad to come, and asked the maid when and where her mistress wanted to see him.

"Sir, she's waiting for you at her house whenever you'd like to come," the girl replied.

"Lead the way," Andreuccio said at once, without bothering to tell anyone at the inn where he was going.

The maid led him to her mistress's house, which was on a street called Malpertugio — a name that tells you everything you need to know about what kind of neighborhood it was. But Andreuccio, suspecting nothing, thought he was heading to a perfectly respectable place to meet a fine lady. He walked right in without hesitation, with the maid going ahead of him calling up the stairs, "Andreuccio's here!" — and as he climbed the steps, he saw the young woman come to the top of the staircase to greet him.

She was still in the full bloom of youth — tall, with a beautiful face, and very handsomely dressed and adorned. As he approached, she came down three steps to meet him with open arms. She threw them around his neck and held him for a long moment, as though too overcome with emotion to speak. Then she kissed him on the forehead and said in a trembling voice, "Oh, my Andreuccio — you're truly welcome!"

He was bewildered by such tender affection and answered, completely flustered, "My lady, it's a pleasure to meet you."

She took his hand and led him up into her sitting room, and from there, without another word, into her bedroom. It was fragrant with roses, orange blossoms, and other perfumes. He saw a magnificent bed hung all around with curtains, rows of beautiful dresses on the hooks, and all manner of fine, expensive things — the way they do in that part of the world. Being the greenhorn that he was, he became firmly convinced that she was nothing less than a great lady.

She sat him down beside her on a chest at the foot of the bed and began:

"Andreuccio, I'm quite sure you're wondering about these embraces and my tears. You'd have every right to wonder — you don't know me, and you may never have heard of me. But I have something to tell you that's going to amaze you even more: I am your sister. And I want you to know that since God has granted me the chance to see one of my brothers before I die — though I'd give anything to see all of you — I will never again face death feeling inconsolable. But since you may never have heard this story, let me tell it to you.

"Pietro — my father and yours — as I'm sure you know, lived for a long time in Palermo. There he was greatly loved for his good nature and pleasant manner by all who knew him. But among everyone who loved him, my mother loved him most. She was a woman of noble birth, a widow at the time, and she became so deeply involved with him — setting aside all fear of her own father and brothers, all concern for her reputation — that I was the result. I was born, and I grew up as you see me now. Then, when he had reason to leave Palermo and return to Perugia, he left me behind as a small child with my mother, and from what I can tell, he never thought of either of us again. If he weren't my father, I'd judge him harshly for that — the ingratitude he showed my mother, to say nothing of the love he owed me as his daughter, born not of some servant girl or nobody but of a woman who, moved by the deepest love and knowing nothing of who he really was, had entrusted him with everything she had, and herself besides. But what good does it do to complain? Things badly done and long past are easier to criticize than to fix. That's just how it was.

"He left me as a small child in Palermo. When I'd grown to about the size I am now, my mother — who was a wealthy woman — married me to a fine gentleman from Agrigento. For love of my mother and me, he moved to Palermo, and there, being a staunch supporter of the Guelphs, he entered into a secret negotiation with our King Charles. But King Frederick discovered the plot before it could be carried out, and we were forced to flee Sicily — just when I was about to become the greatest lady on the island. Taking what few things we could — and I say 'few' compared to the vast amount we had to leave behind, both lands and palaces — we took refuge in this city. Here we found King Charles so grateful for our loyalty that he partly made up for the losses we'd suffered on his account, giving us both lands and houses. He still provides my husband — your brother-in-law — with a generous allowance, as you'll see for yourself. And that, dear brother, is how I came to be in this city, where — thanks be to God and no thanks to you — I now get to see you at last."

With that, she embraced him all over again and kissed his forehead once more, still weeping tenderly.

Andreuccio heard this elaborate fabrication — delivered by the young woman so smoothly, so flawlessly, without a single stammer or hesitation — and considered what he knew to be true: his father really had lived in Palermo. He knew from personal experience how easily young men fall in love, and he saw the affectionate tears, the embraces, the chaste kisses she lavished on him. He took everything she said for the absolute truth.

When she'd finished, he replied: "My lady, it shouldn't surprise you that I'm astonished. The truth is, whether my father never spoke of you and your mother for some reason, or whether he did and it just never reached me, I had no more knowledge of you than if you'd never existed. And that makes finding a sister here all the more precious to me, since I'm completely alone in this city and never expected anything of the kind. Honestly, I can't think of a man so high-ranking that you wouldn't be dear to him, let alone me — I'm nothing but a small-time horse dealer. But I'd like you to clear up one thing: how did you know I was here?"

"A poor woman who visits me often told me this morning," she said. "She tells me she lived a long time with our father, both in Palermo and in Perugia. And if it hadn't seemed more proper that you should visit me in my own house rather than me visiting you in someone else's, I'd have come to you ages ago."

After that, she began asking about all his relatives by name, and he answered every question — which only made him believe even more firmly the very thing he should have believed least.

Their conversation was long and the heat was fierce, so she called for Greek wine and sweets and had Andreuccio served. After a while, he made to leave — it was suppertime — but she would absolutely not hear of it. Putting on a show of being deeply hurt, she threw her arms around him.

"Oh, this is terrible!" she cried. "I can see how little I mean to you! Here you are with a sister you've never seen, in her own house — the very place where you should have been staying all along — and you want to leave to go eat at the inn? No, you're having supper with me. My husband is away, which I'm very sorry about, but I know how to show you a little hospitality, even if it's only what a woman can manage."

Not knowing what else to say, Andreuccio replied, "I care about you as much as anyone should care about a sister. But if I don't go back, they'll be waiting for me at supper all evening, and it'll be rude."

"Good Lord!" she exclaimed. "You'd think I had no one in the house to send with a message! Though really, you'd be doing a much greater kindness — and your plain duty — if you sent for your companions and had them come here for supper. Then, if you absolutely insist on leaving, you could all go back together."

Andreuccio said he didn't want his companions that evening, and that she could do with him as she pleased. She made a great show of sending word to the inn that he shouldn't be expected for supper. Then, after a long stretch of conversation, they sat down to eat and were served an elaborate meal of many courses while she cleverly dragged the dinner out until it was fully dark.

When they finally rose from the table and Andreuccio tried to leave, she declared she would absolutely not allow it. Naples was no place to be wandering around at night, she said, especially for a stranger. And when she'd sent the message about supper, she'd also let them know he wouldn't be sleeping at the inn tonight.

Andreuccio believed all of this. And since he was enjoying her company — completely taken in by his false assumptions — he stayed. After supper they talked at great length, and not without purpose on her part, until a good portion of the night had passed. Then she withdrew to another room with her maids, leaving Andreuccio in her bedroom with a small boy to attend him if he needed anything.

The heat was stifling. As soon as Andreuccio found himself alone, he stripped down to his undershirt, took off his pants, and laid them at the head of the bed. Then nature called — urgently — and he asked the boy where he could relieve himself. The boy pointed to a door in one corner of the room and said, "In there."

Andreuccio opened the door and walked through without a second thought, but he happened to step on a plank that had come loose from the beam at the far end. The plank flipped up and down they went — plank and Andreuccio together — into the alley below.

God must have been looking out for him, because despite falling from a good height, he didn't hurt himself. He was, however, absolutely covered from head to toe in the filth that filled the place. And so you can better picture what happened — both what I've already described and what comes next — let me explain how this spot was set up. In a narrow alley, the kind you often see between two buildings, a pair of beams had been laid across from one house to the other. Some planks were nailed on top, and a privy seat was set up on them. The plank that gave way under Andreuccio was one of these.

Finding himself at the bottom of the alley, utterly disgusted by what had happened, Andreuccio started yelling for the boy. But the boy, the instant he heard the crash, had run to tell his mistress. She rushed to Andreuccio's room and quickly checked whether his clothes were still there. She found them — and with them the money, which, out of suspicion, the fool had been carrying on his person the whole time. Having now gotten exactly what she'd been after — the whole reason this Palermo-born "sister" of a Perugian had laid her trap — she lost all interest in Andreuccio. She hurried to shut the door through which he'd fallen.

Getting no answer from the boy, Andreuccio began calling louder, but it was useless. His suspicions now fully aroused, he started — far too late — to see the con for what it was. He scrambled over a low wall that separated the alley from the street, dropped down to the road, and went up to the front door of the house — which he recognized perfectly well. He pounded on it, shook it, and shouted for a long time, all to no effect.

Seeing his situation clearly at last, he cried out in anguish: "Oh, God help me! I've just lost five hundred florins and a sister in one shot!"

After a good deal more of this kind of talk, he started hammering on the door and screaming again, and kept it up so long and so loudly that many of the neighbors, unable to stand the racket, got out of bed. One of the woman's servants came to the window, looking convincingly half asleep, and said peevishly: "Who's banging down there?"

"What do you mean, who?" cried Andreuccio. "Don't you know me? I'm Andreuccio, brother of Madonna Fiordaliso!"

"My good man," she said, "if you've had too much to drink, go sleep it off and come back in the morning. I don't know any Andreuccio, and I don't know what you're rambling about. Please go away and let us sleep."

"What!" Andreuccio shot back. "You don't know what I'm talking about? Oh, you know perfectly well! But fine — if this is how Sicilian family ties work, forgotten in a matter of hours, then at least give me back my clothes and I'll gladly be on my way."

"My good man," she said with what sounded like a laugh, "I think you must be dreaming." And with that, she pulled her head in and slammed the shutters in one smooth motion.

Andreuccio, now fully aware of what he'd lost, was so furious he nearly went mad. He decided to take back by force what he couldn't get with words. Picking up a large stone, he began battering the door even harder than before.

At this point, many of the neighbors who'd already been woken up — assuming he was some troublemaker who'd invented the whole story to harass the woman of the house — came to their windows and started in on him the way all the dogs in a neighborhood bark at a stray:

"It's a disgrace, coming to a decent woman's house at this hour with these ridiculous stories! For the love of God, man, clear off and let us sleep. If you've got business with her, come back tomorrow and spare us this nonsense tonight."

Emboldened perhaps by these words, someone inside the house appeared at the window — a thug who worked for the woman and whom Andreuccio hadn't seen or heard before. In a deep, terrifying growl of a voice, the man demanded: "Who's down there?"

Andreuccio looked up and could just make out — in the dim light — what appeared to be a very dangerous-looking character, with a thick black beard on his face, yawning and rubbing his eyes as if he'd just been dragged from a deep sleep.

Not without fear, Andreuccio answered: "I'm the brother of the lady who lives here."

The man didn't wait for him to finish. More ferociously than before, he snarled: "I don't know what's stopping me from coming down there and beating you senseless, you stinking drunken jackass. You're not going to let anyone sleep tonight, are you?" Then he pulled back inside and slammed the window shut.

Some of the neighbors, who were better acquainted with this particular character, said quietly to Andreuccio: "For God's sake, man, get out of here. Don't stay and get yourself killed tonight. Go — for your own good."

Terrified by the man's voice and appearance and moved by the neighbors' warnings — which seemed to come from genuine concern — Andreuccio gave up and started heading back toward his inn. He struck out in the direction from which the maid had originally led him, though he had no real idea where he was going. He was miserable, grieving his money, and utterly wretched.

He was disgusting even to himself. The stench coming off him was unbearable, so he turned left, thinking he'd head toward the sea to wash himself off. He followed a street called Ruga Catalana, which led toward the upper part of the city. As he walked, he noticed two men coming toward him carrying a lantern. Afraid they might be officers of the watch or some other trouble, he ducked into a run-down hovel nearby to hide.

But the two men, as if they'd been heading there on purpose, walked straight into the same hovel. Once inside, one of them set down a bundle of iron tools from his shoulder, and they began examining the tools and discussing their plans.

While they talked, one of them suddenly said: "What's that? I swear that's the worst stench I've ever smelled in my life." He raised the lantern a little higher, spotted the wretched Andreuccio, and exclaimed in surprise: "Who's there?"

Andreuccio didn't answer. But the two men came closer with the light and asked him what he was doing there in that state. So Andreuccio told them everything that had happened.

Figuring out where it must have taken place, they said to each other: "That had to be at Scarabone Buttafuoco's house."

Then one of them turned to Andreuccio: "Listen, friend — you've lost your money, but you've got a lot to thank God for. If you hadn't fallen when you did, you can bet that once you'd fallen asleep up there, you'd have had your skull cracked open. You'd have lost your life along with your money. But what's the use of crying about it now? You've got about as much chance of getting a penny of that money back as you do of plucking the stars out of the sky. In fact, that fellow will have you murdered if he hears you've been making noise about it."

The two men conferred briefly, then said to him: "Look, we feel sorry for you. So here's the deal: if you want to join us in a little job we're about to do, we're pretty sure your share will be worth a lot more than what you lost."

Andreuccio, in his desperation, said he was in.

Now, that very day an Archbishop of Naples named Messer Filippo Minutolo had been buried. He'd been interred in his richest vestments and with a ruby on his finger worth more than five hundred gold florins. These two were planning to rob his tomb, and they explained the whole scheme to Andreuccio. More greedy than wise, he agreed to come along.

Off they went toward the cathedral. As they walked, the smell coming off Andreuccio was still overpowering, and one of the thieves said: "Can't we find somewhere for this guy to wash up? Even a little? He stinks to high heaven."

"Sure," said the other. "There's a well near here that always used to have a rope and pulley with a big bucket. Let's take him there and clean him up quick."

They reached the well and found the rope still there, but the bucket had been removed. So they decided to tie Andreuccio to the rope, lower him down into the well to wash, and have him shake the rope when he was clean so they could pull him back up.

They'd barely lowered him in when — just their luck — a patrol of the night watch came by. The officers were thirsty from the heat and from chasing some criminal, and they headed straight for the well to get a drink. The two thieves spotted them coming and ran for it before the watch could see them.

Down at the bottom of the well, Andreuccio finished washing and gave the rope a shake. The thirsty officers, setting down their shields, weapons, and surcoats, started hauling on the rope, thinking there was a full bucket of water on the other end. The moment Andreuccio got close enough to the top, he let go of the rope and grabbed the rim of the well with both hands.

When the officers saw a man's hands appear instead of a bucket, they were so terrified that they dropped the rope without a word and took off running as fast as their legs would carry them.

Andreuccio was baffled. If he hadn't been gripping that rim for dear life, he'd have fallen all the way back down and possibly killed himself. He hauled himself out and found a pile of weapons lying there that he knew his two companions hadn't brought. Now he was even more confused. Not knowing what to make of any of it and suspecting some kind of trap, he decided to leave everything where it was and get out of there. He hurried off, with no idea where he was going, lamenting his terrible luck.

He hadn't gone far when he ran into his two associates, coming back to fish him out of the well. When they saw him out and walking around, they were amazed and asked who'd pulled him up. Andreuccio said he didn't know and described exactly what had happened, including the weapons he'd found by the wellside. Putting the pieces together, the two men told him, laughing, why they'd fled and who it was that had hauled him up.

Then, without any more delay — it was now the middle of the night — they headed for the cathedral. They got in easily enough and went straight to the Archbishop's tomb, which was enormous, made of marble. Using their iron tools, they levered up the massively heavy lid and propped it open just wide enough for a man to squeeze through.

When it was open, one of them said: "Who's going in?"

"Not me," said the other.

"Not me either," the first one said. "Andreuccio can go."

"Not a chance," said Andreuccio.

At that, both thieves turned on him and said: "What do you mean, not a chance? By God, if you don't get in there, we'll crack your skull with one of these iron bars and leave you dead on the floor."

Terrified, Andreuccio climbed into the tomb. But as he lowered himself in, he was thinking: "These guys are making me go first so they can cheat me. Once I hand them everything, they'll take off while I'm stuck trying to climb out, and I'll be left with nothing."

So he decided to secure his own share in advance. The moment he got to the bottom, remembering the valuable ruby they'd told him about, he slipped it off the Archbishop's finger and onto his own. Then he passed up the crozier, the mitre, and the gloves, and stripped the dead man down to his shirt, handing everything out. He told them there was nothing left.

The thieves insisted the ring had to be there and told him to keep looking. He said he couldn't find it and made a big show of searching around, stalling for time. But the two of them were every bit as cunning as he was. Telling him to keep searching, they seized their moment — they yanked away the prop holding up the lid, and it crashed shut. Then they grabbed their loot and took off, leaving Andreuccio sealed inside the tomb.

You can imagine for yourselves what Andreuccio felt when he realized what had happened. Again and again he tried to heave the lid up with his head and shoulders, but it was hopeless — he only exhausted himself. Overcome by despair and anguish, he passed out cold on top of the Archbishop's body. Anyone who saw the two of them lying there would have had a hard time telling which was the dead one — the prelate or Andreuccio.

When he came to, he burst into a fit of sobbing, because he could see only two possible endings for himself: either no one would come to open the tomb, and he'd slowly die of hunger and the stench, rotting among the worms of the corpse — or someone would come, find him there, and hang him as a thief.

He was sitting there in this miserable state when he heard people moving around in the church and the sound of many voices. He quickly realized they had come to do exactly what he and his companions had already done. His fear doubled.

But after the newcomers forced open the tomb and propped up the lid, a debate broke out over who would go in. Nobody wanted to. After a long argument, a priest finally spoke up:

"What are you all afraid of? You think he's going to eat you? Dead men don't bite. I'll go in myself."

He leaned against the edge of the tomb, swung his legs in headfirst — well, feet-first — with his head facing outward, and started to lower himself down. Andreuccio saw him coming, leaped up, and grabbed the priest by one of his legs, making as if to drag him down into the tomb.

The priest felt himself seized, let out a blood-curdling scream, and flung himself back out of the tomb so fast he nearly flew. The entire group panicked and fled in terror, as if a hundred thousand demons were chasing them — leaving the tomb wide open.

Andreuccio could hardly believe his luck. He scrambled out of the tomb, overjoyed beyond all hope, and made his way out of the church by the way he'd come in. Day was beginning to break. He walked along at random with the ring on his finger until he reached the waterfront and eventually found his way back to the inn. There he found his traveling companions and the innkeeper, who'd been worried about him all night.

He told them everything that had happened, and the innkeeper advised him that the smart move was to get out of Naples immediately. Andreuccio agreed wholeheartedly and left that very morning, heading straight back to Perugia. He'd gone to Naples to buy horses but had come home with a ruby instead.

Day 2, Story 6

Madonna Beritola loses her two sons, is found on a desert island with two baby goats, and travels to Lunigiana. One of her sons takes service with the lord of the country and falls in love with his daughter, landing in prison. After Sicily revolts against King Charles, the young man is recognized by his mother, marries his lord's daughter, and his brother is found as well — restoring the whole family to their former glory.

—-

The young ladies and men all had a good laugh over Andreuccio's adventures as Fiammetta told them. When the story was done, Emilia took up the thread at the queen's command and began like this:

"The twists and turns of Fortune are painful, wrenching things — but talking about them is actually useful, because it shakes us awake. Our minds have a way of falling asleep under Fortune's flattery, and stories like these make the lucky more cautious and give the unlucky some comfort. So even though we've already heard some remarkable tales on this subject, I'd like to tell you one more that's every bit as true as it is heartbreaking. It did have a happy ending, eventually — but the suffering went on for so long and cut so deep that I can hardly believe any later joy was enough to make up for it.

You should know, dear ladies, that after the death of Emperor Frederick the Second, Manfred was crowned King of Sicily. One of his most powerful supporters was a Neapolitan nobleman named Arrighetto Capece, who had married a beautiful, highborn Neapolitan woman called Madonna Beritola Caracciola. Arrighetto was practically running the island. But when King Charles the First defeated and killed Manfred at the Battle of Benevento, and the whole kingdom went over to Charles's side, Arrighetto knew better than to trust the notoriously fickle loyalty of the Sicilians. He made plans to flee rather than become a subject of his lord's enemy. But word of his intentions leaked out to the Sicilians, and before he could escape, he and many other supporters of King Manfred were arrested and handed over to King Charles, along with control of the island itself.

In this terrible upheaval, Madonna Beritola had no idea what had happened to her husband. Terrified of what might come next, she abandoned everything she owned and fled — pregnant, penniless, and bringing along her young son Giusfredi, who was about eight years old. She took a small boat to Lipari, where she gave birth to another boy, whom she named Scacciato. She found a wet nurse and then booked passage on a ship, planning to return to her family in Naples.

But things didn't go as planned. A violent wind blew their ship off course and drove it to the island of Ponza, where they sheltered in a small cove to wait for better weather. Madonna Beritola went ashore like everyone else, found a remote, solitary spot, and began to weep for her lost Arrighetto — all alone.

This became her daily routine. One day, while she was off by herself crying, a pirate galley crept into the cove without anyone noticing. The pirates seized everyone aboard the ship and sailed away with their prize. When Madonna Beritola finished her daily weeping and came back down to the shore to check on her children, she found no one there. At first she was confused. Then the awful truth hit her — she looked out to sea and spotted the pirate galley in the distance, towing her little ship behind it. She understood, with horrible clarity, that she had lost her children just as she had lost her husband.

She collapsed on the sand in a dead faint, crying out for her husband and her sons. There was no one to splash cold water on her face or bring her back to her senses, so her spirit could wander wherever it pleased. Eventually, though, consciousness returned to her wretched body, and with it came a flood of tears and wailing. She called out for her children over and over, searching desperately in every cave and hiding place. When it was clear that all her effort was useless and night was coming on, she began — hoping for she knew not what — to think of her own survival. She left the shore and returned to the cave where she usually went to cry.

She spent the night in terrible fear and unspeakable grief. When morning came and the mid-morning hour passed, she was so hungry — not having eaten the night before — that she was reduced to grazing on wild herbs. She ate what she could and then gave herself over, weeping, to thoughts about what her life would become.

While she sat there brooding, she noticed a mother goat enter a nearby cave and then come back out again, heading into the woods. She got up, went into the cave where the goat had been, and found two tiny newborn kids — born that very day, it seemed — the sweetest, prettiest little things in the world. Her milk hadn't dried up yet from her own recent delivery, so she tenderly picked up the kids and put them to her breast. They didn't refuse. They nursed from her as if she were their own mother, and from that moment on they made no distinction between her and their dam.

And so the gentle lady, feeling she had found some companionship in that desolate place, grew as close to the mother goat as to the two little kids. She resigned herself to live and die there — eating herbs, drinking water, and weeping whenever she remembered her husband, her children, and the life she had lost.

Living like a wild creature in this way, she had been there for some months when it happened that another small vessel, driven to that same spot by foul weather, put in at the island and stayed for several days. On board was a nobleman named Currado, of the Malespina family of marquises, who was traveling home with his wife — a worthy, devout woman — from a pilgrimage to all the holy places in the kingdom of Apulia.

To pass the time, Currado decided one day to explore the island with his wife, some servants, and his hunting dogs. Not far from Madonna Beritola's hideaway, the dogs picked up the scent of the two kids — now grown fairly big — as they were out grazing. The kids, chased by the dogs, ran straight into the cave where Madonna Beritola was sheltering. Seeing this, she leapt to her feet, grabbed a stick, and beat the dogs back.

Currado and his wife came up behind the dogs and stared at her in amazement. She had become dark, thin, and shaggy-haired — and she was even more astonished to see them. After Currado called off his dogs at her insistence, they coaxed her, with a great deal of gentle persuasion, into telling them who she was and what she was doing there. She laid out her whole story — everything that had happened to her, and her firm resolution to stay alone on the island.

Currado had known Arrighetto Capece well. Hearing all this, he wept with pity and did everything he could to talk her out of such a desperate plan, offering to take her back to her own home or to keep her with him, treating her with the same honor he would show a sister, until God sent her better fortune. When the lady refused his offers, Currado left his wife with her, instructing her to have food brought and to provide the lady — who was in rags — with some of her own clothing, and to somehow persuade her to come away with them.

The gentlewoman stayed with Madonna Beritola, first sharing tears over her misfortunes, then sending for food and clothes. It took an enormous effort to get the poor woman to eat a bite or put on a clean garment.

Finally, after much pleading, Madonna Beritola — who insisted she would never go anywhere she might be recognized — agreed to accompany them to Lunigiana, along with the two kids and their mother goat, who had returned in the meantime and greeted her with the most touching affection, much to the gentlewoman's amazement. When fair weather came, Madonna Beritola boarded Currado's ship with the goats and sailed to the mouth of the Magra river, where they landed and traveled up to Currado's castle. There she lived in widow's clothes, attending Currado's wife as one of her ladies-in-waiting — humble, modest, and obedient, still caring for her kids and making sure they were well fed.

Because no one knew her real name, and everyone associated her with the goats, she became known as "Cavriuola" — the little goat-woman.

Meanwhile, the pirates who had seized the ship at Ponza — leaving Madonna Beritola behind because they hadn't seen her — sailed to Genoa with all their captives. When the spoils were divided among the galley's owners, the nurse and the two boys happened to fall to a certain Messer Guasparrino d'Oria, who sent all three to his household to work as slaves.

The nurse was devastated by the loss of her mistress and by the wretched condition she and the boys now found themselves in. She cried long and hard. But she was a sensible, level-headed woman despite her humble station, and once she realized that tears weren't going to change anything, she pulled herself together. Knowing the danger — if anyone found out who the boys really were, they could be harmed or worse — and hoping that fortune might one day turn and they could reclaim their rightful place, she decided not to reveal their identities to anyone until the time was right.

She renamed the older boy Giannotto di Procida instead of Giusfredi, and she left the younger one's name as it was. She explained to Giusfredi, as thoroughly and as often as she could, exactly why she had changed his name and what terrible things could happen if he were recognized. The boy was sharp and quick-witted, and he obeyed his wise nurse to the letter.

So the two boys and their nurse lived patiently in Messer Guasparrino's household for years, poorly clothed, badly shod, and put to the most menial work. But Giannotto — who by now was sixteen, with more spirit than any slave should have been allowed — grew sick of the degradation of a servant's life. He signed on with some galleys bound for Alexandria, left Messer Guasparrino's service, and traveled all over without managing to improve his situation.

Finally, some three or four years after leaving Genoa, now a tall, handsome young man, he heard that his father — whom he'd believed dead — was actually alive, though held prisoner by King Charles. He wandered on, half-despairing of his luck, until he arrived in Lunigiana and, as fate would have it, took service with Currado Malespina. He served him skillfully and well.

From time to time he saw his mother, who was always in the company of Currado's wife. But he never recognized her, and she never recognized him. Time had changed them both so completely from what they had been when they last saw each other.

Now, while Giannotto was in Currado's service, it happened that Currado's daughter Spina — recently widowed by the death of her husband, Niccolo da Grignano — returned to her father's house. She was very beautiful and charming, barely past sixteen. She and Giannotto caught each other's eye, and they fell passionately in love. Their love was not long without results, and their affair went on for several months before anyone noticed.

Growing overconfident, they began to be less careful than they should have been. One day, while out walking together in a beautiful, densely wooded area, they pushed ahead among the trees, leaving the rest of the group behind. Feeling they had gone far enough, they lay down together in a lovely spot — lush with grass and wildflowers, surrounded by trees — and began to enjoy one another.

They'd been at it for quite a while, though the intensity of their pleasure made the time seem short, when they were surprised — first by the girl's mother, then by Currado himself. The sight enraged Currado beyond words. Without explaining why, he had three of his men seize them both and drag them in chains to one of his castles. He stormed off, boiling with fury and consumed by the desire to have them both put to a shameful death.

The girl's mother was furious too, and she certainly thought her daughter deserved severe punishment for what she'd done. But when she gathered from Currado's words what he intended to do, she couldn't bear it. She hurried after her enraged husband and begged him not to rush headlong into becoming the murderer of his own daughter in his old age, and not to dirty his hands with the blood of a servant. There were other ways to satisfy his anger, she said — he could throw them in prison and let them suffer there, giving them time to weep and regret the wrong they'd done.

With these and many other words, the devoted wife worked on him until she turned his mind from killing them. He ordered them locked up in separate cells, well-guarded, with little food and much discomfort, until he decided what to do with them. And so it was done. What their lives were like in prison — the constant tears, the hunger more severe than they deserved — I'll leave to your imagination.

While Giannotto and Spina languished in this miserable state, and had already been locked up for a full year without Currado giving them another thought, it happened that King Pedro of Aragon — through the plotting of Messer Gian di Procida — raised the island of Sicily in revolt against King Charles and took it from him. Currado, who was a Ghibelline, was thrilled.

Giannotto heard the news from one of his guards and heaved a deep sigh. "Oh, God help me!" he said. "For fourteen years I've wandered the world like a beggar, hoping for nothing but this. And now that it's finally happened — now, when I should be able to set my life right — it finds me in a prison I'll never leave alive."

"And what's it to you?" asked the jailer. "What do you care what great kings do to each other? What business do you have in Sicily?"

"My heart is breaking," said Giannotto, "when I think of what my father once was there. I was only a little boy when I fled the island, but I remember him being the lord of it, back when King Manfred was alive."

"And who was your father?" the jailer asked.

"My father's name," Giannotto answered, "I can safely reveal now, since I'm already in the worst danger I ever feared would come from telling it. He was — and still is, if he's alive — Arrighetto Capece. My real name isn't Giannotto. It's Giusfredi. And I have no doubt that if I could get out of this prison and return to Sicily, I'd hold a very high position there."

The honest jailer, without pressing further, reported everything to Currado at the first opportunity. Currado pretended to the jailer that it was nothing important, but then he went straight to Madonna Beritola and politely asked her whether she'd had a son by Arrighetto named Giusfredi. The lady burst into tears and said that if the older of her two sons were alive, that would indeed be his name, and he would now be twenty-two.

Currado, hearing this, was certain the prisoner must be her son. A thought occurred to him: if this was really Giusfredi, he could simultaneously perform a great act of mercy and erase his own and his daughter's shame — by giving Spina to Giannotto in marriage.

He sent for the young man secretly and questioned him in detail about his entire past. When enough unmistakable details confirmed that he was truly Giusfredi, the son of Arrighetto Capece, Currado said to him: "Giannotto — you know what a tremendous wrong you've done to me through my daughter. I always treated you well and like a friend, and as a servant, you should have devoted yourself to my honor and my interests. Most men, if you'd done to them what you did to me, would have put you to a shameful death — but my compassion wouldn't allow it.

"Now then — if what you've told me is true, and you really are the son of a man of rank and a noble lady, I intend to put an end to your suffering — if you're willing — and to restore both your honor and mine to their proper place. As you know, Spina, whom you've taken as your lover — though in a way that was hardly fitting for either of you — is a widow with a large and handsome dowry. You know her character, and you know her parents. Of your present situation, I'll say nothing.

"So here's what I propose: since she has been unlawfully your mistress, she shall now lawfully become your wife. And you will stay here with her, as my own son, for as long as you wish."

Prison had wasted Giannotto's body, but it hadn't diminished one bit the noble spirit he'd inherited from his birth, nor the deep love he felt for Spina. And even though he desperately wanted what Currado was offering, and knew he was completely in Currado's power, he didn't hold back from saying what his pride demanded.

"Currado," he said, "neither ambition, nor greed, nor any other motive ever led me to scheme against your life or your property, like some traitor. I loved your daughter, I love her still, and I always will — because I consider her worthy of my love. If what I did with her was dishonorable in the eyes of the world, well, it's a sin that goes hand in hand with youth, and if you want to do away with it, you'd first have to do away with youth itself. Besides, it's a fault that would seem far less serious if old men would bother to remember that they were once young too, and measure other people's mistakes by their own — and their own by other people's. I committed this offense as a friend, not as an enemy.

"What you're offering me is something I've always wanted, and if I'd thought there was any chance of getting it, I would have asked for it long ago. It will be all the dearer to me now because my hope was nearly gone. But if you don't really mean what your words suggest — don't feed me false hope. Send me back to my cell, and torment me there as much as you like. As long as I love Spina, I will love you too, for her sake, whatever you do to me."

Currado was amazed. He saw greatness of soul in the young man and genuine passion, and it only made him like Giannotto more. He stood up, embraced him, kissed him, and without any further delay, sent for Spina to be brought to them in secret.

She had grown thin, pale, and frail in prison — hardly recognizable, and Giannotto looked like a different man too. But when they were brought together in Currado's presence, the two lovers exchanged their marriage vows by mutual consent, in the proper fashion.

Over the next few days, Currado had the newlyweds supplied with everything they needed and desired, and then he decided it was time to share the good news with their mothers. He called his wife and Cavriuola to him and said to the latter: "What would you say, Madonna, if I were to bring you back your eldest son — as the husband of one of my daughters?"

She answered: "The only thing I can say is that if it were possible for me to be more grateful to you than I already am, I would be — all the more so because you'd be restoring to me something dearer than my own life. And to restore him to me in the way you describe would, in some measure, rekindle a hope I'd given up entirely." And with that, she wept.

Currado turned to his wife. "And you, my lady — how would you feel if I presented you with a son-in-law like this?"

"Even a common man would be fine with me, if he pleased you," she replied. "Let alone someone of noble birth."

"Then," said Currado, "I hope within a few days to make you both very happy women."

When the two young people had been nursed back to health, he dressed them in fine clothes and said to Giusfredi: "Wouldn't it be wonderful — on top of the happiness you already feel — to see your mother here?"

"I hardly dare hope," Giusfredi answered, "that the grief from all her misfortunes has left her alive this long. But if she is alive, I'd want that more than anything — especially because I think with her help I might still recover a good part of my estate in Sicily."

Currado sent for both ladies. They came and embraced the new bride warmly, though they were quite puzzled about what could have possibly inspired Currado to show such extraordinary generosity in marrying Giannotto to his daughter.

Madonna Beritola, remembering Currado's earlier words, began to study Giannotto's face. Some hidden force stirred a faint memory of her son's boyish features in her mind. Without waiting for any further explanation, she ran to him with open arms and threw herself on his neck. The flood of emotion and maternal joy was so overwhelming that she couldn't speak a word — in fact, it overwhelmed her senses so completely that she collapsed in her son's arms as if she were dead.

Giusfredi was stunned. He remembered having seen this woman around the castle many times before, never once recognizing her. But now, all at once, he caught something — a maternal scent, an instinctive recognition — and he blamed himself bitterly for his long blindness. He caught her in his arms, weeping, and kissed her tenderly.

After a while, with the loving help of Currado's wife and Spina, who brought cold water and other remedies, Madonna Beritola came back to her senses. She embraced her son again, overflowing with maternal tenderness, and kissed him a thousand times through her tears. He held her reverently and returned her affection. After these joyful, emotional reunions had been repeated three or four times — to the delight of everyone watching — and mother and son had told each other everything that had happened, Currado announced the new marriage to his friends and arranged a magnificent celebration.

Then Giusfredi said to him: "Currado, you've given me more reasons to be grateful than I can count, and you've been wonderfully kind to my mother for a long time. Now, so that nothing remains undone that's in your power to do, I have a favor to ask: please make my mother happy, and my wedding feast complete, and me as well — by bringing my brother here. He's being held as a slave in Messer Guasparrino d'Oria's household. As I told you before, Guasparrino captured both of us on one of his raids. And I'd also like you to send someone to Sicily to find out what's happened to my father, Arrighetto — whether he's alive or dead, and what his situation is — and then report back to us."

Currado was happy to oblige. Without delay, he sent capable men both to Genoa and to Sicily.

The man who went to Genoa tracked down Messer Guasparrino and earnestly requested, on Currado's behalf, that he send over Scacciato and the nurse, explaining everything that Currado had done for Giusfredi and his mother.

Messer Guasparrino was astonished. "It's certainly true," he said, "that I'd do anything in my power to please Currado. And yes, I've had the boy you're looking for and his mother in my house for the past fourteen years — I'll gladly send them to him. But tell Currado from me to be careful about believing the tall tales of this Giannotto, who now calls himself Giusfredi. He's a much bigger scoundrel than Currado realizes."

That said, he had the gentleman comfortably hosted and then privately sent for the nurse to question her closely about the whole business. Now, the nurse had heard about the Sicilian revolt and learned that Arrighetto was alive. Her old fears vanished. She told Guasparrino everything — the full story, in order, and the reasons behind every choice she'd made.

Messer Guasparrino found that her account matched perfectly with what Currado's messenger had said, and he began to believe it. He was a shrewd man, and as he investigated further through various channels, every new piece of evidence confirmed the truth. Ashamed of how poorly he'd treated the boy all those years, he decided to make amends. Knowing who Arrighetto had been and still was, he gave the young man his own beautiful eleven-year-old daughter as a wife, along with a generous dowry.

After hosting a grand wedding celebration, Guasparrino boarded a well-armed galley with the boy, the girl, Currado's messenger, and the nurse, and sailed to Lerici. There Currado met them and brought the whole party to one of his nearby castles, where a great feast was already underway.

The joy of the mother at seeing her other son again, the joy of the two brothers in each other, the happiness of all three at being reunited with their faithful nurse, the honor shown by everyone to Messer Guasparrino and his daughter and by him to everyone in return, and the general rejoicing of the whole company with Currado and his wife and children and friends — no words could possibly capture it. So, ladies, I'll leave it to your imagination.

And to make the happiness complete, it pleased God — who is the most generous of givers once He begins — to add the wonderful news that Arrighetto Capece was alive and well. For just as the feast was at its height and the guests were still at the table for the first course, the man who had been sent to Sicily arrived. Among other things, he reported that when the revolt against King Charles broke out across the island, an angry mob had stormed the prison where Arrighetto was held, killed his guards, and set him free. As a sworn enemy of King Charles, they made him their captain and followed him in driving out and killing the French. He had risen to a position of great favor with King Pedro, who had restored all his honors and estates — and he was now living very comfortably indeed.

The messenger added that Arrighetto had received him with the utmost courtesy and had been overwhelmed with joy at learning his wife and son were alive — he had heard nothing of them since his capture. He had even sent a brigantine to fetch them, manned by several gentlemen who were following close behind.

The messenger was greeted with enormous applause and celebration. Currado went out at once with some of his friends to welcome the gentlemen who had come for Madonna Beritola and Giusfredi, and brought them joyfully into the banquet, which wasn't even half finished. Both the lady and Giusfredi — and everyone else — greeted them with a happiness beyond anything ever heard. Before sitting down to eat, the gentlemen conveyed Arrighetto's greetings to Currado and his wife, thanking them as eloquently as they could for the honor shown to his wife and son, and pledging Arrighetto's eternal gratitude. Then, turning to Messer Guasparrino — whose kindness had been quite unexpected — they assured him that when Arrighetto learned what he had done for Scacciato, similar and even greater thanks would be forthcoming.

After that, they all feasted joyfully at the double wedding celebration. And Currado didn't just entertain his new son-in-law and the rest of the family and friends that one day — the festivities went on for many more.

When the celebrations finally died down and the time came to leave, Madonna Beritola and Giusfredi and everyone else took their tearful farewells of Currado and his wife and Messer Guasparrino. They boarded the brigantine, taking Spina with them, and with a fair wind, they sailed swiftly to Sicily. There — in Palermo — Arrighetto welcomed them all, sons and daughters-in-law alike, with a joy beyond all telling.

And there, it is believed, they all lived happily for a long time afterward, in love with one another and grateful to God for all the blessings they had received."

Day 2, Story 7

The Sultan of Babylon sends his daughter to be married to the King of Algarve. Through a series of misadventures over the course of four years, she passes through the hands of nine men in various places. Finally restored to her father as a supposed virgin, she goes on to marry the King of Algarve, just as originally planned.

—-

If Emilia's story had gone on much longer, the compassion the young ladies felt for Madonna Beritola's misfortunes would probably have brought them all to tears. But since it was done, the queen asked Panfilo to continue with his, and he — always obliging — began like this:

"It's hard for us to know what's truly good for us, dear ladies. How many people have imagined that if only they were rich, they could live without a care in the world? They haven't just prayed for wealth — they've chased it relentlessly, sparing no effort and no danger. And some of these people, who loved their lives perfectly well before they got rich, have been murdered by others who coveted their fortune. Others, born low, have climbed to the summit of kingdoms through a thousand bloody battles at the cost of their brothers' and friends' lives, believing they'd find supreme happiness in royal power — only to discover that poison gets drunk from golden cups at royal tables. Many have burned with desire for physical strength, or beauty, or personal grace, and only realized these were curses when those very gifts brought them death or a miserable life.

"In short, without going through the whole catalog of human desires, I'll just say this: there isn't a single thing that mortals can choose with complete confidence that fortune won't snatch it away. If we want to do the right thing, we should simply resign ourselves to accepting whatever is given to us by the One who alone knows what we need and has the power to provide it.

"But while men sin by desiring all sorts of things, you, gracious ladies, have one particular weakness above all — namely, your wish to be beautiful. Not content with the looks nature gave you, you go to astonishing lengths to improve on them. So it seems fitting to tell you the story of a Saracen lady whose beauty brought her spectacularly bad luck — a woman who, in the space of about four years, was passed along to nine different men as a new bride.

It was a good while ago that a certain Sultan of Babylon, named Berminedab, had many things go his way during his lifetime. Among his many children, both sons and daughters, was one called Alatiel, who, by the account of everyone who saw her, was the most beautiful woman in the world at that time. The Sultan had recently won a spectacular victory over a huge army of Arabs who had attacked him, and the King of Algarve had been his most valuable ally in the fight. So when the King asked, as a special favor, for Alatiel's hand in marriage, the Sultan agreed. He put her aboard a well-armed, well-equipped ship with an honorable escort of men and ladies and a magnificent supply of rich furnishings and treasure, commended her to God, and sent her on her way.

The sailors, seeing good weather, set their sails to the wind and departed from the port of Alexandria. For many days the voyage went smoothly. They had already passed Sardinia and were thinking the end of the journey was near when, one day, several contrary winds sprang up out of nowhere. Each one was violently powerful, and together they battered the ship carrying the princess so brutally that the sailors gave themselves up for dead more than once. But they were brave men, and using every skill and trick at their disposal, they held out for two days against a terrible sea. On the night of the third day, with the storm showing no signs of letting up — in fact, growing worse by the minute — they felt the ship beginning to break apart. They were somewhere near Majorca but had no idea exactly where, since the sky was blanketed with clouds and the night was pitch black, making it impossible to navigate by either charts or sight.

Seeing no other way to save themselves — each man thinking only of his own skin — the officers lowered a lifeboat into the water and jumped in, choosing to trust the little boat rather than the leaking ship. The rest of the men tried to pile in after them, though those already aboard fought them off with drawn knives. In trying to escape death, they ran straight into it: the boat, unable to hold so many in such savage weather, capsized. Every last one of them drowned.

As for the ship, driven by a furious wind and nearly swamped with water — with no one left aboard except the princess and her women, who all lay sprawled across the decks, half-dead from seasickness and terror — it slammed onto a beach on the island of Majorca with such force that it buried itself in the sand about a stone's throw from shore. There it stayed through the night, pounded by waves, while the wind howled around it.

When day broke and the storm eased somewhat, the princess — barely alive — raised her head. Weak as she was, she began calling for her servants, one after another. No answer. The people she was calling were too far away, or too dead, to hear. Finding no response from anyone, she stared around in astonishment and growing terror. She pulled herself up as best she could and saw the ladies of her retinue and the other women lying everywhere. She tried rousing them one by one. Very few showed any signs of life — most had died from a combination of seasickness and sheer fright. This only doubled her fear.

Still, desperation forced her to act. She was utterly alone and had no idea where she was, so she prodded and goaded the survivors until she got them on their feet. When it became clear that none of them knew where the men had gone, and they could see the ship was beached and full of water, they all began to weep together.

It was around noon before they spotted anyone on shore or anywhere nearby who might take pity on them and help. Around that time, a gentleman named Pericone da Visalgo happened to ride past on his way home from one of his estates, accompanied by several servants on horseback. He saw the ship and immediately guessed what had happened. He ordered one of his men to climb aboard and report back.

The servant managed to get on board, though it wasn't easy, and found the young princess huddled with her small remaining group under the bowsprit, terrified. When they saw him, they begged for mercy again and again, weeping all the while. But he couldn't understand them, and they couldn't understand him, so they tried to communicate their predicament through gestures.

The servant reported back to Pericone on what he'd found aboard. Pericone immediately had the women brought ashore, along with the most valuable items from the ship that could be salvaged, and took them all to one of his castles. There the women were given food and rest. From the richness of Alatiel's clothing, Pericone could see she must be a great lady, and the respect the other women showed her — and her alone — quickly confirmed it. Although she was pale and disheveled from the ordeal at sea, her features still struck him as extraordinarily beautiful. Right then and there, he decided that if she had no husband, he would try to make her his wife — and if marriage wasn't possible, he'd find a way to enjoy her favors regardless.

Pericone was a man of imposing presence and great physical vigor. For several days he had the lady cared for superbly, and once she had fully recovered, he saw that she was gorgeous beyond anything he could have imagined. It pained him enormously that they couldn't understand each other, since he couldn't learn who she was. But his desire, inflamed beyond all reason by her beauty, drove him to try winning her over with tender, amorous gestures. It was no use. She completely rejected his advances — which only made his passion burn hotter.

The lady noticed this. After spending a few days there, she had figured out from the local customs that she was among Christians, in a place where — even if she could make herself known — it would do her little good. She could see that sooner or later, whether by force or by seduction, she would have to give in to Pericone's desires. But she resolved, with magnificent determination, to rise above the wretchedness of her situation. She commanded the three remaining women of her retinue never to reveal who she was to anyone, unless they found themselves in a place where they could clearly count on help in regaining their freedom. She also urged them, with all the passion she could muster, to guard their chastity — declaring that she herself was determined that no man but her husband would ever have her. They admired her for this and promised to obey as best they could.

Meanwhile, Pericone's desire grew hotter by the day. The more she denied him, the closer the prize seemed and the further it remained, and when he saw that charm and flattery were getting him nowhere, he decided to try cunning and trickery — saving force as a last resort. He had noticed that the lady liked wine. This was natural enough — she came from a culture that forbade it, so it was a novelty to her. He figured he could use wine as a kind of weapon in Venus's service.

One evening, pretending not to care anymore about what she'd been so fiercely guarding, he threw a splendid dinner party and invited her. The evening was full of delights, and he had arranged with the servant attending her to ply her with a variety of blended wines. The man did his job perfectly. Alatiel, caught off guard and seduced by the pleasant taste, drank far more than was proper. She forgot all her past troubles, grew merry, and when she saw some women dancing in the Majorcan style, she joined in with an Alexandrian dance of her own.

Pericone, seeing this, knew he was on the right track. He kept the supper going with lavish courses of food and wine, drawing it out deep into the night. Finally the guests departed, and he went alone with the lady into her bedroom. She was more heated by wine than restrained by modesty and, without a trace of self-consciousness, undressed in front of him as casually as if he were one of her own women, and got into bed. Pericone was right behind her. He blew out the lights, slipped in beside her, gathered her in his arms, and — with no resistance from her at all — proceeded to enjoy himself.

This was the first time she had ever experienced what men do with women. And once she had felt it, she seemed almost sorry she hadn't given in to Pericone's advances sooner. From that point on, she didn't wait to be invited to such pleasant nights — she did the inviting herself. Not with words, since they still couldn't understand each other's language, but with actions that spoke clearly enough.

But in the midst of this great pleasure for Pericone and the lady, Fortune — never content with what it had already done — had arranged an even harsher turn. Pericone had a brother named Marato, twenty-five years old and handsome as a rose. He saw Alatiel and was enormously attracted to her. From what he could tell by her behavior, she seemed to like him too. As he saw it, the only thing standing between him and what he wanted was the close watch Pericone kept on her. And so a monstrous idea took shape in his mind, which he wasted no time in carrying out.

As it happened, there was a merchant vessel in the harbor, loaded with cargo and bound for Chiarenza in the Morea, captained by two young Genoese who had already raised their sails, ready to leave at the first favorable wind. Marato struck a deal with them: the following night, he and the lady would be taken aboard.

When darkness fell, having already planned out exactly what he was going to do, Marato went with a group of his most trusted men to Pericone's house. Pericone suspected nothing. Marato hid inside, according to plan, and in the small hours of the night, he let his companions in and led them to the bedroom where Pericone lay sleeping beside the lady.

They killed Pericone in his bed while the lady woke up in tears. Threatening her with death if she made a sound, they grabbed the most valuable of Pericone's possessions and rushed to the harbor. There Marato and the lady boarded the ship without delay, while his accomplices slipped back the way they had come.

The sailors caught a fair wind and set sail. The princess wept bitterly over this second disaster, on top of the first. But Marato had the same God-given instrument that all men carry, and he set about comforting her so effectively that she soon grew familiar with him and, forgetting Pericone, began to feel quite at ease — just in time for Fortune to prepare yet another blow.

She was, as has already been said more than once, extraordinarily beautiful and had the most captivating manner about her. The two young ship captains fell hopelessly in love with her. They could think of nothing else and competed to serve and please her, always careful not to let Marato notice why. But each one discovered the other's passion, and after talking it over in secret, they agreed to share the lady between them — as if love could be split like merchandise or profit.

They watched for their opportunity. One day, while the ship was under full sail and Marato stood at the stern looking out to sea with his guard down, they crept up behind him in unison, grabbed him, and threw him overboard. The ship had sailed more than a mile before anyone realized Marato had gone over the side.

When Alatiel heard what had happened and saw there was no way to rescue him, she began wailing all over again. The two lovers rushed to comfort her with gentle words and lavish promises — most of which she couldn't understand — though she was mourning her own terrible luck more than the lost Marato. After speaking with her at length on multiple occasions and feeling they had more or less consoled her, they turned to the question that really mattered: which of them would sleep with her first.

Each one insisted on going first. Unable to reach an agreement, they started with heated words, escalated to full-blown rage, drew their knives, and threw themselves at each other in a fury. Before anyone on board could separate them, one had already fallen dead and the other was left alive but gravely wounded in multiple places.

This latest catastrophe was deeply upsetting to the lady, who found herself alone, with no help or counsel, and terrified that the friends and relatives of the two captains might turn their anger on her. But the wounded man's pleas on her behalf, and the fact that they arrived at Chiarenza shortly afterward, saved her from that danger. She went ashore with the wounded man and settled with him at an inn, where word of her astonishing beauty spread rapidly through the city and eventually reached the ears of the Prince of the Morea, who happened to be in Chiarenza at the time.

He demanded to see her. One look and he was convinced she was even more beautiful than rumor had claimed. He fell so desperately in love with her that he could think of nothing else. When he learned the circumstances of her arrival, he was sure he could get her for himself. While he was scheming a way to do it, the wounded man's relatives got wind of the prince's interest and, without a moment's hesitation, sent her straight to him — which delighted the prince enormously and also came as a relief to the lady, who felt she'd been rescued from real danger.

The prince, seeing that she possessed not only extraordinary beauty but also royal bearing, and unable to figure out who she actually was, concluded she must be some noblewoman. This only deepened his love. He treated her with the highest honor, not as a mistress but as a true wife.

Comparing this to her previous ordeals, the lady felt she'd landed in a pretty good situation. She took heart, her spirits revived, and her beauty blossomed so magnificently that it seemed like all of the Morea could talk of nothing else.

Word of her stunning beauty reached the Duke of Athens — a young, handsome, and formidable man who was a friend and kinsman of the prince. Seized by a desire to see her for himself, he made a show of paying one of his customary visits to the prince and traveled to Chiarenza with an impressive entourage. He was received with great honor and lavish hospitality.

After a few days, the two kinsmen got to talking about the lady's famous beauty, and the duke asked whether she was really as remarkable as people said. "Far more so," the prince replied. "But don't take my word for it — see for yourself."

At the duke's urging, they went together to call on the lady. She had been told they were coming and received them with great courtesy and a warm smile. They seated her between them, but couldn't really enjoy a conversation since she understood little or nothing of their language. Instead, each of them simply gazed at her as if she were some kind of wonder — the duke especially. He could barely convince himself she was human. And while he thought he was only satisfying his curiosity by looking at her, he was in fact drinking in the amorous poison through his eyes, not realizing it. He fell desperately, hopelessly in love.

After leaving her presence and having time to think, he decided the prince was the luckiest man alive to have such a beauty at his disposal. After much deliberation — his unbridled passion outweighing his honor — he resolved that, come what may, he would do whatever it took to steal the lady from the prince and claim that happiness for himself. Determined to move fast and setting aside all reason and decency, he bent his every thought toward finding a way.

One day, following a plot he had devised with a trusted chamberlain of the prince named Ciuriaci, he secretly had his horses and baggage made ready for a quick departure.

That night, he and one companion, both armed, were stealthily let into the prince's chambers by Ciuriaci. The duke found the prince standing naked at a window overlooking the sea — it was a hot night, and he'd been enjoying the breeze — while the lady slept in the bed. Having already instructed his companion on what to do, the duke crept up to the window and drove a knife clean through the prince's back. Then he quickly picked him up and threw him out the window.

The palace sat right on the sea and was very tall. The window below overlooked some ruins of houses that had been undermined by the waves — a place where no one ever went. So the fall of the prince's body, just as the duke had anticipated, was neither heard nor noticed by anyone.

The duke's companion, seeing it done, pulled out a rope he had brought for the purpose and pretended to embrace Ciuriaci, then deftly looped the cord around his neck and yanked it tight before the man could cry out. The duke came over, and together they strangled him and tossed his body out the same window after the prince.

With this accomplished, and certain that neither the lady nor anyone else had heard a thing, the duke picked up a lantern, carried it to the bedside, and gently pulled back the covers from the princess, who was sleeping deeply. He looked her over from head to foot and was overwhelmed with admiration. If she was magnificent clothed, she was incomparably more so naked. Burning with even fiercer desire, and not in the least troubled by the crime he had just committed, he climbed into bed beside her with his hands still bloody and took her — still groggy and half-asleep, thinking he was the prince.

After spending some time with her in the greatest pleasure, he got up, summoned some of his men, and had the lady carried out — gagged so she couldn't cry out — through a hidden door, the same one he had entered. He put her on a horse, and with his entire party, rode off as quietly as possible back to his own territory. But since he already had a wife, he didn't bring the lady to Athens. Instead, he installed her at a beautiful seaside estate just outside the city, where he kept her in secret, making sure she was honorably provided with everything she needed.

The next morning, the prince's courtiers waited for him to rise until noon. Hearing nothing, they opened the bedroom doors — which had simply been pulled shut, not locked — and found no one inside. They assumed he had gone off somewhere in private to spend a few pleasant days alone with his beautiful lady, and thought nothing more of it.

Things stood this way until the following day, when an imbecile wandered into the ruins where the bodies of the prince and Ciuriaci lay. He found Ciuriaci, dragged him out by the rope still around his neck, and went stumbling through the streets with the body in tow. People recognized the dead man with considerable shock, and then, coaxing the simpleton to lead them back to where he'd found the body, they discovered the prince's corpse as well. The whole city was plunged into grief. They gave the prince an honorable burial.

Investigation into who was responsible for such a hideous crime quickly pointed to the Duke of Athens, who had vanished without a trace along with the lady. The conclusion was obvious — he must have done it and taken her. They immediately installed a brother of the dead prince as the new ruler and urged him, with all their might, to seek revenge. The new prince, confirmed in his suspicions by further evidence, summoned friends, kinsmen, and allies from all over. Before long, he had assembled a large and powerful army and marched against the Duke of Athens.

The duke, hearing of this, mobilized all his own forces in defense. Many lords came to his aid, including the Emperor of Constantinople, who sent his son Constantine and his nephew Manuel with a large, impressive contingent. The two princes were warmly received by the duke, and even more warmly by the duchess — who was, after all, their sister.

As war drew closer, the duchess seized her moment. She invited both of them to her chambers and, amid floods of tears, told them the entire story — the real reason for the war, and the insult the duke was inflicting on her by secretly keeping this other woman. She poured out her complaints and begged them to do whatever they could to fix the situation, for the sake of the duke's honor and her own peace of mind.

The two young men already knew the whole story, so without pressing for details, they comforted their sister as best they could and gave her reason to hope. Then, having gotten her to tell them where the lady was being kept, they took their leave.

They had heard Alatiel's beauty praised so many times that they were curious to see her for themselves. They asked the duke to show her to them. Forgetting what had happened to the Prince of the Morea for doing exactly the same thing, the duke agreed. The next morning, he arranged a magnificent breakfast in a gorgeous garden at the estate where the lady lived, and brought the two princes and a handful of others to dine with her.

Constantine sat beside Alatiel and stared at her, struck dumb with wonder. He told himself he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. The duke should certainly be forgiven, he thought — and anyone else, for that matter, who would commit treason or any other foul deed to possess such a creature. He looked at her again and again, more impressed each time, and what happened to him was exactly what had happened to the duke. He left her presence completely in love, abandoned all thought of the war, and devoted his mind entirely to figuring out how to take her from the duke — all while carefully hiding his feelings from everyone.

While he burned with this new obsession, the time came to march against the new Prince of the Morea, who was now advancing on the duke's territory. The duke, Constantine, and all the rest rode out of Athens according to plan and took up defensive positions along the frontier to stop the prince's advance.

After they had camped there for a few days, Constantine — whose mind and heart were still consumed with thoughts of the lady — figured that with the duke no longer near her, he had an excellent opportunity to get what he wanted. Pretending to be seriously ill, he obtained the duke's permission to return to Athens, leaving his forces under Manuel's command.

Back in Athens, after a few days, he steered his sister into a conversation about the insult she felt the duke was inflicting on her by keeping this other woman. He told her that if she wanted, he could take care of the problem easily — he'd have the lady snatched from wherever she was and carried away. The duchess, assuming he was doing this out of loyalty to her rather than out of lust for the lady, said she was completely in favor of the idea, as long as it was done in a way that guaranteed the duke would never learn she'd been involved. Constantine gave her his word.

He secretly fitted out a fast vessel and sent it to anchor near the garden where the lady was staying. He briefed the men aboard on what to do, then went to the estate with some others. The lady's attendants welcomed him cheerfully — as did Alatiel herself. At his suggestion, she accompanied him on a stroll through the garden, trailed by her servants and his companions. He walked with her toward a gate that opened onto the sea, where one of his men had already been posted, and gave the prearranged signal to bring the vessel in close. His men seized the lady and carried her aboard in an instant.

Then he turned to her attendants and said: "Nobody move, and nobody say a word — unless you want to die. I'm not stealing the duke's mistress. I'm undoing the insult he's been inflicting on my sister."

No one dared argue. Constantine boarded with his people, sat down beside the weeping lady, and ordered the oars into the water. They didn't just row — they flew. A little after dawn the next day, they reached Aegina, where they landed to rest, and Constantine enjoyed himself with the lady, who wept over her cursed beauty. From there, they reboarded the vessel and made their way in a few days to Chios, where Constantine decided to stay. He figured it was safe enough — far from his father's anger and from anyone who might try to reclaim the stolen lady.

There, the beautiful Alatiel mourned her fate for some days. But eventually Constantine's comforting had its effect, and she began, as she had done before, to take her pleasure in whatever Fortune served up.

This was how things stood when Osbech, King of the Turks — who was perpetually at war with the Emperor — happened to come to Smyrna. There he heard that Constantine was living it up on Chios, careless and unguarded, with a stolen mistress. He sailed there one night with a fleet of light warships, crept into the town with his men, and caught many people in their beds before they even knew the enemy had arrived. He slaughtered those who managed to grab their weapons, burned the whole place to the ground, and loaded the plunder and prisoners onto his ships before sailing back to Smyrna.

When they arrived, Osbech — a young man — was inspecting the prisoners and found the beautiful lady among them. She had been taken alongside Constantine, who had been caught asleep in bed. Osbech was thrilled at the sight of her. He married her on the spot, held the wedding feast immediately, and slept with her happily for several months.

Meanwhile, the Emperor — who had been negotiating, before all this happened, with Bassano, King of Cappadocia, trying to get him to attack Osbech from one side while he attacked from the other — had failed to close the deal because Bassano's demands were too steep. But when he heard what had happened to his son, the Emperor was so furious that he agreed to everything Bassano wanted without another moment's hesitation, and urged him to move against Osbech as fast as possible while he prepared his own assault from a different direction.

Osbech, hearing that he was about to be caught between two powerful enemies, assembled his army and marched against Bassano before the trap could close, leaving his beautiful wife in Smyrna in the care of a trusted servant and friend named Antiochus.

Some time later, Osbech met the King of Cappadocia in battle, was killed in the fighting, and his army was routed and scattered. Bassano advanced triumphantly toward Smyrna, with everyone along the way submitting to him as a conqueror.

Back in Smyrna, Antiochus — the servant in whose care the lady had been left — took one good look at her beauty and forgot every ounce of loyalty he owed to his friend and master. He fell in love with her, despite being a man well along in years. He knew her language, which was a tremendous relief to her — she had spent years living as if she were deaf and mute, unable to understand anyone or make herself understood. Encouraged by love, Antiochus became so familiar with her that within a few days, they had moved well past friendship and into the bedroom, where they took great pleasure in each other.

When news came that Osbech was dead and Bassano was sweeping everything before him, they decided not to wait around. They grabbed a large portion of Osbech's most valuable possessions and fled secretly to Rhodes. They hadn't been there long before Antiochus fell gravely ill.

As luck would have it, a Cypriot merchant was staying at the same inn — a man who was one of Antiochus's closest friends. Feeling death approaching, Antiochus decided to leave his friend both his possessions and his beloved lady. He called the two of them to his bedside and spoke:

"I can feel myself dying. There's no doubt about it, and it grieves me — because I've never enjoyed living as much as I do right now. But there's one thing that lets me face death with some peace of mind: since I must die, at least I'll die in the company of the two people I love most in the world — you, my dearest friend, and this lady, whom I've loved more than my own self ever since I first knew her.

"What does worry me, though, is the thought of her being left alone after I'm gone — a stranger here, with no one to help or advise her. It would worry me even more if I didn't know you were here — you, who I trust will care for her, for my sake, just as you would have cared for me. So I beg you, as earnestly as I can: if I die, take charge of my belongings and of her, and do with both whatever you think would give my soul some comfort.

"And you, dearest lady — please don't forget me after I'm dead, so that I can boast in the next world that I was loved in this one by the most beautiful woman nature ever made. If you'll both give me your honest promise on these two things, I can depart this life reassured and at peace."

His merchant friend and the lady both wept at these words. When he finished, they comforted him and swore on their honor to do everything he asked, should he die. He didn't linger long. He passed away shortly afterward, and they gave him an honorable burial.

A few days later, the merchant had finished up his business in Rhodes and was planning to sail back to Cyprus on a Catalan cargo ship that was in port. He asked the beautiful lady what she wanted to do, since he needed to return home. She replied that she would gladly go with him, if he was willing, and hoped that for the love of Antiochus, he would treat her and look after her as a sister. The merchant said he was happy to do whatever she wished, and to protect her from any trouble during the voyage, he told everyone she was his wife. They boarded the ship and were given a small cabin in the stern with a single, rather narrow bed.

And this is where something happened that neither of them had planned when they left Rhodes. The darkness, the close quarters, the warmth of the bed — these are powerful forces. Drawn by mutual desire, they forgot both the friendship and the love they owed to the dead Antiochus, and began pleasuring each other. By the time they reached Paphos, where the Cypriot merchant was from, they had formed a very thorough alliance.

She stayed with the merchant in Paphos for some time. Then, as chance would have it, a gentleman named Antigonus arrived in town on business. He was a man of advanced years and even greater wisdom, though not much wealth — Fortune had been unkind to him despite his long service in the affairs of the King of Cyprus.

One day, Antigonus happened to walk past the house where the beautiful lady was living — the merchant had gone off to Armenia on a trading venture — and he spotted her at a window. He stared at her, struck by her beauty, and began to feel certain he had seen her somewhere before, though he couldn't for the life of him remember where.

As for the lady — who had been Fortune's plaything for so long but whose suffering was finally nearing its end — she recognized Antigonus the moment she laid eyes on him. She remembered seeing him at Alexandria, holding a position of some importance in her father's service. In a flash of hope that she might, with his help, somehow return to her royal life, she sent for him as quickly as she could — since her merchant was away — and asked him, blushing, whether he was not Antigonus of Famagosta.

He said he was, and added: "Madam, it seems to me that I know you, but I cannot for the life of me remember where I've seen you. Please, if you don't mind, remind me who you are."

When the lady heard that it was truly him, she burst into tears and threw her arms around his neck. Then, through her sobs, she asked if he had ever seen her in Alexandria.

At those words, Antigonus instantly recognized her as Alatiel, the Sultan's daughter — the woman everyone had long believed drowned at sea. He started to make the formal bow that her rank demanded, but she wouldn't allow it and asked him to sit beside her for a while.

He sat down and asked her, respectfully, how and when and from where she had come to be there, since all of Egypt had been certain for years that she had drowned.

"I wish to God I had," she replied. "That would have been better than the life I've lived. And I have no doubt my father would wish the same, if he ever learned the truth."

She broke down crying again. Antigonus said gently: "Madam, don't despair before you have reason to. If you're willing, tell me what happened to you and what sort of life you've led. It may be that things have gone in a way that, with God's help, we can still fix."

"Antigonus," the beautiful lady answered, "when I saw you, it was like seeing my own father. Moved by the love and tenderness I'm bound to feel for him, I revealed myself to you — though I could have stayed hidden. There are very few people I could have been so glad to see as I am to see you. So I'm going to tell you, as if you were my father, everything that I've kept hidden through all my misfortunes.

"If, after hearing it, you see any way to restore me to my former position, please — use it. If you see no way, then I beg you, never tell anyone that you've seen me or heard anything about me."

With that, still weeping, she told him everything that had happened to her from the shipwreck off Majorca to that very moment.

Antigonus wept with pity for her. After thinking for a while, he said: "Madam, since throughout all your misfortunes no one ever learned who you truly are, I will — without fail — restore you to your father, dearer to him than ever, and after that, see you married to the King of Algarve."

She asked him how. He laid out the plan in detail, and to prevent any delay that might create problems, he returned at once to Famagosta and went straight to the king.

"My lord," he said, "if it please you, you have it in your power to do yourself enormous honor and to do me — who have become a poor man in your service — a great kindness, at very little cost to yourself."

The king asked how.

"The Sultan's beautiful young daughter has arrived in Paphos," Antigonus said. "The one who was believed for so long to have drowned at sea. To protect her honor, she has endured terrible hardships and is now living in reduced circumstances. She wants to return to her father. If you would send her to him under my escort, it would bring you tremendous honor, and the Sultan would never forget such a service."

The king, moved by genuine royal generosity, agreed at once. He sent for Alatiel and brought her with full ceremony and honor to Famagosta, where she was received by the king and queen with extraordinary joy and entertained with magnificent hospitality. When the king and queen asked her about her experiences, she answered according to the instructions Antigonus had given her and told them everything.

A few days later, at her request, the king sent her back to the Sultan under Antigonus's care, with a fine and distinguished escort of men and women. I don't need to tell you how joyfully the Sultan received her — or Antigonus and her entire retinue.

After she had rested for a while, the Sultan wanted to know the full story: how was it that she was still alive, where had she been all this time, and why had she never sent word? The lady, who had Antigonus's instructions memorized perfectly, answered her father like this:

"Father, it must have been about the twentieth day after I left you when our ship was caught in a terrible storm, sprang a leak, and crashed in the night onto a coast somewhere in the West, near a place called Aigues-Mortes. What happened to the men on board, I never knew and never could find out. All I remember is that when day came and I came back to life, as it were, the wrecked ship had been spotted by the local people, who came running from all around to plunder it. My two women and I were the first put ashore, and my women were immediately seized by young men who ran off with them in different directions. I never learned what became of them.

"As for me, two young men grabbed me and were dragging me along by my hair, while I screamed and wept. But as they were crossing a road to enter a thick forest, four men on horseback happened to ride by. The moment my captors saw them, they dropped me and ran. The horsemen — who seemed to be persons of great authority — rode up and asked me many questions, and I answered them at length, but they couldn't understand me and I couldn't understand them.

"After a long discussion among themselves, they put me on one of their horses and brought me to a convent of women devoted to their religion. I don't know what the horsemen said to them, but every woman in the place received me with kindness and always treated me with honor. While I was there, I joined them with great devotion in worshipping Saint Grows-in-the-Valley, a saint for whom the women of that country have deep reverence.

"After I had lived with them for some time and had learned a little of their language, they asked me who I was. Fearing that if I told the truth, they might expel me as an enemy of their faith, I said I was the daughter of a great nobleman of Cyprus, who had been sending me to be married in Crete when bad luck drove our ship ashore there.

"I followed their customs carefully, out of fear of worse, and many times in many ways I did as they did. Eventually the head of the convent — the woman they call the abbess — asked whether I wished to return to Cyprus. I said there was nothing I wanted more. But she was so protective of my honor that she would never entrust me to anyone traveling to Cyprus.

"Then, about two months ago, some French gentlemen arrived there with their wives. One of the wives was a relative of the abbess, and when she heard they were heading to Jerusalem to visit the Holy Sepulchre — the tomb where the man they worship as God was buried after being killed by the Jews — the abbess commended me to their care and begged them to deliver me to my father in Cyprus.

"It would take too long to describe how honorably these gentlemen treated me, or how warmly they and their wives received me into their company. Suffice it to say we took ship and after some days arrived at Paphos. I didn't know a soul there and had no idea what to say to the gentlemen, who were eager to hand me over to my father, as the abbess had charged them.

"But God, taking pity on my suffering, brought Antigonus to me on the beach at Paphos just as we were disembarking. I called out to him immediately, in our own language so the gentlemen and their wives wouldn't understand, and told him to receive me as his daughter. He grasped the situation at once and welcomed me with a great show of joy. He entertained the gentlemen and their ladies with as much hospitality as his modest means allowed, then brought me to the King of Cyprus, who received me with such kindness and has sent me home to you with such courtesy that I could never adequately describe it. If anything remains to be told, let Antigonus tell it — he has heard the whole story from me many times."

Antigonus turned to the Sultan and said: "My lord, she has told you exactly what she has told me many times, and exactly what the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied her said to me. There is only one thing she has left out — which I believe she omitted because it would not be fitting for her to say it herself — and that is how much those gentlemen and their wives praised the chaste and virtuous life she led among the religious ladies, and how they wept, both men and women alike, when the time came to say goodbye to her.

"If I were to tell you everything they said to me in full, not only this day but the next night too would not be long enough. Let me just say this: according to everything they told me, and everything I have been able to observe for myself, you may boast that you have the most beautiful, the most chaste, and the most virtuous daughter of any prince who wears a crown today."

The Sultan was overjoyed beyond all measure. Again and again he prayed to God to grant him the grace to properly repay everyone who had helped his daughter — and especially the King of Cyprus, who had sent her home with such honor.

After a few days, he prepared magnificent gifts for Antigonus, gave him leave to return to Cyprus, and sent his deepest thanks to the king, both by letter and through special ambassadors, for everything he had done for his daughter.

Then, wanting to follow through on the original plan — that Alatiel should become the wife of the King of Algarve — he wrote to the king, explained everything, and said that if he still wished to have her, he should send for her.

The King of Algarve was delighted. He sent for her with a grand escort, received her joyfully — and she, who had slept with eight different men something like ten thousand times, was put to bed with him as a virgin, and made him believe she was one. She lived happily as his queen for a good while after.

And that is why they say: 'Lips that have been kissed don't lose their luck — they come back fresh as the new moon.'"

Day 2, Story 8

The Count of Antwerp is falsely accused and goes into exile, leaving his two children in different places in England. After some years, he returns in disguise and finds them doing well. He takes a job as a stable boy in the service of the King of France, is proven innocent, and is restored to his former position.

The ladies sighed deeply over the misfortunes of the beautiful Saracen woman — though who knows what really prompted those sighs? Perhaps some of them were sighing less from pity for Alatiel than from envy of all those romances. But leaving that aside, once they'd had a good laugh at Panfilo's closing remarks, the queen saw that his story was done and turned to Elisa, nodding for her to go next. Elisa was happy to oblige and began:

"The field we're ranging through today is enormous, and any one of us could easily gallop through it not once but a dozen times — Fortune has stocked it so richly with her strange and terrible adventures. So, to pick just one from an endless supply, here's my story:

—-

When the Roman Empire passed from French hands to German ones, a vicious and prolonged war broke out between the two nations. The King of France and his son mustered a massive army, drawing on every resource, every ally, and every relative they could call upon, and prepared to march against the enemy. But before they left, they needed someone to run the kingdom in their absence. They knew Gautier, the Count of Antwerp, to be a noble, intelligent gentleman and a thoroughly loyal friend and servant. And while he was perfectly capable on the battlefield, he struck them as better suited to the delicate business of governance than to the rough work of war. So they appointed him regent over all of France and set off on their campaign.

Gautier took up his duties with both discipline and good judgment, consulting regularly with the queen and the princess — the king's daughter-in-law. Though both women had been left under his authority, he treated them with all the deference due to his sovereign ladies.

Now, Gautier was an exceptionally handsome man, roughly forty years old, as charming and well-mannered as anyone you could hope to meet. He was also the most elegant and stylishly dressed nobleman of his day. His wife had died, leaving him with two small children, a boy and a girl, and no one else.

While the king and his son were away at war, Gautier was constantly at court, speaking with the two ladies about matters of state. And it was during these meetings that the prince's wife began to notice him — really notice him. She studied his face, his bearing, his manners, and found herself secretly burning with desire for him. She was young and full of energy; he was a widower. She had no doubt she could have what she wanted — the only thing stopping her was her own sense of shame. So she resolved to throw that aside and tell him exactly how she felt. One day, finding herself alone and thinking the moment was right, she sent for him to come to her private chamber, as though she had some official business to discuss.

The count, whose thoughts were a million miles from where hers were, came without delay. At her invitation he sat down beside her on a couch. They were completely alone. Twice he asked her why she'd summoned him, and twice she said nothing. Finally, driven by love, flushed crimson with embarrassment, nearly in tears and trembling all over, she began to speak in a halting voice:

"My dearest friend and lord, as an intelligent man, you can surely understand how fragile both men and women are — and how some are more fragile than others, for all sorts of reasons. A fair judge wouldn't hand down the same punishment for the same offense committed by people in very different circumstances. Who would deny that a poor man or woman, forced to work just to survive, deserves more blame for following the urges of love than a wealthy, idle lady who wants for nothing that desire could conjure? No one, I think.

"And so it seems to me that wealth and leisure and comfort ought to serve as a considerable excuse for a woman who happens to fall in love — and that choosing a worthy, admirable lover should cover the rest. Since both of these conditions apply to me — along with several other things that push me toward love, such as my youth and my husband's absence — they should now rise up in my defense as I stand before you with my heart on fire. If they carry the weight they deserve in the eyes of a reasonable man, I beg you: give me your counsel and your help in what I'm about to ask.

"The truth is, I haven't been able to resist the urgings of desire or the force of passion — forces that have brought down the strongest of men, let alone a woman like me. Living in the comfort and leisure you see around me, I've let myself fall in love. I know that if it came to light, it wouldn't be proper — but as long as it stays hidden, I can hardly see the harm. And Love has been kind enough not just to preserve my judgment in choosing a lover, but to sharpen it — by showing me you. You, whom I consider, unless my eyes deceive me, the most handsome, the most charming, the most refined, and the most accomplished man in all of France. And just as I find myself without a husband at my side, you find yourself without a wife. So I'm begging you, by the great love I bear you — don't deny me your love in return. Have pity on my youth, which is melting away for you like ice before the fire."

At these words, her tears came pouring down so hard that, although she wanted to say more, she couldn't get another word out. She dropped her head, sobbing, against the count's chest, as if her strength had given out entirely.

The count, who was a thoroughly loyal man, immediately began to scold her — firmly but gravely — for this reckless passion. He held her at arm's length as she tried to throw herself around his neck, and swore to her that he would sooner be torn limb from limb than consent to such a betrayal of his lord's honor, whether by his own actions or anyone else's.

The princess, hearing this, instantly forgot her love. It was replaced by a white-hot fury.

"You worthless knight!" she snarled. "You think you can humiliate me like this? So help me God, since you seem determined to let me die of this, I'll see you killed or driven from the face of the earth!"

With that, she ripped at her own hair, tearing it loose, and then clawed open the front of her dress. She started screaming at the top of her lungs: "Help! Help! The Count of Antwerp is trying to rape me!"

The count saw what she was doing and realized immediately that he was in terrible danger — not from his own conscience, which was clear, but from the envy of the courtiers. He feared that their jealousy would make them more inclined to believe the princess's lies than his truth. So he leaped up, got out of the chamber and the palace as fast as his legs could carry him, and fled to his own house. Without pausing to think it over, he put his children on horses, mounted up himself, and rode as hard as he could toward Calais.

Meanwhile, people came running at the princess's screams. Seeing her in that state and hearing her account of what had happened, they not only believed every word but went further — they said that the count's good looks and smooth manners had clearly been part of a long seduction campaign. A mob rushed to his houses to arrest him, but finding him gone, they plundered everything and then razed the buildings to their foundations. The news, thoroughly distorted, reached the army. The king and his son were enraged. They condemned Gautier and all his descendants to permanent exile and offered enormous rewards to anyone who could deliver him, dead or alive.

The count, anguished that his flight had made him look guilty despite his innocence, reached Calais with his children, crossed into England without being recognized, and made his way to London in shabby clothes. Before entering the city, he sat his two little ones down and gave them a long, careful talk, emphasizing two things above all. First, they must learn to bear with patience the poverty that Fortune had thrust upon them through no fault of their own. Second — and this was a matter of life and death — they must never, ever reveal to anyone who they were or where they came from.

The boy, Louis, was about nine. The girl, Violante, was about seven. Young as they were, they understood their father's instructions remarkably well, as they would later prove by their actions. To make the deception easier, the count changed their names: he called the boy Perrot and the girl Jeannette. Then all three entered London in their ragged clothes and went around begging for alms, just like those French vagabonds you see around town.

One morning, while they were begging at the door of a church, a great lady happened to come out — the wife of one of the King of England's marshals. She noticed the count and his two little children asking for charity and asked him where he was from and whether the children were his. He told her he was from Picardy and that he'd been forced to flee with these two because of the crimes of a worthless older son. The lady, who had a compassionate heart, looked at the little girl and was immediately taken with her — she was pretty, well-mannered, and had an irresistible charm about her.

"Good man," the lady said, "if you'd be willing to leave your daughter with me, I'd gladly take her in. She has a lovely way about her, and if she grows up to be a good woman, I'll see to it that she's married well when the time comes."

The count was deeply pleased by this offer. He agreed right away and, with tears in his eyes, handed Jeannette over to the lady, earnestly begging her to take good care of the girl.

Having placed his daughter with someone he felt confident about, the count decided not to linger in London. He begged his way across the island, dragging his feet — since he was not at all accustomed to walking — until he reached Wales. Here lived another of the king's marshals, a man who kept a grand household with many servants. The count and his son Perrot began showing up at this marshal's estate from time to time to get something to eat.

Some of the marshal's sons and other gentlemen's boys were always there, running races, wrestling, leaping — the usual boyish games. Perrot started joining in, and he turned out to be just as good as any of them — better, in fact, at nearly everything. The marshal happened to see this a few times and was so struck by the boy's skill and bearing that he asked who he was. When he was told that Perrot was the son of some poor beggar who showed up now and then for a handout, the marshal sent someone to ask the count if he could have the boy. The count — who had been praying to God for exactly this — gave Perrot up willingly, even though parting with him was painful.

Now that both his children were provided for, the count decided he'd had enough of England. He crossed over to Ireland and made his way to Stamford, where he took a job as a servant to a knight in the service of a local earl. He did all the lowly work that falls to a lackey or a stable hand, and there, unknown to anyone, he lived for many years in hardship and misery.

—-

Meanwhile, Violante — now called Jeannette — was growing up in the London household, blossoming in beauty, grace, and every virtue. She became so beloved by the lady, by her husband, and by everyone in the house (and everyone who met her, for that matter) that it was practically miraculous. Anyone who observed her manners and character would have said she deserved every good thing life had to offer.

The noble lady who had taken her in — never having learned anything more about her father than what he'd told her — decided it was time to arrange an honorable marriage for the girl, matching her to a station appropriate to what she appeared to be: the daughter of a Picard peasant. But God, who sees what people truly deserve and knew Jeannette was of noble blood, bearing the punishment for another person's sin through no fault of her own — God had other plans. And we can only believe that what happened next was His way of making sure this well-born girl didn't end up married to some commoner.

The noble lady had only one son from her husband, and both parents adored him — not just because he was theirs, but because he genuinely deserved it. He was a fine, virtuous young man. About six years older than Jeannette, he noticed how extraordinarily beautiful and graceful she was, and he fell so desperately in love with her that he couldn't see anything else. But because he believed she was lowborn, he didn't dare ask his parents for permission to marry her. Worse, he was afraid of being criticized for setting his sights too low, so he kept his love hidden as best he could — which only made it torture him all the more. Eventually, the strain of it made him genuinely, seriously ill.

A parade of doctors came to examine him. They checked symptom after symptom but couldn't figure out what was wrong, and one by one they gave up hope. His parents were devastated with grief, and they begged him over and over to tell them what was the matter. All he would give them was a sigh, or a murmur that he felt himself wasting away.

Then one day, it happened that a young doctor — young, but brilliantly skilled — was sitting by the patient's bedside, holding his wrist to take his pulse. At that moment Jeannette walked into the room for some reason or other. She'd been looking after him very attentively, out of affection for his mother. The instant the young man saw her, without saying a word or making any gesture, he felt the fire of love blaze up in his chest — and his pulse started hammering. The doctor noticed immediately and stayed very still, watching to see how long it would last. As soon as Jeannette left the room, the pulse calmed down. The doctor felt he was on to something.

He waited a little while, then sent for Jeannette again, pretending he needed to ask her a question, all while keeping his fingers on the young man's wrist. She came right in — and back went the pulse, racing. When she left again, it settled.

The doctor was now completely sure. He stood up, drew the parents aside, and said: "Your son's cure doesn't lie in medicine. It lies in the hands of Jeannette. The young man is deeply in love with her — I've confirmed it with unmistakable physical signs — though as far as I can tell, she has no idea. You know what you need to do, if you want him to live."

The parents were relieved to hear there was some hope, though the specific remedy troubled them greatly — it meant giving Jeannette to their son as his wife. When the doctor had gone, they went in to see the patient together. His mother spoke first:

"My boy, I would never have believed you'd keep something like this from me — especially when it's making you waste away. You should have known — you should always know — that there's nothing I can do for your happiness that I wouldn't do, even things that might be considered less than proper. I would do them for you as readily as for myself. But even though you've hidden this, God has been more merciful to you than you've been to yourself, and so that you won't die of this illness, He has shown me what's wrong. It's nothing more than being desperately in love with some girl — whichever one she may be. And honestly, you shouldn't have been ashamed to tell me. It's perfectly natural at your age — in fact, if you weren't falling in love, I'd think less of you.

"So please, my son — don't hide things from me. Tell me everything you want. Let go of this brooding and melancholy that's making you sick. Take heart, and trust that there's nothing you could ask of me for your happiness that I wouldn't do with everything I have — because I love you more than my own life. Set aside your embarrassment and your fear, and tell me: is there something I can do to help this love along? Because if you find me anything less than fully devoted to the task, then you may call me the cruelest mother who ever lived."

The young man blushed at first, hearing his mother's words. But then it occurred to him that nobody was better positioned to help than she was. So he set aside his embarrassment and said:

"The main reason I've kept this hidden, Mother, is that I've noticed most people, once they reach a certain age, prefer to forget they were ever young themselves. But since you seem more reasonable than that, I won't deny what you've observed. I'll even tell you who it is — but only on the condition that you do everything in your power to keep your promise. That's how you can make me well again."

The lady — trusting far too much in an outcome she was imagining differently from how it would actually unfold — assured him freely that he could tell her anything, and she would get right to work on making it happen, whatever it was.

"Mother," the young man said, "it's Jeannette. Her extraordinary beauty and her wonderful character — and my complete inability to make her even notice how I feel, let alone return it, and the fact that I've never dared tell anyone — that's what's brought me to the state you see. And if what you've promised doesn't come through one way or another, you can be sure my life will be short."

The lady, deciding this was a time for comfort rather than lectures, said with a smile: "Oh, my poor boy — is that what's been eating you alive? Cheer up and get yourself well, and leave everything to me."

The youth, full of fresh hope, showed signs of rapid improvement. His mother was delighted, and she set about figuring out how to deliver on her promise. She called Jeannette in one day and asked her casually, as if it were just a playful question, whether she had a boyfriend.

Jeannette turned bright red. "My lady," she said, "it wouldn't be appropriate — and it wouldn't look right — for a poor girl like me, banished from home and living on other people's charity, to be thinking about love."

"Well," said the lady, "if you don't have one, we intend to give you one — someone who'll make you happy, who'll make life wonderful. It's not right for a beautiful girl like you to go without a lover."

"My lady," Jeannette replied, "you took me from my father's poverty and raised me like a daughter. I should do whatever you ask. But not this — and I believe I'm right. If you want to give me a husband, him I will love with all my heart. But a lover? No. The only inheritance I have left from my ancestors is my honor, and I intend to keep it and guard it for as long as I live."

This answer was exactly the opposite of what the lady needed to hear for keeping her promise to her son. Though privately, being a sensible woman, she admired the girl enormously for it. She tried another approach.

"Well, Jeannette, suppose the king himself — he's a young, handsome man, and you're a beautiful girl — suppose he wanted to enjoy your love. Would you turn him down?"

"The king could take me by force," Jeannette replied instantly, "but with my consent, he would never have anything from me that wasn't honorable."

The lady saw how firm she was and dropped the conversation. But she decided to put her to the test. She told her son that once he was recovered, she would arrange to get Jeannette alone with him in a room, and he could try to seduce her himself. She said it didn't feel right for her to act like a procuress, pleading her son's case and soliciting her own maid.

The young man was not at all happy with this plan, and promptly got much worse. When his mother saw this, she went back to Jeannette and spoke to her plainly — but found the girl even more resolute than before. She reported all of this to her husband, and the two of them made a difficult decision together. They would rather have their son alive with a wife beneath his station than dead without any wife at all. So, after a great deal of agonizing, they consented to the marriage.

Jeannette was overjoyed, and with a grateful heart she thanked God, who had not forgotten her. But even now, she never revealed herself as anything other than the daughter of a man from Picardy. The young man recovered, celebrated his wedding as the happiest man alive, and settled into a wonderful life with his bride.

—-

Meanwhile, Perrot — who had been left in Wales with the king's marshal — was growing up just as well. He won his lord's affection and developed into the most handsome and capable man on the island. Nobody could touch him in tournaments, jousts, or any other feat of arms. He became famous throughout the land under the name Perrot the Picard.

And just as God had not forgotten his sister, He showed that He was watching over Perrot too. A terrible plague swept through the region, killing off nearly half the population. Most of the survivors fled to other parts of the country in terror, leaving the land looking like a desert. In this wave of death, the marshal, his wife, their only son, and many others — brothers, nephews, cousins — all perished. The only ones left from the entire household were a daughter, just old enough to marry, and Perrot, along with a handful of other servants.

When the worst of the plague had passed, the young woman — on the advice and approval of what few local gentlemen remained alive — married Perrot, since he was a man of proven worth and ability, and made him lord of everything she'd inherited. Not long afterward, the King of England heard that the marshal had died. Knowing Perrot the Picard's reputation, the king appointed him to the dead man's position and made him his marshal.

And that, in brief, is what became of the two innocent children of the Count of Antwerp — the ones he'd given up for lost.

—-

Eighteen years had now passed since the count's flight from Paris. He was still in Ireland, living a miserable life of hardship, when the desire to learn what had become of his children seized him with a force he couldn't resist. He could see that he was completely changed in appearance — aged beyond recognition — and he felt that years of hard physical labor had actually made him sturdier and stronger than he'd been as a young man living in ease and idleness. So he took his leave from the knight he'd served for so long and made his way, poor and weathered, to England.

He went first to where he had left Perrot and found him — a marshal, a great lord, robust and fine-looking. This delighted him enormously, but he refused to reveal himself until he'd also learned how Jeannette was doing. So he set out again and didn't stop until he reached London, where he made careful inquiries about the lady he'd entrusted his daughter to and about Jeannette's situation. He discovered that Jeannette was married to the lady's son. This filled him with such joy that he counted all his years of suffering as a small price to pay, now that he'd found both his children alive and doing well.

Desperate to see Jeannette, he began lurking in the neighborhood of her house, the way beggars do. One day Jamy Lamiens — that was Jeannette's husband's name — spotted him and, seeing this old, poor man, felt a pang of compassion. He told one of his servants to bring him inside and give him something to eat, for the love of God. The servant did so readily.

Now, Jeannette had given Jamy several children, the oldest no more than eight, and they were the most beautiful, lively little things in the world. When they saw the count sitting there eating, they all came clustering around him and started petting him and climbing on him, as if some mysterious instinct told them this was their grandfather. The count, knowing perfectly well who they were, began hugging and doting on them, and the children refused to leave his side no matter how much their tutor called them away.

Jeannette heard the commotion and came out from a nearby room. She marched over to where the count was sitting and scolded the children fiercely, threatening to smack them if they didn't do as their tutor said. The children started crying and protesting that they wanted to stay with the nice man, who loved them better than their tutor did. Both the lady and the count laughed at that.

Now, the count had risen to his feet — not as a father greeting his daughter, but as a poor man showing respect to a lady above his station. The sight of her gave him a fierce, bittersweet joy. But she didn't recognize him at all — not then, and not later. He was so utterly changed from what he'd once been: old, gray, bearded, lean, and weathered dark by the sun. He looked like a completely different person.

Seeing that the children wouldn't let go of the old man and wailed whenever she tried to pull them away, the lady told their tutor to leave them be for a while. While the children were happily hanging about the old beggar, Jamy's father came home and heard from the tutor what had happened.

The marshal, who despised Jeannette, sneered: "Let them be — and God give them what they deserve! They're just reverting to type. Their mother's a vagabond's daughter, so it's no surprise they want to keep company with vagabonds."

The count heard every word and was stung deeply. But he just shrugged his shoulders and swallowed the insult, the way he'd swallowed so many others. Jamy, when he heard how the children had taken to the old man, didn't approve either — but he loved his children so much that rather than see them cry, he gave orders that if the old man wanted to stay and work in some capacity, he should be taken on. The count said he'd be glad to stay, though the only thing he knew how to do was take care of horses — he'd done it his whole life. So they gave him a horse to tend, and when he'd finished his work, he spent his time playing with the children.

—-

While Fortune was treating the Count of Antwerp and his children in the manner I've just described, the King of France died after making several truces with the Germans, and his son — whose wife was the woman who had caused the count's banishment — was crowned in his place. As soon as the latest truce expired, the new king plunged back into war. The King of England, now a kinsman by marriage, sent a large force to support him, commanded by Perrot, his marshal, along with Jamy Lamiens, the son of the other marshal. The old count went with them — the same anonymous stable boy, unrecognized by anyone. He served with the army for quite a while in his humble capacity, but being the man he was, he managed to do far more good than anyone expected of a groom, offering shrewd advice and performing brave deeds well beyond his station.

During the war, the Queen of France fell gravely ill. Feeling death approaching and filled with remorse for her sins, she made her confession to the Archbishop of Rouen, who was universally regarded as a holy and righteous man. Among her other sins, she told him the full story of what she had done to the Count of Antwerp — how she had destroyed an innocent man. And she wasn't content to confess it privately. She repeated the whole account in the presence of many distinguished witnesses, begging them to intercede with the king so that the count, if he was still alive — or if not, his children — would be restored to his rightful position.

Shortly after, she died and was buried with full honors.

When her confession was reported to the king, he was deeply moved. After sighing with genuine regret over the injustice done to a noble man, he issued a proclamation throughout the entire army and in many other places: whoever could bring him news of the Count of Antwerp, or of either of his children, would be handsomely rewarded. The king declared that, based on the queen's deathbed confession, he now considered the count innocent of the charge that had sent him into exile, and he intended to restore him to his former rank — and more.

The count, still in his groom's disguise, heard this proclamation and made sure it was genuine. Then he went straight to Jamy Lamiens and asked him to come along to see Perrot — he had something to reveal to both of them that the king was looking for.

When all three were together, the count said to Perrot, who was already thinking about revealing his own identity: "Perrot, Jamy here is married to your sister but never received any dowry with her. So, in order that your sister not go without a dowry, I want him — and no one else — to claim the great reward the king has promised, by presenting you as the son of the Count of Antwerp, and Violante — your sister and his wife — as the count's daughter, and me as the Count of Antwerp, your father."

Perrot stared at him hard, and then he recognized him. With tears streaming down his face, he threw himself at the old man's feet, embraced him, and said: "Father, you are so welcome."

Jamy, hearing the count's words and then seeing Perrot's reaction, was hit with such a wave of astonishment and joy that he barely knew what to do with himself. After a moment, accepting the truth of it, and deeply ashamed of the contemptuous things he'd sometimes said about the old stable hand, he fell to his knees in tears and humbly begged the count's forgiveness for every past insult. The count raised him to his feet and graciously forgave him everything.

After the three of them had spent a while talking about each other's adventures, laughing and crying and marveling at it all, Perrot and Jamy wanted to dress the count in proper clothes. But the count absolutely refused. He wanted Jamy to first secure the promised reward, and then — to make the king feel a suitable amount of shame — to present him exactly as he was, in his stable boy's rags.

So Jamy went before the king and offered, on the condition that the reward be granted as proclaimed, to produce the count and his children. The king immediately ordered a reward that was staggering even to Jamy and gave his word that Jamy could take it away once he had actually delivered what he promised.

Jamy turned around and pushed forward the count — his own groom — and Perrot. "My lord," he said, "here are the father and the son. The daughter, who is my wife and who is not here, you will see soon enough, God willing."

The king stared at the count. Though the man was drastically changed from what he'd once been, after studying him for a long moment, the king recognized him. With tears in his eyes, he lifted the count — who had dropped to his knees — to his feet, and kissed and embraced him. He received Perrot warmly as well and ordered that the count be immediately provided with new clothes, servants, horses, and equipment befitting his rank. This was done at once. The king treated Jamy with extraordinary honor and insisted on hearing every detail of their long ordeal.

When Jamy was about to receive the magnificent rewards for revealing the count and his children, the count said to him: "Take these gifts from the generosity of our lord the king — and be sure to tell your father that your children, his grandchildren and mine, are not born from a vagabond's daughter."

Jamy took the gifts and sent for his wife and mother to come to Paris. Perrot's wife came too. And there, in Paris, they all celebrated together with enormous joy in the company of the count, whom the king had reinstated in all his possessions and made greater than he had ever been. Afterward, with Gautier's blessing, they all returned to their respective homes. And the count himself remained in Paris until the end of his days, more honored and respected than ever.

Day 2, Story 9

Bernabò of Genoa is tricked by Ambrogiuolo into believing his wife has been unfaithful. He loses his money and orders his innocent wife killed. She escapes, disguises herself as a man, and rises to serve the Sultan. She eventually tracks down the man who slandered her, brings her husband to Alexandria, exposes the villain, and returns home to Genoa with her husband, wealthy and vindicated.

When Elisa finished her moving story, Filomena the queen — who was tall and lovely, with a smile and a warmth about her that surpassed any other woman there — gathered her thoughts and said: "We need to keep our agreement with Dioneo. Since he and I are the only ones left, I'll tell my story first, and he — since he asked for the privilege — will go last."

With that, she began:

"There's a proverb you hear all the time among ordinary people: 'The deceiver ends up at the feet of the deceived.' And it seems to me that no amount of reasoning can prove this true unless actual events demonstrate it. So while sticking to our theme for the day, dear ladies, it's occurred to me to show you that this saying is every bit as true as advertised. And you should be glad to hear it, so you'll know how to protect yourselves from deceivers.

—-

There were once in Paris, staying at the same inn, a group of prominent Italian merchants — the kind of men who came to the city regularly on business, some for one reason, some for another. One evening, after a particularly good dinner, they fell to talking about this and that, and one topic led to another until they landed on the subject of their wives, whom they'd all left behind at home.

One of them said with a laugh: "I've got no idea what mine gets up to. But I know this — whenever some pretty young thing catches my eye here, I put aside whatever love I owe my wife and enjoy myself as much as I can."

"Same here," said another. "Because whether I believe my wife is fooling around or not, she's doing it regardless. So fair is fair — a donkey gets as good as he gives."

A third chimed in with more or less the same sentiment. In short, they all seemed to agree: the wives back home weren't wasting any time during their husbands' absences.

All of them except one. Bernabò Lomellini of Genoa took the opposite position. He declared that by the special grace of God, he had a wife who was quite possibly the most accomplished woman in all of Italy — in every quality a lady should have, and many that even a knight would be proud of. She was beautiful, still in the bloom of youth, and strong and vigorous. There was no womanly craft — embroidery, silk work, and the like — at which she didn't excel beyond every other woman. On top of that, he said, no servant or steward alive could wait on a nobleman's table better or more elegantly than she could, because she had impeccable manners and flawless grace. He went on to praise her skill at riding horses, handling falcons, reading, writing, and keeping accounts as well as any merchant.

And then, after this avalanche of compliments, he arrived at the point they'd all been debating: he swore up and down that you couldn't find a more honest or chaste woman anywhere. He was absolutely certain that even if he stayed away for ten years — or forever — she would never so much as look at another man.

Among the merchants at this dinner was a young man named Ambrogiuolo of Piacenza, and this last bit of praise for Bernabò's wife sent him into fits of mockery. He asked, with heavy sarcasm, whether the Emperor himself had granted Bernabò some special exemption from the rules of nature.

Bernabò, slightly irritated, replied that it wasn't the Emperor but God — who could do rather more than the Emperor — who had blessed him with such a wife.

"Bernabò," Ambrogiuolo said, "I have no doubt you believe what you're saying. But it seems to me you haven't paid much attention to how the world actually works. If you had, you're smart enough that you would have noticed certain things that would make you more careful about grand pronouncements like that. And so you don't think we're speaking from some different set of circumstances — we who talked freely about our wives — let me reason with you a little on this subject.

"I've always understood man to be the nobler creature among mortals, and woman to come after. Man, as everyone generally agrees and as evidence confirms, has more strength and more constancy. And yet even men — who are more steadfast by nature — can't resist a woman who invites them, let alone stop themselves from wanting a woman who attracts them. They'll do anything they can to be with her. And this doesn't happen once a month — it happens a thousand times a day.

"So given all that, what do you expect from a woman, who is by nature more changeable? Do you really think she can resist the flattery, the gifts, the clever persistence of a man who sets out to win her? You think she can hold out? Please. No matter how much you insist, I don't believe you believe it yourself. You say yourself that your wife is a woman, made of flesh and blood like every other woman. If that's true, then she has the same desires and the same limited power to resist them. However virtuous she may be, it's possible she'll do what other women do. And what's possible shouldn't be denied so absolutely, or the opposite affirmed so rigidly, the way you're doing."

Bernabò answered: "I'm a merchant, not a philosopher, and I'll answer like one. I'm sure that what you're describing can happen to foolish women who have no shame. But women who are truly virtuous guard their honor so fiercely that they become stronger than men — who don't worry about such things nearly as much. My wife is that kind of woman."

"Fair enough," said Ambrogiuolo. "But if every time a woman had a little fun, a horn sprouted from her forehead to advertise the fact, I suspect very few would bother. But since no horn appears — and no evidence either, if the woman is clever — the only thing that shame and dishonor consist of is getting caught. So when they can do it in secret, they do. And when they don't, it's out of stupidity, not virtue. I'll tell you this: the only truly chaste woman is one who was never propositioned, or one who propositioned someone and was turned down. I know this from both reason and extensive personal experience. And I'll tell you something else: if I could get close to this saintly wife of yours, I'm confident I could get her to do the same thing I've gotten from plenty of other women."

Bernabò fired back: "We could go back and forth with words forever — you'd say one thing, I'd say another, and we'd get nowhere. But since you insist that all women are that easy and your technique is that effective, fine. I'm so confident in my wife's honor that I'll stake my head on it — if you can seduce her in any way. And if you fail, all I'll take from you is a thousand gold florins."

"Bernabò," replied Ambrogiuolo, who was now thoroughly heated, "I wouldn't know what to do with your blood if I won. But if you want proof of what I've been arguing, put up five thousand gold florins of your own — which should be less precious to you than your head — against a thousand of mine. And since you haven't set a time limit, I'll set one myself: I'll go to Genoa, and within three months of leaving here, I'll have had my way with your wife. As proof, I'll bring back some of her most intimate possessions, along with enough details that you yourself will have to admit it's true — provided you give me your word not to come to Genoa during that time or write to her about any of this."

Bernabò said that suited him perfectly. The other merchants tried their best to stop the whole affair, seeing that no good could come of it, but both men's blood was up. Despite everyone's objections, they drew up a written contract and signed it.

That done, Bernabò stayed in Paris while Ambrogiuolo headed for Genoa as fast as he could. He spent a few days there, discreetly gathering information about where the lady lived and what her habits were. Everything he learned confirmed — and then some — what Bernabò had told him. He began to feel he was on a fool's errand.

But then he found a way. He struck up an acquaintance with a poor woman who was frequently in the house and whom the lady treated kindly. Unable to persuade this woman to help him any other way, he bribed her with money and got her to smuggle him — inside a specially built chest — not just into the house, but into the lady's own bedroom. Following his instructions, the woman told her mistress she needed the chest stored there for a few days while she went on a trip, and the lady agreed to keep it safe.

The chest was left in the bedroom. That night, when Ambrogiuolo was sure the lady was sound asleep, he opened it using a mechanism he'd built into it and crept silently out into the room. A lamp was burning. By its light, he carefully studied every detail of the room — the layout, the paintings, every notable feature — and committed it all to memory.

Then he approached the bed. He could see that the lady and a little girl beside her were both fast asleep. He gently pulled back the covers and saw that she was every bit as beautiful undressed as she was clothed. He searched for some distinguishing mark he could take as evidence, and found one: a mole beneath her left breast, surrounded by a few fine hairs, gold-red in color. He noted it carefully and covered her back up. He was sorely tempted, seeing her lying there so beautiful, to risk everything and climb into bed with her — but he'd heard about her fierce virtue and wasn't about to gamble his life on it.

Instead, he spent most of the night at leisure in the room and helped himself to a purse, a nightgown, some rings, and a few belts from one of her chests. He put everything in his chest, climbed back in himself, and sealed it shut. He did this for two nights, and the lady never suspected a thing. On the third day, the woman came back for the chest as arranged and carried it away. Ambrogiuolo climbed out, paid her what he'd promised, and rushed back to Paris with his loot, arriving well before the deadline.

He called together the merchants who had witnessed the original bet and declared, with Bernabò present, that he had won. He had done what he'd boasted he would do, and he could prove it. First, he described the layout of the bedroom and its paintings. Then he produced the items he'd brought, claiming the lady had given them to him herself.

Bernabò admitted the bedroom was as Ambrogiuolo described it, and he recognized the items as belonging to his wife. But, he said, Ambrogiuolo might have gotten the room's description from a servant and stolen the items the same way. Unless he had something more, Bernabò didn't consider that sufficient proof.

"That ought to be enough," said Ambrogiuolo. "But since you want more, I'll give you more. I can tell you that your wife, Madonna Ginevra, has a fairly large mole under her left breast, surrounded by about half a dozen little hairs as red as gold."

When Bernabò heard this, it was as though a knife had been plunged into his heart. The anguish showed on his face even though he didn't say a word — his expression alone confirmed that Ambrogiuolo was telling the truth.

After a long pause, he said: "Gentlemen, what Ambrogiuolo says is true. He has won. Let him come whenever he likes, and he will be paid."

The next day, Ambrogiuolo collected his five thousand florins in full. Bernabò left Paris and headed for Genoa, his heart black with rage against his wife.

When he neared the city, he refused to enter it. Instead, he stopped at a country estate of his, about twenty miles outside town, and sent one of his most trusted servants to Genoa with two horses and a letter. The letter told his wife he was back and asked her to come to him. Privately, he gave the servant very different instructions: at some suitable point along the road, he was to kill her without mercy and then return.

The servant went to Genoa, delivered the letter, and completed his errand. He was received with great joy by the lady, who the next morning mounted up and set out with him toward the country house. As they rode along, talking of this and that, they came to a deep, lonely valley hemmed in by steep rocks and tall trees. The servant decided this was the place. He drew his knife, seized the lady by the arm, and said:

"My lady, commend your soul to God. You need to die right here, right now."

The lady, seeing the knife and hearing these words, was struck with terror. "For the love of God, have mercy!" she cried. "Before you kill me, at least tell me — what have I done to you that you would murder me?"

"My lady," the man answered, "you've done nothing to me. What you've done to your husband, I don't know — but he's ordered me to kill you on this road, without any pity. He told me if I didn't, he'd have me hanged. You know how much I owe him and how I can't refuse anything he commands. God knows I feel terrible about this, but I have no choice."

The lady burst into tears. "Oh God, please — don't become the murderer of a woman who has never wronged you, just to serve someone else! God, who sees all things, knows I never did anything to deserve this from my husband.

"But never mind that. Listen to me — you can satisfy God, your master, and me, all at the same time. Here's what you do: take my clothes. Give me just your doublet and a hood. Then go back to your master with the clothes and tell him you've killed me. I swear to you, on the life you will have given me, that I will disappear from this country. No word of me will ever reach him or you or anyone here. Ever."

The servant, who was deeply reluctant to kill her, was easily moved to compassion. He took her fine clothes and gave her his threadbare doublet and a hood, leaving her the money she had on her. Then he begged her to leave the country, left her there on foot in the valley, and returned to his master. He reported that the deed was done, and that he'd left her body among the wolves.

Bernabò eventually returned to Genoa. When the story got around, he was widely condemned.

As for the lady — alone, abandoned, and heartbroken — she waited until nightfall, then disguised herself as best she could and made her way to a nearby village. There she got what she needed from an old woman: she altered the doublet to fit her, cut it shorter, fashioned a pair of breeches from her shift, cropped her hair, and transformed herself completely into the appearance of a young sailor.

She walked to the seashore, and as luck would have it, she found a Catalan gentleman there — a Señor Encararch — who had just come ashore from his ship to refresh himself at a spring. She struck up a conversation, hired on as his servant, and boarded the ship under the name Sicurano da Finale. He gave her better clothes, and she served him so well and so capably that she quickly became his favorite.

Not long after, the Catalan sailed to Alexandria with a cargo that included some peregrine falcons, which he presented as a gift to the Sultan. The Sultan invited him to dinner several times, and during these meals he noticed Sicurano — who was always in attendance — and was so impressed by the young servant's manner and behavior that he asked the Catalan to let him have Sicurano for his own household. The Catalan reluctantly agreed. In short order, Sicurano won the Sultan's trust and affection every bit as thoroughly as he had won the Catalan's.

Time passed, and when the season came around for a great annual trade fair held in Acre — a city under the Sultan's control, where Christian and Saracen merchants from all over the world gathered to buy and sell — the Sultan needed a capable person to go as governor and captain of the guard, ensuring the security of the merchants and their goods. He decided to send Sicurano, who by now spoke the language fluently. And so he did.

Sicurano arrived in Acre and took charge with competence and dedication, carrying out every duty of the office while walking through the bazaars and observing the trade. Merchants from everywhere were there — Sicilians, Pisans, Genoese, Venetians, and other Italians — and Sicurano made a point of getting to know them, drawn by fond memories of home.

One day, stopping at a Venetian merchant's stall, Sicurano noticed among the display of trinkets a purse and a belt that were instantly, unmistakably recognizable. Keeping a perfectly neutral expression, Sicurano casually asked who they belonged to and whether they were for sale.

Now, it happened that Ambrogiuolo of Piacenza was at the fair, having arrived with a large shipment of goods on a Venetian vessel. Hearing the captain of the guard asking about the trinkets, he stepped forward and said with a grin: "Those are mine, sir, and they're not for sale. But if you like them, I'll happily give them to you."

Sicurano, seeing him smile, worried for a moment that some gesture had given her away. But keeping a steady face, she said: "You're laughing, I suppose, at the sight of a soldier like me asking about women's things?"

"No, sir, that's not why I'm laughing," said Ambrogiuolo. "I'm laughing at the way I came by them."

"Well then," said Sicurano, "if it's not too scandalous a story, tell me how you got them — and may God smile on you."

"Gladly, sir. A gentlewoman of Genoa — Madonna Ginevra, wife of Bernabò Lomellini — gave me these things, along with some others, one night when I slept with her. She asked me to keep them as tokens of her love. And the reason I laugh is that it reminds me of the stupidity of Bernabò, who was fool enough to bet five thousand florins against one thousand that I couldn't seduce his wife. Well, I did, and I won the bet. And Bernabò, who should have punished himself for his own idiocy instead of punishing her for doing what all women do, went home to Genoa and — from what I've heard since — had her killed."

Sicurano, hearing this, immediately understood exactly what had driven Bernabò's fury against his wife. She also saw, with perfect clarity, that this was the man responsible for all her suffering. She resolved then and there that he would not walk away unpunished.

So she pretended to find the story enormously entertaining and skillfully cultivated a close friendship with Ambrogiuolo. By the time the fair ended, she had persuaded him to come back to Alexandria with her, bringing all his merchandise. Sicurano set him up with a warehouse and put a generous amount of her own money at his disposal. Ambrogiuolo, seeing a golden opportunity, was more than happy to settle in.

Meanwhile, Sicurano was determined to prove Bernabò's innocence. Working through some prominent Genoese merchants then in Alexandria, she found a plausible pretext to lure Bernabò to the city. He arrived in wretched condition, and Sicurano had him quietly taken in and looked after by a friend until the time was right.

She had already gotten Ambrogiuolo to tell his story to the Sultan for the Sultan's amusement. But now that Bernabò was in Alexandria, she saw no reason for further delay. She found the right moment and asked the Sultan to summon both Ambrogiuolo and Bernabò before him, so that in Bernabò's presence Ambrogiuolo could be made to tell the truth — by force if necessary — about the boast he had made regarding Bernabò's wife.

Both men were brought before the Sultan, who was surrounded by his court. With a stern expression, the Sultan commanded Ambrogiuolo to tell the truth about how he had won five thousand gold florins from Bernabò. Sicurano herself — the person the Sultan trusted most — fixed Ambrogiuolo with an even fiercer look and threatened him with the most terrible torments if he didn't confess everything.

Ambrogiuolo, pressed from every side, with no way out, and in front of a large audience, laid out the entire story exactly as it had happened. He expected nothing worse than having to give back the five thousand florins and the stolen items.

When he finished, Sicurano turned to Bernabò, speaking as though on behalf of the Sultan, and said: "And what did you do to your wife because of this lie?"

Bernabò answered: "Consumed with rage at losing my money, and with shame at the dishonor I thought she'd brought on me, I had a servant of mine kill her. He told me her body was quickly devoured by wolves."

All of this was said in the Sultan's presence, and he heard and understood everything. But he didn't yet know what Sicurano — who had organized this whole proceeding — was driving at.

Sicurano said to him: "My lord, you can see very clearly how much reason that poor lady had to boast of her lover and her husband. Her so-called lover destroyed her reputation in one stroke — ruined her good name with lies — and robbed her husband in the bargain. And her husband, more willing to believe a stranger's falsehoods than the truth he should have known from years of experience, had her murdered and fed to the wolves.

"And on top of all that, both of these men care so deeply for her that despite having spent considerable time in her company, neither one of them recognizes her.

"But so that you may fully understand what each of these men deserves, I ask you — as a special favor — to punish the deceiver and pardon the deceived. And I will produce the lady herself, right here, before your eyes and theirs."

The Sultan, who was prepared to give Sicurano anything, said he was willing and told Sicurano to produce the lady.

Bernabò was stunned. He was absolutely certain his wife was dead. Ambrogiuolo, meanwhile, was beginning to sense that something far worse than losing money was heading his way. He couldn't decide whether to hope or to dread the lady's appearance — but he stood there, frozen with astonishment, waiting to see what would happen.

When the Sultan gave his consent, Sicurano fell to her knees before him, weeping. She dropped the masculine voice and the masculine bearing all at once, and said:

"My lord, I am the wretched, unfortunate Ginevra, who has spent six years wandering the world disguised as a man — slandered viciously by this traitor Ambrogiuolo, and handed over by that cruel, unjust man to a servant to be butchered and thrown to the wolves."

She tore open the front of her clothes and bared her chest, revealing herself unmistakably as a woman to the Sultan and everyone present.

Then she rounded on Ambrogiuolo and furiously demanded to know when — when exactly — he had ever slept with her, as he had so loudly bragged. Ambrogiuolo, recognizing her now and struck nearly dumb with shame, said nothing.

The Sultan, who had always believed Sicurano to be a man, was so astonished that he half thought he must be dreaming. But once the shock subsided and he grasped the truth of it, he praised Ginevra's courage, her resourcefulness, her constancy, and her virtue in the highest terms. He ordered the finest women's clothing brought to her and assigned a retinue of women to attend her. Then, in accordance with her request, he pardoned Bernabò the death he had earned.

Bernabò, recognizing his wife at last, threw himself at her feet, sobbing, and begged her forgiveness. She granted it — graciously, even though he hardly deserved it — and raised him to his feet and embraced him tenderly as her husband.

The Sultan then commanded that Ambrogiuolo be immediately tied to a stake, smeared with honey, and set out in a prominent spot under the blazing sun. He was not to be taken down until he fell apart on his own. And so it was done.

After that, the Sultan ordered that everything Ambrogiuolo owned be given to the lady. It came to well over ten thousand gold doubloons. He then threw a magnificent banquet in honor of Bernabò, as the husband of Madonna Ginevra, and of Ginevra herself, as a woman of extraordinary valor. He presented her with jewels, gold and silver vessels, and money totaling another ten thousand doubloons and more.

When the banquet was over, the Sultan had a ship fitted out for them and gave them leave to return to Genoa whenever they wished. They sailed home wealthy beyond measure and were received with the highest honors — especially Madonna Ginevra, whom everyone had believed to be dead. For the rest of her life, she was held in the greatest esteem for her courage and virtue.

As for Ambrogiuolo, that very same day he was tied to the stake and smeared with honey. The flies, the wasps, and the horseflies that swarmed in that country devoured him alive, slowly and in terrible agony, right down to the bone. His whitened skeleton, still held together by the sinews and hanging from the stake, was left there for a long time afterward — a testament to his villainy for anyone who passed by and cared to look.

And so it was that the deceiver ended up at the feet of the deceived.

Day 2, Story 10

Paganino of Monaco steals the wife of Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica. Ricciardo tracks her down and befriends Paganino, then asks for her back. Paganino says she can go if she wants to. She refuses to leave. Messer Ricciardo dies, and she becomes Paganino's wife.

Everyone in the group heartily praised the queen's story, especially Dioneo. Since he was the only one left to tell a tale that day, he lavished some final compliments on the previous story and then said:

"Fair ladies, one part of the queen's story has made me change my mind about what I was going to tell you, and I've decided to tell a different one instead — and that's the stupidity of Bernabò. He came out all right in the end, sure, but the idiocy of his thinking — and of every man who thinks the way he did — is remarkable. These are men who go traipsing around the world, amusing themselves with this woman and that one, and then convince themselves that the wives they left behind are sitting at home with their hands folded in their laps. As if we don't know — we who are born and raised among women — what they're inclined toward! By telling you this story, I'll show you what fools these men are, and how even greater fools are those who think they're more powerful than Nature herself and believe that with their clever little schemes they can accomplish what's beyond them, trying to force other people into a mold that simply doesn't fit.

—-

There was once in Pisa a judge by the name of Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, a man far better endowed with brains than with physical stamina. Thinking, apparently, that he could satisfy a wife using the same tools he used for his legal briefs, and being very rich, he went to considerable trouble to find himself a young and beautiful bride. If he'd been half as good at advising himself as he was at advising others, he would have avoided both requirements. But he got his wish: Messer Lotto Gualandi gave him his daughter Bartolomea, one of the loveliest young women in all of Pisa — though to be fair, most of the women there look like lizards.

The judge brought her home with tremendous pomp, threw a lavish wedding, and on their first night managed to score exactly one point toward consummating the marriage — and he nearly stalemated even that. The next morning, lean and dried out and gasping for air, he had to revive himself with sweet wine, restorative potions, and various other remedies.

From that point on, having become a much better judge of his own capabilities, he began teaching his wife a very special calendar — the kind you might use with schoolchildren learning to read, perhaps one originally from Ravenna. According to this calendar, there was not a single day in the year that wasn't sacred to at least one saint, and usually several. Out of reverence for these saints, he explained to her with many serious arguments, a husband and wife absolutely had to abstain from marital relations. On top of the saint's days, he added fast days, Ember days, the vigils of the Apostles and a thousand other holy figures, every Friday, every Saturday, every Sunday, all of Lent, certain phases of the moon, and a whole catalog of other exceptions. He seemed to believe, apparently, that you should take as many holidays in bed with a woman as he routinely took from his work in the law courts.

He kept this up for a long time, to the considerable frustration of the lady, whom he serviced about once a month at best — and barely that. And all the while, he watched her like a hawk, as if terrified that some other man might teach her to appreciate working days the way he'd taught her to observe the holidays.

One summer, when the heat was fierce, Messer Ricciardo got the idea to take a little vacation at a beautiful country estate he owned near Monte Nero, where he could enjoy the fresh air for a few days. He brought his lovely wife along. To give her some amusement, he organized a fishing trip one day, and they put out to sea in two boats — he in one with the fishermen, she in another with some other ladies.

The fishing was so absorbing that they drifted several miles out without realizing it. And while they were all pleasantly distracted, a swift galley appeared out of nowhere. It belonged to Paganino da Mare, one of the most notorious pirates of the day. Paganino spotted the boats, bore down on them, and though the boats tried to flee, he overtook the one carrying the women. The moment he saw the judge's beautiful wife, he snatched her up onto his galley, right before Messer Ricciardo's eyes — who had by now made it back to shore — and sailed away without a backward glance.

You can imagine how the judge felt — a man so jealous he was suspicious of the air itself. He went around Pisa and everywhere else complaining about the villainy of pirates, but it did him no good, since he had no idea who had taken his wife or where she'd been carried off to.

Paganino, for his part, considered himself a very lucky man. Finding her this beautiful, he decided to keep her. She had no husband on board, and she wept bitterly, so he set about comforting her — with words during the day, since his calendar had fallen from his belt and saints' days and holidays had clean slipped his mind — and with actions at night, since words hadn't seemed to do the trick. And he consoled her so thoroughly that by the time they reached Monaco, the judge and all his regulations had completely vanished from her mind, and she began to live the merriest life imaginable with Paganino. He carried her to Monaco and there, in addition to the consolations he heaped upon her day and night, he treated her with all the respect due a wife.

After a while, word reached Messer Ricciardo where his wife was. Consumed by the most desperate longing to get her back, and convinced that no one else could handle the delicate negotiations properly, he resolved to go himself. He was prepared to spend any amount of money on her ransom. He set out by sea, and when he arrived in Monaco, he both saw his wife and was seen by her. She told Paganino about it that same evening and explained what she intended to do.

The next morning, Messer Ricciardo ran into Paganino and quickly struck up what appeared to be a warm friendship. Paganino pretended not to know who he was and waited to see what he was after. When Ricciardo judged the moment was right, he revealed the reason for his visit as politely and civilly as he could, and asked Paganino to please name his price and give her back.

Paganino answered with a cheerful smile: "Sir, you're welcome here. I'll be brief. It's true there's a young woman in my house. Whether she's your wife or someone else's, I couldn't say — I don't know you, and I barely know her, aside from the fact that she's been living with me for a while. If you are her husband, as you say, I'll take you to her — you seem like a civil gentleman, and I'm sure she'll recognize you easily enough. If she confirms what you say and wants to go with you, then out of respect for your gentlemanly conduct, you can pay whatever ransom you think is fair. But if things aren't as you say, it would be wrong of you to try to take her from me, because I'm a young man and quite capable of keeping a woman happy — especially one like her, who's the most delightful woman I've ever met."

"Of course she's my wife," said Messer Ricciardo. "Bring me to her and you'll see soon enough — she'll throw her arms around my neck the instant she sees me. I wouldn't ask for anything different from what you've proposed."

"Then let's go," said Paganino.

They went to Paganino's house, where he brought the judge into a fine reception room and sent for the lady. She came out of another room, beautifully dressed and groomed, and walked over to where the two men were sitting. But she greeted Messer Ricciardo with exactly the same cool politeness she might have shown any stranger who happened to come home with Paganino.

The judge, who had been expecting her to rush into his arms with cries of joy, was dumbfounded. He started thinking to himself: "Maybe all the grief and suffering I've been through since I lost her has changed me so much that she doesn't recognize me."

So he said to her: "Wife, it's cost me dearly to take you fishing that day. I've never known grief like what I've suffered since I lost you. And yet you don't seem to know me — look how coldly you greet me! Don't you see that I'm your own Messer Ricciardo? I've come here to pay whatever this gentleman asks so I can ransom you and take you home. And he, out of the goodness of his heart, is willing to give you back for whatever I choose to pay."

The lady turned to him with a faint smile and said: "Are you talking to me, sir? You might want to make sure you haven't mistaken me for someone else, because I certainly don't remember ever seeing you before."

"Watch what you're saying," said Ricciardo. "Look at me carefully. If you'll just think about it, you'll see that I'm your own Ricciardo di Chinzica."

"Sir," the lady replied, "you'll have to forgive me. It may not be as proper for me to stare at you as you seem to think. But I've seen enough to know that I've never laid eyes on you before in my life."

Ricciardo concluded that she was doing this out of fear of Paganino — she didn't want to admit she recognized him with her captor standing right there. So he asked Paganino, as a favor, to let him speak with her privately in a room. Paganino agreed, on the condition that he not try to kiss her against her will, and told the lady to go hear what the man had to say and answer however she pleased.

So the lady and Messer Ricciardo went into a room by themselves and sat down. The judge began:

"Oh, my darling, my sweetheart, my soul, my hope — don't you know your Ricciardo, who loves you more than life? How can this be? Am I really that changed? Please, my beautiful one, just look at me."

The lady started to laugh, and before he could say another word, she replied:

"You can rest assured that I'm not so scatterbrained that I don't know perfectly well you're Messer Ricciardo di Chinzica, my husband. But while I was with you, you showed very clearly that you didn't know me at all. You should have had the sense to see that I was young, energetic, and full of life, and to understand what a young woman needs beyond nice clothes and good food — even if modesty prevents her from naming it out loud. How well you provided that, you know.

"If studying the law was more appealing to you than your wife, you shouldn't have married. Though honestly, you never struck me as much of a judge — more like a town crier announcing feast days and fasts and vigils, you knew them all so well. And I'll tell you this: if you'd given the farmers who work your land as many holidays as you gave the man who was supposed to be working my little field, you'd never have harvested a single grain of wheat.

"But God took pity on my youth. I ended up with the man in this house, and in this bedroom, holidays are unheard of — I'm talking about the kind of holidays you used to celebrate so devoutly, you who were more committed to serving God than to serving your wife. No Saturday, no Friday, no vigil, no Ember day, no Lent — which goes on forever — has ever darkened that doorway. In here, it's hard work day and night; we card the wool around the clock. Just last night, after the bells rang for matins, I can tell you very well how things went, once he got going.

"So I intend to stay with him and work while I'm still young. The saints' days and jubilees and fasting — I'll save those for when I'm old. Now go on your way, and good luck to you. Celebrate as many holidays as you like — without me."

Messer Ricciardo, listening to all of this, felt an agony beyond description. When she finally stopped talking, he said: "Darling, sweetheart, what are you saying? Don't you care about your family's honor? Your own honor? Would you really rather stay here as this man's mistress, living in mortal sin, than come back to Pisa as my wife? When he gets tired of you, he'll throw you out and you'll be disgraced. I will always cherish you, and no matter what, you'll always be the lady of my house. Do you want to abandon your honor and me — I, who love you more than my own life — for the sake of some lawless, shameful appetite? For God's sake, my dearest hope, stop talking like this and come home with me. From now on, since I know what you want, I'll make an effort. So please, my treasure, change your mind and come away with me. I haven't had a moment's happiness since you were taken."

The lady replied: "I don't need anyone to be more careful of my honor now than I am myself. My relatives should have thought about that when they handed me over to you. Since they didn't care about my honor back then, I'm not going to worry about theirs now. And if I'm living in 'mortar' sin, well, I'll just have to deal with the 'pestle' sin too. Don't bother worrying about it on my account.

"And let me tell you something: here, I feel like Paganino's wife. In Pisa, I felt like your whore. Back there, it took phases of the moon and geometric calculations to figure out when the planets would align for us to come together. Here, Paganino holds me in his arms all night, squeezes me tight, and bites me — and how he serves me, I'll let God describe, because I couldn't do it justice.

"You say you'll make an effort. To do what? Get it done in three tries and then beat it into standing up with a stick? I see you've become quite the vigorous knight since I last saw you! Go away and make an effort just to stay alive, because frankly, you look like you're barely hanging on — so thin and weak and winded.

"And one more thing: even if Paganino were to leave me — which he doesn't seem inclined to do, as long as I want to stay — I would never, ever come back to you. I could squeeze you like a lemon and not get enough sauce for a saucer. I lived with you once, and it was a complete waste of my time. If I ever found myself single again, I'd look for my happiness somewhere else.

"So I'm telling you one last time: here, there are no saints' days and no vigils. And here is where I'm staying. So please, get yourself gone in God's name, as quickly as you can — or I'll start screaming that you're trying to force yourself on me."

Messer Ricciardo, seeing the hopelessness of his situation and now recognizing what a fool he'd been to marry a young woman when he was already spent, walked out of the room, sad and defeated. He said a lot of things to Paganino that didn't make the slightest difference. In the end, he left the lady behind and returned to Pisa, having accomplished nothing.

Back home, his grief drove him into such a state of dotage that whenever he walked through the streets of Pisa and anyone greeted him or asked him a question, all he would say was: "The wicked hole wants no holidays." He died not long after.

Paganino, hearing of his death and knowing perfectly well how much the lady loved him, married her properly. And from that day forward, without ever observing a single saint's day or vigil or keeping Lent, the two of them went at it for as long as their legs could carry them and lived a magnificent life together.

"Which is why, dear ladies, it seems to me that Bernabò, in his argument with Ambrogiuolo, was riding the goat downhill."

—-

This story got such a roar of laughter from the whole company that everyone's jaw ached from it. The ladies all agreed unanimously that Dioneo was right and that Bernabò had been an ass.

When the laughter died down and the story was over, the queen noticed that the hour was late and that everyone had told their tale. Her reign was at its end. Following the established custom, she took the laurel wreath from her own head and set it on Neifile's, saying with a bright smile: "From now on, dear friend, the governance of this little kingdom is yours."

She sat back down. Neifile blushed at the honor and her face turned the color of a fresh rose blooming in the April or May dawn, with lovely eyes cast slightly downward, shining like the morning star. After the courteous murmur of the others — all warmly expressing their approval of the new queen — had subsided and she had gathered her nerve, she seated herself a little higher than the rest and spoke:

"Since I am to be your queen, I won't depart from the pattern set by those who came before me, whose leadership you've endorsed with your obedience. I'll share my thinking briefly, and if the group approves, that's what we'll do.

"Tomorrow, as you know, is Friday, and the day after is Saturday — days that most people find somewhat tedious because of the food restrictions. And Friday in particular deserves our reverence, since it was on that day that He who died for our sake suffered His passion. So I think it would be right and fitting if on that day we turned our attention to prayer rather than storytelling.

"As for Saturday, it's customary for ladies to wash their hair on that day and clean away all the dust and grime of the week's work. Many also fast on Saturdays and rest from all labor in honor of the Virgin Mary and the coming Sunday. Since we can't fully follow our usual routine of living on that day either, I think we'd do well to take a break from storytelling then too.

"By that point, we'll have been here four days. If we want to avoid the risk of newcomers intruding on our group, I think it's time we move somewhere else — and I've already scouted out a new location.

"When we gather there on Sunday, after a good rest — we've had plenty of leisure today for wide-ranging conversation — I've been thinking that, both to give you more time to prepare and to rein in our storytelling a bit, we should pick a specific theme. Here's what I propose: we'll tell stories about people who, through their own resourcefulness, obtained something they deeply desired — or recovered something they had lost. Let everyone think of a story that might be useful or at least entertaining to the group, with the usual exception of Dioneo's privilege."

Everyone praised the queen's speech and her plan, and agreed that it should be just as she had said.

Then, calling for her steward, she gave him detailed instructions about where to set up the tables that evening and what to do throughout the rest of her reign. That done, she rose to her feet and gave the company leave to do whatever they pleased.

The ladies and the gentlemen wandered off to a small garden and amused themselves there for a while. When supper time came, they ate with great merriment and pleasure. Afterward, they all rose, and at the queen's command, with Emilia leading the dance, Pampinea sang the following song while the others joined in on the refrain:

What lady should forever sing, if not I, > Who am blessed with all for which a heart can sigh? > > Come then, O Love, the source of all my joy, > Of every hope and every bright design, > Sing with me now awhile > Not of the sighs or bitter pains of old > That only sweeten now this bliss of mine, > But of that fire's clear smile > In which I burn and live in happy style, > And like a god your name I glorify. > > You set before these eyes of mine, O Love, > The day I first stepped into your bright flame, > A youth so finely made, > With courage, grace, and beauty far above > All others — none could match or meet his name, > Nor equal him, I'd say. > So fierce my passion burns that still I pray, > And sing of him with you, my lord on high. > > And what crowns all my joy beyond compare > Is this: I please him as he pleases me, > Thanks to Love's gentle art. > So in this world I hold my heart's desire, > And in the next I trust at peace to be, > Through faith that fills my heart > For him. Surely God sees and will impart > His kingdom's bliss to us — and not deny.

After this they sang a few more songs, danced several dances, and played various instruments. Then, the queen judging it time for bed, everyone retired to their rooms with torches lighting the way. Over the next two days, they attended to the matters the queen had spoken of, all the while looking forward eagerly to Sunday.

Here ends the Second Day of the Decameron.

Day 3 — Introduction

Here begins the third day of the Decameron, in which, under the rule of Neifile, the company tells stories of people who, through cleverness and determination, obtained something they desperately wanted or recovered something they had lost.

The dawn was shifting from deep red to a warm golden orange as the sun rose, and on that Sunday morning the queen got up and roused her entire company. The steward had sent ahead, well in advance, a full supply of everything they would need at their destination, along with servants to prepare the place. Now, seeing the queen ready to set out, he loaded up the remaining provisions as if they were breaking camp, and followed behind the ladies and gentlemen with the household staff and the rest of the baggage.

The queen, walking at a leisurely pace, accompanied and followed by her ladies and the three young men, let herself be guided by the singing of some twenty or so nightingales and other birds. She led them westward along a little-used footpath, lush with green herbs and flowers that were just now opening to greet the morning sun. They chatted, jested, and laughed as they walked, and well before nine o'clock, without having covered more than a couple of miles, they arrived at a grand and beautiful palace, set slightly above the surrounding plain on a gentle rise.

They went inside and explored the place from top to bottom — the great reception halls, the charming and elegant bedchambers, all thoroughly furnished with everything one could want. They were deeply impressed, and they agreed that its lord must be a truly magnificent man. Then they went downstairs and took in the spacious, cheerful courtyard, the cellars stocked with the finest wines, and the wonderfully cool spring water that flowed there in abundance. They praised it even more. Looking for somewhere to rest, they settled into a covered gallery that overlooked the entire courtyard. It was filled with whatever flowers and greenery the season could offer, and before long the attentive steward appeared and refreshed them with the most exquisite sweets and superb wines.

Afterward, a walled garden that flanked the palace was opened to them, and they stepped inside. At first sight, the whole thing struck them as astonishingly beautiful, and they set about examining its features more closely. The garden was laid out with wide, perfectly straight pathways running along the edges and crisscrossing through the middle, all shaded by trellises heavy with grapevines that looked ready to produce a magnificent crop that year. The vines were then in bloom, and their fragrance, mingling with the scent of countless other sweet-smelling plants, made it feel as though they were standing in the middle of every spice that ever grew in the East. The sides of these paths were lined with red and white roses and jasmine, so thick that not only in the cool of the morning but even at the height of noon, one could stroll the entire garden in delicious, fragrant shade, untouched by the sun.

As for the variety, the quantity, and the beautiful arrangement of the plants that grew there — it would take too long to list them all. Suffice it to say that every lovely plant that can thrive in our climate was represented, and in abundance. At the very center of the garden — and this was no less remarkable than anything else — there was a lawn of the finest grass, so deep and vivid a green that it looked almost black, scattered with what must have been a thousand different kinds of wildflowers. This lawn was enclosed by the greenest and most luxuriant orange and lemon trees, which bore ripe fruit and new blossoms all at the same time, offering not only pleasant shade to the eye but a wonderful perfume to the nose.

In the middle of the lawn stood a fountain of the whitest marble, carved with magnificent sculptures. From a figure atop a column at its center — whether from a natural spring or some clever piece of engineering, I couldn't say — a great jet of water shot high into the sky, then fell back with a lovely, musical sound into the crystal-clear basin below. There was enough water flowing through it to power a mill. The overflow from the basin ran out beneath the lawn through a hidden channel, then resurfaced and spread through beautifully crafted little waterways that encircled the entire lawn. From there, similar channels carried the water through nearly every part of the garden, finally gathering again at a single outlet, where it flowed out of the garden as the clearest of streams toward the plain below — but not before it had turned two mills along the way, very much to the profit of the estate's owner.

The sight of this garden — its perfect design, its plants, its fountain, and the little streams branching out from it — so delighted the ladies and the three young men that they declared unanimously: if Paradise could be created on earth, they could not imagine what form it could take other than this garden, nor could they conceive of a single thing that might be added to improve it. And as they wandered through it with the greatest pleasure, weaving garlands from the leaves of its various trees, listening all the while to some twenty different species of birds singing as if competing with one another, they became aware of yet another delight that, dazzled as they had been by everything else, they had not yet noticed. The garden, they now realized, was teeming with perhaps a hundred different kinds of beautiful creatures: rabbits popping out on one side, hares darting across another, young goats lounging here, fawns grazing there, and many other harmless animals, each going about its business as contentedly as if it were tame. This discovery gave them even more pleasure than all the rest.

After they had wandered to their hearts' content, admiring first one thing and then another, the queen had the tables set around the beautiful fountain. At her command, they sang half a dozen songs and danced a few dances, then sat down to eat. The meal was excellent — well ordered, beautifully served, quiet and elegant, with the most delicious food — and it put them all in even higher spirits. They rose from the table and gave themselves over once more to music, singing, and dancing, until the queen decided it was time for those who wished to take a nap.

Some did exactly that, while others, too enchanted by the beauty of the place to leave it, stayed behind — some reading romances, some playing chess or backgammon, while the nappers slept. But later, once the afternoon had advanced and everyone had woken and splashed cold water on their faces, they all gathered at the queen's command on the lawn near the fountain. There, settling into their usual arrangement, they waited to begin the storytelling on the theme she had announced. The first person she called on was Filostrato, and he began like this:

Day 3, Story 1

Masetto of Lamporecchio pretends to be a deaf-mute and gets hired as gardener at a convent, where every single nun lines up to sleep with him.

"Dear ladies, there are plenty of men and women foolish enough to believe that when a white veil is placed on a girl's head and a black habit draped over her back, she somehow stops being a woman — that she no longer feels any of the desires women feel, as if taking the veil had turned her to stone. And if they ever hear anything that contradicts this belief, they fly into a rage, as if some terrible crime against nature had been committed. It never occurs to them to consider their own experience — how even the complete freedom to do whatever they please isn't enough to satisfy them — nor do they stop to think about how powerfully idleness and daydreaming can work on a person. There are just as many people who believe that the spade, the hoe, coarse food, and hard living stamp out every carnal desire in farmworkers and leave them completely dull in both body and mind. But just how badly mistaken all these believers are — well, since the queen has asked me to go next, I'd like to show you in a little story, without straying from today's theme.

In this very region, there was — and still is — a convent of women, quite famous for its holiness. I won't name it, since I'd rather not damage its reputation. Not long ago, the convent had just eight nuns and an abbess, all of them young. They employed a good but simple fellow as gardener for their very fine garden, but he grew unhappy with his pay, settled his accounts with the convent's steward, and went back home to Lamporecchio.

Among those who welcomed him back was a young laborer named Masetto — sturdy, strong, and good-looking, at least by country standards. He asked the gardener, whose name was Nuto, where he'd been all this time. Nuto told him, and Masetto asked what sort of work he'd done at the convent.

"I tended their big garden," Nuto said, "and besides that, I'd go cut firewood, haul water, and do other odd jobs like that. But the nuns paid me so little I could barely keep myself in shoes. On top of that, they're all young, and I swear they've got the devil in them — nothing I did was ever right. Whenever I was working in the garden, one would say, 'Put this here,' and another, 'Put that there,' and a third would snatch the hoe right out of my hand and say, 'That's all wrong.' They pestered me so much I'd give up and walk out of the garden entirely. Between one thing and another, I'd had enough, so I left. When I was on my way out, their steward begged me to send him someone suitable if I could find anyone. I told him I would — but God give the man strong loins, because whoever I send is going to need them!"

When Masetto heard this, such a powerful desire to be with these nuns seized hold of him that it consumed him entirely. From Nuto's words, he could tell there was a real opportunity to get what he wanted. But he could also see that he'd ruin his chances if he let Nuto in on his thinking, so he just said, "Yeah, you did right to leave! How's a man supposed to live around women? You'd be better off with devils. Six times out of seven, they don't even know what they want themselves."

But once their conversation was over, Masetto started scheming about how to get himself in with those nuns. He knew he could handle the work Nuto had described — no worries there — but he was afraid they might not hire him because he was too young and too good-looking. After turning it over in his mind, he hit on a plan: "The place is far from here, and nobody knows me there. If I can just pretend to be a deaf-mute, they'll hire me for sure."

Having settled on this scheme, he slung an axe over his shoulder and set off without telling anyone where he was going. He arrived at the convent looking like a beggar, and as luck would have it, found the steward in the courtyard. Using the signs and gestures that mute people use, he begged the man for food for the love of God and offered to chop wood in return. The steward fed him willingly, then put him to work on a pile of logs that Nuto had never managed to split. Masetto, who was tremendously strong, made short work of them all. Later, the steward needed to go to the woods and brought Masetto along to cut firewood. He loaded the donkey and made Masetto understand through gestures that he should haul the wood back. Masetto did it perfectly. The steward was so pleased that he kept him on for several more days, having him do various tasks as they came up.

One day the abbess noticed him and asked the steward who he was.

"He's a poor deaf-mute who showed up the other day begging," the steward explained. "I took him in out of charity and put him to work on things we needed done. If he knows how to tend the garden and wants to stay on, I think we'd get good service out of him — we need a gardener, and he's strong. Plus, we can make him do whatever we want. And you certainly wouldn't have to worry about him getting fresh with your young ladies."

"That's a good point," said the abbess. "Find out if he knows how to garden, and try to keep him here. Give him a pair of shoes, some old hood or other, make a fuss over him, pet him a little, feed him well."

The steward promised he would. Now, Masetto wasn't so far away that he couldn't hear every word of this, and he said to himself with glee, "Put me in that garden, and I'll till it like it's never been tilled before."

The steward confirmed through signs that Masetto knew how to garden, and Masetto signed back that he'd do whatever was asked. So the steward hired him, showed him what to do in the garden, and then went off to attend to other convent business, leaving Masetto to his work.

As the days went by, the nuns started teasing him and making fun of him, the way people often do with mutes. They said the most outrageous things to him, thinking he couldn't understand a word — and the abbess, apparently assuming he was as lacking below the waist as he was in the tongue department, paid no attention whatsoever.

Then one day it happened that Masetto was resting after a hard morning's work when two young nuns who were strolling through the garden wandered over to where he lay. He pretended to be asleep. The bolder of the two said to the other, "If I thought you could keep a secret, I'd tell you something I've been thinking about — something that might interest you too."

"Go ahead," said the other. "I swear I'll never tell a soul."

The forward one said, "I don't know if you've ever thought about how strictly we're kept here, and how no man ever sets foot in this place except the steward, who's old, and this deaf-mute. But I've heard it said, more than once, by ladies who've come to visit us, that every other pleasure in the world is nothing compared to what a woman feels when she's with a man. So I've had it in mind more than once to try it out with this mute, since I can't with anyone else. And really, he's perfect for the purpose — even if he wanted to tell anyone, he couldn't. You can see he's just a dim-witted lad whose body has outgrown his brains. I'd love to know what you think."

"Oh no!" said the other. "What are you saying? Don't you know we've promised our virginity to God?"

"Oh, please," the first one answered. "How many promises are made to Him every day that nobody keeps? If we promised it to Him, He can find someone else to deliver."

"But what if we get pregnant?" her companion pressed. "What then?"

"You're worrying about problems before they happen," said the first. "If it comes to that, we'll deal with it then. There'll be a thousand ways to keep it quiet, as long as we don't tell anyone ourselves."

Hearing this, the second nun — who by now was even more curious than her companion to find out what sort of creature a man was — said, "All right, then. How do we do this?"

"Look," said the first, "it's nearly midday and I'm pretty sure all the other sisters are asleep. Let's check that nobody else is in the garden, and if the coast is clear, we just take him by the hand and lead him into that shed where he shelters from the rain. One of us goes in with him while the other keeps watch. He's so simple he'll do whatever we want."

Masetto heard every word of this and was perfectly willing to cooperate. He just waited to be taken. The two nuns looked carefully all around to make sure they couldn't be seen, and then the one who had proposed the idea went up to Masetto and woke him. He sprang to his feet right away. She took him coaxingly by the hand and led him, grinning like an idiot, to the shed, where he needed no persuading at all to do what she wanted. Then, like a good friend, once she'd had her turn, she stepped aside for her companion, and Masetto, still playing the simpleton, obliged her too.

Before they left, each of the girls insisted on a second round of testing the mute's horsemanship. Afterward, comparing notes, they agreed that the experience was every bit as wonderful as they'd heard — even better, actually. From then on, whenever they found the right moment, they went back to enjoy themselves with the mute.

One day, though, one of their fellow nuns happened to spot them at it from the window of her cell and showed two others. At first they talked about reporting the pair to the abbess, but then they changed their minds and struck a deal with the original two instead, becoming partners in Masetto's services. Eventually, the remaining three nuns were added to the arrangement at various times and through various circumstances.

Last of all came the abbess, who still hadn't gotten wind of any of this. One day, walking alone through the garden during the hottest part of the afternoon, she found Masetto stretched out asleep in the shade of an almond tree. He was exhausted — too many nighttime rides had left him with little energy for daytime work — and the wind had blown his clothes up in front, leaving everything on full display. The lady stood there looking at him, and finding herself alone, she fell prey to the very same appetite that had gotten hold of all her nuns. She woke Masetto and led him to her chambers, where — to the considerable annoyance of the other nuns, who complained loudly that the gardener never came to tend the garden anymore — she kept him for several days, sampling and re-sampling the pleasure she had always been the first to criticize in others.

Eventually she sent him back to his own quarters, but she called for him often, and on top of that she demanded more than her fair share of his time. Masetto, unable to satisfy so many women, realized that if this mute act went on much longer, it was going to do him serious harm. So one night, while he was with the abbess, he loosened his tongue and spoke:

"I've heard it said that one rooster is enough for ten hens, but that ten men can barely satisfy one woman. And here I am, expected to serve nine of you. I just can't do it anymore. After everything I've been through, I'm so worn out I'm no good to anyone. So either let me go in peace, or figure out some other arrangement."

The abbess was stunned to hear words coming from a man she'd believed was mute. "What is this?" she said. "I thought you couldn't speak!"

"I couldn't, my lady," Masetto answered. "I wasn't born mute — I lost my speech to an illness, and only tonight, for the very first time, has it come back to me. I thank God with all my heart."

The abbess believed him and asked what he meant about having to serve nine. Masetto told her the whole situation, and the abbess realized there wasn't a single nun in the convent who was any wiser than she was. But she was a sensible woman, and rather than let Masetto go and risk the convent's reputation, she decided to work something out with her nuns. They all confessed openly to one another what each of them had been doing in secret, and with Masetto's full consent, they arranged things so that the people in the surrounding area came to believe that Masetto's speech had been miraculously restored through their prayers and the intercession of the saint for whom the convent was named.

Their old steward having recently died, they appointed Masetto as the new one and divided up his labors in a way he could actually handle. And though he fathered quite a few little monks and nuns along the way, the whole thing was managed so discreetly that nothing leaked out until after the abbess died, by which time Masetto was getting old and was ready to go home a wealthy man. Once the story became known, it actually helped him get what he wanted.

And so Masetto, who had left home with nothing but an axe on his shoulder, returned in his old age, rich and a father — without ever having to pay for the expense of raising his children — declaring that this was how Christ rewarded anyone who put horns on His cap."

Day 3, Story 2

A groom sleeps with King Agilulf's wife by impersonating the king in the dark. The king figures out what happened and marks the culprit, but the groom outsmarts him — and everyone keeps their hair.

The end of Filostrato's story drew both blushes and laughter from the ladies. When it was over, the queen asked Pampinea to follow with a story, and she began with a smile:

"There are people so reckless in their need to show off what they know — to prove they've figured out something they'd be better off not knowing — that sometimes, in trying to expose someone else's hidden faults, they think they're reducing their own shame when in fact they're multiplying it enormously. I'd like to prove this to you, dear ladies, by showing you the opposite: the shrewdness of a man who, in the eyes of a brave and capable king, was considered worth even less than Masetto himself.

Agilulf, King of the Lombards, established his capital at Pavia, as his predecessors had done, and married Theodolinda, the widow of the former Lombard king Autari. She was a very beautiful woman, wise and virtuous, but unlucky in love. During a time when the Lombard kingdom was prosperous and at peace, thanks to Agilulf's strong leadership, one of the queen's grooms — a man of very low birth but whose character and abilities were far above his humble station, and who was as tall and handsome as the king himself — fell hopelessly in love with his mistress.

His lowly position didn't prevent him from understanding that this love was completely out of bounds. Like a sensible man, he never breathed a word of it to anyone, and he didn't even dare let his eyes betray him to the queen. He lived without the slightest hope of ever winning her favor, yet inwardly he took pride in having set his heart on someone so far above him. Burning with passion, he threw himself into doing everything he could to please the queen — more eagerly than any of his fellow servants. The result was that whenever the queen needed to ride somewhere, she preferred to mount the horse he looked after over any other. When this happened, the groom counted it an enormous privilege. He never left her stirrup, and he considered himself the luckiest man alive whenever he could so much as touch her clothing.

But as often happens — the less hope there is, the harder love burns — and so it was with this poor groom. With no hope to sustain him and nothing to do but keep his great desire hidden, he found it increasingly unbearable. More than once, unable to rid himself of his love, he resolved to die. And thinking about how he might do it, he decided he wanted to die in a way that would make it clear he was dying for the love he bore the queen. He would seek his death through some enterprise that would give him a chance of fulfilling his desire — either entirely or in part. He wasn't foolish enough to try writing to the queen or declaring his love — he knew perfectly well that would be pointless. Instead, he decided to try, through cunning, to find a way into her bed. And since he knew the king didn't sleep with her every night, the only plan that could work was to find a way to impersonate the king and slip into her bedchamber undetected.

To learn how the king dressed and behaved when he visited the queen, the groom hid himself several nights running in the great hall of the palace that lay between the king's bedchamber and the queen's. One night, among others, he watched the king come out of his room wrapped in a large cloak, carrying a lit candle in one hand and a small stick in the other. The king walked to the queen's door and knocked once or twice with the stick, without saying a word. The door was immediately opened, the candle was taken from his hand, and he went in. The groom watched him return the same way later.

Having seen all this, he resolved to do exactly the same. He got hold of a cloak like the king's, along with a candle and a stick. First he scrubbed himself thoroughly in a bath, in case the smell of the stables might give him away or alert the queen to the trick. Then he hid himself in the great hall, as he'd done before.

When he was sure everyone was asleep and the time had come to either fulfill his desire or meet a noble death in the attempt, he struck a light with the flint and steel he had brought, lit the candle, wrapped himself tightly in the cloak, went to the queen's chamber door, and knocked twice with the stick. A half-asleep attendant opened the door and took the candle, covering its light. Without a word, he stepped past the bed curtain, set down his cloak, and climbed into the bed where the queen slept. He took her in his arms with feigned restlessness — he knew it was the king's habit not to want conversation when he was in a brooding mood — and without speaking or being spoken to, he made love to the queen several times. Painful as it was to leave, he was afraid that staying too long might turn his stolen joy into disaster, so he got up, took his cloak and the candle, and withdrew without a word, hurrying back to his own bed as fast as he could.

He could hardly have gotten there when the king himself rose and went to the queen's chamber. She was thoroughly surprised. As he climbed into bed and greeted her cheerfully, his good mood emboldened her to speak: "My lord, what's gotten into you tonight? You just left me, after taking your pleasure more vigorously than usual, and now you're back already? Be careful — don't overdo it."

The king, hearing these words, instantly understood that the queen had been deceived by the similarity of manner and appearance. But like a wise man, he immediately thought better of letting her know — since neither she nor anyone else had noticed the deception. Many fools would have blurted out, "That wasn't me! Who was it? What happened? Who was here?" But that could only have led to trouble: it would have needlessly tormented the queen and might even have given her a taste for something she'd want again. Besides, keeping quiet meant no shame would come to him, while speaking up would only have brought dishonor on himself.

So the king, more troubled in his heart than in his face or his voice, answered: "Wife, don't I seem man enough to have been here once and come back for more?"

"Of course you do, my lord," she said. "But still, I beg you, think of your health."

"I think I'll take your advice," said Agilulf. "I'll leave you in peace tonight." And with that, his heart seething with rage and indignation over the outrage that had been done to him, he picked up his cloak and left the chamber.

He resolved to find the culprit quietly. The man had to be a member of his household — he couldn't possibly have gotten out of the palace. So the king took a very small light in a tiny lantern and made his way to a long gallery above the palace stables, where all his household servants slept in a row of beds. He reasoned that whoever had done what the queen described, his pulse and heartbeat from the recent exertion would not yet have had time to settle down. Silently, starting at one end of the gallery, the king began feeling each man's chest to check if his heart was still racing.

Every man was fast asleep — except the one who had been with the queen. That man, seeing the king approach and guessing what he was after, was gripped with such terror that the fear piled on top of his already pounding heart made it beat even harder. He was sure the king would kill him on the spot if he noticed, and a hundred plans raced through his mind. But seeing that the king was unarmed, he decided to pretend to be asleep and wait.

Agilulf checked man after man and found nothing suspicious — until he reached the groom and felt his heart hammering away. "This is the one," he said to himself. But since he didn't want anyone to know what he intended, all he did was take out a pair of scissors he had brought along and snip a small patch of hair from one side of the man's head. In those days men wore their hair long, so the mark would be easy to spot in the morning. This done, the king withdrew and returned to his own chamber.

The groom, who had felt everything, was sharp enough to understand exactly why he'd been marked. Without a moment's delay, he got up and found a pair of shears — there happened to be several lying around the stables for grooming the horses — and crept silently along the gallery, clipping every sleeping man's hair in exactly the same way, just above the ear. He did it without waking a single soul, then went back to sleep.

When the king rose in the morning, he ordered his entire household to present themselves before him, bareheaded, before the palace gates were opened. They all assembled as commanded. The king began scanning their heads, expecting to spot the man he had marked — but to his astonishment, the great majority of them had their hair clipped in exactly the same way. He marveled, and said to himself, "The man I'm looking for may be low-born, but he's clearly no fool."

Seeing that he couldn't identify the culprit without causing a scene, and having no desire to bring a great shame on himself for the sake of a petty revenge, the king chose to settle the matter with a single warning. Turning to the whole assembly, he said: "Whoever did it — don't do it again. Now go."

Someone else would have hauled them all in for interrogation, torture, and questioning — but doing so would have made public the very thing everyone should want kept quiet. Even if he had identified the man and taken his full revenge, his own shame wouldn't have been lessened — it would have been greatly increased, and his wife's honor stained.

Those who heard the king's words were puzzled and debated among themselves for a long time about what he could have meant. But no one understood it except the one it was meant for. And that man, wise as he was, never revealed the truth during Agilulf's lifetime, and never again risked his neck on such a venture."

Day 3, Story 3

A lady in love uses confession and a pretense of outraged virtue to trick a gullible friar into serving as the unwitting go-between for her affair.

After Pampinea finished, several members of the group praised the groom's daring and cleverness, as well as the king's good sense. The queen then turned to Filomena and told her to continue, and Filomena cheerfully began:

"I'd like to tell you about a trick that a beautiful woman actually pulled on a pompous friar, and it ought to be all the more delightful to laypeople because these friars — who are for the most part quite dull, with their strange habits and affectations — consider themselves superior to everyone else in every way, when really they're worth less than most people. They're men who lack the spirit to make their own way in the world and instead take refuge, like pigs at a trough, wherever they can find a free meal. And I'm telling you this story, dear ladies, not only because it follows our assigned theme, but also to show you that even the clergy, in whom we women place far too much trust, given how gullible we are, can be — and sometimes are — made complete fools of, and not just by men, but by certain women among us as well.

In our own city, which is fuller of fraud than of love or loyalty, there lived not many years ago a gentlewoman blessed with beauty, charm, graceful manners, a noble spirit, and a sharp mind — all gifts of nature. I know her name, but I won't reveal it, nor any other name connected to this story, because there are people still alive who would take offense at what should really just make them laugh.

This lady, then, finding herself — despite her high birth — married to a wool merchant, could not overcome the contempt she felt because her husband was a tradesman. In her view, no man of low condition, no matter how rich, deserved a woman of noble blood. And seeing that her husband, for all his wealth, was good for nothing more than setting up a loom, planning a weave, or haggling with a spinner over the price of yarn, she resolved to deny him her affections as much as she possibly could. Instead, she would find someone more worthy of her attentions. She promptly fell deeply in love with a gentleman of excellent standing and middle age, and her passion was so intense that if a day went by without her seeing him, she couldn't get through the following night without misery.

The gentleman, unfortunately, had no idea any of this was going on and paid her no attention whatsoever. She was too cautious to risk revealing her feelings through a female messenger or a letter, knowing the dangers that could follow. But she had noticed that this man spent a good deal of time in the company of a certain friar — a thick-headed lump of a fellow, really, but one who was widely considered a most worthy and holy man because he led such a pious life. She decided that this friar would make the perfect go-between for her and her beloved.

After working out her plan, she went to the church where the friar lived and sent for him, saying she would like to make her confession. The friar took one look at her, saw she was clearly a woman of quality, and gave her his full attention. After she had gone through her confession, she said:

"Father, there's a matter I need your help and advice on, and you'll understand when you hear it. As I've told you, you know my family and my husband. He loves me more than his own life, and there isn't a thing I could want that he wouldn't get for me immediately — he's a very rich man who can well afford it. So I love him more than I love myself, and if I were even to think of doing something contrary to his honor and happiness, let alone actually do it, no woman alive would be more wicked or more deserving of hellfire than I.

"Now, there's a certain man — I honestly don't know his name, but he seems to be a gentleman, and unless I'm mistaken, he's frequently in your company. He's a good-looking man, tall, and always dressed in fine, sober-colored clothing. This man, apparently not understanding how firm my moral convictions are, seems to have laid siege to me. I can't step out my front door or appear at a window or even leave the house without him popping up right in front of me. I'm amazed he isn't here right now, frankly. This upsets me greatly, because this sort of behavior has a way of giving virtuous women a bad reputation through no fault of their own.

"I've thought about having my brothers send him a message, but then it occurred to me that men sometimes deliver these messages in ways that provoke nasty replies, and from nasty replies come harsh words, and from harsh words come blows. So to avoid any trouble or scandal, I've kept quiet about it and decided to tell you rather than anyone else — both because you seem to be this man's friend, and because it's entirely proper for you to correct not just your friends but even strangers about this kind of behavior. I beg you, for the love of God, speak to him about it and ask him to stop. There are plenty of other women who might enjoy being pursued and courted by him — but to me, who has absolutely no interest in such things, it's a terrible nuisance."

With that, she bowed her head as if she were about to cry. The friar immediately understood who she was talking about, firmly believed every word she said, and heartily commended her righteous attitude. He promised her that he would make sure the man never bothered her again. Knowing she was very wealthy, he also took the opportunity to recommend works of charity and almsgiving, and mentioned his own financial needs. The lady said, "I beg you, for God's sake, talk to him. And if he denies it, don't hesitate to tell him that I'm the one who told you and complained." Then, having finished her confession and received her penance — and remembering the friar's little speech about charitable giving — she discreetly filled his hand with coins, asking him to say masses for the souls of her departed relatives. She rose from his feet, took her leave, and went home.

Not long after, the gentleman came by the church as he usually did. After they had chatted for a while about one thing and another, the friar drew his friend aside and very politely lectured him about the way he had supposedly been pursuing and spying on the lady, based on what she had told him. The gentleman was baffled — as well he might be, since he had never so much as laid eyes on the woman and almost never even walked past her house. He tried to protest, but the friar cut him off:

"Don't act surprised, and don't waste your breath denying it — it won't get you anywhere. I didn't hear this from the neighbors. She told me herself, and she was very upset about it. And aside from the fact that this sort of thing is beneath a man of your age, let me tell you this much about her: if I've ever met a woman who has absolutely no patience for these games, it's this one. So for the sake of your own reputation and her peace of mind, please stop it and leave her alone."

The gentleman, who was quicker-witted than the friar, was not slow to grasp the lady's scheme. Pretending to be somewhat embarrassed, he promised not to bother her anymore, then took his leave and headed straight for the lady's house. She had been keeping watch at a small window, ready to spot him if he passed that way. When she saw him coming, she showed herself to him with such obvious joy and warmth that he could plainly confirm the meaning of the friar's words. And from that day forward, under the cover of other business, he began to walk through her street regularly — a practice that gave him great pleasure and gave the lady the most exquisite delight.

Before long, seeing that she pleased him just as much as he pleased her, and wanting both to fan his desire higher and to prove beyond doubt that she returned his love, she went back to the friar. Choosing her moment, she sat down at his feet in the church and burst into tears.

The friar, seeing this, asked her gently what new trouble she had.

"Father," she answered, "it's nothing new — it's that same God-cursed friend of yours I complained about the other day. I honestly think he was born to torment me and drive me to do something I'll regret for the rest of my life — something that would make me too ashamed to ever sit at your feet again."

"What?" cried the friar. "Hasn't he stopped bothering you?"

"He most certainly has not," she said. "In fact, ever since I complained to you, he's been worse — maybe out of spite, as if he resented me for reporting him. Where he used to pass by my house once, he now passes seven times. And I wish to God that were all! He's gotten so bold and so brazen that just yesterday he sent a woman to my door with his sweet talk and his presents — a purse and a belt — as if I didn't already own enough purses and belts to choke him with! I was so furious that if I hadn't been thinking about the sinfulness of it, and then about my duty to you, I would have raised holy hell. But I held myself back. I didn't want to do or say anything without telling you first.

"In fact, I'd already given the purse and belt back to the trashy woman who delivered them, with a sharp dismissal, and told her to return them to him. But then I was afraid she might keep them for herself and tell him I'd accepted them — which I hear women like that do sometimes — so I called her back and snatched them out of her hands, fuming the whole time. I've brought them to you so you can give them back to him and tell him I don't want his trash. Thanks to God and my husband, I have enough purses and belts to bury him in. And furthermore — and I say this to you as a father — if he doesn't stop after this, you'll have to forgive me, because I will tell my husband and my brothers, come what may. I'd much rather have him suffer an insult, if that's what it takes, than have my reputation ruined on his account. So let him watch himself."

Still weeping profusely, she reached beneath her cloak, pulled out a very handsome and expensive purse and an elegant, costly belt, and tossed them into the friar's lap. The friar, completely taken in by her story and furious beyond measure, accepted them and said:

"My daughter, I'm not at all surprised you're upset by this, and I certainly can't blame you. But I do commend you for following my advice in this matter. I spoke to him the other day and he completely failed to keep his promise. So between what he did then and what he's done now, I intend to give him such a tongue-lashing that I don't think he'll bother you again. But please, God bless you, don't let your anger get the better of you — don't tell your family, because too much harm could come to him from that. And don't worry about your reputation, either — I will always be your most steadfast witness, before God and men, of your virtue."

The lady pretended to be somewhat consoled, and then, dropping the subject, said — like someone who knew all about his greed and that of his fellow churchmen — "Father, the past few nights, several of my departed relatives have been appearing to me in my dreams, and all they ask for is alms. They seem to be in the most terrible torment, especially my mother, who looks so miserable and wretched that it breaks my heart. I think she's suffering extra because she has to see me being persecuted by this enemy of God. I'd like you to say forty masses of Saint Gregory for her soul and for theirs, along with some of your own special prayers, so that God might deliver them from that purging fire."

She pressed a gold florin into his hand. The holy father accepted it gladly, bolstered her devotion with some pious remarks and edifying examples, gave her his blessing, and let her go.

After the lady left, the friar — never suspecting for a moment that he'd been played — sent for his friend. The gentleman came, and finding the friar in a state, immediately guessed he was about to hear news of the lady. He waited to see what the friar would say.

The friar repeated his earlier warnings, then launched into a harsh, angry scolding, rebuking the gentleman severely for what the lady had reported. The gentleman, not yet fully grasping the friar's angle, made only a halfhearted denial of having sent the purse and belt — he didn't want to undermine the friar's belief in case the lady really had given him those things. At this the friar grew even angrier.

"You shameless man, how can you deny it? Look — here they are! She brought them to me herself, in tears. Do you recognize them or don't you?"

The gentleman put on a show of deep embarrassment and said, "Yes, I recognize them, and I admit I was wrong. I swear to you, now that I see how she feels about it, you'll never hear another word of this from me."

What followed was a long stream of words — the numbskull of a friar lecturing, the gentleman nodding contritely — until finally the friar handed over the purse and the belt and sent the gentleman on his way, having extracted his solemn promise to leave the lady alone. The gentleman was overjoyed, both because the lady's love now seemed certain and because of the handsome gifts. As soon as he left the friar, he went somewhere the lady could see him and made sure she spotted both the purse and the belt. She was thrilled — all the more because her scheme seemed to be working better and better.

All she was waiting for now was for her husband to leave town so she could bring the whole thing to its conclusion. And before long, it happened that her husband had business in Genoa. No sooner had he mounted his horse that morning and ridden off than the lady went straight to the friar, and after a great deal of weeping and lamenting, said to him:

"Father, I'm telling you plainly — I can't take any more. But since I promised you the other day not to do anything without telling you first, I've come to explain myself. And so you'll understand that I have every reason to weep and to complain, let me tell you what your so-called friend — or rather your devil incarnate — did to me this very morning, just before dawn.

"I don't know what rotten luck told him my husband was leaving for Genoa yesterday, but this morning, at the hour I described, he got into my garden, climbed a tree up to my bedroom window — which looks out over the garden — and had already opened the shutters and was about to come in when I suddenly woke up. I started up and was about to scream, and I would have screamed, except that he — still not quite inside — begged for mercy in God's name and in yours, and told me who he was. When I heard that, I held my tongue for your sake, and naked as the day I was born, I ran and slammed the window shut in his face. After that I suppose he slunk away — bad luck go with him — because I didn't hear another sound. Now, you tell me — is this tolerable? Is this something to be endured? I certainly don't intend to put up with it any longer. I've already been far more patient than I should have been, and that was only for your sake."

The friar, hearing this, was the angriest man alive. He could barely get a word out, except to ask her again and again whether she was absolutely sure it had been the same man and not someone else.

"God be praised!" she said. "Don't you think I know him by now? I'm telling you it was him, and even if he tries to deny it, don't you believe him."

"Daughter," the friar said, "there's nothing to say except that this was an outrageous, unforgivable act, and you did exactly right in sending him away the way you did. But I beg you — since God has preserved your honor — just as you followed my advice twice before, please follow it one more time. Don't say anything to your family. Leave it to me to see whether I can put a leash on this devil who has clearly broken loose. I believed he was a saint. If I can turn him away from this wickedness, good. If not, I give you my full blessing to deal with him however you see fit."

"Very well," the lady said. "This once I won't vex you or go against your wishes. But make sure you handle it so that he never bothers me again, because I promise you — I will not be coming back to you about this a third time."

Without another word, she took her leave and walked away as if in a fury. She was barely out of the church when the gentleman appeared, and the friar summoned him over. Taking him aside, the friar gave him the most ferocious dressing-down any man has ever received, calling him a liar, a traitor, and an oath-breaker.

The gentleman, who had already learned twice over what the friar's scoldings really meant, waited eagerly and tried to draw him out with flustered answers. "Why all this anger, Father?" he began. "Have I crucified Christ?"

"Look at this shameless man!" the friar cried. "Listen to what he says! He talks as if a year or two had passed and he'd forgotten all about his crimes! Have you already forgotten that you outraged someone this very morning? Where were you today, just before dawn?"

"I have no idea," the gentleman answered, "but wherever I was, the news got to you awfully fast."

"It certainly did," said the friar. "I suppose you thought that since her husband was away, the lady would throw open her arms and welcome you right in. What a fine fellow! What an honorable man! A prowler in the night! A garden-breaker! A tree-climber! Do you really think you can wear down this lady's virtue by sheer persistence, climbing up to her windows on tree branches? There is nothing in this world she finds more repulsive than you — and yet you keep trying, again and again! A lot of good my lectures have done you, to say nothing of all the ways she's shown you her contempt! But I'll tell you this: up until now, she's kept quiet about what you've done — not because she bears you any love, but only because I begged her to. Well, she won't keep quiet anymore. I've given her permission to do whatever she thinks is best if you bother her one more time. What exactly do you think will happen when she tells her brothers?"

The gentleman, who had by now gathered everything he needed to know, calmed the friar down as best he could with a torrent of lavish promises. Then he took his leave, and on the very next night, just before dawn, he made his way into the garden and climbed the tree to her window. He found the shutters open and slipped into the bedroom as quickly as he could. He threw himself into the arms of his beautiful lady, who had been waiting for him with the greatest impatience. She welcomed him joyfully, saying, "A thousand thanks to our dear friar for teaching you the way here so well!"

Then, taking their pleasure in one another, they laughed and laughed together over the stupidity of that idiot friar, cracking jokes about wool-hanks and teasels and carding-combs. They also worked out the arrangements for their future meetings, and managed things so well that, without ever needing to trouble the good friar again, they enjoyed many more nights of equal happiness together. And to such happiness I pray God, in His holy mercy, may He swiftly lead me — and every loving soul who desires it."

Day 3, Story 4

Brother Felice teaches Fra Puccio a special penance guaranteed to make him a saint — and while the good man stands at attention all night, the monk has a wonderful time with his wife.

When Filomena finished her story, Dioneo praised the lady's cleverness in silky tones and added a few admiring words about the prayer Filomena had ended with. Then the queen turned to Pamfilo with a smile and said, "Come on, Pamfilo — keep the fun going with something entertaining." Pamfilo agreed right away and began:

"My lady, there are plenty of people who work hard to get themselves into Paradise and accidentally send someone else there instead. This is exactly what happened, not too long ago, to a neighbor of ours — as you're about to hear.

Near the church of San Pancrazio, there lived an honest, well-off man named Puccio di Rinieri. In his later years, he threw himself entirely into religion and became a tertiary of the Franciscan order — which is why everyone called him Fra Puccio. He practically lived at the church, since his household consisted only of a wife and one maid, and he didn't need to work for a living. Being a thick-headed, simple sort of fellow, he said his Our Fathers, went to sermons, attended mass, and never missed the hymns sung by the lay brothers. He fasted and mortified himself constantly — and word was he'd even joined the Flagellants. His wife, whose name was Isabetta, was still young — somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty — fresh, pretty, and plump as a ripe apple. Thanks to her husband's piety and perhaps also his age, she was forced into much longer and more frequent fasts than she would have liked. When she wanted to sleep — or maybe do something more fun in bed — he'd launch into lectures about the life of Christ, the sermons of Fra Nastagio, or the Lament of Mary Magdalene, and on and on.

Meanwhile, a monk named Brother Felice returned home from Paris. He was a Conventual friar at San Pancrazio — young, good-looking, sharp-witted, and highly educated. Fra Puccio quickly struck up a close friendship with him, because Brother Felice was excellent at answering all his religious questions, and knowing the man's devout streak, put on a great show of exceptional holiness. Fra Puccio started bringing him home regularly to dine and sup, depending on the occasion, and his wife too, for her husband's sake, became friendly with the monk and treated him with great courtesy.

Now, the monk — frequenting the house as he did and seeing what a fresh, plump woman Isabetta was — figured out exactly what she must be going without. He decided that if he could manage it, he'd take care of that particular need himself, and spare Fra Puccio the trouble. He began casting glances her way, and before long he'd kindled in her the same desire he felt. When he saw she was receptive, he spoke to her about his feelings at the first opportunity. He found her perfectly willing to follow through — the problem was logistics. She wouldn't trust herself to meet him anywhere in the world except her own house, and in her own house it couldn't be managed, since Fra Puccio never left town.

This frustrated the monk terribly. But after much thought, he came up with a scheme that would let him be with the lady right there in her own home, without arousing suspicion, even with Fra Puccio under the same roof. The next time Fra Puccio came to visit, Brother Felice said to him:

"Fra Puccio, I've long understood that your one great desire is to become a saint. It seems to me you've been going about it by a very long road, when there's actually a shortcut — one that the Pope and the other great prelates know and practice but refuse to share with the public. If the laity found out about it, the clergy would be ruined overnight, because nobody would bother giving alms or supporting them anymore. But since you're my friend and have been so generous and hospitable to me, I'd teach it to you — provided you promise to practice it faithfully and never breathe a word of it to another living soul."

Fra Puccio, desperate to know the secret, immediately began begging with the utmost urgency. He swore up and down that he'd never tell anyone without the monk's permission, and that if it was something he could actually do, he'd throw himself into it immediately. The monk said:

"Since you've given me your word, I'll tell you. The doctors of the Church hold that anyone who wants to achieve blessedness must perform the penance I'm about to describe. But understand me clearly: I'm not saying that after the penance you'll stop being a sinner. What will happen is this — all the sins you've committed up to the start of the penance will be completely purged and forgiven, and any sins you commit afterward won't count against you but will wash away with the holy water, like minor sins do now.

"First, when you begin the penance, you must confess your sins with the greatest thoroughness. After that, you must keep a strict fast and total abstinence for forty days, during which you must not touch any woman at all — not even your own wife. On top of that, you need a spot in your house where you can see the sky at night. Go there around the hour of Compline, and there you must have a wide plank set up so that you can stand upright and lean your back against it. Keep your feet on the ground and stretch your arms out like a crucifix. If you need to rest them on a couple of pegs, that's fine. In this position, you must gaze up at the sky without moving a muscle until Matins. If you were a scholar, you'd need to recite certain prayers I'd give you — but since you're not, you'll say three hundred Our Fathers and three hundred Hail Marys in honor of the Trinity, always looking up at heaven and remembering that God is the creator of heaven and earth, and meditating on the Passion of Christ while holding yourself in the same posture He held on the cross. When the Matins bell rings, you can — if you like — go to bed in whatever you're wearing and sleep. Then in the morning, go to church, hear at least three masses, and say fifty Our Fathers and fifty Hail Marys. After that, go about your normal business with a pure heart, have your dinner, and be back in church for Vespers to say certain other prayers I'll write out for you — those are essential. Then around Compline, start the whole thing over again. Do this faithfully — as I myself have done in the past — and I have no doubt that before you finish the penance, you'll feel something truly marvelous, a taste of eternal blessedness."

"That's not so bad," said Fra Puccio. "It's not too difficult and it's not too long. I can definitely do it. In God's name, I'll start on Sunday."

He left the monk and went straight home to tell his wife every detail, with Brother Felice's full permission to do so. The lady understood perfectly well what the monk meant by "stand still without moving until Matins." She thought it was a brilliant plan. She told her husband she was pleased with it and with every other good work he did for the health of his soul. She'd even fast along with him, she said — but that was all she'd do.

So they were in agreement, and when Sunday came, Fra Puccio began his penance. Meanwhile, the good monk, having arranged things with the lady, would come over most evenings for supper, always bringing plenty of good food and wine. Afterward he'd sleep with her until Matins, then get up and leave, while Fra Puccio returned to bed.

Now, the spot Fra Puccio had picked for his penance was right next to the bedroom where his wife slept, separated by nothing more than a very thin wall. One night, when the monk and the lady were carrying on a bit too enthusiastically, Fra Puccio thought he felt the whole floor shaking. Having just finished his hundredth Our Father, he stopped there and — without moving — called out to his wife to ask what she was doing.

The lady, who had a sharp sense of humor and happened to be riding, shall we say, the beast of Saint Benedict — or maybe Saint Giovanni Gualberto — called back: "Oh, husband! I'm tossing and turning as much as I can!"

"Tossing?" said Fra Puccio. "What do you mean, tossing?"

The lady laughed — and she certainly had good reason to laugh — and answered cheerfully: "What do you mean, what does it mean? I've heard you say it a thousand times yourself: 'Who skips their supper has to toss all night.'"

Fra Puccio figured the fasting was keeping her from sleeping, which was why she was rolling around so much. In his innocent simplicity, he said, "Wife, I told you not to fast. But since you insisted on it, stop worrying about it and try to rest. You're thrashing around so much that everything in the place is shaking."

"Don't you worry about that," the lady replied. "I know exactly what I'm doing. You just keep doing your part, and I'll do mine as well as I can."

So Fra Puccio went back to his Our Fathers. After that night, the monk and the lady had a bed set up in another part of the house, where they spent the rest of the penance period in the greatest possible joy. At the same hour each night, the monk would leave and the lady would slip back to her own bed — and a little while later, Fra Puccio would come in from his penance. In this way, the husband kept doing penance while the wife kept doing her pleasure with the monk.

She said to Brother Felice from time to time, with a grin: "You put Fra Puccio on a penance, and we're the ones who've gotten into Paradise."

The lady found herself so well served — having been on a starvation diet for so long, thanks to her husband — that she developed quite a taste for the monk's provisions. When Fra Puccio's forty-day penance was over, she found ways to keep enjoying them elsewhere, and with proper discretion, she continued to take her pleasure for a good long time after that.

So, to bring my last words into harmony with my first: while Fra Puccio thought he was earning his way into Paradise through penance, he actually sent the monk there instead — the monk who had shown him the shortcut — along with his own wife, who had been living in desperate need of the very thing that Brother Felice, charitable man that he was, provided her in great abundance."

Day 3, Story 5

Ricciardo, known as "Il Zima" — the Dandy — gives Messer Francesco Vergellesi a prized palfrey in exchange for permission to speak with his wife. She stays silent, so he answers himself on her behalf — and things turn out exactly as his answer predicted.

After Pamfilo's story about Fra Puccio drew its share of laughter from the ladies, the queen gave Elisa a commanding look and told her to go next. Elisa began in her typically sharp tone — not out of meanness, just out of habit:

"Plenty of people think they're so much cleverer than everyone else that they can outwit anyone they please, and then they end up being the ones who get outwitted. That's why I think it's the height of foolishness to go around testing other people's intelligence for no good reason. But not everyone may agree with me, so — keeping to the order of our storytelling — let me tell you what happened to a gentleman from Pistoia who tried exactly this.

In Pistoia, there was a gentleman of the Vergellesi family named Messer Francesco — a man of great wealth and intelligence, shrewd in almost everything, but unbelievably greedy. He'd been appointed provost of Milan and had outfitted himself with everything he needed for such an important posting — except a palfrey handsome enough to suit his dignity. He couldn't find one that satisfied him, and this weighed on his mind.

Now, there was also in Pistoia a young man named Ricciardo, of modest family but great wealth, who always went around so impeccably dressed and so fine in his person that everyone called him Il Zima — the Dandy. He'd been hopelessly in love with Messer Francesco's wife for a long time. She was extraordinarily beautiful and perfectly virtuous, and all his courting had gotten him nowhere. As it happened, he also owned one of the finest palfreys in all of Tuscany and was extremely proud of it. Since his infatuation with Messer Francesco's wife was common knowledge, some people told the gentleman that if he just asked, he could probably get the horse — for the love Il Zima bore his lady.

Driven by greed, Messer Francesco summoned Il Zima and asked to buy the palfrey — hoping, of course, that Il Zima would simply give it to him. The young man was delighted and said: "Sir, if you gave me everything you own, you couldn't buy this horse from me. But as a gift, you may have it whenever you like — on one condition. Before you take it, I want your permission to speak a few words to your wife, in your presence but far enough away from everyone else that no one can hear us except her."

The gentleman, driven by avarice and expecting to outwit the young man, agreed — he could talk to her as long as he wanted. Then he went to his wife's room, told her how easily he could get the palfrey, and instructed her to come listen to Il Zima. He charged her strictly not to answer a single word, no matter what the young man said. The lady objected strongly, but since she was obligated to follow her husband's wishes, she promised to obey and followed him out to the hall.

Il Zima, having confirmed his agreement with the gentleman, sat down with the lady in a far corner of the great hall, well out of earshot of everyone else, and began:

"Noble lady, I'm quite certain that a woman of your intelligence has long since noticed the enormous love your beauty has inspired in me — a beauty that surpasses any woman I have ever seen, to say nothing of your gracious manner and your incomparable virtues, which could captivate the loftiest souls alive. I needn't prove to you in words that this is the greatest and most passionate love any man has ever borne a woman. I will love you this way as long as my miserable life endures — no, longer than that: if the dead can love as the living do, I will love you for all eternity.

"You can be sure, then, that you possess nothing — however great or small its value — that you can consider more entirely yours, or count on more completely, than me and everything I have. And if you want proof of that, consider this: I would count it a greater honor to do some small thing at your command that gave you pleasure than to have the entire world obey me at my own.

"Since I am yours, as you've heard, it's not without reason that I dare bring my prayers before you — you from whom alone all my peace, all my well-being, all my happiness can ever come. As the humblest of your servants, I beg you, dear lady — the one true hope of my soul, which feeds on hope of you even as it burns in love's fire — please, let your kindness be so great, and let the harshness you've shown me soften so far, that I may be renewed by your compassion. Just as your beauty struck me down with love, so let your mercy give me back my life. Because if your proud spirit won't bend to my prayers, my life will surely fail, and I will die — and people may say you killed me.

"Setting aside the fact that my death would bring you no honor, I believe your conscience would prick you for it now and then, and sometimes, in a better frame of mind, you'd say to yourself: 'Oh, how wrong I was not to have pity on poor Zima!' But that regret would come too late to help, and it would only cause you pain.

"So — while you still have the power to help me, before it comes to that — take pity on me. With you alone it rests to make me either the happiest or the most wretched man alive. I trust your generosity will not allow me to receive death as the reward for such a great and faithful love, but that you will answer me with grace and favor and revive my fainting spirits, which tremble in your presence, completely overcome."

With that, he fell silent. He heaved the deepest of sighs, followed by a few tears, and waited for the lady's answer.

The lady — whom his long courtship, his jousting tournaments, his serenades, and every other thing he'd done for love of her had failed to move — was moved by this passionate speech from her most ardent admirer. She began to feel something she had never felt before: what love actually was. She kept her silence, as her husband had commanded, but she couldn't entirely stop a few soft sighs from escaping — sighs that would have gladly said what her voice could not.

Il Zima waited a while. When no answer came, he was puzzled — but then he began to suspect the husband's trick. Still, studying her face, he caught certain flashes in her eyes when she glanced his way, and he noticed the sighs she was trying so hard to suppress. This gave him fresh hope. Emboldened, he came up with a new plan: he would answer himself, speaking in her voice, while she listened.

"My dear Zima," he began, speaking as the lady, "of course I've long been aware of your great and perfect love for me. Now your words have confirmed it more clearly than ever, and I'm pleased by it — as I should be. But if I've seemed cold and cruel to you, I don't want you to think my heart ever matched what my face showed. I have always loved you and held you dearer than any other man. But I had to behave as I did, both for fear of others and to protect my reputation.

"But the time is coming soon when I can show you openly that I love you, and repay you for the love you've borne me and still bear me. Take comfort, then, and be hopeful — because in a few days, Messer Francesco is leaving for Milan to serve as provost, as you well know, since you gave him your fine palfrey for love of me. Once he's gone, I promise you — by my word and by the true love I bear you — that before many days have passed, you and I will be together, and we'll bring our love to its full and joyful fulfillment.

"And since I'd rather not have to discuss this with you again, let me tell you now: when you see two napkins hanging in the window of my bedroom that faces the garden, come to me that same evening at nightfall. Use the garden door, and make sure no one sees you. You'll find me waiting. We'll spend the whole night in delight and pleasure, to our hearts' content."

Having spoken as the lady, he switched back to his own voice and replied:

"Dearest lady, every sense I possess is so overcome with joy at your gracious answer that I can barely form a response, let alone thank you as you deserve. Even if I could speak exactly as I wished, there's no amount of time that would let me fully express my gratitude. I'll leave it to your wise imagination to picture what I can't put into words. Let me say only this: I will do exactly as you've instructed. And when I've had a chance to be more certain of this great gift you've granted me, I'll do everything in my power to show you my thanks. For now, there's nothing more to say. Dearest lady, may God give you all the happiness and fulfillment your heart desires. And so I commend you to Him."

Through all of this, the lady didn't say a single word. Il Zima stood up and turned toward the husband, who came forward with a grin and said, "Well? Did I keep my promise to you?"

"Not at all, sir," said Il Zima. "You promised I could speak with your wife, but you had me speak to a marble statue."

This answer delighted the husband enormously. He'd already had a high opinion of his wife, and now he thought even better of her. "Well then," he said, "the palfrey is fairly mine."

"It certainly is, sir," Il Zima replied. "But if I'd known that this favor would produce such fruit, I'd have given you the palfrey without asking anything in return. And I wish to God I had — because as it stands, you've bought the palfrey and I haven't sold it."

The gentleman laughed at this and, now that he had his fine horse, set out a few days later for Milan to take up his post.

The lady, left alone and free in her house, thought about Il Zima's words, the love he bore her, and the palfrey he'd given up for her sake. She noticed him passing by the house again and again, and she said to herself: "What am I doing? Why am I wasting my youth? My husband has gone off to Milan and won't be back for six months. When is he ever going to give me those months back? When I'm old? Besides, when will I ever find another lover like Il Zima? I'm alone, there's no one to worry about. I don't see any reason not to take this opportunity while I can. I won't always have this kind of freedom. No one will ever know — and even if someone did find out, it's better to do a thing and regret it than to hold back and regret that instead."

Having reasoned it out this way, she hung two napkins in the garden window one day, exactly as Il Zima had described. When he saw them, he was overjoyed. That night, he made his way secretly and alone to the garden gate. He found it open, passed through to an inner door that led into the house, and there was his lady, waiting for him. She jumped up the moment she saw him and welcomed him with the greatest joy. He embraced and kissed her a hundred thousand times and followed her up the stairs to her bedroom, where they got into bed without a moment's delay and explored every last pleasure that love has to offer.

And this was far from the last time. The whole time the gentleman was in Milan — and even after he came back — Il Zima returned to her again and again, to the tremendous satisfaction of both parties."

Day 3, Story 6

Ricciardo Minutolo is in love with Catella, the wife of Filippello Fighinolfi. Knowing how insanely jealous she is of her husband, he tells her that Filippello has a rendezvous planned with Ricciardo's own wife at a bathhouse. Catella storms off to intercept him — only to discover, too late, that the man she's been with is Ricciardo himself.

When Elisa had nothing more to say, the queen praised Il Zima's cleverness and then told Fiammetta to take her turn. Fiammetta answered with a smile: "Gladly, my lady." And she began:

"I think we should branch out a little from our own city — which, much as it overflows with examples of everything, isn't the only place things happen — and follow Elisa's lead by telling a story from elsewhere. So let's head down to Naples. I'm going to tell you how one of those oh-so-pious women who act like they wouldn't dream of love was led by a clever suitor to taste its fruits before she'd even known its flowers. This should both teach you to be careful about what could happen and entertain you with what already did.

In Naples — a very old city and as delightful as any in Italy, maybe more so — there once lived a young man of noble blood and considerable wealth named Ricciardo Minutolo. He already had a beautiful young wife of his own, but he'd fallen in love with a woman who, by general agreement, outshone every other lady in Naples. Her name was Catella, and she was the wife of another young gentleman of similar standing, named Filippello Fighinolfi. Like the virtuous woman she was, Catella loved and cherished her husband above everything.

Ricciardo loved Catella and did all the things a man usually does to win a lady's love and favor — but none of it got him anywhere. He was close to despair. Unable to shake his passion, he didn't know how to die and saw no point in living.

While he was stuck in this wretched state, some female relatives of his took him aside one day and strongly urged him to give up this pursuit, since he was only wearing himself out for nothing. Catella, they told him, had no room in her heart for anyone but Filippello, and she was so jealous of her husband that she suspected every bird in the sky of trying to steal him from her.

The moment Ricciardo heard about Catella's jealousy, an idea began to form. He started pretending that he'd given up on Catella entirely and had fallen for another woman instead. He began jousting and tourneying and doing all the showy things he used to do for Catella — but now, ostentatiously, in this other lady's honor. He kept this up until nearly everyone in Naples, including Catella herself, was convinced he'd moved on. Once Catella believed this, she dropped the cool reserve she'd always shown him on account of his feelings for her. Now, when they crossed paths, she greeted him in the same easy, neighborly way she greeted anyone else.

Then, one warm day, it happened that several groups of ladies and gentlemen went to the seashore to enjoy themselves — as Neapolitans do — to dine and relax by the water. Ricciardo knew Catella had gone with her group, so he headed to the same place with his friends. He was invited to join Catella's party of ladies, though he made a show of needing to be persuaded, as if he didn't particularly care to be there. The ladies — and Catella among them — began teasing him about his new love. He played along, feigning a passionate infatuation, which only gave them more to talk about.

Eventually, as tends to happen at these outings, the group scattered in different directions. Catella found herself with just a few companions, and Ricciardo was among them. That's when he casually dropped a hint about a certain love affair involving her husband, Filippello.

The jealousy hit her like a lightning strike. She burned inside with the need to know what he meant. She held herself in check for a while, but eventually she couldn't take it anymore and begged Ricciardo — for the sake of the woman he loved most — to please explain what he'd said about Filippello.

"You've sworn me to silence by someone I can't refuse," he said. "So I'll tell you. But you have to promise me you'll never say a word about it, either to Filippello or to anyone else — not until you've seen the proof for yourself. And when you want proof, I'll show you how to get it."

The lady agreed and swore she'd keep the secret, believing him all the more readily for it. Ricciardo drew her aside where no one could overhear and said:

"Madam, if I still loved you the way I once did, I wouldn't dare tell you anything that might upset you. But since that love has passed, I'll speak more freely. I don't know whether Filippello ever took offense at my feelings for you, or whether he ever believed you returned them. He's never shown anything to me about it. But now — maybe he's been waiting until he thought I wouldn't be watching — it seems he wants to do to me what he probably fears I did to him. In other words, he's after my wife.

"From what I can tell, he's been sending her secret messages for some time now. I know about all of them because she's told me everything, and she's been responding exactly as I've instructed. But just today — before I came out here — I found a woman at my house, talking privately with my wife, and I saw immediately what she was. I called my wife over and asked what was going on. She said: 'It's that Filippello agent you saddled me with, by making me write back to him and encourage him. He says he absolutely has to know where things stand, and that if I'm willing, he'll arrange for me to meet him secretly at a bathhouse in the city. He's been begging and pressuring me about it. And if you hadn't made me keep stringing him along, I'd have shut him down so hard he'd never have looked at me again.'

"At that point, I felt this had gone too far. I decided to tell you, so you'd know how your husband repays that perfect loyalty of yours — the loyalty that once nearly killed me. And so you won't think I'm making this up, so you can see and touch the truth whenever you want, I had my wife tell the woman that she'd be at the bathhouse tomorrow at noon, when everyone's resting. The woman left happy.

"Now — I have no intention of actually sending my wife there. But if I were in your place, I'd make sure he found me waiting instead of the woman he's expecting. After I'd spent a little while with him, I'd let him know exactly who he'd been with and give him the kind of humiliation he deserves. If you do this, I think the shame will be so great that it'll avenge both your honor and mine in one blow."

Catella, hearing all this, never once stopped to consider who was telling her this or to suspect any trick. Like all jealous people, she swallowed it whole and immediately began fitting these new claims together with things she'd already half-suspected. She flared up with sudden anger and said she'd absolutely do it — it was easy enough — and that if Filippello showed his face at that bathhouse, she'd humiliate him so badly he'd think of it every time he looked at another woman for the rest of his life.

Ricciardo was thrilled. His scheme was working perfectly. He reinforced her determination with more details and strengthened her belief in his story, but he did ask her — please — to never reveal that she'd heard any of this from him. She swore on her honor that she wouldn't.

The next morning, Ricciardo went to the woman who ran the bathhouse he'd described to Catella. He explained what he was planning and asked for her help. The woman, who owed him several favors, said she'd be happy to assist, and they agreed on exactly what to do and say. Now, inside the bathhouse, there was a very dark room — no windows at all, not a sliver of light. The woman prepared this room and made up a bed in it as best she could. Ricciardo ate his dinner early, then lay down on the bed and waited for Catella.

The lady, meanwhile, had gone home that evening full of indignation. Filippello happened to come home with his mind on other things and perhaps wasn't as affectionate as usual. This only inflamed her suspicions. She said to herself: "Of course — his thoughts are on that other woman, the one he thinks he'll be enjoying tomorrow. But that is not going to happen." She spent most of the night lying awake, working out what she'd say to him at the bathhouse.

What more is there to tell? At noon the next day, she took her maid and went straight to the bathhouse Ricciardo had named. She found the owner and asked if Filippello had been there that day.

The woman, coached by Ricciardo, said: "Are you the lady who was supposed to come speak with him?"

"I am," said Catella.

"Then go right in — he's waiting."

Catella, on the hunt for something she'd rather not have found, had the woman lead her to the chamber where Ricciardo was lying. She entered with her head covered and locked the door behind her. Ricciardo leaped joyfully to his feet, took her in his arms, and whispered: "Welcome, my darling."

Catella, the better to play her part and disguise herself, embraced him and kissed him and made a great fuss over him — all without saying a single word, for fear her voice would give her away. The room was pitch-black, which suited both of them just fine, and no amount of time spent in it would have helped their eyes adjust. Ricciardo guided her to the bed, and there — speaking no words that might betray their voices — they remained together for a long while, with considerably more delight on one side than the other.

Finally, when Catella decided the moment had come to unleash her fury, she burst out in a blaze of rage:

"God, how miserable is the lot of women, and how badly placed is the love so many of us waste on our husbands! Here I am — eight years I've loved you more than my own life — and you, as I can feel perfectly well, are burning up with desire for some other woman. You wretched, worthless man! Who do you think you've just been with? You've been with the very woman you've been deceiving for years with your sweet talk, pretending to love her while your heart was somewhere else!

"I'm Catella, you disloyal traitor — not Ricciardo's wife! Listen — don't you know my voice? It's really me! I can't wait until we're in the light so I can shame you the way you deserve, you disgusting, mangy dog!

"All these years — to whom have I given all this love? To this faithless dog, who thinks he's got a stranger in his arms and has heaped more caresses and passion on me in this short time than in our entire marriage! Oh, you've been plenty energetic today, haven't you, you treacherous cur — you who come home so feeble and limp and spent! But praise God, you've been plowing your own field, not someone else's, as you imagined!

"No wonder you didn't come near me last night — you were saving your strength for this little adventure, wanting to show up fresh for battle. But thanks to God and my own foresight, the river has flowed right where it should.

"Why aren't you answering me, you villain? Why don't you say something? Have you gone mute? By God, I don't know what's stopping me from clawing your eyes out! You thought you'd pull off this betrayal in perfect secrecy — but guess what? Someone else knows just as much as you do. Your scheme failed. I had better hounds on your trail than you thought."

Ricciardo was laughing on the inside. Without saying a word, he held her tighter, kissed her more passionately, and caressed her more tenderly than ever. She kept right on going:

"Oh yes, you think you can win me over with your slimy caresses, you repulsive dog! You think you'll calm me down and make everything fine? Think again! I will never be satisfied until I've shamed you for this in front of every friend, relative, and neighbor we have!

"Am I not as beautiful as Ricciardo's wife, you wretch? Am I not as good a lady? Why don't you answer? What does she have that I don't? Keep away from me — don't touch me! You've done plenty of jousting for one day. Oh, I know — now that you know who I am, anything you tried to do would be forced on me. But if God gives me strength, I'll make you suffer for this. And I'm half tempted to send for Ricciardo — he's loved me more than his own life and has never once been able to boast that I gave him so much as a glance. I don't see what harm it would do! You thought you had his wife here — and as far as you're concerned, you might as well have, since it's no fault of yours that it didn't work out. So if I were to have him, you could hardly blame me."

She went on and on, pouring out words and fury in equal measure. But at last, Ricciardo realized that if he let her walk away still believing this, it could lead to serious trouble. He decided it was time to reveal himself. He pulled her close so she couldn't escape, and said:

"My sweet darling, don't be angry. What I couldn't get from you through simply loving you, Love itself has taught me how to win through cleverness. I am your Ricciardo."

Catella, recognizing his voice, tried to throw herself out of bed — but couldn't. She opened her mouth to scream, but Ricciardo covered it with his hand and said:

"My lady, what's done cannot now be undone, even if you screamed for the rest of your life. And if you do scream, or if you let anyone find out about this — ever — two things will happen. The first, which should concern you greatly, is that your honor and good name will be destroyed. You might claim I lured you here through trickery, but I'll say it isn't true — that I offered you money and gifts, and you came willingly, and that you're only making a scene because I didn't pay you as much as you expected. You know how people are: they're quicker to believe the worst. So my version will be more credible than yours.

"The second thing is that there will be a deadly feud between your husband and me. I might kill him just as easily as he might kill me — and either way, you'd never be happy again.

"So, heart of my heart, don't rush to dishonor yourself and throw your husband and me into a war. You're not the first woman to be deceived this way, and you won't be the last. I didn't do this to rob you of something — I did it because of the overwhelming love I bear you and will always bear you. Everything I have, everything I am, everything I'm worth has been yours for a long time, and from now on it will be more so than ever. You're a wise woman in all other things, and I'm sure you'll be wise in this."

Catella wept bitterly as Ricciardo spoke. She was furious and deeply upset. But her reason could not deny the force of what he said. She could see that it might very well happen exactly as he described. So at last she said:

"Ricciardo, I don't know how God will give me the strength to bear the insult and the deception you've put upon me. I won't make a scene here, in this place where my own stupidity and excessive jealousy brought me. But believe me — I'll never be at peace until I see myself avenged for what you've done, one way or another. Now let me go. You've had what you wanted. You've had your way with me to your heart's content. It's time. Let me go."

Ricciardo could see she was still too upset, and he had already resolved not to let her leave until he had her forgiveness. So he set about softening her with the gentlest words he could find. He coaxed and entreated and implored — and at last she relented and made her peace with him. And by mutual consent, they stayed together for a long and delightful time after that.

In fact, once Catella had discovered how much more satisfying a lover's kisses were than a husband's, her old coldness toward Ricciardo melted into warm affection. From that day forward, she loved him tenderly, and from then on — managing things with the greatest discretion — they enjoyed their love together many times over. May God grant us the same."

Day 3, Story 7

Tedaldo Elisei, after a falling-out with his mistress, leaves Florence and returns years later disguised as a pilgrim. He talks his lady out of her guilt, delivers her husband from a death sentence for Tedaldo's own supposed murder, reconciles the man with Tedaldo's brothers, and then — at last — goes back to discreetly enjoying his mistress.

When Fiammetta finished and everyone had praised her story, the queen wasted no time and turned to Emilia, who began:

"It suits me to bring us back to our own city, since the last two storytellers chose to leave it. Let me show you how one of our fellow Florentines won back a love he'd lost.

There was in Florence a noble young man named Tedaldo Elisei, who had fallen desperately in love with a lady called Madam Ermellina, the wife of one Aldobrandino Palermini. His courtship was everything it should have been, and he deserved to have his love returned. For a time, Fortune smiled on him and the lady was kind. But then — the enemy of the happy struck. Whatever the reason may have been, the lady suddenly and completely withdrew her affection. She refused to receive his messages. She wouldn't see him at all. Tedaldo sank into a bitter, agonizing melancholy. But he'd kept their love so well hidden that no one guessed this was the cause of his suffering.

After trying everything he could think of to win back the love he felt he'd lost through no fault of his own — and finding it all useless — he resolved to disappear from the world entirely, so that at least the woman who was the cause of his misery wouldn't have the satisfaction of watching him waste away. Without a word to any friend or family member — except one close companion who knew the whole story — he took whatever money he could get his hands on, left Florence in secret, and went to Ancona. There, using the name Filippo di Sanlodeccio, he struck up a business relationship with a wealthy merchant and sailed with him to Cyprus.

His manners and his work ethic pleased the merchant so much that the man gave him a generous salary, made him a partner in several ventures, and eventually entrusted him with a large share of the business. Tedaldo managed everything so skillfully that within a few years he became a rich, successful, and well-known merchant in his own right. Throughout all of this, he thought constantly of his cruel mistress. Love tormented him and he ached to see her again — but he was so determined that for seven years he won the battle against his longing.

Then one day in Cyprus, he happened to hear someone singing a song — one he himself had written long ago, about the love between him and his lady and the joy they'd shared. He couldn't believe she had forgotten him. He flared up with such a fierce desire to see her that he couldn't hold out any longer and resolved to go back to Florence.

He put all his affairs in order, took only a single servant, and traveled to Ancona. From there he shipped all his goods to Florence, care of a friend of his Anconese partner, and then followed after in secret — disguised as a pilgrim returning from the Holy Sepulchre. When he reached Florence, he took a room at a little inn run by two brothers, near his mistress's house. The first thing he did was walk over to her house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But the windows, the doors — everything was shut. His heart sank. He feared she was dead, or had moved away.

Deeply troubled, he made his way to the house where his own brothers lived. There he saw four of them standing outside — all dressed in black. This astonished him. But knowing how completely changed he was in both his clothing and his appearance from the man who had left Florence all those years ago, he was confident no one would recognize him. He walked boldly up to a cobbler working nearby and asked why the men were in mourning.

The cobbler said: "They're in mourning because a brother of theirs — a man who hadn't been seen around here for a long time — was murdered less than two weeks ago. From what I hear, they've proven in court that a man named Aldobrandino Palermini killed him. He's sitting in prison right now. The story is that the dead man was involved with Aldobrandino's wife and had come back secretly to be with her."

Tedaldo was stunned. It seemed incredible that anyone could resemble him so closely as to be mistaken for him. And he was deeply troubled by Aldobrandino's predicament. He managed to find out that the lady was alive and well, and since it was now dark, he returned to the inn, his mind churning with a thousand thoughts. After supper with his servant, he was put to sleep in a room near the top of the house.

Between the storm in his head, the terrible mattress, and a meager supper, half the night passed without his being able to fall asleep. Lying awake around midnight, he thought he heard people descending into the house from the roof. Then, through the cracks around his door, he saw a light approaching. He crept silently to the door and peered through the gap.

He saw a rather pretty girl holding a candle, and three men coming toward her — the ones who had climbed down from the roof. After some greetings, one of them said to the girl: "We can relax now, praise God. We know for certain that Tedaldo Elisei's brothers have pinned his death on Aldobrandino Palermini. He's confessed, and the sentence has been recorded. But we still need to keep absolutely quiet about this, because if anyone ever finds out that we're the ones who did it, we'll be in the same danger Aldobrandino is in now."

Having said this to the delighted girl, they went downstairs and to bed.

Tedaldo, hearing all of this, lay in the dark turning over just how many kinds of error the human mind is capable of. He thought of his brothers, who had mourned and buried a stranger in his place. He thought of the innocent man who had been accused on false evidence and was about to be executed for a crime he didn't commit. He thought about the blind ruthlessness of laws and magistrates who, under the guise of diligently pursuing justice, often use their cruelty to establish lies — and call themselves ministers of God and justice when they are really servants of wickedness and the devil.

Then he turned his thoughts to saving Aldobrandino, and worked out a plan.

In the morning, he left his servant at the inn and went alone — when the time seemed right — to his mistress's house. He found the door open and went in. There, in a small ground-floor room, sat Ermellina, her face stained with tears, her heart full of grief.

The sight nearly made him weep. He went up to her and said: "Madam, don't torment yourself. Your deliverance is near."

She looked up through her tears and said: "Good sir, you seem to be a foreign pilgrim. What could you know about my deliverance or my troubles?"

"Madam," Tedaldo replied, "I'm from Constantinople, and I've just arrived here, sent by God to turn your tears into joy and to deliver your husband from death."

"But if you're from Constantinople and just got here," she said, "how do you know who I am, or who my husband is?"

The pilgrim then told her — starting from the very beginning — the entire history of Aldobrandino's troubles. He told her who she was, how long she'd been married, and many other details of her life that he knew perfectly well. She was astonished. She took him for a prophet, fell on her knees at his feet, and begged him — for the love of God, if he had truly come to save Aldobrandino — to hurry, because time was running out.

The pilgrim, playing the role of a holy man, said: "Madam, get up and stop weeping. Listen carefully to what I'm about to say, and make sure you never repeat it to anyone. God has revealed to me that the trouble you're in right now has come upon you because of a sin you committed in the past. He chose to purge part of it through this present suffering, and He wants you to make full amends — otherwise you'll fall into something far worse."

"Sir," said the lady, "I have many sins. I don't know which one God wants me to fix. If you know, tell me, and I'll do whatever I can."

"Madam," the pilgrim said, "I know exactly what it is. And I'm not asking you about it so I can learn — I want you to tell me yourself, so that confessing it will deepen your remorse. But let's get to the point. Tell me — do you remember ever having a lover?"

The lady drew a deep sigh. She was stunned. She had believed no one had ever known about it, though there had been some whispering around the time of the murder, thanks to some indiscreet words by Tedaldo's confidant. After a moment, she said:

"I see that God reveals all men's secrets to you, so I won't try to hide mine. It's true — when I was younger, I loved that unfortunate young man whose death has been charged to my husband. I've wept for his death as bitterly as it grieved me. Even though I was cold and cruel to him before he went away, nothing — not his long absence, not his terrible end — has ever been able to tear him from my heart."

"The unfortunate young man who died — you never loved him," said the pilgrim. "But Tedaldo Elisei — him, yes. Now tell me: what made you turn against him? Did he ever do anything to hurt you?"

"He certainly did not," she said. "The reason for the break was the ranting of a wretched friar I went to for confession. When I told him about my love for Tedaldo and the intimacy between us, he screamed at me so terribly that I still tremble to think of it. He told me that if I didn't stop, I'd end up in the devil's mouth in the deepest pit of hell, burning in eternal fire. That put such a fear into me that I resolved to cut off all contact with Tedaldo completely. I refused his letters, I refused his messages. Though I believe that if he'd persisted a little longer, instead of going away in despair, my resolve would have crumbled — because I could see him wasting away like snow in the sun, and I had no greater desire in the world than to be with him."

"Madam," said the pilgrim, "it is that sin alone that has brought this suffering upon you. I know for a fact that Tedaldo never forced anything on you. When you fell in love with him, you did it freely, because he pleased you. He came to you because you wanted him there, and in private you showed him such warmth — in words and in actions — that if he loved you before, you made him love you a thousand times more.

"If that's how it was — and I know it was — what reason could possibly have justified ripping yourself away from him so cruelly? These things should be thought through in advance. If you think you might someday regret something as a sin, you shouldn't do it in the first place. But once you had — he became yours, just as you were his. To take yourself away from him was a kind of theft, because it wasn't his choice. You could have decided that he was no longer yours to keep; but to steal yourself from him, when he was yours — that was wrong.

"Now, I should tell you that I myself am a friar, so I know their ways very well. If I speak bluntly about them for your benefit, it's not forbidden to me — and frankly, it gives me some satisfaction, because I want you to understand them better than you seem to have in the past.

"The friars of old were devout and worthy men. But the ones who call themselves friars today and want to be treated as such have nothing of the friar about them except the robes. And even those aren't real friars' habits anymore. The founders of the monastic orders wore robes that were plain, narrow, and coarse — robes that proclaimed a spirit of humility and contempt for worldly things. But today's friars have them tailored wide and double-lined, made of the finest glossy fabric, cut in a fashionable style. They strut through churches and public squares like peacocks, preening just as much as any layman. Like a fisherman casting a sweep-net into the river to catch as many fish as possible in one throw, these friars wrap themselves in their vast skirts and try to ensnare as many pious widows, shy maidens, and foolish men and women as they can. This, more than any spiritual exercise, is their real calling. So let me speak plainly: they don't wear a friar's habit — they just wear its color.

"Where the old friars cared about saving souls, today's friars care about women and money. They devote all their energy to terrorizing simple minds with thundering sermons and vivid paintings of hell, and to preaching that sins can be washed clean through charitable donations and masses — the real purpose being that people will bring them bread, send them wine, and give them cash for the souls of the departed. Of course it's true that alms and prayers can purge sins. But if the people giving those alms knew what kind of men they were giving them to, they'd keep the money for themselves — or throw it to the pigs.

"These friars know that the fewer people who share a great treasure, the more comfortably those few can live. So every one of them uses scare tactics to drive other people away from the things he wants to keep for himself. They thunder against lust in men so that once the scolded men pull back from women, the women are left for the scolders. They condemn lending at interest and ill-gotten gains so that people will hand over such money to them for 'restitution' — and with that money they buy themselves fatter robes, bishoprics, and other fat benefices.

"And when they're called out for these and a thousand other disgraceful practices, they think saying 'Do as we say, not as we do' gets them off the hook — as though the sheep can be expected to resist temptation better than the shepherds. And how many of those they say this to understand it differently from how they mean it? Most of them know perfectly well.

"Today's friars want you to fill their purses, trust them with your secrets, stay celibate, be patient, forgive injuries, and avoid gossip — all fine and good. But why? So they can do the things that would be impossible if you did them too. Who doesn't know that laziness requires money? If you spend your money on your own pleasures, the friar can't afford to loaf around in his monastery. If you chase women, there won't be any left for him. If you don't practice patience and forgiveness, he won't dare show his face at your house to corrupt your family.

"But why go on listing every particular? They condemn themselves in the eyes of any thinking person every time they trot out that excuse. If they don't believe they can live abstinent and holy lives themselves, why become friars at all? Or if they insist on being friars, why not follow that other holy saying from the Gospel: 'Christ began first to do, and then to teach'? Let them practice what they preach before they preach it to others. I've personally seen thousands of them who were suitors, lovers, and frequent visitors — not just to ordinary women, but to nuns. And some of the worst offenders are the ones who make the biggest noise from the pulpit. Are these the men we should follow? Whoever does is free to do so — but God knows whether it's wise.

"But even if we grant the friar's point — that breaking a marriage vow is a serious sin — isn't it a far greater sin to rob a man? And greater still to kill him, or to drive him into exile to wander the earth in misery? Everyone would agree. For a woman to be intimate with a man is a sin of nature. But to rob or kill or exile someone — that comes from malice.

"I've already shown you that you robbed Tedaldo — by taking yourself away from him when you had freely become his. I also say that, as far as it was in your power, you killed him — because after all the cruelty you showed him, day after day, it was no thanks to you that he didn't take his own life. And the law says that whoever causes a harm is as guilty as the one who commits it. And you can't deny that you were the cause of his exile and his seven years of wandering. So in any one of those three offenses, you committed a far greater sin than in your love affair with him.

"But let's consider — did Tedaldo deserve this treatment? He certainly did not. You've said so yourself. And I know he loves you more than himself. No woman was ever so honored, so praised, so celebrated as you were by him, whenever he found himself somewhere he could speak of you without raising suspicion. Every good thing he had, every honor, every freedom — he placed it all in your hands. Wasn't he noble? Wasn't he young? Wasn't he handsome? Wasn't he accomplished in everything a young man should be? Wasn't he loved and respected by all? You can't deny any of this.

"So how, on the say-so of some half-witted, gluttonous, broth-slurping friar, could you take such a savage decision against him? I will never understand the error of women who shun men and hold them cheap — when really, considering what they themselves are and what extraordinary dignity God has given to mankind above all other creatures, they should feel proud when a man loves them, and should treasure him and do everything in their power to keep his love alive. What you did — at the urging of a friar who was almost certainly a pie-stuffing parasite and who most likely intended to install himself in the spot he was trying to empty — you know yourself.

"This, then, is the sin that God's justice, which carries out all its designs with a perfectly balanced scale, has refused to leave unpunished. Just as you tried without reason to withdraw yourself from Tedaldo, so your husband has been placed — without reason — in mortal peril because of Tedaldo, and you along with him. If you want to be free of this suffering, here is what you must promise — and more than promise, you must do it: if Tedaldo should ever return from his long exile, you will give him back your love, your affection, your goodwill, and your intimacy, and restore him to the place he held before you foolishly listened to that crackbrained friar."

The pilgrim finished speaking. The lady had been listening with the most intense attention. His arguments struck her as perfectly true, and hearing him lay it out, she felt certain that her present affliction was indeed punishment for the sin he described.

"Friend of God," she said, "I know very well that everything you say is true. And through your words, I see what kind of men these friars really are — though until now I'd thought they were all saints. I have no doubt that my wrong against Tedaldo was great. If I could, I would gladly make amends in exactly the way you've described. But how? Tedaldo can never come back. He's dead. Why should I promise something that can't be done?"

"Madam," the pilgrim replied, "God has revealed to me that Tedaldo is not dead at all. He's alive and well and in good health. All he needs is your favor."

"Be careful what you say!" she cried. "I saw him dead at my door, stabbed multiple times. I held him in these arms. I bathed his dead face with my tears — which may have been what started all that ugly gossip."

"Madam," the pilgrim said, "regardless of what you believe, I assure you that Tedaldo is alive. If you will make me this promise — and mean to keep it — I believe you will see him very soon."

"I promise," she said, "and I will keep it gladly. Nothing in the world could make me happier than to see my husband freed and unharmed, and Tedaldo alive."

Tedaldo decided the time had come. He needed to reveal himself and give the lady something more solid than faith to hold on to. He said: "Madam, to put your mind at ease about your husband, I need to share a secret with you. Guard it with your life."

They were in a secluded spot, completely alone. The lady had developed absolute confidence in the pilgrim's holiness. Tedaldo drew out a ring — the one she had given him the last night they'd been together, which he had kept with the greatest care all these years — and held it up. "Madam, do you recognize this?"

The moment she saw it, she knew it. "Yes, sir — I gave that to Tedaldo."

The pilgrim stood up. In one swift motion, he pulled off his pilgrim's cloak and hat, and speaking in a pure Florentine accent, he said: "And do you recognize me?"

When she saw who it was, she was absolutely terrified — the kind of terror you feel when you see a dead man walking around as if alive. She didn't rush forward to welcome Tedaldo home from Cyprus. She shrank back, as if from Tedaldo risen from the grave.

"Madam," he said, "don't be afraid. I am your Tedaldo, alive and well. I never died. I was never killed, whatever you and my brothers may believe."

The lady, somewhat reassured, studied him more carefully. She recognized his voice. She looked at him a little longer and convinced herself it was truly him. Then she threw herself on his neck, weeping, and kissed him. "Welcome back, my sweet Tedaldo."

Tedaldo kissed her and held her and said: "My love, this isn't the time for a proper reunion. I need to go and make sure Aldobrandino is returned to you safe and sound. I hope that by tomorrow evening, you'll hear good news. In fact, if things go well tonight — as I expect they will — I should be able to come back to you and tell you everything at leisure."

He put his cloak and hat back on, kissed her once more, told her to be hopeful, and left. He went straight to the prison where Aldobrandino was being held — the man more consumed with fear of his impending execution than with any hope of rescue. With the jailer's permission, Tedaldo entered in the guise of a spiritual comforter, sat down beside him, and said:

"Aldobrandino, I am a friend, sent to you by God for your deliverance. He has taken pity on you because of your innocence. If, out of reverence for Him, you will grant me one small favor I ask, you will without fail — before tomorrow night — hear a verdict of acquittal, where now you expect a sentence of death."

"Good sir," Aldobrandino replied, "if you truly care about my freedom — even though I don't know you and can't recall ever seeing you before — you must be a friend, as you say. The truth is, the crime they say I'm to die for is one I never committed, though God knows I've committed enough other sins that may have brought me to this. But I'll tell you this: if God shows me mercy now, there is nothing I won't do for Him, no matter how great, let alone something small. Ask whatever you like, and if I get out of here alive, I'll do it without fail."

"What I ask," said the pilgrim, "is that you pardon Tedaldo's four brothers for putting you in this situation — they believed you guilty of their brother's death — and that you accept them again as friends and brothers, once they ask your forgiveness."

"No one knows how sweet revenge tastes," said Aldobrandino, "or how fiercely it's desired, except the man who's suffered the wrong. But if it means God will set me free — I pardon them freely. I pardon them right now. And if I get out of here alive, I'll do whatever you say."

This satisfied the pilgrim. Without saying more, he urged Aldobrandino to keep his spirits up, promising that before the next day was over, he'd hear certain news of his salvation. Then he left.

Tedaldo went directly to the city magistrates and spoke privately to a gentleman in session: "My lord, everyone ought to work eagerly to bring the truth to light, especially those who hold an office like yours — so that innocent men don't suffer punishment while the guilty go free. To serve that purpose, and for your honor and the ruin of those who deserve it, I've come to you. As you know, you've proceeded vigorously against Aldobrandino Palermini, and believing you've proven that he killed Tedaldo Elisei, you're about to condemn him. But that finding is absolutely false, and I believe I can prove it before midnight — by putting the real murderers in your hands."

The magistrate, who was genuinely troubled about Aldobrandino's case, listened with interest. After a long discussion, acting on the pilgrim's information, his officers arrested the two innkeeper brothers and their servant in their first sleep, without resistance. Under questioning, they needed no pressure — each of them, first separately and then all together, openly confessed that they had killed Tedaldo Elisei, though they hadn't known who he was. When asked why, they said it was because he'd been aggressively harassing one of their wives while they were away, and had tried to force himself on her.

Having heard the confession, the pilgrim took his leave of the magistrate and made his way quietly to Madam Ermellina's house. He found her alone and waiting for him — everyone else had gone to bed — equally anxious for good news about her husband and for a full reconciliation with her Tedaldo.

He came to her with a joyful face and said: "My dearest love, be happy — tomorrow you'll have your Aldobrandino back, safe and sound." And to assure her completely, he told her everything he'd done.

Ermellina was as happy as any woman has ever been — happy at two sudden, miraculous strokes of fortune at once: having her lover back alive, when she'd truly believed she had mourned him dead, and seeing Aldobrandino pulled from the shadow of execution, whose death she'd expected to be grieving within days. She embraced Tedaldo and kissed him passionately. Then they went to bed together and made a warm, joyful, generous peace — taking delight and pleasure in each other.

As dawn approached, Tedaldo got up. He told the lady what he planned to do and asked her again to keep everything secret. Still wearing his pilgrim's disguise, he left to take care of Aldobrandino's affairs. When morning came and the magistrates were satisfied that they had the full truth, they immediately released Aldobrandino. A few days later, the real murderers were beheaded at the scene of their crime.

Aldobrandino was free. The joy of his wife, his friends, and all his relatives was immense. He understood that he owed his life entirely to the pilgrim, and he brought the man home to stay for as long as he wished to remain in the city. The household couldn't do enough for him in the way of honor and hospitality — the lady especially, who knew exactly who their guest really was.

After a while, Tedaldo judged it was time to reconcile his brothers with Aldobrandino. He knew they'd been humiliated by the acquittal and were now going around armed, afraid of Aldobrandino's retaliation. He asked his host to fulfill his promise. Aldobrandino said he was ready. The pilgrim then asked him to host a grand banquet the next day and to invite his own relatives along with Tedaldo's four brothers and their wives. He added that he himself would go immediately to invite them on Aldobrandino's behalf, offering peace and friendship. Aldobrandino agreed to everything.

The pilgrim went to the four brothers and, after making his case with all the right arguments, brought them around without much difficulty. They agreed to ask Aldobrandino's forgiveness and regain his friendship. That done, he invited them and their wives to dine at Aldobrandino's the following day. Reassured of his good faith, they accepted.

The next day, around dinnertime, Tedaldo's four brothers arrived at Aldobrandino's house, still dressed in their black mourning clothes, along with several friends. In front of all the invited guests, they laid down their weapons, placed themselves at Aldobrandino's mercy, and asked his pardon for what they had done. Aldobrandino received them with tears of genuine feeling. He kissed each of them on the mouth and kept his words brief, forgiving every wrong. After them came their wives and sisters, all in somber-colored clothing, and they were warmly greeted by Madam Ermellina and the other ladies.

Then they all sat down to a magnificent feast. Everything about the banquet was admirable — except for one thing: a certain awkward silence, caused by the fresh grief still written in the dark clothing of Tedaldo's relatives. Some guests had actually criticized the pilgrim's idea of throwing a banquet under these circumstances, and he'd noticed. But this was all part of his plan. When the right moment came — while the guests were still eating their fruit and dessert — he rose to his feet, exactly as he'd intended, and said:

"The only thing missing from this celebration, the one thing that would make it truly joyful, is Tedaldo himself. He's actually been with you the whole time, but you haven't recognized him. So let me point him out."

With that, he threw off his pilgrim's cloak and hat and everything else that marked him as a traveler, and stood before them in a fine green silk doublet. Everyone stared at him in utter astonishment for a long time. They examined him carefully — but no one dared believe it was really him. Tedaldo, seeing their doubt, began to recount specific details: things that had happened between them, family matters, his own adventures. One by one, his brothers came rushing forward to embrace him, their eyes streaming with tears of joy. Then the other gentlemen did the same. Then the ladies — strangers and relatives alike — all of them, with one exception: Madam Ermellina.

Aldobrandino noticed. "What's this, Ermellina?" he said. "Why aren't you welcoming Tedaldo, like all the other ladies?"

She answered, loud enough for everyone to hear: "There's no one here who would more gladly welcome him than I would — no one is more indebted to him, since it's through him that I got you back. But the ugly things people said during the days when we were mourning the man we thought was Tedaldo — that's what held me back."

"Oh, stop it," said her husband. "Do you think I believe those gossips? Tedaldo's proven their slander false by saving my life. I never believed it anyway. Go on — get up and give the man a hug."

The lady, who wanted nothing more, was happy to obey her husband. She rose and embraced Tedaldo warmly, just as the others had done, and gave him a joyful welcome. Aldobrandino's generosity pleased Tedaldo's brothers greatly, and it pleased every man and woman in the room. Whatever suspicion the earlier rumors had planted in anyone's mind was swept away completely.

Once everyone had congratulated Tedaldo, he went to his brothers and with his own hands tore the black mourning clothes from their backs. He did the same with the somber garments worn by their wives and sisters and insisted they all send for something brighter to wear. When they'd changed, the whole gathering threw itself into singing, dancing, and every kind of celebration. The banquet that had begun in heavy silence ended in ringing joy. Just as they were, in the full flush of their happiness, the entire company walked over to Tedaldo's own house, where they had supper that evening. They went on feasting like this for several more days.

For some time, the Florentines regarded Tedaldo with amazement, as a man risen from the dead. A faint doubt lingered in many people's minds — even his brothers weren't entirely sure he was really himself — and that uncertainty might have persisted much longer if not for a coincidence that cleared up the identity of the murdered man once and for all.

One day, some foot soldiers from Lunigiana happened to pass by the house. Seeing Tedaldo, they approached and said: "Good day, Faziuolo!"

Tedaldo, in front of his brothers, replied: "You've mistaken me for someone else."

Hearing him speak, the soldiers were embarrassed and begged his pardon. "You're right — we're sorry. But you look more like a friend of ours than we've ever seen one man look like another. His name is Faziuolo of Pontremoli. He came here about two weeks ago, maybe more, and we've never been able to find out what happened to him. We were surprised by your clothing, though — he was a soldier, like us."

Tedaldo's eldest brother stepped forward and asked how this Faziuolo had been dressed. They described his clothing, and it matched exactly. Between this and other details, it was established beyond any doubt that the murdered man was Faziuolo, not Tedaldo. And with that, every last trace of doubt vanished from his brothers' minds and from everyone else's.

Tedaldo, then, having returned a very wealthy man, held firm in his love. The lady never turned against him again, and for a long time, handling their affair with discretion, the two of them enjoyed their love. May God grant us the same."

Day 3, Story 8

Ferondo swallows a mysterious powder and is buried for dead. While the abbot who drugged him enjoys his wife, Ferondo is locked in a dark cell and told he's in Purgatory. Eventually he's "resurrected" and raises a child the abbot fathered as his own.

When Emilia's long story came to an end — though no one in the group thought it had dragged on at all, given how many twists and turns it contained — the queen signaled to Lauretta with a nod, and she began: "Dear ladies, I have a true story to tell you that sounds more like a tall tale than anything that actually happened. It came to mind just now, hearing about someone being mourned and buried in another person's place. My story is about a living man who was entombed as dead, and who later came to believe — along with everyone else — that he had risen from the grave. Because of this, the man was practically worshipped as a saint, when really he should have been thrown in prison.

So then — there was once in Tuscany (and still is, for that matter) an abbey tucked away in a fairly remote location, the kind you see plenty of in that part of the country. The monk who'd been made abbot there was a very holy man in every respect — except when it came to women. In that department, he carried on so carefully that almost no one even suspected him, let alone caught him in the act. Everyone thought he was the most devout and upright man alive.

Now, it happened that the abbot struck up a close friendship with a very wealthy farmer named Ferondo — a dense, dull-witted blockhead if ever there was one. The abbot tolerated his company mainly because Ferondo's sheer stupidity amused him from time to time. In the course of their acquaintance, however, the abbot noticed that Ferondo had a very beautiful wife, and he fell so madly in love with her that he could think of nothing else, day or night. But when he learned that Ferondo, simpleton though he was about everything else, was sharp enough when it came to loving and guarding his wife, the abbot very nearly despaired of ever having her.

Still, he was a resourceful man. He worked things so that Ferondo started coming to the abbey gardens with his wife to enjoy themselves, and there the abbot would hold forth, very demurely, on the blessedness of eternal life and the pious deeds of saints gone by. He did this so effectively that the wife developed a desire to confess to him, and she asked Ferondo's permission to do so — which he gave.

So the lady came to make her confession, much to the abbot's delight. She sat down at his feet and, before getting into anything else, began like this: "Father, if God had given me a proper husband — or no husband at all — it might be easy for me, with your guidance, to set out on the road you say leads to eternal life. But considering what Ferondo is, and what an idiot he is, I might as well call myself a widow even though I'm married. Because as long as he's alive, I can't have another husband, and fool though he is, he's insanely jealous of me for absolutely no reason. My life with him is nothing but misery and torment. So before I get to the rest of my confession, I'm begging you as earnestly as I can — please give me some advice about this. Because if I can't find some relief here, then no amount of confession or good works is going to help me."

This speech delighted the abbot enormously. It seemed like fortune had thrown the door wide open for him. "My daughter," he said, "I can well believe it must be a terrible burden for a lovely, refined woman like yourself to be saddled with a blockhead for a husband — but it's even worse to have a jealous one. Since you've got both, I can easily believe what you say about your suffering. But to be frank, I see only one possible remedy: Ferondo must be cured of his jealousy. I know exactly how to make the medicine that will cure him — provided you can keep what I'm about to tell you a secret."

"Don't worry about that, Father," the lady answered. "I'd sooner die than repeat anything you tell me not to. But how can it be done?"

"If we want him cured," said the abbot, "he'll need to go to Purgatory."

"But how can he go there while he's still alive?" she asked.

"He'll have to die first," the abbot replied. "He'll go to Purgatory, and once he's suffered enough penance to purge him of his jealousy, we'll pray to God with certain special prayers to restore him to life — and He will."

"So I'd be a widow?" said the lady.

"Yes, for a time," the abbot answered. "But during that time, you must take care not to remarry, because God would take that very badly. And when Ferondo comes back, you'd have to return to him — and he'd be more jealous than ever."

"Well," she said, "as long as he's cured of this affliction and I don't have to spend the rest of my life in a cage, I'm willing. Do as you see fit."

"And I will," said the abbot. "But what reward do I get for such a service?"

"Whatever you like, Father, as long as it's within my power. But what could someone like me possibly offer a man like you?"

"Madam," the abbot replied, "you can do no less for me than what I'm about to do for you. Just as I'm prepared to act for your well-being and comfort, you can do something that will be the saving of my life."

"If that's the case," she said, "I'm ready."

"Then," said the abbot, "you must give me your love and let me have you. I'm burning up with desire for you."

The lady was stunned. "Good Lord, Father — what are you asking me? I thought you were a saint! Is this how holy men behave when women come to them for counsel?"

"Don't be so surprised, my dear," the abbot replied. "Holiness doesn't diminish one bit from this — holiness lives in the soul, and what I'm asking involves the body. But in any case, your dazzling beauty has such power over me that love compels me to speak plainly. And I'll tell you something: you should take pride in your beauty above all other women, knowing that it pleases even holy men, who are accustomed to gazing on the beauties of heaven. Besides, abbot though I am, I'm a man like any other — and not old yet, as you can see. This shouldn't be a hardship for you. In fact, you should welcome it, because while Ferondo is away in Purgatory, I'll keep you company every night and give you all the comfort he should have been providing. No one will ever find out, because everyone already thinks of me exactly the way you just did — and even more so. Don't reject this grace that God is sending you. There are plenty of women who'd jump at what I'm offering, and it will be yours if you're wise enough to take my advice. Besides, I have beautiful and precious jewels that I intend to give to no one but you. Come now, my sweet hope — do for me what I so willingly do for you."

The lady hung her head, not knowing how to refuse him, though it didn't feel right to give in either. The abbot, seeing her hesitate and sensing she was already half-persuaded, pressed his case with a flood of additional arguments until he convinced her that she'd be doing the right thing. She agreed, blushing, that she was ready to do whatever he wished — but only after Ferondo had been sent to Purgatory.

"Excellent," said the abbot, beaming. "We'll arrange to send him there right away. Just make sure he comes to visit me at the abbey tomorrow or the next day." With that, he slipped a beautiful ring onto her hand and sent her off. The lady was pleased with the gift and, looking forward to more, rejoined her companions. She spent the walk home regaling them with marvelous tales of the abbot's sanctity.

A few days later, Ferondo came to the abbey. The moment the abbot saw him, he set his plan in motion. He found a powder of extraordinary potency that he'd obtained in the East from a great prince, who swore it was the very stuff used by the Old Man of the Mountain whenever he wanted to put someone to sleep and transport them to his paradise, or bring them back again. Depending on the dose, it would make the person who took it sleep for a shorter or longer period, as deeply as death itself — no one would think there was any life left in them.

The abbot measured out enough to knock a man out for three days, dissolved it in a glass of cloudy wine, and gave it to Ferondo to drink in his cell. Ferondo suspected nothing. Then the abbot brought him out to the cloister and, along with some of his monks, started teasing him and making fun of his usual foolishness. Before long, the powder kicked in: a sudden, overwhelming drowsiness seized Ferondo. He nodded off while still on his feet, and then toppled over, fast asleep.

The abbot put on a great show of alarm. He had Ferondo's clothes loosened, sent for cold water to splash on his face, and tried every other remedy he could think of — as if he were trying to revive a man struck down by some stomach ailment or other mysterious affliction. When none of it worked, the monks checked his pulse, found no sign of life, and concluded unanimously that he was dead.

Word was sent to Ferondo's wife and relatives, who all came rushing over. The lady wept for a while with her kinswomen, and then the abbot had Ferondo placed, fully dressed, in a tomb. The wife went home, announcing that she intended to devote herself entirely to raising the little son she'd had with Ferondo, and settled in to manage the household and the estate he'd left behind.

That night, the abbot rose quietly, and with the help of a Bolognese monk he trusted completely — who had conveniently arrived from Bologna that very day — he lifted Ferondo out of the tomb and carried him down to a pitch-dark vault that served as a prison for monks who'd committed serious offenses. There they stripped off his clothes, dressed him in a monk's habit, laid him on a pile of straw, and left him to sleep it off. The Bolognese monk had been thoroughly briefed on what to do, and no one else knew a thing about the plan. He settled in to wait for Ferondo to wake up.

The next day, the abbot went to pay a condolence visit to the lady's house, accompanied by several of his monks. He found her dressed in black and grief-stricken. After comforting her for a while, he gently reminded her of her promise. The lady, finding herself free of both Ferondo and everyone else's scrutiny — and noticing another fine ring on the abbot's finger — said she was ready, and they arranged for him to come to her that very night.

So when night fell, the abbot disguised himself in Ferondo's clothes, took his trusted monk along as lookout, and went to her house. He lay with her in the utmost pleasure and delight until morning, then returned to the abbey. After that first visit, he made the same trip many, many times. Occasionally someone from the village would spot him coming or going, and they assumed it was Ferondo's ghost wandering the countryside doing penance. Before long, all sorts of wild stories were circulating among the simple country folk — and more than once these reports reached Ferondo's wife, who knew perfectly well what was really going on.

As for Ferondo — when he finally came to and found himself in a place he didn't recognize, the Bolognese monk burst in making a horrible racket, grabbed him, and beat him soundly with a rod. Ferondo, crying and howling, could only say, "Where am I?"

"You're in Purgatory," the monk told him.

"What?" cried Ferondo. "I'm dead?"

"You sure are," the monk confirmed.

At this Ferondo began wailing about himself, his wife, and his child, saying the most absurd things imaginable. Then the monk brought him some food and drink. Ferondo stared at it. "Wait — dead people eat?"

"They do," said the monk. "What I'm bringing you is what your wife — your former wife, that is — sent to the church this morning to have masses said for your soul. God has decreed that it be passed along to you."

"God bless her!" said Ferondo. "I always loved that woman. Before I died, I used to hold her in my arms all night long and just kiss her and kiss her — and I did the other thing too, whenever the mood struck me." Then, being famished, he fell to eating and drinking. The wine didn't taste so great, and he said, "Damn her! Why didn't she give the priest the wine from the good barrel — the one by the wall?"

When he'd finished eating, the monk grabbed him again and gave him another thorough beating with the same rod. Ferondo roared in pain. "What are you doing that for?"

"Because God has commanded that you be beaten twice a day," said the monk.

"But why?" asked Ferondo.

"Because you were jealous — and you had the best wife in the whole country."

"Well, you're not wrong about that," said Ferondo. "She really was the sweetest thing — sweeter than syrup. But I didn't know God minded if a man was jealous. If I'd known, I never would have been."

"You should have figured that out while you were down there among the living," said the monk, "and mended your ways. And if it so happens that you ever go back, make sure you remember these beatings well enough that you never act jealous again."

"Wait — the dead can go back?" said Ferondo.

"Some can," said the monk. "If God wills it."

"Well!" cried Ferondo. "If I ever get back there, I'll be the best husband in the world. I'll never hit her or say a mean word to her — except about that lousy wine she sent up here this morning, and about not sending any candles, so I had to eat in the dark."

"No, she sent plenty of candles," said the monk. "They were all burned during the masses."

"Oh, right," said Ferondo. "Well, if I do get back, I'll let her do whatever she wants. But tell me — who are you? Why are you treating me like this?"

"I'm dead too," said the monk. "I'm from Sardinia. While I was alive, I used to praise my master extravagantly for being jealous, so God sentenced me to this punishment: I have to feed you, give you water, and beat you like this until God decides otherwise about you and me."

"Is there anyone else here besides us two?" Ferondo asked.

"Oh, thousands of people," said the monk. "But you can't see or hear them, and they can't see or hear you."

"How far are we from home?" asked Ferondo.

"Ha!" said the monk. "More miles than you could shit in one sitting."

"Lord," said Ferondo. "That's far enough. We must be clean out of the world if it's all that."

And so Ferondo's time in "Purgatory" went on for a good ten months, filled with eating, drinking, and regular beatings, while the abbot faithfully visited the beautiful wife and had the time of his life with her. But eventually, as luck would have it, the lady found herself pregnant. She told the abbot immediately, and they both agreed that Ferondo needed to be recalled from Purgatory without delay and brought back to life, so she could claim the child was his.

That very night, the abbot had the Bolognese monk call out to Ferondo in a disguised voice: "Take heart, Ferondo! God is pleased to send you back to the world, where you'll have a son by your wife. See that you name him Benedict, because it's through the prayers of your holy abbot, and your wife, and for the love of Saint Benedict, that God grants you this favor."

Ferondo was overjoyed. "Wonderful! God bless Almighty God, and the abbot, and Saint Benedict, and my darling cheesy sweet honey wife!"

The abbot put enough of the powder in Ferondo's wine to knock him out for about four hours. Then, with the monk's help, he dressed Ferondo back in his own clothes and secretly returned him to the tomb where he'd been buried.

The next morning, at first light, Ferondo came to his senses. He saw a sliver of light — the first he'd seen in ten months — coming through a crack in the tomb, and he was certain he was alive again. He started hollering, "Let me out! Let me out!" and shoving his head against the lid of the tomb so hard that it shifted — it wasn't all that heavy — and he'd nearly pushed it off when the monks, just finished with morning prayers, came running. They recognized Ferondo's voice and saw him climbing out of the sepulcher. Terrified by the strangeness of it all, they bolted.

They ran to the abbot, who pretended to be rising from prayer. "My sons, have no fear," he said calmly. "Take up the cross and the holy water and follow me, so that we may witness what God, in His power, wishes to reveal to us." And that's exactly what they did.

Ferondo had emerged from the tomb looking deathly pale — which was only natural for a man who hadn't seen daylight in so long. The moment he spotted the abbot, he threw himself at his feet and said, "Father, it has been revealed to me that your prayers, along with those of Saint Benedict and my wife, have delivered me from the torments of Purgatory and restored me to life. I pray God gives you blessings now and forever."

"Praised be God's power!" said the abbot. "Go, my son, since He has sent you back. Comfort your wife, who has done nothing but weep since you departed this life, and from now on be a friend and servant of God."

"That's exactly what I was told," said Ferondo. "Just leave it to me — the second I find her, I'm going to kiss her so hard. You can't imagine how much I love that woman."

Left alone with his monks, the abbot put on a magnificent show of wonder at this "miracle" and had them sing a solemn hymn of thanks. As for Ferondo, he went back to his village, where everyone who saw him ran away in terror, the way people do when they see something unnatural. But he called them back and swore up and down that he had truly been raised from the dead. His wife pretended to be frightened of him too, but eventually the neighbors calmed down, saw that he really was alive, and started pelting him with questions.

Ferondo, acting as if he'd returned wiser than he'd left, answered every question and gave them news about the souls of their dead relatives, making up the most elaborate fables you've ever heard about how things worked in Purgatory. He told them all about the revelation he'd received from the mouth of "the Archangel Braggiel" right before he was raised up again.

He went home, took possession of his property again, and got his wife pregnant — or so he believed. As chance would have it, the timing worked out just right — at least for the sort of fools who think a woman is always pregnant for exactly nine months — and the lady gave birth to a boy, who was christened Benedict Ferondi.

Ferondo's return and his wild stories made nearly everyone believe he'd been raised from the dead, which boosted the abbot's reputation for holiness enormously. And Ferondo himself, having been thoroughly cured of his jealousy by all those beatings, never acted jealous again — just as the abbot had promised the lady he wouldn't. She was quite pleased about this and lived respectably with him, as she always had — though whenever she could arrange it conveniently, she was happy to spend time with the holy abbot, who had served her so well and so diligently in her hour of greatest need.

Day 3, Story 9

Giletta of Narbonne cures the King of France of a fistula and asks for Beltramo of Roussillon as her husband. He marries her against his will and flees to Florence in disgust, where he courts a young woman. Giletta takes the young woman's place in bed, conceives two sons by him, and finally wins his love — the source of Shakespeare's "All's Well That Ends Well."

With Lauretta's story finished, only the queen herself was left to tell a tale — unless she wanted to step on Dioneo's privilege of going last. Without waiting for anyone to prompt her, she began with a bright smile: "Who's going to tell a story that measures up, now that we've heard Lauretta's? It's a good thing hers wasn't first, because few of the others would have impressed anyone after it — and I suspect the same will be true of whatever's left today. But, be that as it may, I'll tell you what comes to mind on our theme.

In the kingdom of France there lived a nobleman named Isnard, Count of Roussillon. Because he was in poor health, he always kept a personal physician at his side — a man named Master Gerard of Narbonne. The count had a single son, named Beltramo, who was exceptionally handsome and charming, and who was raised alongside other children of similar age. Among them was a daughter of the physician — Giletta by name — who fell in love with Beltramo with a passion far beyond what you'd expect from a child her age.

When the count died and left his son in the king's care, Beltramo had to go to Paris, which left the girl utterly heartbroken. Her own father died not long after, and she would gladly have found an excuse to follow Beltramo to Paris, but she was closely watched — she'd been left wealthy and alone — and she could see no honorable way to go. She'd reached marriageable age by now, but she'd never been able to forget Beltramo, and without giving any reason, she'd refused every suitor her family had put forward.

Now it happened that while she was burning with love for Beltramo more than ever — having heard he'd grown into a truly fine young gentleman — news reached her that the King of France had developed a fistula from a chest abscess that had been badly treated. It was causing him terrible pain and distress, and despite consulting every physician he could find, none of them had been able to cure it — in fact, they'd only made it worse. The king had given up hope and refused to see any more doctors.

The young woman was thrilled to hear this. She realized it gave her not only a legitimate reason to go to Paris, but that if the king's condition was what she thought it was, she might well be able to win Beltramo as her husband. Drawing on the many things she'd learned from her father over the years, she prepared a powder from certain herbs suited to the ailment she believed the king had, mounted a horse, and rode to Paris.

The first thing she did was arrange to see Beltramo. Then she presented herself before the king and asked if he would show her his ailment. The king, seeing that she was a pretty and poised young woman, didn't have the heart to refuse and showed her. The moment she examined it, she was certain she could heal it.

"My lord," she said, "if it please you, I hope in God to have you cured of this condition within eight days, without any pain or trouble on your part."

The king scoffed inwardly. "What the best physicians in the world couldn't manage — how is a young woman going to pull it off?" He thanked her politely for her good intentions and told her he'd resolved to follow no more medical advice.

"My lord," she said, "you dismiss my skill because I'm young and a woman. But I want you to know that I don't practice medicine on my own authority alone — I have the aid of God and the knowledge of Master Gerard of Narbonne, who was my father and a celebrated physician while he lived."

The king thought it over. "Maybe God has sent this woman to me. Why not test her, since she says she can cure me quickly and painlessly?" So he decided to give her a chance.

"Young lady," he said, "if you fail to cure us after making us break our resolution, what penalty are you willing to accept?"

"My lord," she replied, "put me under guard, and if I don't cure you within eight days, have me burned alive. But if I do cure you — what is my reward?"

"You seem to be unmarried," said the king. "If you do this, we'll see you married well and honorably."

"My lord," the young woman answered, "I'd be pleased for you to arrange my marriage — but I want to choose my own husband, with the understanding that I won't ask for any of your sons or anyone of the royal blood."

The king readily agreed. She began her treatment, and well before the deadline, she had restored him to health.

Feeling himself cured, the king said, "Young lady, you've earned your husband."

"Then, my lord," she answered, "I've earned Beltramo of Roussillon. I've loved him since we were children together, and I've loved him ever since — more than anyone in the world."

The king thought it was a serious matter to give Beltramo to her, but he'd made a promise and he wasn't about to break his word. He sent for the count and said, "Beltramo, you're a grown man now, fully accomplished. It's our wish that you return to govern your county — and that you take with you a young woman we've chosen as your wife."

"And who is she, my lord?" asked Beltramo.

"She's the one whose medicine restored our health," the king replied.

Beltramo had already seen and recognized Giletta. Though he could see she was beautiful, he knew she wasn't of a rank he considered worthy of his own, and he said with unconcealed disdain, "My lord, you want to marry me off to a doctor's daughter? God forbid I should ever take such a wife!"

"Then you'd have us break our word?" said the king. "We pledged it to this young woman in exchange for our health, and she asked for you as her reward."

"My lord," Beltramo replied, "you can take everything I own, or hand me over to anyone you please — I am your subject. But I will never consent to this marriage."

"Oh, but you will," said the king. "She's beautiful, she's clever, and she loves you dearly. We have no doubt you'll be far happier with her than you would be with some high-born lady."

Beltramo said nothing more. The king ordered lavish preparations for the wedding.

When the appointed day arrived, Beltramo married the young woman — bitterly, against his will — in the king's presence. She loved him more than she loved herself. But having already decided what he would do, he asked the king's permission to leave, saying he wanted to return to his county and consummate the marriage there. Instead, once he'd mounted his horse, he rode straight to Tuscany. Hearing that the Florentines were at war with Siena, he joined the Florentine side, was warmly received, given command of a company of soldiers, and stayed on in their service for quite some time.

His new bride was far from happy with this arrangement, but she hoped that by managing things well, she might coax him back to his county. She traveled to Roussillon, where everyone welcomed her as their rightful lady. Finding the whole territory in a shambles after going so long without a lord, she set everything in order again with great competence and care. The count's vassals were deeply grateful, grew to love her fiercely, and put all the blame on Beltramo for refusing her.

Once the county was running smoothly, Giletta sent two knights to her husband with a message: if it was on her account that he was staying away, he should let her know, and she would leave to make him happy. His reply was brutal: "She can do whatever she likes. I'll go back and live with her when she has this ring on her finger" — he held up a ring he never took off, because he believed it had a special power — "and a son of mine in her arms."

The knights understood how cruel these conditions were — two things that were practically impossible — but nothing they said could change his mind. They returned to the lady and gave her his answer. She was devastated, but after long deliberation, she resolved to find out whether and where these two impossible things might be accomplished, so that she could win her husband back.

Having made her plan, she called together the leading men of the county and, with heartfelt eloquence, told them everything she had done for the love of the count, and what had come of it. She said it was not her intention to keep the count in permanent exile by staying there. On the contrary, she meant to spend the rest of her life on pilgrimages and works of charity for the good of her soul. She asked them to take charge of the county, to inform the count that she had vacated his lands entirely, and that she'd left for good, never to return to Roussillon.

The good people shed many tears while she spoke, and begged her to change her mind and stay. But it was no use. Commending them to God, she set out on her way — well supplied with money and precious jewels, accompanied only by a cousin and a maid, all three dressed in pilgrims' clothes — telling no one where she was going. She didn't stop until she reached Florence, where she found a small inn run by a respectable widow and settled in quietly, living like a poor pilgrim, anxious for news of her husband.

As it happened, the very next day she saw Beltramo ride past her lodging with his company of men. She recognized him at once, but she asked the innkeeper who he was anyway. The hostess replied, "He's a foreign nobleman who calls himself Count Beltramo — a pleasant, courteous man, very well liked in this city. And he's head over heels in love with a neighbor of ours, a gentlewoman — well-born but poor. She's a very virtuous girl, actually, but she's still unmarried because of the poverty. She lives with her mother, who's a fine, sensible woman. If not for the mother, the girl might have already given in to the count."

The countess took careful note of all this. She made further, more detailed inquiries, got the full picture, and formulated her plan.

She learned the name and address of the woman whose daughter Beltramo was courting, and one day she went there quietly in her pilgrim's clothes. She found the mother and daughter in very humble circumstances. After greeting them, she told the mother she'd like a word in private.

The gentlewoman rose and led her to a private room, where they sat down. The countess began: "Madam, it seems to me that you're one of fortune's enemies, just as I am. But if you're willing, you might be in a position to help both of us."

The lady said she wanted nothing more than an honest way to improve her situation.

"I'll need your word of honor," the countess continued. "If I trust you with my story and you betray me, it will ruin things for both of us."

"Tell me whatever you wish with full confidence," the gentlewoman replied. "You'll never find yourself betrayed by me."

So the countess told her everything — who she was, the story of her love from the very beginning, everything that had happened up to that very day. She told it so compellingly that the gentlewoman, who had already heard parts of the story from others, began to feel genuine compassion for her.

When she'd finished her tale, the countess went on: "So now you've heard, among all my other troubles, what two things I need to obtain if I want my husband back. And the only person in the world who can help me get them is you — if it's true what I've heard, that the count is passionately in love with your daughter."

"Whether the count truly loves my daughter, I can't say," the gentlewoman answered. "He certainly acts like he does. But even if it's so, what can I do about what you need?"

"Madam, I'll tell you," said the countess. "But first, let me explain what I intend it to lead to for you. Your daughter is beautiful and old enough for a husband, and from what I've gathered, the reason you're keeping her at home is that you lack the means to marry her off properly. In return for the service you'd do me, I intend to give her — immediately, from my own funds — whatever dowry you think she'd need for a respectable marriage."

The mother was tempted — she was certainly in need — but she had a gentlewoman's pride. "Madam," she said, "tell me what I can do for you. If it's something that doesn't compromise my honor, I'll gladly do it, and afterward you can do as you see fit."

"What I need," said the countess, "is for you to send someone the count trusts to tell him that your daughter is ready to grant him whatever he desires — provided she can be sure his love is real and not just talk. She'll never believe it unless he sends her the ring he wears on his finger, the one she's heard he prizes so highly. If he sends the ring, you'll give it to me. Then send word back that your daughter is ready, and bring him here in secret — but put me in her place in the bed. Perhaps God will grant that I conceive, and in that way — with his ring on my finger and his child in my arms — I'll win him back and live with him as a wife should live with her husband. And you will have made it possible."

This struck the gentlewoman as a serious matter. She was afraid it might bring shame on her daughter. But she thought it over and decided that helping a good woman recover her husband was an honorable thing — the countess was acting with a worthy purpose and good intentions. So she not only agreed, but within a few days, working with caution and secrecy exactly as the countess had instructed, she managed to get the ring — though parting with it clearly pained the count — and she skillfully put the countess in bed with her husband in place of her own daughter.

In those first passionate embraces — which the count pursued with great ardor — the lady, by God's grace, became pregnant with twins, as her delivery later made clear. And it wasn't just once. The gentlewoman arranged many more such nights for the countess, managing everything so discreetly that not a word ever leaked out. The count went on believing the whole time that he'd been sleeping with the woman he was courting, not his own wife. And whenever he came to say goodbye in the morning, he'd leave her various beautiful and costly jewels, which the countess carefully saved.

Once she was sure she was pregnant and didn't want to impose on the gentlewoman any further, she said, "Madam, thanks to God and to you, I've gotten what I came for. Now it's time for me to give you what you deserve, and then be on my way."

The gentlewoman said that if the countess had what she wanted, she was glad — but that she hadn't done it for any reward; she'd done it because it seemed like the right thing to do.

"That's very noble of you," said the countess, "and I feel the same way — I don't intend to give you anything as payment. I intend to do the right thing, because that's what the situation calls for."

The gentlewoman, forced by necessity, asked with great embarrassment for a hundred pounds to help marry off her daughter. The countess, seeing her blush and hearing how modest the request was, gave her five hundred pounds and jewels worth at least as much again. The gentlewoman was overwhelmed with gratitude. The countess took her leave and returned to her inn, while the gentlewoman — to make sure Beltramo had no further reason to come calling — took her daughter and moved out to the country to stay with relatives. Before long, the count was recalled by his vassals, and hearing that his wife had left Roussillon, he went home.

When the countess learned that he'd left Florence and returned to his county, she was overjoyed. She stayed on in Florence until her time came, and gave birth to twin boys who looked exactly like their father. She had them raised with the greatest care. When she judged the moment was right, she set out for Montpellier, rested there a few days, and made inquiries about the count's whereabouts. She learned he was planning to hold a grand feast for knights and ladies at Roussillon on All Saints' Day.

She traveled there, still dressed in the pilgrim's clothes she'd been wearing all along. Finding the knights and ladies assembled in the count's palace and about to sit down to dinner, she walked into the banqueting hall with her two children in her arms, made her way through the crowd to where the count sat, threw herself at his feet, and said through her tears:

"I am your unhappy wife. I've wandered the world in misery so that you might come home and live in your own house. I'm begging you now, in the name of God, to keep the promise you made, on the conditions delivered to me by the two knights I sent to you. Look — here in my arms, not one son of yours, but two. And here is your ring. It's time for you to accept me as your wife, as you promised."

The count was thunderstruck. He recognized the ring. He recognized the children too — they looked so much like him. "But how is this possible?" he said.

The countess then gave a full and orderly account, to his astonishment and everyone else's, of everything that had happened and how she'd managed it. The count could see she was telling the truth. Struck by her constancy, her cleverness, and the sight of two such beautiful children — and wanting to keep his word, and to please his vassals and all the ladies present, who were begging him to accept her and treat her as his rightful wife — he set aside his stubborn hostility. He raised the countess to her feet, embraced her, kissed her, and acknowledged her as his lawful wife and the boys as his sons.

He had her dressed in clothes befitting her rank, and to the immense joy of everyone present — and of all his other vassals who heard the news — he held a magnificent celebration, not just that day but for several days afterward. And from that day forward, he honored her as his bride and his wife, and loved and cherished her above all others.

Day 3, Story 10

Alibech becomes a hermit and is taught by the monk Rustico to "put the devil back in hell." Eventually she's brought back to civilization and married off to Neerbale.

Dioneo had been listening carefully to the queen's story, and seeing that it was finished and he was the only one left to tell a tale, he didn't wait to be asked. With a grin, he began: "Charming ladies, perhaps you've never heard how one puts the devil back in hell. So without straying too far from the subject you've all been discussing today, let me tell you. Once you've learned it, you may just catch the spirit of the thing and come to understand that while Love prefers to hang around fancy palaces and luxurious bedrooms, he also makes his power felt deep in thick forests, on rugged mountains, and in the most remote desert caves. Which goes to show that nothing escapes his reach.

Getting down to it, then: in the city of Capsa in North Africa, there once lived a very rich man who, among his various children, had a beautiful, charming young daughter named Alibech. She wasn't a Christian, but she kept hearing Christians in the town talk about how wonderful the Christian faith was and how rewarding it was to serve God. One day she asked one of them how a person could best serve God with the fewest distractions. The man told her that the people who served God most faithfully were those who'd turned their backs on worldly things entirely — like the hermits who'd withdrawn into the deserts of the Thebaid in Egypt.

The girl, who was maybe fourteen years old and extremely naive, wasn't driven by any deep spiritual calling — it was more of a childish impulse. The next morning, without telling a soul, she slipped away on her own and set out for the desert of the Thebaid. After several grueling days of travel, her determination held, and she reached those desolate places. Spotting a hut in the distance, she went up to it and found a holy man at the door. He was amazed to see her there and asked what she was looking for.

She told him she'd been inspired by God and was seeking to enter His service — she just needed someone to teach her the proper way to serve Him. The worthy man, seeing how young and beautiful she was, and fearing that the devil might get the better of him if he kept her around, praised her pious intentions, gave her some roots, wild apples, dates, and water to eat and drink, and said, "My daughter, there's a holy man not far from here who's a much better teacher of what you're looking for than I am. Go to him." And he pointed her in the right direction.

When she reached the second hermit, she got the same answer. She pressed on, and finally came to the cell of a young hermit — a very devout, very upright man named Rustico. She made him the same request she'd made the others. Rustico, wanting to put his own willpower to the test, didn't send her away like the others had done. He took her into his cell, and when night fell, he made her a little bed of palm fronds and told her to sleep on it.

That was all it took. Temptation launched its assault almost immediately, and Rustico, finding his resistance far weaker than he'd expected, retreated without putting up much of a fight and admitted defeat. He pushed aside all thoughts of devotion, prayer, and self-denial, and instead his mind filled up with the girl's youth and beauty and with schemes for how he might get what he wanted from her without her thinking he was a degenerate.

He tested her with a few careful questions and confirmed that she'd never been with a man and was every bit as innocent as she seemed. So he came up with a plan — he'd bring her around to his desires under the guise of serving God.

First, he gave her a long speech about what a terrible enemy the devil was to God. Then he explained that the most pleasing service anyone could perform for God was to put the devil back in hell, where God had condemned him. The girl asked how this was done.

"You'll find out soon enough," said Rustico. "Just do what you see me do."

With that, he stripped off the few clothes he had and stood there completely naked. The girl did the same. He dropped to his knees as if in prayer and had her kneel facing him.

In this position, the sight of her beauty in its full glory hit Rustico with a surge of desire, and his flesh rose to the occasion. Alibech stared at it in surprise and said, "Rustico, what's that thing you have sticking out? I don't have one of those."

"My daughter," said Rustico, "that's the devil I was telling you about. See? He's tormenting me something fierce right now — I can barely stand it."

"Oh, praise God!" said the girl. "I can see I'm better off than you — I don't have a devil like that."

"That's true," said Rustico. "But you have something else that I don't."

"What's that?" asked Alibech.

"Hell," said Rustico. "And I'll tell you what I think — God has sent you here for the salvation of my soul. Because if this devil keeps tormenting me like this and you take pity on me and let me put him in hell, you'll be giving me the most incredible relief while also rendering God the most pleasing service imaginable — if serving God is really what you came to the desert to do, as you say."

"Oh, of course, Father!" the girl answered in perfect good faith. "Since I've got the hell to match your devil, let's do it whenever you like."

"Bless you, my daughter," said Rustico. "Let's go put him there so he'll leave me in peace."

And with that, he led the girl to one of the beds and showed her the position she needed to take in order to properly incarcerate this spirit accursed of God.

The girl, who had never put any devil in hell before, felt a sharp sting of pain the first time, and she said to Rustico, "This devil really must be a wicked creature, Father — truly an enemy of God. Because it hurts even hell when he's put inside it, to say nothing of anything else."

"Daughter," said Rustico, "it won't always be like that."

And to prove it, they put him in there six more times before they got out of bed, which humbled his pride so thoroughly that he was content to lie still. But his arrogance flared up again from time to time after that, and the girl was always obediently willing to beat it back down. In fact, she began to enjoy the exercise quite a lot, and she started saying to Rustico, "Now I can see that those good people in Capsa were right when they said serving God was so delightful. I honestly can't think of anything I've ever done that gave me as much pleasure and satisfaction as putting the devil in hell. Anyone who wastes their time on anything other than serving God is a fool, if you ask me."

She came to Rustico again and again, saying, "Father, I came here to serve God, not to sit around idle. Let's go put the devil in hell." And while they were at it, she'd say, "I don't understand, Rustico, why the devil keeps trying to escape from hell. If he were as happy to stay in there as hell is to receive him and hold onto him, he'd never come out."

With the girl inviting and encouraging him to serve God this frequently, Rustico eventually had his stuffing so thoroughly knocked out of him that he shivered when another man would have sweated. He started telling her that the devil only needed to be corrected and put in hell when his head was swollen with pride, "and by God's grace, we've brought him to such a humble state that he's praying to be left in peace." This kept her quiet for a while.

But when she saw that Rustico had no more need of her to put the devil in hell, she said to him one day, "Rustico, your devil may be tamed and not giving you any more trouble, but my hell is giving me no peace at all. I've used my hell to help you humble your devil's pride — it's only fair that you use your devil to help cool the raging fire in my hell."

Rustico, who was living on nothing but roots and water, was in no shape to answer her demands. He told her it would take an awful lot of devils to satisfy hell, but he'd do what he could. So he obliged her from time to time — though so rarely that it was like tossing a bean into a lion's mouth. The girl, feeling she wasn't serving God with the diligence she'd have liked, started to complain.

Now, while this dispute was raging between Rustico's devil and Alibech's hell — too much desire on one side and too little capacity on the other — a fire broke out in Capsa and burned Alibech's father alive in his own house, along with all his other children and the rest of the household. This left Alibech the sole heir to his entire fortune.

A young man named Neerbale, who had blown through his own wealth on high living, heard she was still alive and went looking for her. He found her before the courts could seize her father's estate as unclaimed, and — much to Rustico's relief but very much against Alibech's wishes — he brought her back to Capsa, married her, and came into her substantial inheritance.

Before Neerbale had slept with her, the women of the town asked Alibech how she had served God in the desert. She told them she'd served Him by putting the devil in hell, and that Neerbale had committed a terrible sin by taking her away from such holy work.

The women asked, "How does one put the devil in hell?"

And the girl, with a combination of words and gestures, demonstrated it for them — at which point they burst into such a fit of laughter that they're probably still laughing now. "Don't worry about it, sweetheart," they told her. "That gets done here too. Neerbale will serve the Lord just fine with you."

The story spread from one woman to the next all over the city, until it became a popular saying there that the most pleasing service you could render to God was to put the devil back in hell. The saying eventually crossed the sea and made its way over here, where it's still in use today. So all you young ladies who stand in need of God's grace, learn to put the devil back in hell — for it is highly pleasing to God, agreeable to both parties, and much good may come of it."

Dioneo's story had made the ladies laugh a thousand times over — his phrasing was just too perfect. When he'd finished, the queen, knowing that her reign had come to an end, lifted the laurel wreath from her own head and placed it cheerfully on Filostrato's, saying, "We'll soon find out whether the wolf knows how to lead the sheep better than the sheep have led the wolves."

Filostrato laughed and said, "If anyone had listened to me, the wolves would have taught the sheep to put the devil in hell every bit as well as Rustico taught Alibech. So don't call us wolves, since you haven't exactly been lambs yourselves."

"Watch it, Filostrato," Neifile shot back. "Trying to teach us, you might have ended up learning a lesson instead — the way Masetto of Lamporecchio did with the nuns — and found your tongue again only after your bones had learned to whistle on their own."

Filostrato, seeing that he was getting as good as he gave, dropped the banter and turned his attention to governing the group for his day. He summoned the steward, found out how things stood, and gave sensible instructions for what he thought would keep everyone happy for as long as his reign lasted.

Then, turning to the ladies, he said, "Dear ladies, ever since I've been old enough to know the difference between good and bad luck, I've been enslaved by Love, thanks to one or another of your charms. Being humble didn't help. Being devoted didn't help. Following Love's every rule, as far as I understood them, didn't help. First I was abandoned for someone else, and after that things only got worse. I believe it will go on like this until I die. So it pleases me that tomorrow's stories be on the subject closest to my own heart: people whose love ended unhappily. I expect an unhappy ending for myself in the long run, and the name you all call me by was given to me by someone who knew exactly what it meant."

With that, he stood and dismissed everyone until supper.

The garden was so beautiful and so delightful that no one chose to leave it, hoping for more pleasure there than they could find anywhere else. The afternoon sun was mild now, making it pleasant rather than burdensome to watch the deer and rabbits and other animals who kept bounding through their midst, having interrupted the group's conversation at least a hundred times during the day. Some of them set off to chase the animals. Dioneo and Fiammetta began singing the ballad of Messer Guglielmo and the Lady of Vergiu. Filomena and Panfilo sat down to a game of chess. One person doing this, another doing that — the time passed so agreeably that the supper hour arrived almost before anyone noticed. Tables were set around the beautiful fountain, and they dined there in the evening air with the greatest pleasure.

When the tables had been cleared, Filostrato — not wanting to break with the tradition set by the queens before him — commanded Lauretta to lead the dance and sing a song.

"My lord," she said, "I don't know any other people's songs, and I can't think of any of my own that would suit such a merry group. But if you'd like one of the ones I do know, I'll sing it willingly."

"Nothing of yours could be anything but lovely and pleasing," said the king. "Sing whatever you have."

So Lauretta, in a sweet voice tinged with sadness, began to sing, and the other ladies joined in on the refrain:

No woman in despair > has cause as great as mine — > who sighs for love in vain — to mourn her fate. > > He who set the heavens and the stars in motion > made me for His delight: > graceful, bright, gentle, and fair, > so that even here below, each noble spirit > might glimpse in me some hint > of the beauty that shines forever in His sight. > But flawed men, lacking sight, > not knowing what I'm worth, > refused me — spurned my gifts with scorn and hate. > > There was a man who held me dear and gladly > took me — a girl, still young — > into his arms, his thoughts, his heart, his mind. > My eyes set him on fire; and time, which flies > so quickly, pausing for nothing, > he spent entirely on wooing me. > I gave no objection — courteously > I thought him worthy of me. > But now, oh God, he's gone — I'm desolate. > > Then came to me a boy both proud and haughty, > boasting of his courage and his breeding. > He seized me, holds me still, > and with jealous, misguided thoughts > has driven me nearly to despair — > for I, who came into this world to be > a joy to many, find myself imprisoned > by one possessive mate. > > I curse the wretched hour I said "I do" — > trading one dress for another. > In those plain, dark clothes I was so happy, > while in these finer ones > I lead a miserable life, > far less respected than before. Oh, bitter > wedding day! Would God > I had died before I knew such a fate! > > Dear love, my first, with whom > I was so deeply pleased — > you who now sit in heaven before the One > who made us both — take pity on me, > for I cannot, even if it kills me, > forget you for another. Let me see > that the fire you felt for me > still burns; and beg Him on my behalf > to call me up to you — do not make me wait.

Here Lauretta's song came to an end. Everyone had listened closely, though different people took different things from it. Some read it the way people do in Milan — that a good pig is better than a pretty girl — but others understood it on a higher, truer, and more meaningful level, which there's no need to explain right now.

After that, the king had torches lit across the grass and among the flowers, and more songs were sung, until every star that had been above the horizon began its descent. Judging it time for sleep, he bid them all a good night and sent them off to their rooms.

Here ends the Third Day of the Decameron.

Day 4 — Introduction

Here begins the Fourth Day of the Decameron, in which, under the rule of Filostrato, they tell stories of lovers whose love ended in sorrow.

Dearest ladies, from what I've heard wise men say, and from what I've seen and read for myself, I always assumed that the fierce, burning blast of envy only strikes at tall towers and the highest treetops. But I was wrong. Because even though I've done everything I can to flee that cruel wind — staying not just on the plains but deep in the valleys — it's found me anyway. That much should be obvious to anyone reading these stories of mine, which I've written not in Latin but plain Florentine, in prose rather than verse, without attaching my name, and in as humble and unassuming a style as I could manage. And yet, for all that, I haven't escaped being violently shaken — nearly uprooted, in fact — by that same wind, and torn apart by the fangs of envy. So I can see perfectly well the truth of what wise men have always said: that in this world, only misery is free from envy.

Now then, sensible ladies: some people who have read these stories say that I like you too much, and that it's unseemly for me to take such pleasure in entertaining and delighting you. Others go even further and say that it's wrong for me to praise you the way I do. Others still, putting on a show of mature judgment, say that at my age it's no longer appropriate to pursue such things — that is, to write about women or try to please them. And quite a few, claiming to be terribly concerned about my reputation, insist I'd be much wiser to stay up on Parnassus with the Muses than to busy myself with you and these trifles. Then there are those who, speaking more spitefully than wisely, say I'd be better off figuring out where my next meal is coming from instead of chasing after these "baubles" and feeding on wind. And finally, certain others do their best to prove that the things I've told you didn't actually happen the way I've presented them.

So there you have it, noble ladies: such are the gales, the vicious backbiting, and the needle-sharp jabs that I endure while fighting in your service — pierced right to the quick. God knows I hear all this and take it in with a calm mind. My defense belongs entirely to you, of course; but still, I don't intend to spare my own efforts. Rather than responding at the length the matter might deserve, I'll brush them from my ears with a quick reply — and without delay. Because if they're already this numerous and this aggressive when I haven't even finished a third of my work, then by the time I reach the end, unless they get some pushback early on, they could multiply to the point where even the slightest effort on their part could topple me — and all your power, great as it is, wouldn't be enough to stop them.

But before I respond to any of these critics, I'd like to tell a story in my own defense. Not a complete story — I wouldn't want you thinking I'm trying to slip my own tales in among those of the distinguished company I've introduced you to — but just a fragment of one, so that its very incompleteness proves it's not one of theirs.

So, speaking to my accusers: once upon a time, a good while ago, there lived in our city a man named Filippo Balducci. He was of modest birth, but wealthy and capable in the ways his station required. He had a wife he loved beyond measure, and she loved him just as dearly. They lived a peaceful life together, wanting nothing so much as to make each other happy. But in time, as happens to everyone, the good lady passed away, leaving Filippo nothing of herself except a single son she'd borne him, a boy of about two.

The death of his wife left Filippo as grief-stricken as any man who has lost his beloved can be. Finding himself alone, bereft of the one companion he loved most, he resolved to turn his back on the world entirely and devote himself to serving God — and to raise his little son to do the same. He gave away everything he owned for the love of God, and without delay retreated to the top of Mount Asinajo, where he set up a little hut. There he lived with his son on alms, practicing fasting and prayer. He took great care never to speak of worldly things in front of the boy, never to let him see anything of that life, fearing it might distract him from God's service. Instead, he spoke to him only of the glories of eternal life, of God and the saints, and taught him nothing but holy prayers. He kept this up for many years, never letting the boy leave the hermitage, never showing him any other human being besides himself.

Now, the old man would go down to Florence from time to time, and the various friends of God there would give him what he needed, and he'd return to his hut. One day, when the boy was eighteen and Filippo was getting old, the young man asked his father where he went on these trips. Filippo told him, and the boy said, "Father, you're getting old now, and these journeys are hard on you. Why don't you take me to Florence sometime and introduce me to God's friends and followers? I'm young and stronger than you — afterward I could make the trip for us, and you could stay here and rest."

The good man, considering that his son was now grown, and believing him so thoroughly devoted to God's service that the things of this world could hardly tempt him anymore, thought to himself, "The boy makes a good point." And so, having business in Florence, he brought the young man with him.

There, the youth — seeing the palaces, the houses, the churches, and everything else a great city is full of — was utterly astonished. He'd never seen anything like it in his life, as far as he could remember. He peppered his father with questions: What is that? And that? What's it called? Filippo answered each one, and the boy, satisfied, would immediately ask about something else.

As they walked along like this, the son asking and the father answering, they happened to run into a group of pretty, well-dressed young women coming from a wedding. The moment the young man spotted them, he asked his father what they were.

"Son," said Filippo, "look at the ground. Don't stare at them. They're a bad thing."

"But what are they called?" the boy asked.

Now, the father, not wanting to awaken any carnal appetite in the boy, refused to call them by their proper name — women. Instead he said, "They're called green geese."

And here is the remarkable thing: this young man, who had never laid eyes on a woman before, who hadn't been impressed by the palaces or the oxen or the horses or the donkeys or the money or anything else he'd seen that day — this young man said, without missing a beat: "Father, please, get me one of those green geese."

"Absolutely not," said his father. "I told you, they're a bad thing."

"Really?" said the youth. "Bad things look like that?"

"Yes," said Filippo.

"I don't understand what you're saying," the boy replied, "or why they're bad. As far as I can tell, I've never seen anything as beautiful or as pleasing as those. They're lovelier than the painted angels you've shown me. For God's sake, if you care about me at all, find a way to bring one of those green geese back up the mountain with us, and I'll feed it."

"No," said the father. "I will not. You don't know what they eat." And in that moment he understood: nature was more powerful than all his careful teaching. He regretted ever having brought the boy to Florence.

But let me leave that story there and get back to the people it was meant for.

So then: some of my critics say I'm wrong to try so hard to please you, ladies, and that you please me too much. These charges I confess to openly and completely — yes, you please me, and yes, I work to please you — and I ask them: is this really so surprising? Forget everything else — forget the sweet kisses, the loving embraces, the delicious unions that you, loveliest of ladies, so often bestow. Consider only this: your gracious manners, your radiant beauty, your lively charm, and above all your womanly courtesy. And then consider that a young man raised on a wild, desolate mountain, shut up in a tiny cell with no company but his father, the moment he laid eyes on you — you were the only thing he wanted. You alone he desired, you alone he sought, you alone he pursued with all the eagerness of passion.

So will they really blame me, attack me, tear me apart because I — whose body Heaven made entirely inclined to love you, I who devoted my soul to you from boyhood, I who feel the power of the light in your eyes and the sweetness of your honeyed words and the fire lit by your compassionate sighs — because you please me and I try to please you? When you, above all else, pleased even a hermit boy, a youth with no experience of the world, practically a wild creature himself? Of course it's only those who have no understanding of the pleasures and power of natural desire — people who neither love you nor wish to be loved by you — who criticize me for this. And I don't much care what they think.

As for those who go on about my age — well, they seem not to know that even though a leek has a white head, its tail is still green. But setting jokes aside, I'll say this: never, not to the very last day of my life, will I consider it shameful to try to please those whom Guido Cavalcanti and Dante Alighieri, already well along in years, and Messer Cino da Pistoia, when he was a very old man, held in honor and whose approval they cherished. And if it weren't a departure from the usual style of this discussion, I'd cite the historical record and show it absolutely packed with stories of great and noble men who, even in the ripeness of old age, devoted themselves above all to pleasing women. If my critics don't know this, let them go and look it up.

As for the advice that I should stay with the Muses on Parnassus — I agree, that's sound counsel. But since we can't stay forever with the Muses, nor they with us, it's hardly a crime if, when a man finds himself away from them, he takes pleasure in something that resembles them. The Muses are women, after all. And while real women may not quite measure up to the Muses, they look like them at first glance. So even if women pleased me for no other reason, they should please me for that one. Besides, women have been the inspiration for a thousand poems I've written, while the Muses have never been the occasion for a single one. They helped me, to be sure — they showed me how to write — and perhaps even in the composing of these humble little tales, they've come to sit beside me now and then, perhaps in tribute to the resemblance that women bear to them. So in writing these trifles, I'm not straying as far from Mount Parnassus or the Muses as some people seem to think.

But what about those who are so deeply concerned about my hunger that they advise me to go find bread? Well, all I know is this: when I ask myself what they'd say if I actually came begging to them for a loaf, I imagine their answer would be, "Go look for it among your fairy tales." And you know what? Poets in the past have actually found more sustenance in their stories than many a rich man found in his treasure-house, and plenty of writers, by pursuing their art, have made their age flourish — while on the other hand, plenty of people, in chasing after more bread than they needed, died miserably. What more can I say? Let them drive me away when I come asking — not that, thank God, I have any need of their bread yet. And if the need ever does arise, I know, with the Apostle Paul, how to abound and how to go without. So let nobody worry about me more than I worry about myself.

And to those who claim these events didn't happen the way I've told them: I'd love for them to produce the originals. If their versions don't match what I've written, I'll admit their objection is fair and try to do better. But until they come up with something more than words, I'll leave them to their opinion and follow my own, saying about them exactly what they say about me.

So, having said enough for now, I'll tell you this: armed, as I trust I'll be, with God's help and yours, gentlest ladies, and with a good supply of patience, I intend to press forward with the work I've begun, turning my back on that bitter wind and letting it blow as it likes. Because I don't see what can happen to me that doesn't happen to fine dust in a whirlwind: either the wind can't stir it from the ground, or if it does lift it up, it carries it aloft and sets it down on the heads of men, on the crowns of kings and emperors, sometimes even on high palaces and lofty towers — and if the dust falls from there, it can't fall any lower than the place from which it was first raised.

And if ever I devoted myself with all my strength to pleasing you, I do so now more than ever. Because I know that no reasonable person can say anything except that I, and everyone else who loves you, am simply acting according to nature — and to resist the laws of nature requires extraordinary strength, strength that is often exerted not just in vain but to the serious harm of the person who tries. I confess I don't have that kind of strength, and I've never wanted it. If I did, I'd sooner lend it to someone else than use it on myself. So let the critics be silent. And if they can't manage to warm themselves, let them go on shivering. Let them stay with their pleasures — or rather, their corrupt appetites — and leave me to mine, for the brief lifetime given to me.

But now, fair ladies, we've wandered far enough from where we started. It's time to return to the path and carry on with the plan.

The sun had already chased every star from the sky and driven the damp vapors of night from the earth when Filostrato rose and had his whole company do the same. They made their way to the beautiful garden, where they spent the morning amusing themselves, and when the hour came, they ate their meal in the same spot where they had dined the evening before. After a nap, while the sun was at its peak, they settled into their usual places near the lovely fountain, and Filostrato called on Fiammetta to begin the storytelling. Without waiting to be asked twice, she began with womanly grace, as follows:

Day 4, Story 1

Tancredi, Prince of Salerno, kills his daughter's lover and sends her his heart in a golden cup. She pours poison over it, drinks, and dies.

"Our king has set us a grim topic today. We came here to enjoy ourselves, and now we're required to tell stories of other people's sorrows — stories that can't be told without moving both the teller and the listener to tears. Perhaps he's done this to temper the high spirits of the past few days. But whatever his reasons, since it's not my place to change his pleasure, I'll tell you a story that's pitiable, ill-fated, and entirely worthy of your tears.

Tancredi, lord of Salerno, was a kind and gentle-natured prince — if only, in his old age, he hadn't stained his hands with lovers' blood. In his entire life he had only one daughter, and he would have been happier if he'd had none. He loved her with such intense, doting tenderness that he couldn't bear to part with her, and so he kept her unmarried long past the age when she should have had a husband. Finally, he gave her in marriage to a son of the Duke of Capua, but she'd barely been with him a short while before she was left a widow and came back home to her father.

She was as beautiful in face and figure as any woman who ever lived — young, spirited, and perhaps more learned than a lady strictly needed to be. Living with her loving father in comfort and luxury, as befitted a great lady, she could see plainly that he had no intention of marrying her off again, and it didn't seem proper to demand it of him. So she decided to find herself a worthy lover in secret, if she could.

She saw plenty of men, both noble and common, who frequented her father's court, and she studied their manners and habits carefully. One in particular caught her eye: a young servant of her father's named Guiscardo. He was of humble birth, but nobler in character and bearing than anyone else at court. She saw him often, and before long she was secretly, passionately in love with him, admiring him more with each passing day. The young man was no fool, either. Once he noticed her interest, he took her into his heart so completely that his mind could barely focus on anything except his love for her.

And so the two of them burned for each other in secret. The young lady, desperate to be with him but unwilling to confide in anyone, hit upon a clever scheme to let him know how they could meet. She wrote him a letter explaining everything, tucked it into the hollow of a reed, and then handed the reed to Guiscardo as if joking, saying, "Give this to your maid tonight — she can use it as a bellows to blow up the fire."

Guiscardo took the reed, and realizing she wouldn't have given it to him or said such a thing without good reason, he went back to his lodgings and examined it. Finding the split in the cane, he opened it, read the letter, understood exactly what he had to do, and became the happiest man alive. He immediately set about making arrangements to reach her in the manner she'd described.

Near the prince's palace there was a grotto carved out of the rock in ancient times, and a narrow shaft cut through the mountainside let in a trickle of light. Since the grotto had been abandoned for ages, this opening was almost completely choked with briars and weeds. You could reach the grotto by a secret staircase inside one of the ground-floor rooms of Ghismonda's apartments in the palace, behind a very strong locked door. This staircase had been forgotten for so long that virtually no one remembered it existed. But Love — whose eyes nothing can hide from — had brought it back to the memory of the enamored lady. Working in secret over many days with whatever tools she could get her hands on, she'd managed to force the door open. She went down into the grotto alone, saw the shaft above, and sent word to Guiscardo to come to her that way, giving him her best estimate of how far the drop was from the opening to the ground.

Guiscardo immediately prepared a rope with knots and loops that would let him climb up and down. He put on a leather suit to protect himself from the thorns, and the following night, without telling a soul, he made his way to the mouth of the shaft. He tied one end of the rope to a stout tree stump growing at the entrance, lowered himself down into the grotto, and waited.

The next day, Ghismonda told her ladies she wanted to sleep and sent them all away, then shut herself in her room alone. She opened the hidden door, descended into the grotto, and found Guiscardo waiting. They greeted each other with overwhelming joy and went up to her chamber together, where they spent the better part of the day in the greatest delight imaginable. Before parting, they carefully planned how to conduct their affair in secret. Guiscardo returned to the grotto, Ghismonda locked the hidden door and went back out to rejoin her ladies. That night, Guiscardo climbed his rope back up to the mouth of the shaft, came out the way he'd gone in, and went home. Having learned the route, he returned many, many times after that.

But Fortune, jealous of such deep and lasting pleasure, turned the lovers' happiness to grief through a devastating stroke of chance. Here is how it happened.

Tancredi had a habit of sometimes going alone to his daughter's room, where he'd sit and talk with her a while before leaving. One afternoon, after dinner, he came to her chamber while Ghismonda — that was her name — was out in her garden with all her ladies. Not wanting to interrupt her, and finding the windows closed and the bed curtains drawn, he sat down in a corner on a cushion at the foot of the bed. He pulled the curtain over himself, almost as if he were deliberately hiding, leaned his head against the bed, and fell asleep.

While he slept, Ghismonda — who had, as bad luck would have it, arranged for her lover to come that very day — slipped quietly into the room, leaving her women in the garden. She locked herself in without noticing anyone else was there, opened the secret door, and let in Guiscardo, who was waiting. They went straight to bed, as was their habit. And while they made love and took their pleasure together, Tancredi woke up.

He heard them. He saw what his daughter and Guiscardo were doing. The grief that hit him was beyond words. At first he wanted to cry out at them, but then he thought better of it and decided to keep silent, to stay hidden if he could. That way he could act with greater secrecy, and with less shame to himself, on the plan that had already formed in his mind.

The two lovers stayed together for a long while, as they usually did, without ever noticing Tancredi. When they finally rose from the bed, Guiscardo went back down to the grotto and Ghismonda left the room. Tancredi, old as he was, climbed out through a window into the garden and made it back to his own chamber unseen, sick with grief to the point of death.

That same night, at the first hour of sleep, Guiscardo was seized by two men as he emerged from the tunnel, on Tancredi's orders. They brought him, still trussed up in his leather suit, secretly to the prince. When Tancredi saw him, he said, nearly in tears, "Guiscardo, my kindness to you did not deserve the outrage and the shame you've done to me, to my own flesh and blood — as I saw today with my own eyes."

Guiscardo answered only this: "Love is more powerful than either you or me."

Tancredi then ordered him held under secret guard in one of the palace rooms. And so it was done.

The next day, having turned over every possible course of action in his mind all night, Tancredi went to his daughter's chamber after breakfast, as usual. He sent for her — she still knew nothing of what had happened — locked the door, and then, with tears in his eyes, spoke to her like this:

"Ghismonda, I thought I knew your virtue and your honor. It never would have crossed my mind, even if someone had told me, that you would ever give yourself to any man unless he was your husband — not even in thought, let alone in deed. And yet I saw it with my own eyes. For the rest of my life — however little of it my old age has left me — I will carry this sorrow. If you had to lower yourself like this, I wish to God you'd at least chosen a man worthy of your rank. But out of everyone who comes to my court, you chose Guiscardo — a young man of the lowest birth, raised in this palace practically as a charity case since he was a child. You've put me in an agony of indecision, because I don't know what to do with you. As for Guiscardo — I had him taken last night as he came out of the tunnel, and I've already decided what to do with him. But with you? God knows I'm at a loss. On one hand, there's the love I feel for you — a deeper love than any father has ever felt for a daughter. On the other, there's the outrage, the righteous fury at what you've done. One side tells me to forgive you, the other tells me to act against you in ways that go against my nature. But before I make up my mind, I want to hear what you have to say."

And with that, he lowered his head and wept like a beaten child.

Ghismonda listened to her father's words and understood: not only had her secret love been discovered, but Guiscardo had been captured. The pain she felt was inexpressible, and she came close, again and again, to breaking down in screams and tears, as most women would. But her proud spirit mastered that weakness. With extraordinary courage she composed her face. Rather than beg for mercy, she made up her mind in that instant: she would not go on living. She was certain Guiscardo was already dead.

And so she spoke — not as a woman ashamed and broken by her guilt, but as someone unafraid and resolute, with dry eyes and a face that was open, steady, and utterly untroubled:

"Tancredi, I intend neither to deny what I've done nor to beg for your mercy. Denial would gain me nothing, and I would not have mercy if I could. What's more, I have no intention of appealing to your tenderness or your affection. No — I mean to confess the truth, first defend my honor with solid arguments, and then follow the courage of my heart with action.

"It's true: I have loved Guiscardo, and I love him still. For as long as I live — which won't be long — I will love him. And if there is love beyond the grave, I will never stop loving him. But it wasn't feminine weakness that drew me to him. It was your own neglect in remarrying me, and his extraordinary worth.

"It should have been obvious to you, Tancredi — since you are flesh and blood yourself — that you had fathered a daughter made of flesh and blood, not iron or stone. You should have remembered, and should still remember, old as you are, what the laws of youth are and how powerfully they operate. And even though you, being a man, spent the best years of your life partly in feats of arms, you should still understand what ease, leisure, and comfort can do — not just to the young but to the old.

"I am flesh and blood, born of you. I've barely lived — I'm still young — and for both those reasons, full of desire. And that desire was enormously intensified by having once known, through marriage, what pleasure it is to satisfy it. Unable to resist the force of these desires — young and a woman as I am — I surrendered to where they led me, and I fell in love. I did everything in my power, I can tell you, to make sure that no shame would come to either you or me from this thing that natural frailty had driven me to. Compassionate Love and kind Fortune showed me a secret way, unknown to anyone, to reach what I desired. And however you discovered it, however you came to know, I don't deny any of it.

"I didn't choose Guiscardo at random, the way many women take lovers. No — I chose him deliberately, after careful thought, singling him out above every other man. With patient planning, on both my part and his, I enjoyed the fulfillment of my love for a long time. And now it seems that you, following vulgar prejudice rather than truth, reproach me more bitterly for this than for the act of loving itself — complaining that I gave myself to a man of low birth, as though you wouldn't have been upset at all if I'd chosen a nobleman. You don't see that what you're really blaming isn't my failing — it's Fortune's, which too often raises the unworthy to high places and leaves the most deserving in the dust.

"But let's set that aside and look at first principles. You'll see that all of us are made of the same stuff, the same flesh. All our souls were created by the same Maker with the same faculties, the same powers, the same capacities. It was merit that first made distinctions among us, since we were all — and still are — born equal. Those who possessed and exercised the greatest virtue were called noble; the rest were not. And while custom has since obscured that original law, it hasn't been erased from nature or from good conscience. So anyone who acts with worth is clearly a gentleman, and if someone calls him otherwise, the fault belongs to the one doing the calling, not the one being called.

"Look at all your noblemen. Examine their worth, their habits, their manners. Then look at Guiscardo's. If you judge without prejudice, you'll say he's the noblest of them all, and every last one of your nobles is a boor. When it comes to Guiscardo's worth and character, I didn't trust anyone's judgment but yours and my own eyes. Who praised him more than you did, in every quality for which a worthy man deserves praise? And you were right to do it. Unless my eyes deceived me, there wasn't a single virtue you attributed to him that I didn't see him demonstrate in action, more impressively than your words could express. And if I was deceived in any of this, it was you who deceived me.

"So if you say I gave myself to a man of low birth, you're not speaking the truth. If you said a poor man — well, that might be granted, to your own shame, since you failed to advance a worthy servant of yours to a proper position. But poverty doesn't strip a man of nobility. Wealth does that. Plenty of kings and mighty princes were once poor, and many a man who tills the earth or tends sheep was once very rich.

"As for your last question — what to do with me — put it out of your mind entirely. If you're prepared, in your extreme old age, to do something you never did when you were young — namely, to act with cruelty — then be cruel to me. I'm the cause of this sin, if sin it is, and I will not beg for mercy. Because I promise you this: whatever you have done or will do to Guiscardo, if you don't do the same to me, my own hands will do it. Now go. Go shed tears with the women, and if you think we deserve it, kill us both with the same blow."

The prince recognized the greatness of his daughter's spirit, but he still didn't believe she was truly as resolved as her words suggested. He left her, abandoning any thought of punishing her directly, and decided instead to cool her burning love with the suffering of another. He ordered Guiscardo's two guards to strangle him silently that very night and cut out his heart and bring it to him.

They did as they were told.

The following morning, the prince sent for a large, beautiful golden cup. He placed Guiscardo's heart inside it and had one of his most trusted servants carry it to his daughter with this message: "Your father sends you this, to console you with the thing you loved most — just as you consoled him with the thing he loved most."

Now, Ghismonda, unshaken in her terrible resolve, had already — after her father left the day before — sent for poisonous herbs and roots, which she distilled and reduced to liquid, so she would have it ready in case the thing she feared came to pass.

When the servant arrived with the prince's gift and his message, she took the cup with a steady face and uncovered it. The moment she saw the heart and understood the message, she knew with absolute certainty that it was Guiscardo's. She looked up at the messenger and said, "No tomb less worthy than gold would have been fitting for such a heart. In this, at least, my father has shown good judgment."

She lifted the heart to her lips and kissed it, then said: "In everything, right to this last moment of my life, I have found my father's love for me unfailingly tender — and now more than ever. Give him, on my behalf, my final thanks for so great a gift."

Then, looking down at the heart in the cup she held close, she said: "Oh, sweetest home of all my happiness — cursed be the cruelty of the man who forces me to see you now with the eyes of my body. It was enough to gaze on you at every hour with the eyes of my heart. You have run your course. You've finished the journey that fortune allotted you. You've reached the end that everyone reaches. You've left behind the troubles and sorrows of this world, and from your very enemy you've received the burial your worth deserved. Nothing was missing from your funeral rites except the tears of the woman who loved you most in life — and so that you might have them, God put it into the heart of my merciless father to send you to me. And I will give them to you, even though I had intended to die with dry eyes and a face undismayed. And once I've given them, I will make sure — with your help — that my soul joins yours without delay. What better company could I have for the journey into the unknown? I'm certain your soul is still here, still looking upon the places where you and I found our joy. And since I know it still loves me, it waits for my soul — the soul that loves it above all else."

With that, she bent over the cup as if her head were a fountain. Without any wailing or dramatic display, she began to weep — so many tears, and so copiously, that it was astonishing to see, kissing the dead heart over and over and over again. Her ladies, gathered around her, didn't understand what this heart was or what her words meant, but they were overcome with pity and wept too. They asked her gently why she was crying; they tried every way they knew to comfort her. It was all useless.

When she had wept as much as she thought fitting, she raised her head, dried her eyes, and said: "Oh beloved heart, I've done everything I needed to do for you. All that's left is to come to you with my soul and keep yours company."

She called for the vial that held the poisoned water she'd made the day before and poured it into the golden cup, over the heart that was bathed in her tears. Then, without the slightest hesitation, she lifted the cup to her lips and drank it all. When she had finished, she climbed onto the bed, still holding the cup, and arranged her body as gracefully as she could. She pressed her dead lover's heart against her own and, without another word, waited for death.

Her ladies had seen and heard everything, and though they didn't know what water she had drunk, they'd sent word to Tancredi. He, fearing exactly this, rushed down to his daughter's chamber. He arrived just as she was laying herself on the bed and tried, too late, to comfort her with soft words. But when he saw the state she was in, he broke down in desperate, agonized weeping.

"Tancredi," the lady said to him, "save those tears for a fate less welcome than mine. Don't waste them on me — I don't want them. Has anyone ever seen a man weep over what he himself willed into being? But if anything remains of the love you once bore me, grant me one last kindness: since you wouldn't allow me to live quietly and secretly with Guiscardo, let my body lie openly with his, wherever you've had him buried."

The prince was too choked with grief to answer. The young woman, feeling the end approaching, pressed the dead heart tighter to her breast and said: "God be with you all. I am leaving."

Then she closed her eyes, her senses faded, and she departed this sorrowful life.

Such, as you have heard, was the tragic end of the love between Guiscardo and Ghismonda. Tancredi, after much lamentation and bitterly regretting his cruelty — far too late — had them buried with honor in a single tomb, amid the universal mourning of the people of Salerno."

Day 4, Story 2

Friar Alberto convinces a woman that the Angel Gabriel is in love with her and, disguised as the angel, sleeps with her repeatedly. When her relatives come looking for him, he jumps out a window into the canal and takes refuge with a poor man, who parades him through the city the next day smeared with honey and feathers, where he is recognized, seized by his fellow friars, and thrown in prison.

The story Fiammetta had told brought tears to the eyes of the other ladies more than once. But when it was done, the king said with a hard expression: "I'd consider my life a small price to pay for half the pleasure Guiscardo had with Ghismonda — and none of you should find that surprising, since every hour of my life I die a thousand deaths, and not a single moment of joy is granted me. But leaving my own troubles aside for now, I want Pampinea to continue with a story of sorrowful events somewhat like my own. If she follows the path Fiammetta has opened, I may begin to feel some cooling dew fall on my fire."

Pampinea, hearing what was expected of her, could read the mood of the other ladies better than the king could through his self-pitying words. She was more inclined to give everyone a laugh than to cater to Filostrato's gloom, at least beyond the bare letter of his command. So she decided to tell a story that would stay within the announced theme but give them all a reason to laugh. And she began:

"There's a common proverb that says: a man who's wicked but thought to be good can do evil and nobody believes it. This gives me plenty to work with for today's topic, and at the same time lets me show you just what kind of thing — and how much of it — the hypocrisy of the clergy really is. These are men in long, flowing robes, with faces artificially pale, with voices soft and humble when they're begging for money, but thunderously harsh when they're scolding others for the very sins they commit themselves. They'd have you believe that they reach salvation by taking and you by giving to them. On top of that, unlike the rest of us, who have to earn our way into Paradise, they act as though they already own the place and run it — assigning every dead person a better or worse spot based on how much money was left to them in the will. In this way they work to deceive first themselves, if they actually believe what they preach, and then everyone who takes them at their word.

"If I were allowed to go into as much detail as the subject deserves, I'd quickly open the eyes of a lot of simple people to what these men keep hidden under those enormous robes. But God willing, may it go for all of them the way it went for a certain Franciscan friar — and no young man, either, but one considered among the finest theologians in all of Venice. His story gives me particular pleasure to tell, since it may cheer your hearts with laughter after you've been filled with sorrow over the death of Ghismonda.

There was once, dear ladies, in the town of Imola, a man of thoroughly wicked and corrupt character named Berto della Massa. His crooked dealings were so well known to the people of Imola that nobody there would believe a word out of his mouth, even when he was telling the truth. So, realizing his tricks had run out of road in that town, he fled in desperation to Venice — that dumping ground for every sort of scoundrel — figuring he'd find new ways to carry on his racket there.

As if suddenly stricken with remorse for all the evil he'd done, he put on a show of the most extreme humility. He became, to all appearances, the most devout man alive. He went and joined the Franciscan order and styled himself Friar Alberto da Imola. In his new habit, he made a great display of the austere life: praising abstinence and self-denial, never eating meat or drinking wine — at least, not when he couldn't find any that met his standards. The transformation was so smooth that hardly anyone noticed the seams. One day he was a thief, a pimp, a forger, a killer; the next, he was a famous preacher — all without actually giving up any of those earlier hobbies, as long as he could practice them on the sly.

And once he'd become a priest, what a performance he'd put on at the altar. Whenever there was a decent crowd, he'd weep over the Passion of Christ — because tears came cheap to him when he wanted them. In short, between his sermons and his sobbing, he conned the Venetians so thoroughly that he became the trustee and guardian of practically every will in the city, the keeper of everyone's savings, and the confessor and advisor to the vast majority of men and women in town. From wolf he'd become shepherd, and his reputation for holiness in those parts was greater than Saint Francis's reputation had ever been in Assisi.

Now it happened that a silly, empty-headed young woman named Madonna Lisetta da Ca' Quirino, the wife of a prominent merchant who was away on business in Flanders with the merchant fleet, came with some other ladies to confess to this holy friar. She knelt at his feet and — being a true daughter of Venice, where the women are all featherbrained — told him part of her business, then was asked by him whether she had a lover.

She drew herself up with an offended look and said, "Really, Brother Alberto? Don't you have eyes in your head? Do my charms look like other women's to you? I could have lovers by the dozen if I wanted. But beauty like mine isn't for just anyone. How many women do you see whose looks compare with mine? I'd be gorgeous even in Paradise."

She went on and on about her own beauty until it was exhausting to listen to. Friar Alberto saw immediately that she was a fool, and since she seemed like fertile ground for what he had in mind, he fell passionately in love with her on the spot. But he saved the sweet talk for a more opportune moment. For now, wanting to keep up his holy-man act, he scolded her and told her this was vanity, and so on and so forth. The lady informed him that he was an ass who didn't know the difference between one beauty and another, and Friar Alberto, not wanting to push her too far, heard the rest of her confession and let her go.

He waited a few days. Then, bringing a trusted accomplice along, he went to Madonna Lisetta's house, got her alone in a private room where no one could see, dropped to his knees, and said:

"Madam, I beg you, in God's name, forgive me for what I said to you last Sunday, when you spoke to me about your beauty. Because that very night, I was punished for it so brutally that I haven't been able to get out of bed until today."

"And who punished you?" asked Lady Featherbrain.

"I'll tell you," the friar said. "That night, while I was at my prayers as usual, I suddenly saw a blinding light in my cell. Before I could even turn to look, I saw standing in front of me an extraordinarily beautiful young man holding a heavy club. He grabbed me by the robe, dragged me to my feet, and beat me so badly I thought every bone in my body was broken. I asked him why he was doing this, and he said: 'Because today you dared to insult the heavenly beauty of Madonna Lisetta, whom I love above all things except God Himself.' I asked, 'Who are you?' And he said he was the Angel Gabriel. 'Oh my lord,' I said, 'please forgive me!' He answered: 'I'll forgive you on one condition — that you go to her as soon as you can and beg her forgiveness. But if she doesn't forgive you, I'll come back and give you a beating that will make you miserable for every day you have left on this earth.' What he told me after that, I don't dare repeat unless you pardon me first."

Lady Birdbrain, who was a few bricks short of a wall, was absolutely overjoyed to hear this, taking every word as gospel truth. After a moment she said, "I told you so, Friar Alberto — I told you my beauty was heavenly. But I'm sorry for your sake, and I'll forgive you right now, so you won't be hurt again. Just tell me what the angel said after that."

"Madam," Friar Alberto replied, "since you've forgiven me, I'll gladly tell you. But I must warn you: whatever I say, you absolutely cannot repeat it to anyone, ever, if you don't want to ruin the luckiest situation any woman in the world has ever had. The Angel Gabriel told me to tell you that you please him so much he's come to spend the night with you many times, but was always afraid of frightening you. Now he's sending me to tell you that he wants to come to you one night and stay with you for a while. But since he's an angel, and if he came in his angel form you wouldn't be able to touch him, he plans — for your pleasure — to come in the shape of a man. So he'd like you to send word, through me, telling him when you'd like him to come and whose form he should take. And you should consider yourself the most fortunate woman alive."

Lady Vanity said she was delighted the Angel Gabriel was in love with her, since she loved him too and never failed to light a fourpenny candle in front of his picture whenever she saw it in church. He was welcome anytime, she said, and he'd find her alone in her room. There was just one condition: he wasn't to leave her for the Virgin Mary. She'd heard he was a great admirer of the Virgin — which certainly seemed to be the case, since every painting she'd ever seen showed him kneeling before her. Otherwise, he could come in whatever form he liked, as long as he didn't scare her.

"Madam," said Friar Alberto, "you speak wisely, and I will absolutely arrange everything with him just as you've described. But you can do me a great favor, one that costs you nothing. It's this: let him come using my body. Here's what I mean. He'll draw my soul out of my body and place it in Paradise, while he enters into me. And as long as he's with you, my soul will be in Paradise."

"Oh, by all means!" said Lady Dimwit. "I'd like you to have that consolation, to make up for the beating he gave you on my account."

"Good," said Friar Alberto. "Then leave your door unlocked tonight so he can come in. Since he'll be arriving in human form, he can only enter through the door."

The lady said she'd take care of it. The friar left, and she was in such a state of ecstasy that her feet didn't touch the ground. It felt like a thousand years until the Angel Gabriel came to visit.

Meanwhile, Friar Alberto, calculating that he'd need to be a champion of the bedchamber rather than an angel that night, stuffed himself with sweets and fortifying foods to make sure he wouldn't be easily thrown from the saddle. As soon as it was dark, he got permission to go out, went to the house of a female friend of his — a place he used as his base of operations whenever he went out wenching — and from there, once the hour seemed right, he made his way in disguise to the lady's house. He rigged himself up as an angel with the props he'd brought along, went upstairs, and entered her bedroom.

The moment she saw this shining figure all in white, she fell to her knees before him. The angel blessed her, raised her to her feet, and motioned for her to get into bed. Eager to obey, she did so at once, and the angel lay down beside his devoted worshiper.

Now, Friar Alberto was a well-built man, handsome and in excellent physical condition. Finding himself in bed with Madonna Lisetta, who was young and soft, he proved himself a very different kind of bedmate than her husband. Many times that night he took flight without wings, and she declared herself thoroughly satisfied. On top of that, he told her all sorts of things about the glories of heaven. Then, as dawn approached, he made arrangements for his return, gathered up his costume, and went back to his friend, who'd kept his accomplice pleasant company in the meantime, so the man wouldn't get scared sleeping alone.

As for the lady, she could barely wait to finish lunch before she grabbed her maid and rushed off to see Friar Alberto. She gave him a full report on the Angel Gabriel, told him everything she'd "learned" about the glories of eternal life, described what the angel looked like, and threw in a generous helping of her own embellishments.

"Madam," said the friar, "I have no idea how things went for you. All I know is that last night, when he came to me and I delivered your message, he instantly transported my soul to a place with more roses and flowers than I've ever seen in my life, one of the most gorgeous places that ever existed. I stayed there until this morning. What happened to my body in the meantime? I have no idea."

"What do you mean, you have no idea?" the lady said. "Your body was in my arms all night with the Angel Gabriel inside it. If you don't believe me, look under your left nipple — I gave the angel such a big kiss there that you'll have the mark for days."

"Is that so?" said the friar. "Well then, I'll do something today I haven't done in a very long time: I'm going to take my shirt off and have a look." After a good deal more chattering, the lady went home, and Friar Alberto continued to visit her in angel form, encountering not the slightest difficulty.

However, it happened one day that Madonna Lisetta was at a friend's house, and the two women got into an argument about whose looks were better. Lisetta, wanting to put hers above all others, and having approximately nothing between her ears, said: "If you only knew who appreciates my beauty, you'd stop talking about everyone else."

Her friend, dying to hear more, said — knowing Lisetta all too well — "You may be right, madam, but unless I know who you're talking about, I can't exactly change my mind that easily."

"Well, it has to stay between us," said Lisetta, who was about as hard to draw out as a cork from a bottle. "My admirer is the Angel Gabriel. He loves me more than he loves himself, because — as he tells me — I'm the most beautiful woman in the entire world. And the Maremma too."

Her friend wanted to burst out laughing, but held herself back so she could get more out of her. "Goodness, madam," she said, "if the Angel Gabriel is your lover and he says so, it must be true. But I didn't realize angels did that sort of thing."

"You're wrong there," said the lady. "He does it better than my husband, let me tell you, and he says they do it up in heaven too. But because I seem more beautiful to him than anyone in heaven, he's fallen in love with me and comes to sleep with me all the time. You see?"

The friend could barely wait to get away from Lisetta and tell someone. At the very next social gathering, she assembled a crowd of ladies and recounted the entire story in meticulous detail. Those ladies told their husbands and other ladies, and they told still others, and in less than two days the whole of Venice was buzzing with it.

Among those who heard were Lisetta's brothers-in-law. Without saying a word to her, they resolved to find this angel and see whether he knew how to fly. For several nights they lay in wait.

As chance would have it, some whisper of the scandal reached Friar Alberto's ears, and he went to the lady's house one night to scold her for it. But he'd barely gotten undressed when her brothers-in-law, who'd seen him arrive, were at the door of her bedroom, ready to burst in.

Friar Alberto heard them and understood instantly what was happening. He leaped up, and having no other option, threw open a window that overlooked the Grand Canal and hurled himself into the water. The canal was deep there and he was a strong swimmer, so he didn't hurt himself. He made it to the opposite bank, dashed into a house that happened to be standing open, and begged a poor man he found inside to save his life for the love of God. He spun some tale or other to explain why he was there, naked, in the middle of the night. The poor man took pity on him, and since he had business to attend to, he put the friar in his own bed, told him to stay put until he got back, locked him in, and went off.

Meanwhile, Lisetta's brothers-in-law burst into her bedroom and found that the Angel Gabriel had flown away, leaving his wings behind. Furious at being outwitted, they gave her a savage tongue-lashing and then went home with the angel's costume, leaving her in misery.

When day broke, the poor man was down at the Rialto and heard the story of how the Angel Gabriel had gone to sleep with Madonna Lisetta the night before, been surprised by her relatives, and thrown himself into the canal in terror, and nobody knew what had become of him. He put two and two together immediately: this was the man in his bed. He went home, confirmed it was the friar, and after a long negotiation, got him to cough up fifty ducats as the price for not turning him over to the lady's kinsmen.

When the money was paid and Friar Alberto tried to leave, the poor man said: "There's no way out for you — not unless you agree to my plan. We're having a festival today. The custom is for people to bring someone dressed up in costume — one man leads a fellow dressed as a bear, another brings someone got up as a wild man of the woods, and so on. There's a hunt held in the Piazza San Marco, and when it's over the festival ends and everyone goes home. If you'll let me lead you there in one of these disguises, I can get you away afterward, wherever you want to go. Otherwise, I don't see how you leave here without being recognized. Lisetta's relatives have posted lookouts all over the neighborhood."

Friar Alberto hated the idea, but his terror of the lady's kinsmen was greater than his pride, so he agreed and told his host where to take him afterward, leaving the details to him. The man smeared him from head to toe with honey, covered him in feathers, put a chain around his neck and a mask on his face, then handed him a heavy club for one hand and two big dogs — which he'd picked up from the butcher's — for the other. Then he sent someone ahead to the Rialto to announce that anyone wishing to see the Angel Gabriel should come to the Piazza San Marco. So much for Venetian loyalty.

When enough time had passed, the man led his feathered prize out into the streets, holding the chain from behind. The crowd following them swelled and swelled, everyone asking, "What is it? What is it?" until they reached the piazza, which was already packed with people who'd come from the Rialto after hearing the announcement, on top of everyone who'd followed them through the streets. There he tied his wild man to a column on a raised platform, making a show of waiting for the hunt to begin, while the flies and mosquitoes tormented Friar Alberto mercilessly — he was, after all, slathered in honey.

When the piazza was good and full, the man pretended to unchain his wild man, but instead ripped off Friar Alberto's mask and announced: "Ladies and gentlemen! Since the bear hasn't shown up and there's no hunt today, I don't want you to have come for nothing. Allow me to present the Angel Gabriel, who comes down from heaven each night to comfort the ladies of Venice."

The mask was off and Friar Alberto was recognized instantly. A tremendous roar went up from the crowd. They hurled the filthiest insults at him, the most scorching abuse ever heaped on a lying hypocrite. They pelted his face with every kind of garbage they could find, one sort of filth after another, and they kept it up for a very long time. Finally, the news reached his fellow friars by chance. Half a dozen of them came out, threw a cloak over him, unchained him, and hustled him off to the monastery with the entire crowd howling at their heels. He was locked up in a cell, and it's believed he lived out the rest of his wretched life there and died in prison.

And so this man — who had been thought holy while doing evil, and was never suspected — dared to impersonate the Angel Gabriel. He was turned into a wild man, humiliated as he deserved, and in the end wept too late over the sins he'd committed. May God grant the same to every fraud like him."

Day 4, Story 3

Three young men fall in love with three sisters and elope with them to Crete. The eldest sister, consumed by jealousy, poisons her lover. The second sister sleeps with the Duke of Crete to save the eldest from execution, but her own lover discovers the truth and murders her, then flees with the eldest. The third lover and the youngest sister are blamed for the killing and, after confessing, bribe their guards and escape to Rhodes, where they die in poverty.

When Filostrato heard the end of Pampinea's story, he sat thinking for a moment, then turned to her and said, "There was a little that was good in the ending of your story, and it pleased me. But there was far too much before it that made people laugh, and I'd rather that hadn't been there." Then, turning to Lauretta, he said, "My lady, follow up with something better, if you can."

"You're too cruel to lovers," Lauretta replied with a laugh, "if the only ending you want for them is a bad one. But to obey you, I'll tell a story about three people who all came to equally bad ends, having barely enjoyed their loves at all." And she began:

"Young ladies, as you surely know, every vice can bring serious harm to the person who practices it, and often to other people too. But of all vices, the one that carries us most recklessly toward disaster, it seems to me, is anger — which is nothing more than a sudden, thoughtless impulse triggered by some perceived offense. It drives out all reason, blinds the eyes of understanding with darkness, and sets the soul ablaze with the most ferocious fury. And while this happens often enough in men, and more in some than others, it's been known to cause even greater damage in women, because it catches fire more easily in us, burns with a fiercer flame, and meets with less resistance. That shouldn't surprise us, really. If you think about it, fire by its nature catches more quickly on light, delicate things than on what's dense and heavy. And we women — don't let the men take offense — are more delicately made than they are, and far more volatile. So, given that we're naturally inclined to anger, and considering how our gentleness and kindness bring comfort and pleasure to the men in our lives, while rage and fury bring nothing but harm and danger, I want to tell a story — to help us guard ourselves more firmly against these passions — about how the loves of three young men and three young women turned, as I said, from happy to utterly wretched, all because of one woman's wrath.

Marseilles, as you know, is a very ancient and noble city on the coast of Provence, and it was once far richer in great merchants than it is today. Among them was a man named Narnald Cluada, a man of humble birth but renowned integrity and a loyal merchant, enormously wealthy in both property and cash. He had several children by his wife, the three eldest of whom were daughters. Two of them were twins, fifteen years old, and the third was fourteen. The only thing their family was waiting for before arranging their marriages was the return of Narnald, who had gone to Spain on business. The two older girls were called Ninetta and Maddalena, and the youngest was Bertella. A young man of noble blood but modest means, named Restagnone, was desperately in love with Ninetta, and she with him. They had managed things so skillfully that, without anyone knowing, they were already enjoying each other's love.

They had been carrying on happily for quite some time when it happened that two young men named Folco and Ughetto — both of whose fathers had died, leaving them very wealthy — fell in love: Folco with Maddalena and Ughetto with Bertella. When Restagnone noticed this — Ninetta had pointed it out — he saw an opportunity to make up for his own lack of money through the newcomers' wealth. He struck up a friendship with them, and soon one or the other was regularly joining him on visits to the sisters. Once he felt the friendship was close enough and the trust was solid, he invited them both to his house one day and said:

"My dear friends, our time together should have convinced you by now how much I care for you, and that I'd do anything for you that I'd do for myself. Because I love you so much, I want to share an idea that's come to me, and then you and I can decide together what to do about it. If your words haven't been lies — and your actions both day and night seem to confirm it — you're both burning with a fierce passion for the two young women you love, just as I am for their sister. If you're willing, I think I've found a very sweet remedy for that fire of ours. Here's what I have in mind: you're both very rich, while I am not. If you'll agree to pool your wealth and make me an equal third partner, and then pick a place somewhere in the world where we can all go live the good life with our women, I'm confident I can arrange for the three sisters to come with us, along with a sizeable chunk of their father's fortune, wherever we choose. And there, each man with his lady, like three brothers, we can live as the happiest men on earth. The decision is yours: do you want to go for it, or let it go?"

The two young men, who were burning with desire beyond all measure, didn't need much time to think it over once they heard they'd get their women. They answered that if this was how things would work out, they were ready to do it. A few days after getting their answer, Restagnone managed to see Ninetta — which was never easy — and after spending some time with her, he told her what he'd proposed to the others and laid out all the arguments for why this plan was a good idea. It wasn't hard to convince her, since she was even more eager than he was to be together without fear of being caught. She told him frankly that the plan pleased her, that her sisters would do whatever she asked, especially in this, and that he should get everything ready as quickly as possible. Restagnone went back to the two young men, who were still pressing him hard about the plan, and told them that as far as the women were concerned, the deal was done. Having decided among themselves to go to Crete, they sold certain properties they owned, pretending they wanted to invest in a trading venture. They turned everything else into cash, bought a fast brigantine, and outfitted it in secret with everything they'd need.

Meanwhile, Ninetta, who knew her sisters' hearts perfectly, worked on them with such persuasive words that they burned with excitement for the adventure and could barely stand the wait. When the night finally came for them to board the ship, the three sisters broke open a large chest of their father's and took out a huge amount of money and jewels. They slipped quietly out of the house, following the plan exactly. Their lovers were already waiting. They all boarded the brigantine at once, put oars to water, and headed out to sea. They didn't stop until the following evening, when they reached Genoa, and there the new lovers enjoyed each other for the first time. After stocking up on provisions, they set sail again, and moving from port to port, they arrived in Crete within eight days without any trouble. There they bought large, magnificent estates near Candia and built themselves beautiful, luxurious houses. They settled into a life of splendor — banquets, celebrations, merrymaking — the happiest people in the world, they and their women, with plenty of servants, hounds, hawks, and horses at their command.

Living like this, it happened — as we see every day, since no matter how much you enjoy something, too much of it breeds boredom — that Restagnone, who had loved Ninetta deeply, found that now he could have her whenever he pleased, without any obstacle, he began to tire of her. His love started to fade. He'd been struck by a beautiful, high-born young woman he'd seen at a party, a local girl, and he threw himself into pursuing her with everything he had, showering her with lavish entertainments and every kind of flattery. When Ninetta got wind of this, she fell into such a jealousy that he couldn't take a step without her knowing about it, and she made life miserable for both of them with her accusations and complaints. But just as too much of something breeds disgust, being denied what you want only sharpens the craving. Ninetta's reproaches only fanned the flames of Restagnone's new infatuation. And in time, whether or not he actually won the other woman's favors, Ninetta became convinced he had, no matter who told her what. She sank into such a depth of grief that it curdled into fury and then into pure, bitter hatred. Blinded by her rage, she made up her mind to avenge what she saw as an unforgivable insult — by killing him.

She sought out an old Greek woman who was an expert in the art of mixing poisons, and through gifts and promises persuaded her to brew a lethal concoction. One evening, without stopping to think any further, she gave it to Restagnone while he was overheated and unsuspecting. The poison was so potent that before morning he was dead. When Folco and Ughetto and their women heard he had died — not knowing what poison had killed him — they mourned him bitterly, along with Ninetta, and gave him an honorable burial. But not many days later, it happened that the old Greek woman who had made the poisoned drink was arrested for some other crime. Under torture, she confessed to this deed among her others, giving a full account of what had happened. Without saying a word publicly, the Duke of Crete surrounded Folco's house one night and quietly carried Ninetta off as a prisoner. He didn't even need to use torture — she readily told him everything he wanted to know about Restagnone's death.

Folco and Ughetto received secret word from the duke about why Ninetta had been arrested. They told their women. The news was devastating, and they did everything they could to save Ninetta from being burned at the stake — which they were sure would be her sentence, and which she richly deserved. But nothing worked. The duke was determined to see justice done. Maddalena, however, was a beautiful young woman, and the duke had been pursuing her for some time. She had never given him the slightest encouragement, but now, thinking that by giving in to him she might be able to save her sister from the fire, she sent him a message through a trusted go-between. She told him she was his to command — on two conditions: first, that her sister be returned to her safe and unharmed, and second, that the whole thing remain a secret.

The duke was pleased by her message, and after a long internal debate about whether to accept, he ultimately agreed. One night, with Maddalena's consent, he had Folco and Ughetto detained on the pretense of wanting to question them about the case. Then he went secretly to sleep with Maddalena. But first he made a show of having Ninetta put in a sack, as if he meant to have her thrown into the sea that night. Instead, he brought the prisoner with him to her sister. When he left the next morning, he handed Ninetta over in payment for the night, begging Maddalena that this first time together not be the last, and ordering her to send the guilty woman far away so that no blame would fall on him and he wouldn't be forced to take action against her again.

The next morning, Folco and Ughetto were released. They'd been told that Ninetta had been sewn into a sack and drowned in the sea that night, and they believed it. They went home to comfort their women over the loss of their sister. But despite everything Maddalena did to keep Ninetta hidden, Folco soon discovered she was in the house. He was stunned, and suspicion flared up instantly — he'd already heard about the duke's pursuit of Maddalena. He demanded to know how her sister came to be there. Maddalena launched into an elaborate story she'd prepared, but Folco was too sharp for her and didn't believe a word. He pressed her hard, and after a long struggle she finally told him the truth. Overcome with humiliation and burning with rage, Folco drew his sword and killed her as she begged uselessly for mercy. Then, fearing the duke's wrath and justice, he left her body in the room and went to find Ninetta.

"Quick, let's go," he told her with a forced smile. "Your sister has arranged for me to take you somewhere safe so you don't fall into the duke's hands again."

Ninetta believed him. Terrified and eager to escape, she left with Folco without even asking to say goodbye to her sister. It was already dark. With what little money he could grab, the two of them made for the coast and boarded a ship. No one ever learned where they ended up.

The next morning, when Maddalena was found murdered, certain people — motivated by their envy and hatred of Ughetto — immediately reported it to the duke. The duke had been deeply in love with Maddalena, and he rushed to the house in a fury. He seized Ughetto and his lady, who still knew nothing about any of it — not Folco's flight, not Ninetta's escape — and forced them to confess that they and Folco were guilty of Maddalena's murder. Fearing, with good reason, that this confession meant their death, they managed with great difficulty to bribe their guards, paying them with a stash of money they'd kept hidden in the house for emergencies. Without even having time to gather their belongings, they boarded a ship with their guards that same night and fled to Rhodes. There they lived out the rest of their days — which were not many — in poverty and misery.

And that is what Restagnone's reckless love and Ninetta's rage brought down on themselves and on everyone around them."

Day 4, Story 4

Gerbino, defying a pledge made by his grandfather King Guglielmo of Sicily, attacks a Tunisian ship to rescue the princess he loves. She is murdered before his eyes. He slaughters her killers, and is later beheaded himself.

When Lauretta finished her story, the group fell to lamenting the fate of those doomed lovers — some blamed Ninetta's temper, others argued this point or that — until finally the king, lifting his head as if waking from a deep reverie, signaled Elisa to take her turn. She began modestly:

"Charming ladies, there are many who believe that Love only strikes through the eyes — that you can only fall in love with someone you've actually seen — and they laugh at anyone who claims you can fall in love by reputation alone. But these people are wrong, as my story will plainly show. In it, you'll see how rumor alone, without the lovers ever once laying eyes on each other, kindled a passion that brought them both to a miserable death.

Guglielmo the Second, King of Sicily, had — according to the Sicilians — two children: a son named Ruggieri and a daughter named Costanza. Ruggieri died before his father, leaving behind a son called Gerbino, who was raised with great care by his grandfather and grew into a remarkably handsome young man, famous for both his courage and his courtesy. His reputation didn't stay confined to Sicily, either. It rang out across the world, and nowhere more brilliantly than in the lands of North Africa, which in those days paid tribute to the Sicilian crown. Among the many who heard of Gerbino's valor and grace was a daughter of the King of Tunis — a young woman who, by all accounts, was one of the most beautiful creatures nature had ever made, as well as the most refined and noble-spirited. She loved hearing tales of brave men, and she listened to the stories about Gerbino's exploits with such keen interest — imagining what sort of man he must be — that she fell passionately in love with him. She talked about him more eagerly than about anyone else and hung on every word spoken about him.

Meanwhile, the great fame of her beauty and character had traveled to Sicily, among other places, and it reached Gerbino's ears to powerful effect. He became just as inflamed with love for her as she was for him. Desperate to see her but needing some plausible excuse to get his grandfather's permission to travel to Tunis, he asked every friend who went there to make his secret passion known to her, as skillfully as possible, and to bring back word of her feelings. One of these friends carried out the mission brilliantly. Under the pretense of showing the princess some jewelry and trinkets — the way merchants do — he revealed Gerbino's love to her and declared that the prince and everything he possessed were at her command. The princess received the messenger and his message with open delight. She replied that she burned with the same love for the prince, and as proof she sent him one of her most precious jewels. Gerbino received this with more joy than any treasure had ever given him. He wrote to her again and again through the same messenger, sending her the most costly gifts, and they made plans to meet — to see each other, to touch — if only fortune would allow it.

But while things went on this way — and a bit further than was wise, with both the princess and Gerbino burning with desire — it happened that the King of Tunis arranged her marriage to the King of Granada. The news devastated her. She realized that not only would she be separated from her lover by an enormous distance, but she'd likely lose him entirely. If she could have found a way to do it, she would gladly have run from her father and gone straight to Gerbino. Gerbino, for his part, was equally miserable when he heard about the marriage. He turned the situation over in his mind and resolved that if she traveled to her husband by sea, he would take her by force.

The King of Tunis caught wind of Gerbino's love and his intentions. Fearing the young man's courage and ability, he sent word to King Guglielmo when the time came to dispatch his daughter to Granada, informing him of his plans and requesting a guarantee that neither Gerbino nor anyone else would interfere. King Guglielmo was an old man who had heard nothing of his grandson's passion and therefore never suspected why such an assurance was being asked for. He freely granted it and, as a token of his word, sent the King of Tunis one of his own gloves. The King of Tunis, having received the guarantee he wanted, had a large and splendid ship outfitted in the port of Carthage, supplied with everything those aboard would need. He had it decorated for the voyage that would carry his daughter to Granada, and then he simply waited for good weather.

The princess, who saw all of this unfolding and understood exactly what it meant, secretly sent one of her servants to Palermo. She told him to find the gallant Gerbino, greet him on her behalf, and tell him she was about to set sail for Granada within days — so now it would be clear whether he was truly as brave as people said, and whether he loved her as much as he'd so often declared. The servant carried out his mission perfectly and returned to Tunis.

Gerbino heard the message and found himself in an impossible position: he knew his grandfather had pledged his word to the King of Tunis. But love drove him forward, and the thought of looking like a coward drove him harder. He traveled to Messina, where he quickly armed two swift galleys and manned them with proven fighters, then set sail for the coast of Sardinia, expecting the princess's ship to pass that way. His calculation was nearly perfect. He'd been waiting only a few days when the ship appeared, gliding toward him on a light wind, not far from where he lay in ambush.

Seeing it, Gerbino addressed his men: "Gentlemen, if you're the men of courage I believe you to be, then surely most of you have known love, or know it now. Without love, I'm convinced, no man can have any real worth or valor. And if you have loved, or do love, you'll understand what drives me. I am in love, and love is the reason I've brought you here. The woman I love is on that ship you see becalmed out there — and that ship, besides carrying the one thing I desire most in the world, is loaded with treasure. If you're brave men, we can take those riches with little difficulty, fighting hard. For my share of the victory, I ask only one thing: the lady, for whose sake I took up arms. Everything else is yours. Come, let's attack boldly! God favors our venture — He's holding that ship still for us, denying it even a breeze."

The gallant Gerbino didn't need many words. The men from Messina, eager for plunder, were already ready to do exactly what he was proposing. They let out a great war cry at the end of his speech, sounded the trumpets, snatched up their weapons, drove the oars into the water, and made straight for the Tunisian ship. The men aboard the ship saw the galleys approaching from a distance and, unable to flee, prepared to defend themselves. When the galleys drew alongside, Gerbino ordered that the ship's officers be sent aboard the galleys — unless they wanted a fight. But the Saracens, having confirmed who they were and what they wanted, declared that this was an attack in violation of the faith pledged by King Guglielmo himself. As proof, they displayed the king's glove. They flatly refused to surrender or hand over anything on the ship, except by force of arms.

Gerbino had caught sight of the princess standing on the raised deck at the stern. She was far more beautiful than he'd ever imagined, and his desire blazed hotter than ever. When they showed the glove, he shot back that there were no falcons here, so gloves were unnecessary. If they wouldn't give up the lady willingly, they'd better prepare for battle. And with that, the fighting began in earnest, both sides hurling arrows and stones at each other. They fought this way for a long time, with losses on both sides.

Finally, seeing that he was making little progress, Gerbino took a small boat he'd brought from Sardinia, set it on fire, and rammed it against the ship using both galleys. The Saracens, seeing the flames and knowing they'd have to surrender or die, dragged the king's daughter up from below deck, where she'd been weeping, and brought her to the prow of the ship. Then, as she screamed for mercy and help, they called out to Gerbino — and butchered her before his eyes. They threw her body into the sea, shouting: "Take her! We give her to you — the only way your treachery deserves!"

Gerbino, witnessing this act of savagery, ordered his men alongside the ship. Caring nothing for the arrows and stones still raining down, he boarded as if he were courting death itself, climbing over the side despite everything the defenders could do. Then — like a starving lion loose among a herd of cattle, slaughtering one after another, satisfying its fury rather than its hunger — sword in hand, cutting down one man then the next, he butchered the Saracens without mercy. When the fire began consuming the ship, he had his sailors salvage whatever they could as their payment, then withdrew — having won nothing but a wretched victory over his enemies.

He had the princess's body retrieved from the sea. For a long time he wept over her, shedding countless tears. Then he sailed back toward Sicily and buried her with full honors on Ustica, a small island off the coast near Trapani. After that, he returned home the most miserable man alive.

When the King of Tunis received the terrible news, he sent ambassadors dressed all in black to King Guglielmo, protesting the broken promise. They told him exactly what had happened. King Guglielmo was furious, and seeing no way to deny them the justice they demanded, he had Gerbino arrested. Then — despite every one of his barons begging him to reconsider — he personally condemned his own grandson to death and had him beheaded in his presence. He chose to die without an heir rather than be known as a king who didn't keep his word.

And so, as I've told you, these two lovers died violent deaths within a few days of each other, without ever having tasted a single fruit of their love."

Day 4, Story 5

Lisabetta's brothers murder her lover. He appears to her in a dream and shows her where he is buried. She secretly digs up his head and plants it in a pot of basil, weeping over it day after day. When her brothers take it from her, she dies of grief.

When Elisa's story was done and had received some praise from the king, Filomena was called upon to speak next. Full of compassion for poor Gerbino and his princess, she gave a mournful sigh and began:

"My story, gracious ladies, won't involve people of such high rank as the ones Elisa just told us about. But perhaps it will be no less heartbreaking. What reminded me of it was the mention of Messina a moment ago, because that's where it took place.

There were, at that time, three young brothers living in Messina — merchants who'd been left very wealthy by their father, a man from San Gimignano. They had a sister named Lisabetta, a beautiful and well-mannered young woman whom, for whatever reason, they hadn't yet married off. Now, the brothers employed a young man from Pisa named Lorenzo in one of their warehouses. He managed all their business affairs, and he was quite handsome and charming. Lisabetta noticed him — how could she not? — and over time she found herself strangely drawn to him. Lorenzo noticed her looking, and before long he abandoned whatever other romantic interests he'd had and turned all his thoughts toward her. Things progressed as they tend to when two people are equally attracted to each other, and it wasn't long before they found the courage to act on what they both most wanted.

They carried on this way, taking great pleasure and delight in each other. But they didn't manage to keep it secret enough. One night, as Lisabetta was slipping off to where Lorenzo slept, her eldest brother saw her — though she didn't know it. He was a sensible young man, and despite how much the discovery upset him, he was guided by his better judgment. He kept still, said nothing, made no outward sign, and lay awake until morning, turning the matter over in his mind. When day came, he told his brothers what he'd seen. After a long discussion, they agreed to let the whole thing pass in silence and pretend they'd noticed nothing — at least until the right moment came to put an end to this disgrace before it could go any further or cause them any real damage.

Holding to this plan, they continued to joke around and do business with Lorenzo as if nothing had changed. Then one day, pretending they were all going on a pleasure trip outside the city, they brought Lorenzo along. When they reached a remote and lonely spot, they saw their chance. They killed him while his guard was down, buried the body where no one would find it, and went back to Messina. They put out the story that they'd sent him away on business — which was easy enough to believe, since they often sent him on such errands.

When Lorenzo didn't come back, Lisabetta kept asking her brothers about him, anxiously and persistently, because his long absence was tearing her apart. One day, when she pressed them yet again, one of the brothers snapped at her: "What is this? What business is it of yours where Lorenzo is? If you keep asking about him, we'll give you the answer you deserve." After that, the girl fell silent — sad, frightened, though she didn't know of what. She stopped asking. But at night she would call out his name in anguish, begging him to come to her, and she wept bitterly over his endless absence. She waited and waited, without a moment's happiness.

Then one night, after she'd cried herself to exhaustion over Lorenzo's failure to return and had finally fallen asleep in tears, he appeared to her in a dream. He was pale and disheveled, his clothes torn and rotting. And it seemed to her that he spoke these words: "Listen to me, Lisabetta. You do nothing but call for me, grieving over my absence, and you torment me with your tears. Know this: I can never come back to you. On the last day you saw me, your brothers killed me." He told her the place where they'd buried him, then told her not to call for him or wait for him anymore, and vanished. She woke up, and believing the vision, she wept bitterly.

In the morning, she made up her mind. She didn't dare say a word to her brothers. Instead, she resolved to go to the place the dream had shown her and see for herself whether it was true. She got permission to leave the city for a day's outing and went there as quickly as she could, bringing along a woman who'd been in service with the family and knew all about the affair. When they reached the spot, she cleared away the dead leaves and began digging where the earth seemed softest. She didn't have to dig long before she found the body of her poor lover, not yet decayed. Now she knew beyond any doubt that her vision had been real, and she was the most wretched woman alive.

She would have taken the whole body away to give it a proper burial if she could, but that was impossible. So instead, with a knife, she cut the head from the body as best she could, wrapped it in a cloth, and placed it in her servant's lap. She covered the rest of the body with earth again, and they left that place unseen.

Back home, she shut herself in her room with her lover's head and wept over it for hours, long and bitterly, until she had bathed it in her tears. She kissed it a thousand times, every part of it. Then she took a large, beautiful pot — the kind used for growing marjoram or basil — and placed the head inside, wrapped in fine linen, and covered it with soil. In that soil she planted several sprigs of the finest Salerno basil. She never watered them with anything but her tears, or with rose water, or orange blossom water. She made a habit of sitting beside the pot, gazing at it with all the longing in her heart, because it held her Lorenzo hidden within. And after staring at it for a long while, she would lean over it and weep so hard and so long that her tears soaked the basil through. Between her constant, devoted tending and the richness of the earth — nourished by the decomposing head — the basil grew extraordinarily lush and wonderfully fragrant.

The girl kept up this routine without fail, and before long her neighbors took notice. They mentioned it to her brothers, who had been puzzled by how her beauty was wasting away and her eyes seemed to have sunk into her skull from all the crying. "We've noticed that she does the same thing every single day," the neighbors told them.

The brothers heard this and saw it for themselves. They scolded her about it once or twice, but it made no difference. So they secretly had the pot taken away. When she discovered it was missing, she begged for it back again and again, desperately, frantically. When it wasn't returned, she wept and wailed until she fell sick. And even in her illness, the only thing she asked for was her pot of basil.

The young men were astonished by how obsessed she was, so they decided to see what was actually in the pot. They dumped out the soil and found the linen cloth, and inside it the head — not yet so decomposed that they couldn't recognize it by the curly hair as Lorenzo's. They were stunned, and terrified that the story might get out. They buried the head, packed up their affairs, and quietly left Messina without a word, relocating to Naples.

Lisabetta never stopped weeping, never stopped asking for her pot, and finally died in tears. And so her doomed love came to its end.

But in time the whole story became widely known, and someone composed the song that is still sung today:

Alas! Who could the heartless villain be > That stole my pot away?" etc.

Day 4, Story 6

Andreuola loves Gabriotto. She tells him about a terrifying dream, and he tells her one of his own. Moments later, he dies suddenly in her arms. While she and her maid are carrying his body home, they are arrested. The magistrate tries to force himself on her, but she fights him off. Her father intervenes, and she eventually becomes a nun.

Filomena's story was warmly received by the ladies, since they had all heard the famous song many times but had never been able to learn the story behind it, no matter how often they asked. When the king heard it through to the end, he told Pamfilo to take his turn. Pamfilo began:

"The dream in the previous story gives me reason to tell you one that also involves dreams — two of them, in fact — both foretelling things that were about to happen, not things already past. And barely had the dreamers finished describing them before both dreams came true.

You should know, dear ladies, that it's perfectly natural for people to see all kinds of things in their sleep. While we're dreaming, everything seems absolutely real, but once we wake, we judge some of it true, some of it plausible, and the rest completely absurd — yet many dreams do turn out to come to pass. This is why plenty of people put as much faith in every dream as they would in waking reality, and they grieve or rejoice based on whatever they dreamed. On the other hand, there are people who believe in no dream at all, right up until they find themselves in the very danger the dream warned them about. I don't fully agree with either camp: dreams aren't always true, but they aren't always false, either. That they're not all true, every one of us has had occasion to learn. That they're not all false, Filomena's story just demonstrated, and I intend to demonstrate it again in mine.

My view is this: when it comes to living well and acting virtuously, we shouldn't let any contrary dream frighten us or keep us from our good intentions. But when it comes to wicked and harmful things, no matter how favorable our dreams may seem about them, no matter how much they encourage us with promising signs, we shouldn't believe a word of them — while every dream that warns us against such things deserves our full trust. But on to the story.

There was once in the city of Brescia a gentleman named Messer Negro da Ponte Carraro, who had several children, among them a daughter called Andreuola — young, unmarried, and very beautiful. She happened to fall in love with a neighbor named Gabriotto, a man of humble birth but admirable character, handsome and pleasant in every way. With the help of her household maid, she managed not only to let Gabriotto know he was loved but to have him brought, time and again, into her father's lovely garden, to the great delight of both. And so that nothing but death itself could ever part their love, they secretly became husband and wife.

They continued their meetings in stealth, and all went well — until one night the young woman had a dream. She dreamed she was in the garden with Gabriotto, holding him in her arms, both of them deeply happy. But then she saw something dark and terrible emerge from his body — she couldn't make out what it was. This thing seized Gabriotto and, with terrifying force, tore him from her arms and dragged him down into the earth. She never saw either of them again.

The anguish of that dream jolted her awake. She was relieved to find it had only been a dream, but a deep fear had taken root in her all the same. So when Gabriotto wanted to visit her the following night, she did everything she could to keep him away. But when she saw how determined he was — and not wanting him to suspect the wrong reason — she let him into the garden. She had gathered armfuls of roses, both white and red, since it was the season for them, and she went to sit with him at the foot of a beautiful, clear fountain.

After they had enjoyed each other's company for a long, sweet while, Gabriotto asked her why she had tried to keep him from coming that night. So she told him — recounting the dream she'd had and the fear it had planted in her.

He laughed it off. "It's foolish to put any stock in dreams," he said. "They come from eating too much or too little, and you can see every day that they mean nothing. If I let myself be guided by dreams, I wouldn't have come tonight — and not because of yours, but because of one I had myself. I dreamed I was in a beautiful, pleasant forest, hunting, and I caught the loveliest little doe you could imagine — whiter than snow. In no time she'd become so tame she never left my side. I was so devoted to her that I put a golden collar around her neck and held her by a golden chain.

"Then, while the doe lay with her head in my lap, a greyhound appeared out of nowhere — a bitch, black as coal, gaunt and savage-looking. She came straight at me, and I did nothing to stop her. She thrust her muzzle into my chest, right into the left side, and gnawed her way through until she reached my heart. She tore it out and carried it away. The pain was so terrible it woke me up, and the first thing I did was slap my hand against my side to check — but of course there was nothing wrong. I laughed at myself for being so alarmed.

"But what does it matter? I've had plenty of dreams like that, even worse ones, and nothing ever came of them. So let it go, and let's enjoy ourselves."

The girl, who was already frightened by her own dream, became even more so hearing his. But she hid her fear as best she could, not wanting to upset him. She held him close, kissing him and being kissed in return, but she kept looking at his face more than usual, watching him anxiously without knowing quite what she expected, and every now and then she glanced around the garden, half expecting to see something dark approaching from somewhere.

While they sat there together, Gabriotto suddenly let out a deep sigh. He threw his arms around her and said, "Oh God, my love — help me. I'm dying." And with that, he collapsed onto the grass.

The girl pulled him into her lap and said, almost in tears, "My darling, what's wrong? What's happening to you?"

He didn't answer. He was gasping, drenched in sweat, and within moments he was dead.

How devastating, how unbearable this was for the young woman who loved him more than her own life — I'll leave each of you to imagine. She wept over him, calling his name again and again, but it was useless. After she had touched every part of his body and found him cold everywhere, she accepted that he was truly gone. Not knowing what to do or say, she ran to find her maid, who knew about their love, weeping and wild with anguish, and poured out everything that had happened.

After they had wept together over Gabriotto's dead face for a while, Andreuola said to the maid, "Since God has taken the man I love, I don't intend to go on living. But before I end my life, I want to do what I can to protect my honor and the secret of our love, and to make sure his body is properly buried."

"My dear girl," the maid replied, "don't talk about killing yourself. If you've lost him in this world, by taking your own life you'd lose him in the next world too, because you'd go to hell — and I'm sure his soul hasn't gone there, because he was a good man. Much better to find comfort and to help his soul with prayers and good works, in case he needs that for any sins he may have committed. As for burying him — we could easily do it right here in this garden, and no one would ever know, since no one knows he ever came here. Or, if you'd rather not do that, we can carry him out of the garden and leave him near his house. He'll be found in the morning, and his family will see to the burial."

Andreuola was drowning in sorrow and couldn't stop weeping, but she listened to her maid's counsel. She wouldn't hear of the first suggestion, and to the second she answered: "God forbid that I should let someone so dear to me, someone I loved so much, my own husband, be buried like a stray dog or left lying in the street. He's had my tears, and as much as it's in my power, he'll have his family's tears too. I already know what we need to do."

She sent the maid to fetch a piece of silk cloth from a chest in the house. When she returned, Andreuola spread it on the ground and laid Gabriotto's body on it, resting his head on a pillow. She closed his eyes and his mouth, weeping all the while, and wove him a wreath of roses. She covered him with all the roses they had gathered together, he and she, that evening. Then she said to the maid, "His house isn't far from here. You and I will carry him there, just as we've laid him out, and place him at his door. It won't be long before daybreak, and he'll be found. It won't console his family much — but for me, at least, since he died in my arms, it will be some small comfort."

She said this, and then flung herself on his face one more time, weeping for a long time. At last, urged by her maid to hurry — dawn was coming — she stood up. She drew from her finger the ring with which Gabriotto had married her and placed it on his, saying through her tears: "My dearest love, if your soul can see my tears now, or if any feeling or awareness lingers in the body after the spirit has gone, then receive with tenderness this last gift from the woman you loved so well in life."

After these words, she fainted and fell across him. When she came to, she and the maid lifted the silk cloth on which the body lay, carried it out of the garden, and set off for his house.

But as they went, they were spotted and seized by officers of the watch, who happened to be out at that hour on other business. They had the dead body with them. Andreuola, who at this point wanted death more than life, recognized the officers and spoke up plainly: "I know who you are, and I know it would be useless to try to run. I'll come with you willingly and explain everything to the magistrate. But let none of you dare lay a hand on me, so long as I cooperate, and don't take anything from this body — unless you want me to accuse you."

No one touched her. She was brought, along with Gabriotto's body, to the magistrate's palace. The Provost, hearing what was afoot, got out of bed, sent for her, and began questioning her about what had happened. He had several physicians examine the dead man to determine whether he'd been killed by poison or by some other means. They all agreed that no, it was nothing like that — rather, some abscess near his heart had burst and suffocated him.

Hearing this, the Provost understood that her guilt, if any, was minor. But he saw an opportunity, and he tried to take it. He told her that he would set her free — if she'd consent to sleep with him. When words didn't work, he went further and tried to use force. But Andreuola, ablaze with outrage and suddenly fierce, fought him off with everything she had, shoving him away with proud, contemptuous words.

By the time full daylight arrived, word of what had happened reached Messer Negro. Sick with worry, he hurried to the palace with a crowd of friends. The Provost told him the whole story, and Messer Negro demanded his daughter back in no uncertain terms. The Provost — preferring to confess his own bad behavior before the girl accused him of it — first lavished praise on Andreuola for her strength of character, and then, as supposed proof of his admiration, admitted what he'd tried to do. He said that seeing her extraordinary resolve and spirit, he'd fallen deeply in love with her, and that he'd be honored to marry her, if both she and her father were willing, despite the fact that her previous husband had been a man of low birth.

While they were still talking, Andreuola appeared. She threw herself at her father's feet in tears and said: "Father, I don't think I need to tell you the whole story of my recklessness and my sorrow — I'm sure you've already heard it. I only ask your forgiveness, as humbly as I can, for my one real fault: marrying the man I loved without your knowledge. And I ask this not so that my life will be spared, but so that I can die as your daughter and not your enemy."

She collapsed, sobbing, at his feet.

Messer Negro was an old man, and a kind and tender-hearted one. Hearing her words, he began to cry himself. Gently, with tears in his eyes, he raised her to her feet and said: "My daughter, I would have preferred you to marry the sort of man I thought fitting for you. But if you chose a man who pleased your own heart, that would have pleased me too. What grieves me is that you hid him from me, because you didn't trust me enough — and all the more because I see you've lost him before I even knew about him. But since that's how things are, the honor I would gladly have shown him while he lived — as my son-in-law, to make you happy — let it be shown to him now that he's dead."

Turning to his sons and relatives, he ordered that Gabriotto be given a magnificent funeral.

Meanwhile, the young man's family had gathered, along with nearly every man and woman in the city. The body was laid out in the middle of the courtyard on Andreuola's silk cloth, covered with all her roses. There it was mourned not only by her and by his own relatives, but publicly by almost all the women of the city and many of the men. It was borne to its grave not like the body of a commoner but like that of a nobleman, carried on the shoulders of the city's most distinguished citizens, with the highest honors.

Some days later, the Provost renewed his proposal of marriage through Messer Negro. Her father put it to her, but she refused to hear a word of it. Wanting to respect his daughter's wishes, she and her maid entered a convent renowned for its holiness, where they both lived in honor for many years afterward."

Day 4, Story 7

Simona loves Pasquino. While they are together in a garden, he rubs a sage leaf against his teeth and drops dead. She is arrested, and when she tries to show the judge exactly how it happened, she dies the same way.

When Pamfilo had finished his story, the king — showing not a trace of sympathy for Andreuola — glanced at Emilia and signaled that it was her turn to follow the others. Without hesitation, she began:

"Dear friends, Pamfilo's story puts me in mind of one that is nothing like his in most respects, except for this: just as Andreuola lost her beloved in a garden, so did the woman I'm about to tell you about. And just as Andreuola was arrested, so was she — though she freed herself from the law not through courage or defiance, but through an unexpected death of her own. As we've often said among ourselves, Love may prefer to set up residence in the houses of the wealthy, but that doesn't mean it refuses to rule the poor. On the contrary, Love sometimes shows its power so forcefully among humble people that it makes even the rich tremble. This will become clear — or mostly clear — from my story, which brings us back to our own city of Florence, from which we've wandered far today, roaming across the world and talking of so many different things.

Not so long ago, then, there lived in Florence a girl named Simona — quite pretty and pleasant, considering her station. She was the daughter of a poor man, and she had to earn her own bread by spinning wool. But being poor in circumstances didn't mean she was poor in spirit, and she was perfectly willing to let Love into her heart. Love had been knocking for some time, through the charming words and attentive behavior of a young man no better off than she was — a boy named Pasquino, who delivered wool for his master, a wool merchant, for her to spin.

Once she'd welcomed Love in, along with the pleasing image of this young man who loved her, she heaved a thousand sighs hotter than fire with every hank of yarn she wound around the spindle, thinking of the one who'd given it to her. Pasquino, for his part, developed a remarkably keen interest in making sure his master's wool was well spun. He supervised Simona's spinning far more closely than anyone else's, as if the yarn from her hands alone — and no one else's — would furnish the entire bolt of cloth. And so, with him pursuing and her delighting in being pursued, it happened that he grew bolder than usual and she shed much of her customary shyness, and they gave themselves to each other with equal enthusiasm. The pleasure they found was so great that neither one waited to be invited by the other — they raced to be the one doing the inviting.

This happiness continued day after day, their desire only growing hotter with time, until one day Pasquino told Simona he'd like her to find a way to meet him at a certain garden, where they could be together more freely and with less risk of being noticed. Simona agreed. On Sunday, after lunch, she told her father she was going to the Church of San Gallo to earn indulgences, and instead she went to the garden Pasquino had named, bringing along a friend of hers called Lagina. There she found Pasquino waiting with a companion of his own, a fellow named Puccino — though everyone called him Stramba. A spark immediately flew between Stramba and Lagina, so those two drifted off to one part of the garden to do as they pleased, while Simona and Pasquino withdrew to another.

In their part of the garden there was a large, magnificent bush of sage. They settled down at its base, made love, and afterward sat together happily for a long while, talking about a picnic they were planning to have there at their leisure. After a bit, Pasquino turned to the big sage bush, plucked a leaf from it, and began rubbing it against his teeth and gums. He said sage was excellent for cleaning your teeth after a meal.

He rubbed for a little while, then went back to talking about their picnic plans. But he hadn't been speaking long before his face began to change. Almost immediately, he lost his sight and his speech. And moments later, he was dead.

Simona burst into tears and screams, calling for Stramba and Lagina. They came running. When they saw Pasquino lying there, not just dead but already swelling up, his face and body covered in dark blotches, Stramba shouted: "You wicked woman! You poisoned him!"

He made such a commotion that the people living near the garden heard him and came running. They found Pasquino dead and bloated. Between Stramba's accusations and Simona's inability to explain herself — she was half out of her mind with grief over the sudden death of her lover — everyone concluded that Stramba was right: she must have poisoned him. She was seized and dragged off to the Provost's palace, still weeping uncontrollably.

There, at the insistence of Stramba and two more of Pasquino's friends who had shown up in the meantime — fellows named Atticciato and Malagevole — a judge immediately began questioning her about what had happened. But he couldn't find any evidence that she'd acted with malice or was guilty of anything. Since her account of the incident didn't quite make sense to him from words alone, he decided he needed to see the body and the scene for himself, exactly as she'd described it.

He had her brought — without any fuss — to where Pasquino's body still lay, swollen up like a barrel. He followed her there, marveling at the dead man's appearance, and asked her to show him exactly what had happened. So Simona walked up to the sage bush and told him the whole story. Then, to make it perfectly clear how it had all unfolded, she did exactly what Pasquino had done: she plucked a sage leaf and rubbed it against her teeth.

While Stramba and Atticciato and all of Pasquino's other friends stood there mocking her explanation as frivolous nonsense, denouncing her wickedness with increasing fury and demanding nothing less than that she be burned alive for her crime — the wretched girl, devastated by the loss of her lover and terrified of the punishment they were screaming for, fell victim to the very same fate as Pasquino, struck down by the sage leaf she'd rubbed against her teeth.

She dropped dead, to the astonishment of everyone present.

O happy souls, whose fervent love and mortal lives both ended on the same day! Happier still, if you journeyed to the same place! And happiest of all — at least to our way of thinking, we who remain behind among the living — was Simona's soul: fortune would not allow her innocence to fall beneath the testimony of Stramba, Atticciato, and Malagevole, men who were probably just wool-carders or something equally lowly. Instead, fortune found her a far more honorable way out — a death identical to her lover's — to clear her name and follow the soul of her Pasquino, whom she had loved so dearly.

The judge stood there dumbfounded, as did everyone else, not knowing what to say. He was silent for a long time. Finally he collected himself and said: "It appears this sage is poisonous, which is not something sage normally is. But so that it can't harm anyone else, cut it down to the roots and burn it."

The garden's keeper set about doing this in the judge's presence, and no sooner had he chopped the great bush down to ground level than the cause of the two deaths became clear. Underneath the bush was an enormous toad, and they concluded that its venomous breath had poisoned the sage. No one dared go near the creature, so they piled a great mound of brushwood around it and burned it alive, along with the sage.

And so ended the judge's inquest into the death of poor Pasquino. He and his Simona, both still swollen, were buried by Stramba, Atticciato, Guccio Imbratta, and Malagevole in the Church of St. Paul, where it happened they were parishioners."

Day 4, Story 8

Girolamo loves Salvestra, but his mother's scheming sends him away to Paris. When he returns and finds her married, he sneaks into her house and dies of grief beside her in bed. His body is taken to a church, where Salvestra dies beside him.

When Emilia's story came to an end, Neifile began, at the king's command: "There are some people, dear ladies, who think they know better than everyone else, and who presume to set their judgment not only against the wisdom of other people but even against the very nature of things. This kind of arrogance has led to terrible consequences in the past, and no good has ever come of it. Now, of all natural forces, love is the one that least tolerates opposition or interference — its nature is such that it will sooner consume itself than be extinguished by someone else's scheming. And so it occurs to me to tell you the story of a woman who, trying to be cleverer than she was, and cleverer than the situation called for, thought she could tear a love from her son's heart that the stars themselves had probably placed there. In doing so, she succeeded in driving out both love and life at the same time.

In our city, according to what the old-timers tell us, there once lived a very wealthy merchant named Lionardo Sighieri. He had a son called Girolamo by his wife, and after getting his affairs in order, he died. The boy's guardians and his mother managed his inheritance faithfully and well. As Girolamo grew up alongside the neighborhood children, he became closer to one girl his own age than to anyone else — the daughter of the local tailor. As they got older, what had been childhood friendship turned into a love so fierce and consuming that he was never at ease unless he could see her. And she loved him every bit as much as he loved her.

His mother noticed this and scolded him about it many times. When Girolamo showed no signs of giving it up, she went to his guardians and complained — as if she thought her son's great wealth could turn a bramble bush into an orange tree: "This boy of ours, barely fourteen years old, is so infatuated with a tailor's daughter, a girl named Salvestra, that if we don't get her out of his sight, he'll probably marry her one day without anyone's permission, and I'll never have a moment's peace. Or else, if he sees her married to someone else, he'll waste away. So it seems to me the best course would be to send him far away on business for the trading house. Once he's been away from her long enough, she'll fade from his mind, and then we can find him a proper wellborn wife."

The guardians agreed that she had a point and said they would do their best. They called the boy into the warehouse, and one of them began speaking to him with great affection: "My boy, you're growing up now, and it's time you started looking after your own affairs. It would please us very much if you went to stay in Paris for a while, where you'll see how a good portion of your wealth is being managed. What's more, you'll become far more refined and worldly than you ever could here, seeing the lords and barons and gentlemen who are plentiful there and learning their ways. After that, you can come back home."

The boy listened carefully and gave a curt reply: he had no interest in going, since he could do just as well in Florence as anyone else. The good men tried again with various arguments, but they couldn't get a different answer out of him, so they told his mother. She was furious — not about his reluctance to go to Paris, but about the love affair behind it. First she gave him a tongue-lashing, then she switched to sweet-talking him, coaxing and cajoling and begging him to please do what his guardians wanted. In short, she worked on him so persistently that he finally agreed to go to France — but for one year and no more.

And so, burning with love as he was, Girolamo went off to Paris, where he was kept waiting and put off from one day to the next for two whole years. When he finally returned, more in love than ever, he found his Salvestra married to an honest young man, a tent maker. He was devastated beyond words. But seeing there was nothing to be done, he tried to resign himself to it. He found out where she lived and began walking past her house, the way lovesick young men do, expecting that she couldn't have forgotten him any more than he had forgotten her.

But things had changed. She remembered him no better than if she had never laid eyes on him — or if she did remember, she pretended otherwise. Girolamo realized this soon enough, and it cut him deeply. Still, he did everything he could to make her remember. But when nothing seemed to work, he resolved to speak to her face to face, even if it killed him.

He learned from a neighbor how her house was laid out. One evening, while she and her husband were out visiting neighbors, he crept inside and hid behind some tent cloths that were hanging there. He waited until the couple came home and went to bed, and then until he was sure the husband was asleep. Then he went to where he'd seen Salvestra lie down, placed his hand on her breast, and whispered, "Are you asleep, my love?"

The girl was awake. She was about to scream, but he said quickly, "For God's sake, don't cry out — it's me, Girolamo."

Trembling all over, she said, "Please, Girolamo, for the love of God, go away. The days when we were children free to be in love are over. I'm a married woman now, as you can see, and it's no longer right for me to think of any man but my husband. So I'm begging you, in God's name, leave. If my husband heard you, even if nothing worse came of it, I'd never be able to live with him in peace again. Right now he loves me and we live together in happiness and calm."

Hearing these words was agony for the young man. He reminded her of the time they'd shared and told her his love hadn't diminished one bit despite the absence. He pleaded with her, he made every promise he could think of — but none of it moved her. Wanting only to die, he begged her for one last thing: that in return for all the love he had given her, she would let him lie beside her just long enough to warm himself, since he'd grown chilled waiting for her. He promised he wouldn't say a word to her or touch her, and that he'd leave as soon as he'd warmed up a little.

Salvestra, feeling some pity for him, granted this request on the conditions he'd stated. He lay down beside her without touching her. Then, gathering into a single thought the long years of love he had carried, her coldness, and the death of all his hopes, he resolved to live no longer. He clenched his fists, drew all his vital forces inward, and died there at her side, without a word or a movement.

After a while, surprised by how still he was being and worried her husband might wake, the girl began to whisper, "Come on, Girolamo, it's time to go." No answer. She thought he must have fallen asleep. She reached out a hand to wake him and found him cold as ice. Alarmed, she nudged him harder. He didn't move. She touched him again and understood: he was dead.

She was stricken with grief beyond measure and lay there for a long time, not knowing what to do. Finally, she came up with a plan. She would test what her husband would say should be done, as if the thing had happened to someone else. She woke him and told him the whole situation as though it had befallen another woman, then asked: what would he advise her to do, if it happened to her?

The good man replied that in his opinion, the dead man should be quietly carried back to his own house and left there, and that no blame should fall on the woman, who seemed to have done nothing wrong.

"Then that's exactly what we must do," said Salvestra, and she took his hand and made him touch the dead youth.

At this the husband was thunderstruck. He got up without another word to his wife, lit a lamp, and dressed the dead body in its own clothes. Then, without any delay, he hoisted it onto his shoulders — his clear conscience giving him strength — and carried it to the door of Girolamo's house, where he set it down and left it.

When morning came and Girolamo was found dead on his own doorstep, there was a great uproar, especially from his mother. Doctors were called in. They examined his body thoroughly, searching for any wound or bruise, but found nothing. The general conclusion was that he had died of grief — which was, in fact, exactly what had happened.

The body was carried to a church. His grieving mother went there with a crowd of ladies — relatives and neighbors — and they all began to weep and wail over him in the customary way. While the mourning was at its height, the tent maker said to Salvestra, "Listen, throw a shawl over your head and go to the church where they've taken Girolamo. Mix in with the women and listen to what's being said about it. I'll do the same among the men, so we can find out if anyone suspects us."

The girl agreed. She had been slow to feel pity when it might have mattered, but now — too late — she wanted to look upon the face of the man who, when he was alive, she hadn't been willing to give so much as a single kiss.

It's a remarkable thing, how hard it is to fathom the ways of love. That heart which Girolamo's good fortune had failed to open was cracked open by his ruin. The old feelings came flooding back. When she saw that dead face, a wave of compassion hit her so hard that she pushed through the crowd of veiled women until she reached the body. There she let out a terrible, wrenching scream and threw herself face-down onto the dead man. She didn't bathe him with many tears, because the moment she touched him, grief took her life just as it had taken his.

The women tried to comfort her and tell her to get up, not recognizing who she was. When she didn't respond to their words, they tried to lift her and found her limp. They raised her up and saw that it was Salvestra — and that she was dead.

Everyone in that church, overcome by double grief, began to weep even louder than before. The news quickly spread to the men outside, including her husband. He wept for a long time, refusing all comfort. Then he told the whole story of what had happened that night between the dead youth and his wife, and so the cause of both their deaths became known to all. There was not a soul who didn't grieve.

They took up the dead girl and adorned her as they do the dead, and laid her on the same bier beside Girolamo. For a long time they mourned the two of them together. Then they were buried in a single tomb — and so death joined forever those whom love had not been able to bring together in life.

Day 4, Story 9

Sir Guillaume de Roussillon kills his wife's lover, Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, tears out his heart, and has it cooked and served to his wife. When she learns what she has eaten, she throws herself from a high window to her death, and is buried alongside her lover.

When Neifile finished her story, which had stirred deep compassion in all the ladies, the king — who had no intention of taking away Dioneo's customary privilege of going last, and with no one left to tell a story but the two of them — began: "Gentle ladies, since stories of ill-fated love move you to such pity, let me tell you one that should stir it no less than the last. The people in my story were of higher rank than those we've just heard about, and the catastrophe that befell them was even more savage.

The story goes that in Provence there once lived two noble knights, each with castles and vassals of his own. One was called Sir Guillaume de Roussillon, the other Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing. Both were renowned warriors, and they loved each other dearly. They were in the habit of riding out together, wearing matching colors, to every tournament, joust, or feat of arms.

Although they lived in separate castles a good ten miles apart, it happened that Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing fell desperately in love with Roussillon's wife, who was an exceptionally beautiful and charming woman. Despite the deep friendship between the two men, Guardestaing pursued her by every means he could think of, and before long the lady became aware of his feelings. Knowing him for a truly valiant knight, she was flattered — and then she began to return his love. Soon she desired nothing in the world so much as him, and she waited only for him to make his move. That wasn't long in coming, and the two of them became lovers.

They loved each other passionately, but they weren't as discreet about their meetings as they should have been. Eventually, the husband found out. The great love Roussillon had once felt for Guardestaing turned instantly to deadly hatred. But he was better at hiding his feelings than the two lovers had been at hiding theirs. He made up his mind in secret: Guardestaing had to die.

While Roussillon was nursing this intent, a great tournament was announced in France. Roussillon immediately sent word to Guardestaing, inviting him over so they could discuss whether and how they should attend. Guardestaing replied with delight that he would certainly come and would join him for supper the following day.

When Roussillon heard this, he knew the time had come. The next morning, he armed himself, mounted his horse, and with a single servant rode out to a stretch of woods about a mile from his castle — woods that Guardestaing would have to pass through. He waited in ambush.

After a good long while, he saw Guardestaing approaching, unarmed and followed by two servants likewise carrying no weapons — a man with nothing to fear from a friend. The moment Guardestaing reached the spot Roussillon had chosen, he burst from the trees on horseback, lance leveled, burning with rage, and shouted: "Traitor, you're a dead man!"

The words and the lance struck at the same instant. The weapon plunged through Guardestaing's chest, and he fell from his horse without even time to speak, let alone defend himself. Moments later, he was dead. His two servants, not waiting to see who had done it, wheeled their horses around and galloped back toward their lord's castle as fast as they could.

Roussillon dismounted. With a knife, he opened the dead man's chest and with his own hands tore out the heart. He had it wrapped in the pennon of a lance and gave it to one of his men to carry. He ordered everyone to say nothing of what had happened. Then, as night was falling, he rode home.

His wife had heard that Guardestaing was supposed to come to supper that evening, and she had been waiting for him with the keenest impatience. When he didn't appear, she was puzzled and said to her husband, "How is it that Guardestaing hasn't come?"

"I had word from him," her husband replied. "He can't be here until tomorrow."

The lady was somewhat troubled by this but said nothing more.

Roussillon dismounted and called for the cook. "Take this wild boar's heart," he said, "and make the finest, most delicious dish you know how to prepare from it. When I'm at table, send it to me on a silver platter."

The cook took the heart and poured all his skill and care into it, mincing it fine, seasoning it with a wealth of rare spices, and turning it into an exquisite ragout.

When it was time, Sir Guillaume sat down to dinner with his wife. The food was served, but he ate very little, his mind heavy with the deed he had committed. Then the cook sent in the ragout. Roussillon had it placed before his wife, claiming he had no appetite that evening, and urged her to try it. The lady, who was not at all a picky eater, tasted it and found it delicious. She ate every last bite.

When the knight saw that her plate was clean, he said, "Wife, what did you think of that dish?"

"Honestly, my lord," she answered, "I thought it was wonderful."

"God help me," said Roussillon, "I believe you. And I'm not surprised that you enjoyed it dead, since you enjoyed it more than anything else when it was alive."

The lady froze for a moment. Then she said, "What? What have you made me eat?"

"What you ate," said the knight, "was the actual heart of Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing, the man you loved so faithfully, you disloyal wife. Know for certain that it is his very heart. I tore it from his chest with these two hands, just before I came home."

You hardly need to ask whether the lady was devastated, hearing this about the man she loved more than anything in the world. After a moment, she said: "You've done the deed of a faithless, base knight — which is exactly what you are. If I freely made Guardestaing the lord of my love, and in doing so offended you, then the punishment should have fallen on me, not on him. But God forbid that any other food should ever follow a dish so noble as the heart of so brave and courteous a gentleman as Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing."

She rose to her feet. Without a moment's hesitation, she stepped backward through the window behind her — a window that was terrifyingly high above the ground. She didn't just die from the fall. She was nearly shattered to pieces.

Sir Guillaume, seeing this, was shaken to the core. He realized he had gone too far. Terrified of the local people and of the Count of Provence, he had his horses saddled and fled.

By the next morning, the whole country knew what had happened. The two bodies were taken up with the deepest grief and lamentation by Guardestaing's people and the lady's own household, and they were laid together in a single tomb in the chapel of the lady's own castle. Over the grave, verses were inscribed telling who lay buried there and the manner and cause of their deaths.

Day 4, Story 10

A doctor's wife hides her lover, who she believes is dead, in a chest. Two moneylenders steal the chest and carry it home. The lover, who was only drugged, wakes up inside and is arrested as a thief. But the lady's maid tells the authorities that she put him in the chest herself, and the moneylenders are the ones who stole it — saving her man from the gallows and landing the thieves with a fine.

Filostrato had finished his story, and only Dioneo was left to speak. Knowing this, and being told by the king to go ahead, he began: "The sorrows that have been told today about unlucky lovers have saddened not just your eyes and hearts, ladies, but mine as well. I've been longing for this day to end. Now that — thank God — these sad tales are done with, and I have no intention of adding another miserable one to the pile (God forbid!), I'll leave that gloomy theme behind and start with something lighter and more cheerful, which might point us toward better territory for tomorrow's stories.

You should know, dear ladies, that not so long ago in Salerno there lived a famous surgeon named Master Mazzeo della Montagna. He'd already reached a very advanced age when he took a young, beautiful, and well-born wife from his own city. He kept her better supplied with gorgeous clothes, jewels, and every luxury a woman could want than any other lady in town. The truth, though, was that she spent most of her time cold in bed, because her husband kept her poorly covered — if you take my meaning. Just as Messer Riccardo di Chinzica (who we've already heard about) used to teach his wife to observe every saint's day and holiday as an excuse, the good doctor claimed that lying with a woman just once required God knows how many days of recovery and similar nonsense. She was deeply unhappy about this arrangement.

Being a smart and spirited woman, she decided that since her husband was so stingy with the household goods, she'd better take herself to the open market and spend someone else's stock instead. She looked over various young men and finally found one who suited her perfectly. She set all her hopes on him, and when he realized her interest and found her very much to his liking, he fell for her just as hard.

The young man in question was called Ruggieri da Jeroli — noble by birth but with a terrible reputation, living such a disreputable life of theft and petty crime that he'd been abandoned by every friend and relative he had. He was notorious throughout Salerno. But the lady didn't much care about any of that, since what she liked about him had nothing to do with his resume. With the help of her maid, she arranged for them to meet, and they became lovers.

After they'd been enjoying themselves for a while, the lady began to scold him for his past behavior and beg him, for her sake, to give up his criminal ways. To help him do so, she started slipping him money on a regular basis. And so they carried on together, quite discreetly.

Then one day, a patient was brought to the doctor — a man with a badly infected leg. Master Mazzeo examined him and told the man's relatives that unless a certain decayed bone was removed from the leg, the whole limb would have to come off, or he'd die. Removing the bone offered a chance of recovery, but he warned that he'd only take the case on the understanding that the patient might not survive. The family agreed and put the sick man in his care.

The doctor figured the patient wouldn't be able to endure the pain of the operation without being sedated. That morning, he prepared a special sleeping potion — a distillation of his own recipe — that would put the man to sleep for as long as needed. He brought the bottle home and set it in his bedroom without telling anyone what it was.

When evening came, just as the doctor was about to go tend to the patient, an urgent message arrived from close friends of his in Amalfi, telling him to come immediately because there had been a terrible brawl and many people were wounded. Master Mazzeo postponed the leg operation until the next morning, got on a boat, and sailed off to Amalfi.

His wife, knowing he wouldn't be home that night, did what she usually did: she sent for Ruggieri. She brought him to her bedroom and locked him in there while she waited for the rest of the household to go to sleep. Now, Ruggieri was sitting in the bedroom waiting for his lady, and he was desperately thirsty — whether from the day's exertions, or from salty food he'd eaten, or just out of habit. He spotted a bottle of water sitting on the windowsill — the sleeping potion the doctor had made for his patient — and, thinking it was ordinary drinking water, raised it to his lips and drank the whole thing. It wasn't long before an overwhelming drowsiness came over him, and he fell fast asleep.

The lady came to the bedroom as soon as she could. Finding Ruggieri asleep, she nudged him and whispered for him to get up. Nothing. He didn't answer and didn't stir. Annoyed now, she shook him harder: "Wake up, you lazy thing! If you wanted to sleep, you should have stayed home instead of coming here."

Pushed like that, Ruggieri toppled off the chest he'd been lying on and hit the floor, showing no more signs of life than a corpse. Now the lady was getting scared. She tried to pull him up and shook him roughly, tweaked his nose, yanked his beard — all useless. He'd tied his donkey to a very sturdy post, as they say. She started to fear he might actually be dead. She tried pinching him hard, even holding a lit candle to his skin — nothing. She was no doctor, even if her husband was one, and she became convinced that he really was dead.

She loved him more than anything, so you can imagine her grief. Not daring to make any noise, she wept silently over him, mourning this terrible stroke of bad luck.

After a while, realizing that she couldn't afford to add public disgrace to her private loss, she knew she had to get the body out of the house fast. Not sure how to manage this, she quietly called her maid, told her the whole disaster, and asked for advice. The maid was stunned. She pulled and pinched Ruggieri herself, but when she got no response either, she agreed with her mistress: he was definitely dead. They needed to get him out.

"But where can we put him," asked the lady, "so that when he's found in the morning, no one will suspect he was carried out of this house?"

"Well, madam," said the maid, "earlier this evening I noticed a chest — not too big — sitting outside the carpenter's shop across the way. If the owner hasn't taken it inside, it'll be perfect for our purposes. We can lay him in it and give him a couple of slashes with a knife, then leave him there. When somebody finds him, there's no reason they'd think he was put there from this house rather than anywhere else. In fact, given his reputation, people will probably just assume he was killed by some enemy while he was out doing something shady, and then stuffed in the chest."

The lady liked this plan — except for the part about slashing him. She said she couldn't bring herself to do that, not for all the world. She sent the maid to check whether the chest was still there. The maid came back: it was.

The maid was young and strong. With the lady's help, she hoisted Ruggieri onto her shoulders. The lady went ahead to make sure the coast was clear, and together they carried him out, put him in the chest, closed the lid, and left him there.

Now, as it happened, just a day or two earlier, two young moneylenders had moved into a house a little farther down the street. They needed furniture but were too cheap to buy any. That same day they'd noticed the chest sitting outside the carpenter's shop and had agreed between themselves that if it was still there at night, they'd steal it. Sure enough, at midnight they crept out and found the chest right where they'd left it. Without bothering to examine it closely — though it seemed suspiciously heavy — they hauled it off to their house and set it down beside the room where their wives were sleeping. Not worried about positioning it just right, they left it there and went to bed.

Toward dawn, Ruggieri woke up. The drug had run its course. His sleep was broken but his brain was still foggy — a dizziness that lingered for days afterward. He opened his eyes and couldn't see a thing. He reached out his hands in all directions and realized he was inside a chest. He tried to think.

"What's going on? Where am I? Am I asleep or awake? I remember coming to my lady's bedroom this evening, and now I seem to be in a chest. What does this mean? Did the doctor come home? Did something else happen and my lady hid me while I was sleeping? That must be it. That's got to be it."

He made himself lie still and listen for any sound. After a long uncomfortable stretch — the chest was small, and the side he was lying on was killing him — he tried to turn over. He shifted his weight so cleverly that he shoved his backside against one wall of the chest, which hadn't been set on level ground, and tipped the whole thing over. It crashed to the floor with a huge bang.

The women sleeping nearby woke with a start but were too frightened to make a sound.

Ruggieri was badly shaken by the fall, but he discovered that the lid had popped open. Given the choice between staying in the chest and seeing what might happen next, he chose to get out. He climbed free and, having no idea where he was, started groping his way through the house, trying to find a stairway or a door.

The women heard him stumbling around. "Who's there?" they called out. Ruggieri didn't recognize the voices and didn't answer. So the women started calling for the two young men, who had stayed up late and were sleeping too soundly to hear any of it. Growing more and more frightened, the women got out of bed, threw open the windows, and started screaming: "Thieves! Thieves!"

Neighbors came running from all directions — some climbing over the rooftops, some breaking in through one entrance or another — and the two young men finally woke up and stumbled out of bed. They grabbed Ruggieri, who was standing there in a daze of complete bewilderment, with no idea how to escape.

They turned him over to the officers of the city governor, who had arrived on the scene at the commotion. Since Ruggieri was already known as a man of the worst reputation, the governor wasted no time: he had Ruggieri put to the question, and under torture Ruggieri confessed to having broken into the moneylenders' house to rob them. The governor decided to have him hanged without delay.

By morning, the news was all over Salerno: Ruggieri had been caught red-handed burglarizing the moneylenders' house. When the lady and her maid heard this, they were so astonished that they nearly convinced themselves they had only dreamed what they'd done the night before. On top of that, the lady was so distraught at the danger Ruggieri was in that she thought she'd lose her mind.

Shortly after mid-morning, the doctor returned from Amalfi. Wanting to operate on his patient, he called for his sleeping potion and found the bottle empty. He threw a fit, ranting that nothing could be left alone in his house for five minutes.

His wife, who had her own problems to worry about, snapped at him: "What would you say about something that actually mattered, Doctor, when you carry on like this over a little bottle of water that got knocked over? Is there no more water to be found in the world?"

"Wife," said the doctor, "you think that was ordinary water. It wasn't. It was a sleeping potion I prepared for a patient." And he told her what it was for.

The moment she heard this, the lady understood everything. Ruggieri had drunk the potion, and that's why he had seemed dead. She said to her husband, "Well, we didn't know that, so you'll just have to make some more." The doctor, seeing no alternative, had another batch prepared.

Shortly afterward, the maid — who had been sent out by her mistress to find out what people were saying about Ruggieri — came back with a report: "Madam, everyone is talking badly about him. As far as I could tell, not a single friend or relative has stepped forward to help him, and it's considered certain the chief of police will have him hanged tomorrow."

"But I have something strange to tell you," she continued. "I think I've figured out how he ended up in the moneylenders' house. Here's what happened: you know the carpenter, the one whose shop is across from where the chest was? Just now he was having the most heated argument with another man, who it turns out owned the chest. The owner was demanding payment for it, and the carpenter was insisting he hadn't sold it — it had been stolen from him during the night. 'That's not true,' said the other man. 'You sold it to those two young moneylenders. They told me so last night when I saw it in their house, right after Ruggieri was arrested.' 'They're lying,' the carpenter shot back. 'I never sold it to them. They stole it from me last night. Let's go confront them.' So off they went to the moneylenders' house, and I came back here. So you see, it's clear enough how Ruggieri was carried to where he was found. But how he came back to life — that I can't figure out."

Now the lady understood the full picture. She told the maid what the doctor had said about the sleeping potion and begged for her help in saving Ruggieri, explaining that she had it in her power to rescue him and preserve her mistress's honor at the same time.

"Just tell me what to do, madam," said the maid, "and I'll do anything."

The lady's wits, sharpened by desperation, quickly produced a plan. She laid it all out in detail for the maid, who went first to the doctor.

Weeping, the maid said to him: "Sir, I need to ask your forgiveness for a terrible thing I've done."

"What is it?" asked the doctor.

Still crying, she said: "Sir, you know what kind of young man Ruggieri da Jeroli is. Well, he took a liking to me a while back, and partly out of fear and partly because I fell for him, I became his lover. Last night, knowing you were away, he sweet-talked me into bringing him into your house to sleep with me in my room. He was dying of thirst, and I couldn't think of anywhere to quickly get water or wine — I didn't want your wife to see me in the front room — so I remembered seeing a bottle of water in your bedroom. I ran and got it, gave it to him to drink, and put the bottle back where I found it. And now I hear you've been very upset about this. I admit I did wrong — but who doesn't slip up sometimes? I'm terribly sorry about it, though not so much for the thing itself as for what's come of it, because now Ruggieri may lose his life. Please, I beg you, forgive me and let me go do what I can to save him."

The doctor, hearing all this, was angry but couldn't help being amused. He replied: "Well, you've given yourself your own punishment, haven't you? You were expecting a young stallion to give you a good tumble last night, and instead you got a dead log. So go on — do what you can to save your lover. But from now on, don't you ever bring him into this house again, or I'll make you pay for both times at once."

The maid, feeling she'd gotten through the first hurdle well enough, hurried straight to the prison where Ruggieri was being held. She sweet-talked the jailer into letting her speak with the prisoner and coached him on exactly what to say when the chief of police questioned him. Then she managed to get an audience with the magistrate himself.

Now, the magistrate — seeing that she was young and attractive — decided that before he'd listen to her story, he'd like to toss his grappling hook aboard the good ship, as it were. The maid, figuring she'd get a better hearing that way, didn't exactly refuse. When the business was done and she'd gotten up off the grindstone, she said: "Sir, you're holding Ruggieri da Jeroli as a thief. But that's not what happened." Then, starting from the beginning, she told him the whole story — how she, being his lover, had brought him into the doctor's house and given him the drugged water without knowing what it was; how she'd taken him for dead and stuffed him in the chest; and then what she'd overheard about the argument between the carpenter and the chest's owner, which explained how Ruggieri had ended up in the moneylenders' house.

The magistrate could see that verifying all this would be easy enough. He questioned the doctor first and confirmed the story about the sleeping potion. Then he summoned the carpenter, the owner of the chest, and the two moneylenders. After a good deal of back and forth, it came out that the moneylenders had indeed stolen the chest during the night and brought it into their house.

Finally, he sent for Ruggieri and asked him where he'd slept the night before. Ruggieri said he had no idea. He remembered going to spend the night with Master Mazzeo's maid, in whose room he'd drunk some water because he was terribly thirsty. After that, he couldn't say what had happened to him, except that when he woke up, he found himself in a chest in the moneylenders' house.

The magistrate was thoroughly entertained by all of this. He had the maid, Ruggieri, the carpenter, and the moneylenders repeat their stories several times over. In the end, finding Ruggieri clearly innocent, he released him and fined the moneylenders ten ounces of gold for stealing the chest.

No one needs to ask how relieved Ruggieri was, and his lady was overjoyed beyond words. She and her lover and the maid — that priceless maid who'd been ready to slash him with a knife — laughed about the whole affair many times afterward, and they carried on with their love and their pleasures, going from strength to strength. Which is something I'd happily wish for myself — minus the part about being stuffed in a chest.

—-

If the earlier stories had weighed on the hearts of the lovely ladies, this last one of Dioneo's made them laugh so hard — especially the bit about the magistrate tossing his grappling hook — that they fully recovered from the melancholy the others had caused.

But the king, seeing that the sun was turning golden and that his reign was at an end, graciously apologized to the fair ladies for what he had done — that is, for making them spend the day talking about such sorrowful matters as the misfortunes of lovers. Then he rose to his feet, took the laurel wreath from his own head, and while the ladies watched to see who would receive it, placed it gently on Fiammetta's lovely hair.

"I give this crown to you," he said, "since you, more than anyone, will know how to console our companions tomorrow with cheerful stories, after today's sadness."

Fiammetta — whose long golden curls fell in waves over her white and delicate shoulders, whose soft, rounded face glowed as if lit from within by white lilies and red roses, whose eyes were as sharp and bright as a falcon's, and whose dainty little mouth had lips like twin rubies — smiled and answered: "I accept it gladly, Filostrato. And so that you know exactly what you've done, I hereby declare my will: let each of us prepare to tell stories tomorrow about lovers who, after cruel and unfortunate adventures, found their way to happiness."

Everyone was pleased by this. Fiammetta called the steward, made the necessary arrangements for the evening, and then cheerfully dismissed the group until suppertime.

They all went off to amuse themselves however they liked. Some wandered through the garden, whose beauty never seemed to grow old; others drifted toward the mills that turned just beyond the grounds; and still others went here and there as the mood took them, until the supper hour arrived. They all gathered, as was their custom, by the beautiful fountain, and dined there with great pleasure and excellent service.

After supper, they got up and turned to their usual pastimes of dancing and singing. Filomena led off the dance, and the queen said: "Filostrato, I don't intend to depart from the custom of those who ruled before me. Like them, I command that a song be sung at my bidding. And since I'm quite sure your songs are as cheerful as your stories, I'd like you to sing one of them now, so that no more days than this one need be troubled by your gloomy fortunes."

Filostrato said he'd be happy to, and without delay began to sing:

Through my tears I make it plain > How rightly does my heart complain > Of love betrayed and faith in vain. > > Love, when first you stamped upon my heart > Her image — she for whom I sigh > With no hope of relief — > You made her seem so full of grace > That every torment I thought light > That through you to my breast, > Now full of sorrow and unrest, > Might come; but now, I must confess > My error, and the pain. > > I first saw through the lie > When she abandoned me completely — > She in whom I'd placed my only hope; > For just when I believed myself > Most firmly rooted in her favor, > Her devoted servant dear, > Without a thought for my despair, > I found she'd given her heart to another > And cast me out with scorn. > > When I knew myself exiled, > A grievous lament grew in my heart > That still holds power there, > And often I curse the day and hour > When first her lovely face met my eyes, > Shining with such beauty; > And still more enamored than before, > My dying soul keeps up its song, > Cursing faith and hope and ardor, all at once. > > How empty of relief my misery is > You well may feel, my lord, so bitterly I call to you > With voice all full of woe; > And I tell you that it weighs on me so > That I long for death as a lesser pain. > Come, death, then; cut the thread > Of this grief-stricken life, > And with your stroke relieve my madness too; > Go where I may, the suffering will be less. > > No other path is left to me but death, > No other solace for my sorrow; > Then grant it to me now, > Love; put an end to my despair. > Ah, do it — since fate's cruelty > Has robbed me of all joy; > Gladden her, my lord, with my death, slain by love, > As you have cheered her with another man. > > My song, though no one cares to learn you, > I mind the less, indeed, for none > Could sing you quite like me; > One charge alone I give you, ere I die: > Find Love, and unto him alone > Show fully how unwelcome > This bitter, dreary life has become, > And beg him, by his power, to grant me > Some better harbor where I might find rest. > > Through my tears I make it plain > How rightly does my heart complain > Of love betrayed and faith in vain.

The words of this song made Filostrato's state of mind plain enough, as did their cause — which the face of a certain lady in the dance might have made plainer still, had the darkness of the fallen evening not hidden the blush that rose to her cheeks. When his song was done, many others were sung, until the hour for sleep arrived. At the queen's command, each of the ladies retired to her own room.

Here ends the Fourth Day of the Decameron.

Day 5 — Introduction

Here begins the fifth day of the Decameron, in which, under the rule of Fiammetta, the company tells stories of lovers who found happiness after enduring cruel misfortunes and dangerous adventures.

The whole eastern sky was already glowing white, and the first rays of the rising sun had lit up the horizon, when Fiammetta — drawn out of bed by the sweet song of birds cheerfully singing from the branches in the early morning — got up and had the other ladies and the three young men called as well. They all strolled down at a leisurely pace into the fields, wandering happily across the broad, dew-covered meadow, chatting about one thing and another, until the sun had climbed high enough that they could feel its heat. At that point, Fiammetta turned them back toward the villa.

Once there, she had them refreshed with fine wines and light snacks to shake off the mild fatigue of their walk, and they amused themselves in the beautiful garden until it was time to eat. When lunch was ready — everything prepared to perfection by their capable steward — they sat down to their meal in high spirits, as the queen wished, after singing a few songs and a ballad or two. They ate well and happily, and true to their daily custom, they got up to dance afterward, moving through several lively numbers set to music and tambourines. Then the queen dismissed everyone until their afternoon rest was over.

Some went off to sleep, while others stayed up and found their pleasures again in the lovely garden. But all of them, following their established routine, gathered together a little after three o'clock near the beautiful fountain, where the queen had arranged for them to meet. Taking her seat in the place of honor, Fiammetta looked over at Panfilo and, with a smile, asked him to start things off with the first of the day's happy love stories. He was more than willing, and began.

Day 5, Story 1

Cimone is a dull brute until love transforms him into a cultured gentleman. He abducts his beloved Iphigenia at sea, gets thrown into prison on Rhodes, is freed by Lysimachus, and together they carry off both their ladies on the wedding day — fleeing to Crete, marrying them, and eventually returning home in peace.

"Delightful ladies, there are plenty of stories that would make a fitting start to such a happy day as this one promises to be. But one appeals to me more than the rest, because through it you'll come to understand just how holy, how powerful, and how full of goodness the force of Love truly is — a force that many people, not knowing what they're talking about, condemn and curse, and they're dead wrong. Since I believe every one of you is in love, this ought to please you especially.

On the island of Cyprus — as we can read in the old histories of the Cypriots — there once lived a very noble gentleman named Aristippus. He was richer than anyone else on the island, and he might have considered himself the luckiest man alive, except that fortune had given him one bitter grief. Among his children, he had a son who was taller and more handsome than any other young man his age — but a hopeless fool, practically an idiot. His real name was Galesus, but since no amount of teaching, coaxing, or beatings from his father, and no effort by anyone else, had managed to get even the faintest trace of education or good manners into his head — and since he had a rough, grating voice and crude behavior more fitting for a farm animal than a person — nearly everyone called him Cimone as a joke. In the local dialect, that was roughly equivalent to calling someone a brute or a mule.

His father found this wasted life deeply painful. Eventually, having given up all hope for the boy, Aristippus told him to go live out at the country estate among the farmhands, so he wouldn't have to keep looking at the source of his disappointment. Cimone was perfectly happy with this arrangement, since the rough ways of peasants and laborers suited him far better than anything in the city.

So off Cimone went to the countryside, busying himself with farm work. One day, sometime after noon in the month of May, he was walking from one farm to another with his staff across his shoulder when he entered a beautiful grove, all leafy and green with the season. Passing through it, he happened — as if guided there by fate — upon a little meadow ringed by tall trees. In one corner, beside a clear, cool spring, a stunningly beautiful young woman lay asleep on the green grass. Her garment was so thin it concealed almost nothing of her fair skin. From the waist down she was covered only by a light white cloth. At her feet, two women and a man — her servants — slept as well.

When Cimone caught sight of her, he stopped in his tracks. Leaning on his staff, he stood there staring at her in the most intense fascination, completely silent, as though he had never in his life laid eyes on a woman's body. And somewhere in that rough, thick chest of his — where a thousand lessons had failed to make the slightest impression of civilized feeling — he felt a thought stir, whispering to his dull, earthbound mind that this was the most beautiful thing any living soul had ever seen.

He began studying each part of her — admiring her hair, which he thought was made of gold, her forehead, her nose, her mouth, her throat, her arms, and especially her breasts, just barely beginning to swell. This lout had transformed, in the space of a few minutes, into a connoisseur of beauty. He burned to see her eyes, which were closed in deep sleep. Several times he nearly woke her up, but he held back — she seemed so much more beautiful than any woman he'd ever seen that he half-suspected she must be a goddess. And he had just enough sense to know that divine things deserved more respect than earthly ones. So he waited for her to wake on her own. The wait felt agonizingly long, but he was seized by such unfamiliar pleasure that he couldn't bring himself to walk away.

At last, after a long while, the young woman — whose name was Iphigenia — woke before any of her servants. She opened her eyes and found Cimone standing over her, leaning on his staff. She knew him by sight, as nearly everyone in the countryside did, thanks to both his loutish reputation and his father's wealth and prominence. "Cimone," she said, quite surprised, "what are you doing in this wood at this hour?"

He didn't answer. When her eyes opened, he simply stood there gazing into them, feeling that some sweetness flowed from them that filled him with a pleasure he had never known before. The young woman, seeing how fixedly he stared, began to worry that his vacant intensity might lead him to do something that would put her to shame. She called her servants, rose to her feet, and said, "Goodbye, Cimone."

"I'll come with you," he said.

She didn't want his company — she was still uneasy about him — but she couldn't shake him off. He walked alongside her all the way to her own house.

From there, he went straight to his father's house in the city and announced that he absolutely refused to go back to the country. This was an annoyance to Aristippus and his relatives, but they let him stay, waiting to see what had caused this change of heart.

And then Love's arrow — which had pierced Cimone's heart through the beauty of Iphigenia, finding an entrance where a thousand teachers had failed — began its work. In a remarkably short time, moving from one transformation to the next, he astounded his father, his relatives, and everyone who knew him.

First, he asked his father to dress him in fine clothes and give him everything his brothers had. Aristippus was more than happy to do it. Then, keeping company with wellborn, educated young men and learning the habits and manners expected of a gentleman — and especially of a man in love — he accomplished something extraordinary. In a very brief span, he not only picked up reading and writing but became one of the best students of philosophy on the island. After that — love being the engine of all this — he polished his rough, boorish way of speaking into something refined and eloquent. He became a talented singer and musician, an expert horseman, and a formidable fighter, both on land and at sea.

In short — without listing every single accomplishment — before four years had passed since the day he first fell in love, he had become the most accomplished, most polished, and most talented young gentleman on all of Cyprus.

So what should we say about Cimone, charming ladies? Only this: the noble qualities that heaven had planted in his gifted soul had been bound up with heavy chains by jealous fortune and locked away in some cramped corner of his heart. Love — mightier than fortune — shattered every one of those chains. Love is the great awakener, the one who rouses sleeping talents and drags them out of the darkness into the light. Cimone's case shows clearly what depths Love can lift a soul from, and to what heights it can carry those who fall under its power.

Now, although Cimone loved Iphigenia and sometimes went to certain youthful extremes — as young men in love tend to do — his father Aristippus, recognizing that love had turned his dunce into a man, not only bore these excesses patiently but encouraged his son to pursue every pleasure love inspired. But Cimone, who refused to be called Galesus anymore — remembering that Iphigenia had called him by that name — wanted to bring his desire to an honorable conclusion. Again and again he made formal approaches to Iphigenia's father, Cipseus, asking for her hand in marriage.

But Cipseus always gave the same answer: he had already promised her to Pasimondas, a young nobleman from Rhodes, and he had no intention of breaking his word.

When the time for the agreed-upon marriage arrived and the groom sent for Iphigenia, Cimone said to himself: "Now, Iphigenia, is the time to prove how much you are loved by me. Through you I became a man, and if I can win you, I have no doubt I'll become greater than a god. One way or another, I will have you — or I will die."

He quietly recruited some young noblemen who were his friends, secretly outfitted a ship for battle, and put to sea to intercept the vessel carrying Iphigenia to her husband in Rhodes. After her father had lavished honors on the groom's friends, Iphigenia boarded their ship. They turned their bow toward Rhodes and departed.

The next day, Cimone — who hadn't slept a wink — came upon them with his ship. Standing at the prow, he shouted across to the other vessel: "Stop! Lower your sails, or prepare to be beaten and sunk!"

Cimone's enemies had brought their weapons on deck and were getting ready to fight. So after his warning, he hurled a grappling iron onto the stern of the Rhodian ship, which was pulling away at full speed. With brute force he lashed it to his own prow. Then, bold as a lion, he leaped aboard the enemy ship without waiting for a single man to follow him, as if the whole crew were nothing. Driven by love, he fell on them with extraordinary fury, cutlass in hand, slashing left and right, cutting them down like sheep.

The Rhodians threw down their weapons. With one voice they surrendered.

"Men," Cimone said to them, "it wasn't greed or hatred that made me leave Cyprus and attack you at sea. What drove me is something of tremendous importance to me and very little cost to you: it's Iphigenia. I love her more than anything in this world. Since I couldn't win her from her father through friendship and peaceful means, Love has forced me to take her from you as an enemy, by force of arms. I intend to be to her what your friend Pasimondas was supposed to be. Hand her over, and go your way with God's blessing."

The Rhodians, compelled more by force than goodwill, handed Iphigenia over, weeping, to Cimone. Seeing her tears, he said, "Noble lady, don't be upset. I am your Cimone, and my long love gives me a far better claim to you than Pasimondas ever had through any mere promise."

He had her brought aboard his own ship, returned to his companions, and let the Rhodians go without touching anything else of theirs. Then, overjoyed at having won such a precious prize, he spent some time comforting the weeping lady. After consulting with his crew, they decided not to return to Cyprus just yet. Instead, they all agreed to sail for Crete, where nearly everyone — especially Cimone — had relatives and friends, both old and new. They felt confident they'd be safe there with Iphigenia.

But fickle fortune, which had cheerfully enough granted Cimone the lady, suddenly transformed the young lover's indescribable joy into bitter grief. It was barely four hours since they'd left the Rhodians behind when night fell — a night Cimone had expected to be the most wonderful of his life. With the night came a violent, raging storm. The sky filled with clouds, the sea churned with savage winds. No one could see what to do or where to steer, and no one could even keep their footing on deck.

You don't need to ask how distressed Cimone was. It seemed to him the gods had granted his wish only to make dying that much more painful — death that, before all this, he would scarcely have cared about. His companions were just as miserable. But Iphigenia wept the most, crying out at every wave that struck the ship. Through her tears, she cursed Cimone's love and damned his recklessness. She declared that the storm had come for one reason only: the gods didn't want this man who defied their will to enjoy his stolen prize. They would make her die first, and then he would perish miserably after her.

With lamentations like these and worse, the wind growing fiercer by the hour, the sailors having no idea what to do, the ship drifted — they couldn't tell where — toward the island of Rhodes. Not realizing it was Rhodes, they did everything in their power to reach shore and save their lives. Fortune cooperated at least that far, guiding them into a small cove. And there, by terrible luck, they found the very same Rhodian ship they'd released the day before, which had arrived just a little ahead of them. They didn't realize they'd landed on Rhodes until dawn broke and the sky cleared enough for them to see they were about a bowshot from the other ship.

Cimone was horrified. Fearing exactly what did, in fact, happen next, he ordered his men to do everything possible to get out of that cove and let fortune carry them wherever she pleased — anywhere would be better than here. They tried desperately to put to sea, but it was hopeless. The wind was blowing so hard against them that they couldn't leave the little harbor, and whether they liked it or not, it drove them onto the beach.

As soon as they landed, the Rhodian sailors recognized them. One of them sprinted to a nearby village, where the young Rhodian gentlemen had gone, and told them the news: as luck would have it, the storm had blown Cimone and Iphigenia right to them. Delighted, the Rhodians gathered a large group of villagers, rushed down to the shore, and seized Cimone, Iphigenia, and all his crew. They'd just landed and were huddled together debating whether to flee into the nearby woods when they were captured and marched to the village.

When Pasimondas heard the news, he filed a complaint with the island's senate. Lysimachus — who held the highest magistracy on Rhodes that year — came from the city with a large force of armed men, hauled Cimone and all his companions off to prison. And just like that, the wretched, lovesick Cimone lost the Iphigenia he'd only just won — without having taken anything from her beyond a kiss or two. Iphigenia, meanwhile, was received by many noble ladies of Rhodes, who comforted her both for the trauma of her abduction and the misery of the stormy crossing. She stayed with them until the day appointed for her wedding.

As for Cimone and his men, their lives were spared — in recognition of the fact that he'd freed the young Rhodians the day before — even though Pasimondas pushed hard to have them executed. They were sentenced instead to life in prison, where, as you can imagine, they sat in utter despair, without a shred of hope.

But while Pasimondas was rushing to prepare his wedding, fortune — as if regretting the sudden blow she'd dealt Cimone — arranged a new turn of events to free him. Here's how it happened.

Pasimondas had a younger brother named Ormisdas — no less worthy a man, just not as old. For some time, Ormisdas had been negotiating to marry a beautiful, highborn girl from the city named Cassandra, but the deal had fallen through several times due to various complications. Now Pasimondas, in the midst of planning his own grand celebration, thought it would be an excellent idea if Ormisdas could get married on the same occasion — why go to the trouble and expense of two separate weddings? So he reopened negotiations with Cassandra's parents, successfully closed the deal, and the two brothers agreed that Ormisdas would marry Cassandra on the same day Pasimondas married Iphigenia.

When Lysimachus — the chief magistrate — heard about this, he was devastated. He had been desperately in love with Cassandra and had been clinging to the hope that if Ormisdas didn't marry her, he'd surely win her himself. But like a wise man, he kept his anguish hidden and began thinking about how he might stop this wedding. The only way he could see was to carry her off by force. His official position made that easy enough to arrange, but it also made the act far more dishonorable than it would have been for an ordinary man. Still, after much deliberation, passion won out over honor. Come what may, he would take Cassandra.

Thinking about what kind of allies he'd need and how to pull it off, he remembered Cimone, locked up in his prison with all his companions. He realized he couldn't ask for a better or more trustworthy partner in this enterprise.

That night, he had Cimone brought secretly to his chambers and made his case: "Cimone, just as the gods are extraordinarily generous in the gifts they give to people, they are also the wisest judges of character. Those who prove themselves brave and steadfast no matter the circumstances, they consider the most worthy of the greatest rewards. The gods wanted surer proof of your merit than you could ever show within the comfortable walls of your father's house — your father, who I know is enormously wealthy. So first, through the sharp sting of love, they lifted you from a mindless brute into a real man. Then, through bad fortune and now through the misery of this prison, they're testing whether your spirit has changed from what it was when you were still rejoicing in your hard-won prize. If you're still the same man you were then, know this: the gods have never prepared anything for you as wonderful as what they're about to give you now. And I'm going to tell you what it is, so you can recover your courage and steel yourself again.

"Pasimondas, who's been celebrating your misfortune and lobbying hard for your execution, is rushing to marry your Iphigenia — to enjoy the prize that fortune first cheerfully gave you and then suddenly snatched away. How much that must grieve you, if you love her the way I think you do, I know from my own experience — because his brother Ormisdas is about to do the exact same thing to me with Cassandra, the woman I love above all others. They're both getting married on the same day.

"As far as I can see, fortune has left us only one way out: the courage in our hearts and the strength of our sword arms. We need to seize our weapons and fight our way to our women — you for the second time, me for the first. If getting your lady back means anything to you — I won't even mention your freedom, which I imagine means little without her — the gods have placed her right in your hands, if you're willing to join me."

These words rekindled every bit of Cimone's lost fire. "Lysimachus," he answered without a moment's hesitation, "you couldn't find a stronger or more loyal partner for this than me, if what you're promising is real. Tell me what you need me to do, and you'll find I back you with everything I've got."

"Three days from now," said Lysimachus, "the new brides will enter their husbands' homes for the first time. That evening, you and your companions — armed — along with some trusted friends of mine, will force our way inside. We'll snatch our ladies right out of the middle of the feast and carry them to a ship I've had secretly outfitted. We kill anyone who tries to stop us."

The plan suited Cimone perfectly. He sat quietly in prison until the appointed day.

When the wedding day arrived, the celebration was lavish and magnificent. Every room of the two brothers' house overflowed with joy and festivity. Lysimachus, having prepared everything he needed, divided Cimone and his men, along with his own friends — all armed beneath their clothing — into three groups. First, he fired them up with a rousing speech. Then he secretly sent one group to the harbor, to make sure no one could prevent them from boarding the ship when the time came. With the other two groups, he headed for Pasimondas's house. He stationed one group at the door — so no one could lock them inside or block their escape — and then he and Cimone led the rest up the stairs.

They burst into the dining hall where the two new brides sat in their places of honor among the many other ladies. Overturning tables, each man grabbed his woman. They handed the brides to their companions with orders to carry them immediately to the waiting ship.

The brides began to scream and cry. So did the other ladies, and the servants. In an instant, the entire house erupted in chaos and wailing.

Cimone, Lysimachus, and their men drew their swords and headed for the stairs. No one stood in their way — everyone scrambled aside. As they descended, Pasimondas appeared at the bottom with a heavy club, drawn by the uproar. Cimone brought his sword down in a tremendous blow that split Pasimondas's skull clean in two and dropped him dead at his feet. His wretched brother Ormisdas, rushing to help, was cut down the same way by another of Cimone's strokes. Several others who tried to get close were likewise wounded and beaten back by Cimone's and Lysimachus's companions.

They left the house awash in blood, screams, tears, and grief. Closing ranks around their prizes, they fought their way to the ship without anyone stopping them. They boarded with their ladies and all their men — the shore was already filling with armed townsfolk rushing to rescue the brides — and threw the oars into the water and pulled away, jubilant.

They sailed to Crete, where they were joyfully received by many friends and relatives. They married their ladies with great celebration and gave themselves over to the happy enjoyment of what they'd won.

The uproar and outrage over their actions raged on for some time, both in Cyprus and in Rhodes. But in the end, their friends and relatives intervened on both islands and managed to smooth things over. After a period of exile, Cimone returned joyfully to Cyprus with Iphigenia, and Lysimachus went home to Rhodes with Cassandra. Each of them lived long and happily with his wife in his own country."

Day 5, Story 2

Costanza falls in love with Martuccio Gomito. When she hears he has drowned at sea, she sets out in a boat alone, hoping to die — but the wind carries her safely to the North African coast. She discovers her lover is alive and thriving in Tunis, they are reunited, and the two return home to Lipari rich and married.

When the queen saw that Panfilo's story was done and had thoroughly praised it, she called on Emilia to go next. Emilia began:

"It's only natural for everyone to take pleasure in stories where love gets the reward it deserves. And since love, in the long run, earns happiness more than sorrow, I'm going to enjoy following today's theme far more than I enjoyed yesterday's sad assignment from the king.

You should know, dear ladies, that close to Sicily there's a small island called Lipari. Not too long ago, there lived on it a very beautiful young woman named Costanza, born into one of the island's most prominent families. It happened that a young man from the same island named Martuccio Gomito — a charming, well-mannered fellow, skilled at his trade — fell in love with her. And she burned for him just as fiercely. She was never at ease except when she could see him.

Martuccio wanted to marry her and sent someone to ask her father for her hand. The father's answer was blunt: Martuccio was poor, and he wouldn't give his daughter to a poor man. Stung by this rejection, Martuccio gathered some friends and relatives, outfitted a fast ship, and swore he'd never return to Lipari until he was rich. He sailed off and turned pirate, raiding along the North African coast and plundering anyone weaker than himself.

Fortune smiled on him well enough — but he didn't know when to stop. It wasn't enough to have gotten very wealthy. In trying to get even wealthier, he and his crew ran into a squadron of Saracen ships. After a long fight, they were captured and stripped of everything. The Saracens sank his vessel, slaughtered most of his men, and carried Martuccio off to Tunis, where he was thrown into prison and kept there in misery for a long time.

Back in Lipari, the news arrived — not from one or two people but from many — that Martuccio and everyone on board his ship had drowned. Costanza, who had been in agony ever since her lover's departure, wept bitterly when she heard he was dead. She decided she didn't want to go on living. But she couldn't bring herself to take her own life by violent means, so she came up with another way to die.

One night, she slipped secretly out of her father's house and made her way to the harbor. There, set apart from the other boats, she found a fishing smack whose owners had just come ashore, leaving it rigged with mast, sail, and oars. She climbed aboard, rowed herself out to sea, hoisted the sail, and then threw the oars and rudder overboard, surrendering herself entirely to the waves. She figured the wind would inevitably capsize an unloaded, unmanned boat, or smash it against rocks — and either way, she'd drown, even if she lost her nerve and tried to save herself. She wrapped her head in her cloak, lay down in the bottom of the boat, and wept.

But things turned out nothing like she'd imagined. The wind was from the north, gentle and steady, and the sea was nearly calm. The little boat rode it out safely and carried her, by the following evening, to a beach near a town called Susa, a good hundred miles past Tunis. Costanza had no idea she'd reached land — she'd kept her head covered the whole time and had no intention of lifting it, come what may.

As it happened, a poor woman was on the beach at that moment, gathering up fishing nets she'd spread in the sun to dry. She spotted the boat running full-sail straight onto the shore and was baffled — who would let a boat beach itself like that? Thinking the fishermen aboard must have fallen asleep, she went to take a look. No one was inside but the young woman, fast asleep. She called out to her several times, finally woke her, and recognizing from her clothing that she was Christian, asked in Italian how she'd ended up there in that boat, all alone.

Costanza, hearing Italian, was alarmed — had a shift of wind blown her back to Lipari? She sat up quickly, looked around, but didn't recognize the landscape. Seeing she was on dry land, she asked the woman where she was.

"My child, you're near Susa, in North Africa."

When Costanza heard this, she was crushed that God hadn't granted her the death she'd sought. Terrified of what might happen to her — a young woman alone in a strange land — she sat down at the foot of her boat and burst into tears.

The kind woman took pity on her and, with much coaxing, brought her back to a little hut. There she gradually got the whole story out of her. Seeing that the girl was starving, she set out her own dry bread, some fish, and water, and pleaded with her until she ate a little.

Costanza asked the woman who she was and how she came to speak Italian so well. She answered that her name was Carapresa, that she was from Trapani in Sicily, and that she worked for some Christian fishermen there. When Costanza heard the name Carapresa — which sounds like "dear prize" in Italian — she took it, for no reason she could explain, as a good omen. Something shifted inside her. A tiny spark of hope flickered to life, even though she couldn't say what she was hoping for, and her desire to die began to fade. Without revealing who she was or where she came from, she begged the woman earnestly to take pity on her youth, for the love of God, and help her find some way to protect herself from harm.

Carapresa, good soul that she was, heard her out, left her in the hut while she quickly gathered up her nets, then came back and wrapped Costanza from head to foot in her own cloak. She led her to Susa, where she said: "Costanza, I'm going to take you to the house of a very kind Saracen lady I often work for. She's elderly and compassionate. I'll recommend you to her as strongly as I can, and I'm certain she'll take you in gladly and treat you like a daughter. Stay with her, do everything you can to win her favor, and wait until God sends you better fortune." And that's exactly what she did.

The old lady, hearing Carapresa's story, looked into the girl's face and began to weep. She took Costanza by the hand, kissed her on the forehead, and brought her into her home. The household was all women, no men — they worked together with their hands at various crafts, producing beautiful things in silk, palm fiber, and leather. Costanza quickly learned to do some of these crafts herself and, working alongside the others, won such affection from the old lady and the whole household that it was remarkable. Before long, they taught her their language as well.

While Costanza lived in Susa — mourned back home as lost and dead — it happened that a certain Mariabdela was king of Tunis, and a young man from a powerful family in Granada declared that the kingdom of Tunis rightfully belonged to him. He raised a great army and marched on King Mariabdela to seize his throne.

Word of this reached Martuccio Gomito in prison. He knew the local language extremely well, and when he heard that the king was desperately preparing his defenses, he said to one of the guards: "If I could speak to the king, I'm confident I could give him advice that would win this war."

The guard reported this to his superior, who took it straight to the king. The king ordered Martuccio brought before him and asked what his advice was.

"My lord," Martuccio said, "if I observed correctly during the time I used to travel in your lands, your battles rely mainly on archers. So here's my idea: find a way to make sure your enemy's bowmen run out of arrows while yours have plenty, and you'll win the war."

"If that could be managed," said the king, "I'd consider victory certain."

"My lord, here's how to do it. Have much thinner bowstrings made for your archers' bows than the ones everyone normally uses. Then have arrows made with notches so narrow they'll only fit these thin strings. This has to be done in absolute secrecy — if your enemy finds out, they'll come up with a countermeasure.

"Here's the reason: once the battle starts and both sides have shot all their arrows, your enemy's soldiers will gather up the arrows your men shot, and your men will gather theirs. But the enemy won't be able to use your arrows, because the narrow notches won't fit their thick bowstrings. Meanwhile, your men will have no trouble using the enemy's arrows — the thin strings will slide right into the wider notches. So your archers will have all the ammunition they need, while the other side runs out."

The king was a wise ruler. He liked Martuccio's plan, followed it exactly, and won the war because of it. Martuccio shot up into the king's highest favor and rose to great wealth and power.

News of all this spread across the region, and eventually it reached Costanza's ears: Martuccio Gomito, the man she'd long believed dead, was alive. The love for him that had been cooling in her heart burst into fresh flame, stronger than ever. Dead hope came roaring back to life.

She told the kind old lady she was living with the whole truth about her story and said she wanted to go to Tunis, so her eyes could see what her ears had made them desperate for. The old lady warmly encouraged her plan, and like a mother, she boarded a ship with Costanza and took her to Tunis. There they were given a generous welcome in the house of one of the old lady's relatives.

She sent Carapresa, who had come along with them, to find out what she could about Martuccio. When Carapresa came back confirming that he was alive and prospering, the old lady decided she wanted to be the one to break the news to Martuccio herself. She went to him and said: "Martuccio, a servant of yours from Lipari has turned up at my house and wishes to speak with you privately. He didn't want to trust anyone else with the message, so I've come to tell you myself, at his request."

Martuccio thanked her and followed her to her house.

When Costanza saw him, she nearly died of happiness. Unable to hold herself back, she ran to him with open arms and threw herself around his neck. Then, clinging to him, she wept — overcome by both the memory of their past sufferings and the overwhelming joy of this moment. She couldn't get a word out.

Martuccio stood there, dumbstruck with amazement. Then he sighed and said: "Costanza — you're alive? I heard long ago that you'd disappeared and that nobody back home knew what happened to you." He embraced her, weeping, and kissed her tenderly.

Costanza told him everything that had happened to her and described the kindness of the old gentlewoman she'd been living with. After they'd talked for a long time, Martuccio left her and went to the king, his master. He told him the whole story — his own adventures and the girl's — and added that, with the king's permission, he intended to marry her according to Christian law.

The king was amazed. He sent for the young woman, heard her confirm every detail, and said: "Well then, you've more than earned him as your husband." He ordered magnificent gifts brought in and gave part to her and part to Martuccio, granting them leave to do as they pleased.

Martuccio then honored the old gentlewoman who had sheltered Costanza, thanked her for everything she'd done, gave her gifts worthy of her generosity, and commended her to God. He and Costanza said their goodbyes — not without many tears on the old lady's part.

Then, with the king's blessing, they boarded a ship with Carapresa and sailed home to Lipari with a fair wind. The celebration when they arrived was beyond anything words can describe. Martuccio married Costanza with great and joyful ceremony, and the two of them lived long in peace and happiness, savoring the love they'd fought so hard to keep."

Day 5, Story 3

Pietro Boccamazza runs away with Agnolella but falls into the hands of bandits. The girl escapes through a forest and finds refuge in a castle, while Pietro, after a harrowing night, makes his way to the same castle — where they are reunited, married, and safely returned to Rome.

Everyone praised Emilia's story warmly. When the queen saw it was finished, she turned to Elisa and told her to go next. Eager to obey, Elisa began:

"The story that comes to mind, charming ladies, is about a truly terrible night endured by a pair of reckless young lovers. But since it was followed by many happy days, it fits today's theme perfectly, so I'll tell it.

Not long ago in Rome — once the head of the world, now its tail — there lived a young man named Pietro Boccamazza, from one of the city's most distinguished families. He fell in love with a very beautiful, lovable girl named Agnolella, the daughter of a man called Gigliuozzo Saullo. Her father was a commoner, but one who was much beloved by the Roman people. Pietro loved her so well, and worked at it so persistently, that Agnolella came to love him back just as fiercely.

Driven by his burning passion and unable to bear the cruel ache of wanting her any longer, Pietro asked for her hand in marriage. The moment his relatives heard about it, they descended on him in force and scolded him mercilessly for what he was trying to do. At the same time, they sent word to Gigliuozzo that he should pay no attention to Pietro's proposal — because if he went through with it, they would never accept him as a friend or kinsman.

Pietro, seeing the only path he knew to his desire blocked off, felt like he could die of frustration. If Gigliuozzo had been willing, he would have married the girl in defiance of his entire family. But as things stood, he resolved that if Agnolella was game, he'd find a way to make it happen anyway. Through a go-between, he confirmed that she was willing, and the two of them agreed to elope from Rome together.

One morning, very early, Pietro got up, put Agnolella on a horse, and set out for Anagni, where he had friends he trusted completely. There was no time for a proper wedding — they were afraid of being followed — so they just rode, talking about their love and stealing kisses now and then.

The trouble was that Pietro didn't know the road very well. About eight miles from Rome, where they should have gone right, they went left instead. They'd barely ridden two more miles when they found themselves near a small fortress. Before they knew what was happening, a dozen men on foot came pouring out toward them.

Agnolella spotted them first, just as they were almost on top of them. "Pietro, ride!" she screamed. "We're under attack!" She yanked her horse's head around toward a thick forest nearby, dug her spurs into his flanks, and grabbed the saddlebow. The horse, feeling the goading, bolted into the woods at a full gallop.

Pietro, who'd been gazing at her face instead of watching the road, was slower to notice the men. Before he even understood where they were coming from, they overtook him and dragged him off his horse. They demanded to know who he was. When he told them, they huddled together and said, "This man's connected to our enemies. What else should we do but strip him, take his horse, and hang him from one of those oaks — that'll send a nice message to the Orsini."

They all agreed, and they ordered Pietro to take off his clothes. But just as he was doing it — already imagining the noose — an ambush of twenty-five or more footsoldiers burst out from the trees, shouting "Kill them! Kill them!" The first group of bandits, caught completely off guard, dropped everything and scrambled to defend themselves. But they were badly outnumbered. They turned and ran, with their attackers chasing after them.

Pietro saw his chance. He snatched up his clothes, jumped on his horse, and rode hard in the direction he'd seen Agnolella go. But he couldn't find any trace of her. There were no roads, no paths through the forest, no hoofprints he could follow. He was the most miserable man alive. As soon as he felt sure he'd gotten far enough from both groups of bandits, he started riding back and forth through the woods, weeping and calling her name. No one answered. He didn't dare turn back, and he had no idea where he'd end up if he kept going forward. On top of everything, he was terrified of the wild animals that lived in these forests — afraid for himself, and even more afraid for Agnolella, whom he kept imagining strangled by a bear or a wolf.

And so unlucky Pietro wandered the woods all day long, crying and calling out, sometimes circling back the way he'd come when he thought he was going forward. Between the shouting, the weeping, the fear, and the fact that he hadn't eaten all day, he was completely spent. Night was falling. He had no idea what else to do, so he climbed off his horse, tied it to a large oak, and scrambled up into the branches to avoid being eaten by wild animals in the dark.

A little later the moon rose. The night was clear and bright. He sat up in his tree, wide awake, sighing and weeping and cursing his terrible luck. He didn't dare fall asleep for fear of losing his grip — though even if he'd had the most comfortable bed in the world, his grief and his terror for Agnolella wouldn't have let him close his eyes.

Meanwhile, Agnolella had ridden on blindly, letting her horse carry her wherever it chose, plunging so deep into the forest that she could no longer see where she'd entered. She spent the whole day wandering through that wild, deserted place, just as Pietro had — pausing to listen, then riding on, weeping the whole time, calling out and lamenting her fate.

At last, when evening came and Pietro still hadn't appeared, she stumbled onto a narrow path. Her horse turned into it, and after riding about two miles, she spotted a small house in the distance. She made for it as fast as she could and found there an old man and his equally old wife. When they saw her alone, they said, "Child, what are you doing out here by yourself at this hour?"

The girl answered, through tears, that she'd lost her companion in the woods. She asked how far it was to Anagni.

"My dear," the old man said, "this isn't the way to Anagni. It's more than twelve miles from here."

"Then is there anyplace nearby where I could find a bed for the night?"

"There's nothing close enough for you to reach before dark."

"Then would you please, for the love of God, let me stay here tonight?"

"Young lady," the old man replied, "you're welcome to stay with us tonight. But we have to warn you: there are dangerous gangs roaming these parts at all hours, some on our side and some not, and they cause us all kinds of grief. If by bad luck some of them show up while you're here, and they see a girl as young and pretty as you — well, they might do things to you we couldn't stop. We think you should know this ahead of time, so you can't blame us if it happens."

Agnolella, seeing that it was late and despite being frightened by the old man's words, said, "God willing, He'll protect us all. And even if something like that does happen to me, it's a far lesser evil to be mistreated by men than to be torn apart by wild animals in the woods."

She dismounted, went inside the poor couple's cottage, and ate a meager supper of what little they had. Then, still fully dressed, she lay down with them on their small bed. She didn't sleep a wink all night, lying there sighing and crying over her own misfortune and Pietro's, unable to imagine anything but the worst for him.

Just before dawn, she heard the heavy tramping of a large group approaching. She got up, slipped into the big yard behind the house, and spotted a huge pile of hay in one corner. She burrowed into it to hide, so she wouldn't be found if the men came looking.

She'd barely finished hiding when they arrived — a large band of thugs. They banged on the door, forced their way in, and found Agnolella's horse still saddled and bridled in the house. "Who's here?" they demanded.

The old man, not seeing the girl anywhere, answered: "Nobody but us. But this horse — whoever it ran away from, it wandered in here last night and we brought it inside so the wolves wouldn't get it."

"Good enough," said the leader of the band. "Since it has no other owner, it'll do nicely for us."

They spread out through the little house and some went into the courtyard, where they set down their lances and shields. One of them, with nothing better to do, threw his lance into the haystack. It came within an inch of killing the hidden girl — the steel point grazed past her left breast, close enough to tear a piece of her dress. She nearly screamed, certain she'd been stabbed. But remembering where she was, she clenched her jaw and kept still, trembling all over.

The bandits grilled some kids and other meat they'd brought, ate and drank, and then dispersed to go about their business, taking Agnolella's horse with them.

Once they'd gone some distance, the old man said to his wife: "What happened to that young woman who came last night? I haven't seen her since we got up." His wife said she had no idea and went looking. Agnolella, hearing that the bandits were gone, crawled out of the hay. The old man was overjoyed to see she hadn't fallen into their hands.

"Now that day is breaking," he said, "we'll walk you to a castle about five miles from here, if you like. You'll be safe there. But we'll have to go on foot — those men took your horse."

Agnolella didn't much care about the horse. She begged them, for God's sake, to take her to that castle. They set out and arrived around mid-morning.

The castle belonged to a member of the Orsini family — one Lionello di Campodifiore. His wife happened to be staying there at the time, a very devout and kindhearted lady. The moment she saw Agnolella, she recognized her immediately and welcomed her with delight. She insisted on hearing the full story of how she'd gotten there. Agnolella told her everything.

The lady knew Pietro too — he was a friend of her husband's. She was distraught over what had happened and, hearing where Pietro had been captured, was certain he must be dead. She said to Agnolella: "Since you don't know what's become of Pietro, you'll stay here with me until I can arrange to have you sent safely back to Rome."

Meanwhile, Pietro sat in his oak tree, as wretched as a man could be. Sometime around the hour when most people fall into their first deep sleep, he saw a pack of about twenty wolves emerge from the trees and surround his horse. The horse caught their scent and pulled at his bridle until it snapped. He tried to run but was hemmed in on every side. For a long time he fought them off with his teeth and hooves. But in the end they brought him down, strangled him, and tore him to pieces. The whole pack gorged themselves, devoured every bit of flesh, and loped off into the dark, leaving nothing but bones.

Pietro, who had felt a kind of companionship in having the horse nearby — a support in his troubles — watched this in horror. He was sure he'd never make it out of the forest alive.

But toward dawn, half-frozen in the tree and still scanning the darkness around him, he spotted a large fire burning about a mile away. As soon as it was fully light, he climbed down — not without considerable fear — and made his way toward it. When he reached the fire, he found a group of shepherds eating and warming themselves. They took pity on him and invited him to join them.

After he'd eaten and warmed up, he told them what had happened and how he'd ended up there alone. He asked if there was any village or castle nearby where he could go. The shepherds told him there was a castle about three miles away, belonging to Lionello di Campodifiore, and that his wife was there at the moment. Pietro was relieved. He asked if one of them could guide him there, and two of them volunteered gladly.

When he arrived at the castle, he found people who knew him. He was just beginning to ask about organizing a search party to comb the forest for Agnolella when word came that the lady of the castle wanted to see him. He went to her at once.

When he saw Agnolella there with her, his joy was beyond anything words can capture. He was consumed with the urge to take her in his arms, but held back out of respect for their hostess. And if he was happy, the girl's happiness was no less.

The noblewoman welcomed him warmly, made much of him, and listened to the full account of his ordeal. Then she scolded him roundly for what he'd tried to do against his family's wishes. But seeing that he was utterly determined, and that the girl wanted it just as much, she thought it over: "Why am I wearing myself out over this? These two are in love. They know each other. They're both friends of my husband. What they want is honorable, and it seems to me God Himself must approve — since one of them escaped the noose, the other barely dodged a lance, and both of them survived the wild beasts of the forest. So let it be."

Turning to the young couple, she said: "If your hearts are still set on being husband and wife, so is mine. Let the wedding happen here, at Lionello's expense. I'll take care of making peace with your families afterward."

They were married then and there — Pietro delighted, Agnolella even more so. The lady gave them the finest wedding she could manage in those mountain surroundings. And there, at last, the two young lovers enjoyed the first fruits of their love.

A few days later, they rode back to Rome under good escort along with the lady. She found Pietro's relatives still furious about what he'd done, but she managed to make his peace with them. And Pietro lived with his Agnolella in comfort and happiness for the rest of a long life."

Day 5, Story 4

Ricciardo Manardi is caught in bed with his girlfriend by her father, Messer Lizio da Valbona. But things work out: Ricciardo marries the girl, and everyone lives in peace.

The ladies had been so amused by the previous story that they were still laughing when Elisa finished. When they finally quieted down, the queen turned to Filostrato and told him it was his turn. He grinned and began: "So many of you ladies have given me grief for making you listen to sad stories and weepy subject matter that I feel like I owe you something to make up for it. So let me tell you a quick little story about a love that, after nothing worse than a few sighs and one very alarming moment of embarrassment, came to a perfectly happy ending.

Not so long ago, noble ladies, there lived in Romagna a gentleman of excellent character and fine breeding named Messer Lizio da Valbona. When he was already getting on in years, his wife — a woman named Giacomina — gave him a daughter. The girl grew up lovelier and more charming than anyone else in the region. Being their only child, her parents loved and cherished her beyond measure and watched over her like hawks, hoping to make some grand marriage alliance through her.

Now, there was a young man from the Manardi family of Brettinoro — a handsome, strapping fellow named Ricciardo — who was a regular visitor at Messer Lizio's house and spent a lot of time in his company. Lizio and his wife thought no more of him than they would of one of their own sons. But this Ricciardo, having looked at the girl once or twice and noticed that she was beautiful, lively, and had the most delightful manners, fell desperately in love with her. He was extremely careful to keep this a secret. The girl, however, noticed soon enough, and rather than trying to avoid it, she fell just as much in love with him — which made Ricciardo very happy indeed. He wanted to speak to her about it a hundred times, but kept losing his nerve. Finally, one day, seizing both his courage and his opportunity, he said to her: "Caterina, please — don't let me die of love."

And she answered right back: "God, I wish you'd stop making me die of it."

This response gave Ricciardo a tremendous boost of both courage and pleasure. "Nothing that would make you happy will ever fail on my account," he told her. "But it's up to you to find a way to save both your life and mine."

"Ricciardo," she said, "you can see how closely I'm watched. I can't think of any way you could get to me. But if you can think of something I could do — something that wouldn't bring shame on me — just tell me, and I'll do it."

Ricciardo thought it over and answered quickly: "My sweet Caterina, the only way I can see is for you to sleep — or at least arrange to be — out on the gallery that overlooks your father's garden. If I knew you'd be there at night, I'd find a way to come to you, no matter how high up it is."

"If you've got the nerve to climb up there," Caterina replied, "I'm pretty sure I can manage to be sleeping out there."

Ricciardo agreed. They kissed once, quickly, and went their separate ways.

The next day — it was near the end of May — the girl started complaining to her mother that she hadn't been able to sleep the night before because of the terrible heat.

"What heat?" her mother said. "It wasn't hot at all, dear."

"Mother," Caterina answered, "you should say 'in my opinion' — then you'd be right. But you should consider how much hotter young girls run than women of a certain age."

"That's true enough, daughter," the lady admitted. "But I can't control the weather and make it hot or cold to suit you. You just have to put up with whatever the season brings. Maybe tomorrow night will be cooler and you'll sleep better."

"I hope so!" said Caterina. "But nights don't usually get cooler as we head deeper into summer."

"Well, what would you like to do about it?" her mother asked.

"If it's all right with you and Father," she said, "I'd love to have a little bed set up out on the gallery beside his room, the one that overlooks the garden. I could sleep out there and listen to the nightingale sing, and with all that cool air, I'd sleep so much better than I do in your bedroom."

"All right, dear, I'll talk to your father," her mother said. "Whatever he decides, that's what we'll do."

When Messer Lizio heard about this from his wife, he said — being an old man and perhaps a bit cranky because of it — "What nightingale is this she wants to fall asleep to? I'll have her sleeping to the sound of crickets soon enough."

When Caterina heard this response, she was so annoyed that — more out of spite than because of the heat — she not only didn't sleep a wink that night but wouldn't let her mother sleep either, complaining nonstop about the dreadful heat. The next morning, her mother went to her husband and said: "Sir, you really don't have much tenderness for that girl. What difference does it make to you if she sleeps out on the gallery? She couldn't get a moment's rest all night because of the heat. And besides, can you really blame her for wanting to hear the nightingale sing? She's still a child! Young people are drawn to things that are like themselves."

Messer Lizio gave in. "Fine, go ahead — make her a bed out there. Hang some kind of curtain around it and let her sleep there and listen to the nightingale to her heart's content."

As soon as the girl learned she had permission, she had a bed set up on the gallery right away. Since she was going to sleep there that very night, she watched for Ricciardo and gave him the signal they'd agreed on, by which he understood exactly what was happening. That night, once the girl had gone to bed, Messer Lizio locked the door leading from his bedroom to the gallery and went to sleep himself. When Ricciardo heard that everything was quiet, he climbed a wall with the help of a ladder, then grabbed hold of some footholds on another wall and hauled himself — with great effort and considerable danger, since a fall would have been bad — up to the gallery. The girl received him there quietly and with tremendous joy. After many kisses, they got into bed together and took delight and pleasure in each other for nearly the whole night, making the nightingale sing again and again.

But the nights are short and the pleasure was great, and though they didn't realize it, dawn was nearly upon them. They'd fallen asleep with no covers on — overheated both from the weather and from their exertions — Caterina with her right arm draped around Ricciardo's neck and her left hand holding onto that thing which you ladies are too modest to mention in the company of men.

They slept on this way, not waking, as daylight arrived. Messer Lizio got up, and remembering that his daughter was out on the gallery, quietly opened the door, saying to himself, "Let's see how the nightingale helped Caterina sleep last night." He tiptoed in and gently lifted the curtain draped around the bed — and there he saw his daughter and Ricciardo lying fast asleep, completely naked and uncovered, tangled up together exactly as I just described. Having taken a good look and confirmed that it was indeed Ricciardo, he went back out and straight to his wife's bedroom.

"Quick, wife — get up and come look!" he called to her. "Your daughter was so curious about that nightingale that she's gone and caught it, and she's got it right there in her hand."

"How can that be?" she said.

"You'll see, if you come quickly."

The lady threw on her clothes and quietly followed her husband to the bed. When the curtain was drawn back, Giacomina could see perfectly clearly how her daughter had caught — and was still holding — the nightingale she'd been so eager to hear sing. The lady felt utterly betrayed by Ricciardo and wanted to scream and berate him, but Messer Lizio stopped her.

"Wife, as you value my love, don't say a word. Since she's caught it, it's going to be hers. Ricciardo is young, rich, and well-born — he can only be a good son-in-law for us. If he wants to leave here on good terms with me, he'll have to marry her first. That way, he'll have put the nightingale in his own cage, not someone else's."

This comforted the lady. She could see that her husband wasn't angry, and considering that her daughter had slept well, gotten a good rest, and caught the nightingale to boot, she kept quiet.

They didn't have to wait long. Ricciardo woke up, saw that it was broad daylight, and thought he was a dead man. "Oh God, Caterina!" he said. "What are we going to do? The day's come and caught me here!"

At that, Messer Lizio stepped forward, pulled back the curtain, and answered: "We're going to do just fine."

When Ricciardo saw him, he felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. He sat up in bed and said: "My lord, I beg your mercy, for God's sake. I know I deserve death as a disloyal, wicked man — do with me whatever you please. But I beg you, if it's at all possible, spare my life. Don't let me die."

"Ricciardo," said Messer Lizio, "the love I bore you and the trust I placed in you didn't deserve this. But since it's done, and since youth has carried you into this kind of mistake — here's how you save yourself from death and me from dishonor: take Caterina as your lawful wife. Just as she's been yours tonight, she'll be yours for as long as she lives. Do this, and you'll have both my forgiveness and your safety. But if you won't — well, then I'd suggest you make your peace with God."

While all this was being said, Caterina let go of the nightingale and pulled the covers over herself. She burst into tears, begging her father to forgive Ricciardo, and at the same time begging Ricciardo to do as her father asked, so that they could spend many more such nights together — but safely.

Not that much begging was needed. On one hand, there was the shame of what he'd done and the desire to make things right. On the other, there was the fear of death and the very strong wish not to experience it — to say nothing of his passionate love and the longing to go on possessing the woman he adored. So Ricciardo freely and without a moment's hesitation declared himself ready to do whatever pleased Messer Lizio. The old man borrowed a ring from Giacomina, and right there on the spot, without anyone budging an inch, Ricciardo took Caterina as his wife in the presence of her parents.

That done, Messer Lizio and his wife left the room, saying: "Now get some rest. You probably need sleep more than you need to get up."

Once they were gone, the young couple fell into each other's arms all over again, and having run only about half a dozen courses the night before, they ran another two before getting out of bed — which made a fine end to the first day's tournament.

After that, Ricciardo had a more formal conversation with Messer Lizio, and a few days later, as was proper, he married the girl again in the presence of friends and family and brought her to his house with great ceremony. There he held a grand and joyful wedding celebration, and afterward went nightingale-hunting with her to his heart's content, in peace and comfort, by both night and day."

Day 5, Story 5

Guidotto da Cremona leaves a young girl in the care of Giacomino da Pavia and then dies. Two young men of Faenza, Giannole di Severino and Minghino di Mingole, both fall in love with her and come to blows over it. She turns out to be Giannole's sister and is given in marriage to Minghino.

The nightingale story had made the ladies laugh so hard that even after Filostrato finished telling it, they still couldn't stop. Eventually, once the laughter died down, the queen said to him: "Well, Filostrato — if you made us suffer yesterday, today you've more than made up for it. None of us can fairly complain about you now." Then she turned to Neifile and told her to go next. Neifile cheerfully began: "Since Filostrato took us to Romagna with his story, I'd like to wander around that same territory for a while with mine.

There once lived in the city of Fano two Lombards: one named Guidotto da Cremona and the other Giacomino da Pavia. Both were getting on in years, having spent most of their youth as soldiers and men of arms. When Guidotto lay on his deathbed, having no sons or relatives or any friend he trusted more than Giacomino, he left him a little daughter of about ten years old, along with everything he owned in the world. After explaining his affairs at length, he died.

Now it happened around that time that the city of Faenza, which had long been plagued by war and hardship, was restored to somewhat better conditions, and anyone who wanted to return there was freely welcome to do so. Giacomino, who had lived there before and had a fondness for the place, moved back with all his belongings and brought the girl Guidotto had left him, treating her and loving her as if she were his own child.

The girl grew up to be as beautiful as any young woman in the city, and as virtuous and well-mannered as she was beautiful. Naturally, she attracted plenty of suitors. Two young men in particular — both equally handsome, respectable, and well-off — fell violently in love with her: Giannole di Severino and Minghino di Mingole. Their rivalry became so fierce that they ended up hating each other's guts. Either of them would gladly have married the girl — she was about fifteen by now — but their families wouldn't allow it. So, finding the honorable route blocked, each one started scheming to get her by other means.

Giacomino had in his household an old maidservant and a manservant named Crivello, a cheerful, obliging fellow. Giannole struck up a friendship with Crivello, and when the time seemed right, confessed his feelings and begged for help in winning the girl, promising generous rewards if he came through.

"Look," said Crivello, "the only thing I can do for you is bring you to where she is the next time Giacomino goes out to supper. If I tried talking to her on your behalf, she'd never listen to a word of it. But if that arrangement suits you, I'll set it up. After that, you're on your own — do whatever you think will work best."

Giannole said that was all he needed, and they agreed on the plan.

Meanwhile, Minghino had been working on the maidservant. He'd gotten her on his side so thoroughly that she'd already carried several messages to the girl and had practically set her heart on fire for him. On top of that, she'd promised to bring him to the girl as soon as Giacomino happened to go out for the evening.

Not long after, through Crivello's maneuvering, Giacomino went off to have supper at a friend's house. Crivello sent word to Giannole and arranged a signal: when he gave it, Giannole should come to the house and find the door open. The maid, meanwhile, knowing nothing about any of this, separately let Minghino know that Giacomino would be out and told him to wait nearby for her signal so he could come in.

When evening arrived, the two lovers — each ignorant of the other's plan but both suspicious of their rival — showed up with armed companions, ready to claim their prize. Minghino and his crew positioned themselves at the house of a friend nearby, while Giannole and his men waited a short distance away. Inside, with Giacomino gone, Crivello and the maid each tried to get rid of the other.

"Why don't you go to bed already?" Crivello said to her. "What are you still doing wandering around the house?"

"And why don't you go find your master?" she shot back. "What are you hanging around here for? You've already had your supper."

Neither one could budge the other. But when the appointed hour arrived, Crivello said to himself, "Why do I care what she does? If she doesn't keep quiet, she's going to regret it."

He gave the signal and opened the door. Giannole rushed in with two companions. They found the girl in the main room and grabbed her to carry her off. She started screaming and struggling, and the maid screamed too. Minghino heard the commotion and came running with his men. Seeing the girl being dragged out through the door, they drew their swords and shouted: "Traitors! You're dead men! This isn't going to happen! What kind of thuggery is this?"

A brawl erupted. The neighbors, roused by the noise, came pouring out with torches and weapons. Most of them sided with Minghino and condemned what Giannole was doing. After a long, messy fight, Minghino's side rescued the girl and brought her back to Giacomino's house. But before the whole thing was over, the town captain's officers arrived and arrested a number of them — including Minghino, Giannole, and Crivello, who were all hauled off to prison.

When things settled down and Giacomino came home, he was deeply upset about what had happened. But after looking into it and learning that the girl had done nothing wrong, he calmed down somewhat. He resolved to marry her off as quickly as possible so that nothing like this would happen again.

The next morning, the families of both young men came to see Giacomino. They'd heard the full story and knew how badly things could go for their boys in prison if Giacomino chose to press the matter — which he had every right to do. With soft words and humble attitudes, they begged him to consider not so much the insult he'd suffered from two reckless youths, but the friendship and goodwill they believed he felt for their families. They offered to make whatever amends he saw fit, on behalf of themselves and the young men who had caused all the trouble.

Giacomino was a man of the world and good sense. He answered briefly: "Gentlemen, if I were in my own hometown rather than yours, I consider myself enough of a friend to you that neither in this matter nor any other would I act against your wishes. Beyond that, I'm especially bound to go along with you here, because the person you've wronged is actually one of your own. This girl is not — as many people seem to think — from Cremona or Pavia. She's from Faenza. Neither I, nor she, nor the man who entrusted her to me ever managed to find out whose daughter she was. So whatever you ask of me in this matter, I'll do."

The gentlemen were astonished to hear this. They thanked Giacomino for his generous response and begged him to tell them how the girl had come into his keeping and how he knew she was from Faenza.

"Guidotto da Cremona, my friend and fellow soldier, told me on his deathbed," Giacomino explained. "He said that when this city was taken by the Emperor Frederick and everything was given over to looting, he and his companions broke into a house and found it full of valuables but abandoned by its owners — except for this little girl, who was about two years old at the time. When she saw him coming up the stairs, she called out 'Father!' Moved by pity, he took her with him to Fano, along with everything else in the house. On his deathbed, he left her in my care, along with all his possessions, and charged me to find her a husband when the time came and give her what had been hers as a dowry. Well, she's been of marriageable age for a while now, and I haven't yet found the right match — though I'd very much like to, before something else like last night's disaster happens."

Now, among the men gathered there was a certain Guiglielmino da Medicina, who had been with Guidotto during that raid and knew perfectly well whose house he'd plundered. Spotting another man in the group, Guiglielmino went over to him and said: "Bernabuccio, did you hear what Giacomino just said?"

"I certainly did," said Bernabuccio, "and I was just thinking about it. I remember losing a little daughter, right around the age Giacomino is talking about, during those very same troubles."

"Then this has got to be her," said Guiglielmino. "I was with Guidotto once when I heard him describe where he'd done his looting, and I recognized it as your house. Think carefully — is there some mark or sign by which you could identify her? Have someone check, and I'm sure you'll find she's your daughter."

Bernabuccio racked his memory and recalled that the girl should have a small cross-shaped scar above her left ear — the result of a growth he'd had removed not long before the disaster. Without wasting another moment, he went to Giacomino, who was still right there, and asked to be taken to his house to see the girl. Giacomino readily agreed and brought him there, and the girl was called out.

When Bernabuccio laid eyes on her, it was like seeing the face of her mother, who was still a beautiful woman. But not content with that alone, he asked Giacomino if he might lift the girl's hair above her left ear. Giacomino said of course.

Bernabuccio walked up to the girl, who stood there bashfully. He lifted her hair with his right hand — and there was the cross-shaped scar. Knowing for certain that this was his daughter, he burst into tears and threw his arms around her, though she had no idea what was happening and tried to pull away.

"Brother," he said, turning to Giacomino, "this is my daughter. It was my house that Guidotto plundered, and this child was left behind in the chaos by my wife, her mother. Until today, we believed she had died when the house was burned down that same day."

The girl, hearing all of this and seeing that he was a man of respectable age, gave weight to his words. Moved by some instinct she couldn't explain, she yielded to his embrace, and together they wept tenderly. Bernabuccio promptly sent for her mother, her sisters and brothers, and other relatives, and presented her to them all, telling the whole story. After a thousand embraces, he brought her home to his house amid great rejoicing, to the deep satisfaction of Giacomino.

The town captain, who was a fair-minded man, learned about all of this and realized that Giannole, whom he had locked up in prison, was Bernabuccio's son — and therefore the girl's own brother. He decided to handle the offense leniently and released Giannole, along with Minghino, Crivello, and everyone else involved in the brawl. He then stepped in to mediate between the two young men's families, and having made peace all around, gave the girl — whose name was Agnesa — to Minghino as his wife, to the great happiness of everyone concerned. Minghino was overjoyed. He threw a grand and splendid wedding, brought her home, and lived with her for many happy, peaceful years afterward."

Day 5, Story 6

Gianni di Procida is discovered with a young woman he loves, who had been kidnapped and given to King Frederick of Sicily. The two of them are bound to a stake and about to be burned alive, but Gianni is recognized by Ruggieri dell'Oria, the king's admiral, and they are set free. Gianni marries the girl.

When Neifile's story was over — which had pleased the ladies a great deal — the queen called on Pampinea to tell the next one. She lifted her bright face and began: "The power of Love is tremendous, dear ladies, and exposes those who fall under its spell to terrible hardships and extraordinary, unforeseen dangers — as we've heard again and again, both today and on other occasions. Still, it pleases me to prove the point once more with a story about a young man in love.

Ischia is an island very close to Naples, and there once lived on it, among others, a very beautiful and spirited young woman named Restituta. She was the daughter of a gentleman of the island named Marino Bolgaro. A young man named Gianni, from the tiny neighboring island of Procida, loved her more than his life, and she loved him just as much. Not only would he come over from Procida during the day to see her, but many a night, when he couldn't find a boat, he would swim the whole distance — at the very least to gaze at the walls of her house, if nothing more.

During the height of this passionate love affair, it happened that one summer day the girl was all alone on the shore, picking shellfish off the rocks with a knife and wandering from boulder to boulder, when she stumbled onto a hidden spot among the cliffs. There, taking advantage of the shade and a spring of cool fresh water, a group of young Sicilian men had pulled in with a small sailing vessel on their way from Naples. When they spotted her — alone, beautiful, and completely unaware of their presence — they hatched a plan to seize her and carry her off. And that's exactly what they did. Despite her screaming, they grabbed her, threw her onto their boat, and sailed for Calabria.

Once there, they started arguing about who would get to keep her. Every last one of them wanted her. Since they couldn't reach any agreement and were afraid they'd end up fighting among themselves and ruining everything over this girl, they decided to present her as a gift to Frederick, King of Sicily, who was a young man at the time and had a taste for such prizes. When they arrived in Palermo, they gave the girl to the king, and he — seeing how beautiful she was — was delighted. But since he was feeling a bit under the weather at the moment, he ordered that she be housed in a magnificent pavilion in a garden of his called La Cuba, where she should be looked after until he was feeling better. And so it was done.

The kidnapping caused a huge uproar in Ischia, and what frustrated everyone most was that nobody could figure out who had taken her. But Gianni, who had more reason to care than anyone, didn't sit around waiting for news to find him in Ischia. Learning the general direction the kidnappers had sailed, he outfitted his own boat and set off as fast as he could, scouring the entire coast from Minerva to La Scalea in Calabria, asking everywhere for word of the girl. At La Scalea, he was told she'd been carried off to Palermo by Sicilian sailors. He raced there as fast as he could manage, and after a long search, discovered that she'd been given to the king and was being kept under guard at La Cuba.

This was devastating. He all but lost hope — not just of getting her back, but of ever seeing her again. Still, love kept him rooted to the spot. He sent his boat away, and since nobody in Palermo knew who he was, he stayed behind. He passed by La Cuba constantly, and one day he managed to catch a glimpse of her at a window. She saw him too, and they were both overcome with joy.

Seeing that the area was deserted, Gianni crept as close as he could. She spoke to him and told him what he'd need to do if he wanted to come see her again. He studied every inch of the grounds carefully, then took his leave and waited until the dead of night. He came back and scaled the wall in places where a woodpecker would have had trouble finding a foothold. He made it into the garden, found a long pole, and propped it against the window she'd pointed out to him. He climbed up easily enough.

The girl had already made up her mind about what would happen. She felt that her honor was already as good as lost — she'd been somewhat reserved with Gianni in the past to protect it — and she couldn't think of anyone more worthy to give herself to. More than that, she was hoping to persuade him to carry her away. So she'd left the window open for him to come straight in. Finding it open, Gianni slipped quietly into the room and lay down beside her. She was wide awake, and before anything else happened, she told him everything she was thinking and begged him to take her away from there. Gianni told her that nothing in the world would make him happier, and he promised that as soon as he left, he'd make arrangements so that the very next time he came back, he could carry her off with him. Then, embracing each other with exquisite pleasure, they enjoyed that ultimate delight that Love has to offer. They repeated it several times over, and then, without meaning to, they fell asleep in each other's arms.

Meanwhile, the king — who had been quite taken with the girl from the first moment he saw her — remembered her and, feeling better physically, decided to go spend some time with her, even though it was nearly dawn. He made his way to La Cuba with a few servants, entered the pavilion, and had the door to the room where the girl slept quietly opened. Then, preceded by a blazing torch, he walked in — and looked at the bed. There lay Restituta and Gianni, naked and asleep in each other's arms.

The king was instantly consumed by a white-hot fury. He came within a hair's breadth of pulling out the dagger at his side and killing them both on the spot, right there in bed, without a word. But he checked himself, reasoning that it would be a deeply ignoble thing for any man — let alone a king — to murder two naked people in their sleep. He restrained his rage and decided instead to have them publicly executed by fire. Turning to the one servant who was with him, he said: "What do you think of this worthless woman I'd set my hopes on?" Then he asked if the servant knew the young man who'd had the audacity to break into his residence and commit such an outrage. The man said he'd never seen him before.

The king stormed out of the room, seething with rage. He ordered that the two lovers be seized and bound just as they were — naked — and that as soon as it was full daylight, they be taken to Palermo and tied back-to-back to a stake in the public square. There they would remain until the hour of tierce, so everyone could get a good look at them, and then they would be burned alive. Having given this order, he returned to his palace in Palermo, still boiling with anger.

After the king left, his men descended on the two lovers. They woke them up and immediately, without a shred of pity, seized them and bound them. You can easily imagine how the young couple felt when they realized what was happening — terrified for their lives, weeping and crying out in anguish. Following the king's orders, they were taken to Palermo and bound to a stake in the public square, where the firewood and kindling were piled up right before their eyes, ready to burn them at the appointed hour.

Every man and woman in the city came rushing to see. The men crowded around to stare at the girl and, even as they all agreed she was extraordinarily beautiful and perfectly formed, the women, for their part, flocked to gaze at the young man and praised him just as highly for being handsome and well-built. But the wretched lovers, both burning with shame, stood with their heads bowed and wept over their terrible fortune, expecting the cruel death by fire at any moment.

While they were held there waiting for the appointed hour, the story of what they'd done spread through the whole city and reached the ears of Ruggieri dell'Oria, a man of extraordinary distinction who served as the king's admiral. He went to see them at the stake. First he looked at the girl and had to admire her beauty. Then he turned to examine the young man and recognized him without much difficulty. Drawing closer, he asked: "Aren't you Gianni di Procida?"

The young man raised his eyes and, recognizing the admiral, answered: "My lord, I was indeed the person you're asking about — but I'm about to cease to exist."

The admiral asked what had brought him to this. Gianni answered: "Love, and the king's wrath."

Ruggieri asked him to tell the full story. Gianni told him everything, just as it had happened. The admiral was about to leave when Gianni called him back.

"For God's sake, my lord — if there's any way, could you get me one favor from the man who's put me here?"

"What favor?" asked Ruggieri.

"I can see I'm going to die, and soon," said Gianni. "So I'm asking this: since I'm tied with my back to this girl — whom I've loved more than my life, just as she's loved me — and she's tied with her back to me, could we at least be turned around to face each other? That way, as I die, I can look into her face and leave this world with some comfort."

Ruggieri laughed and said: "Gladly. I'll arrange it so you can see her until you're sick of the sight of her."

Then he left Gianni and ordered the men in charge of the execution to go no further without additional orders from the king. He went straight to Frederick, and although he could see the king was still furious, he didn't hold back.

"Your Majesty," he said, "in what way have those two young people offended you — the ones you've ordered burned at the stake in the square?"

The king told him, and Ruggieri continued: "The offense they committed may well deserve that punishment — but not from you. Crimes deserve punishment, yes, but good deeds deserve reward, along with grace and mercy. Do you know who it is you're about to burn?"

The king said he didn't.

"Then let me tell you," said Ruggieri, "so you can see how recklessly you've let your passions run away with you. The young man is the son of Landolfo di Procida, the brother of Messer Gianni di Procida — the very man who made you king and lord of this island. The girl is the daughter of Marino Bolgaro, the man whose loyalty is the reason your officials haven't been thrown out of Ischia. What's more, these two have been in love for a long time, and it was love that drove them to do what they did — not any desire to insult your authority. If what young people do for love can even be called a sin, why would you put them to death? You should be honoring them with the greatest gifts and favors in your power."

The king listened, and after confirming that everything Ruggieri said was true, he not only stopped the execution but was overcome with regret for what he'd already done. He immediately ordered the two lovers to be untied from the stake and brought before him. This was done at once. After hearing their full story, he concluded that the right thing to do was to repay the wrong he'd done them with generosity and honor. He had them dressed in fine new clothes, and learning that they were in agreement, he had Gianni take the girl as his wife. Then he gave them magnificent gifts and sent them home, where they were received with the greatest joy and celebration."

Day 5, Story 7

Teodoro, a slave in the household of Messer Amerigo, falls in love with his master's daughter Violante and gets her pregnant. He's condemned to be hanged, but as he's being led to the gallows — whipped all the way — he's recognized by his own father and set free. He marries Violante.

The ladies had all been on the edge of their seats, terrified that the lovers in the previous story would be burned, and when they heard of the couple's escape, they praised God and were glad. Seeing that Pampinea had finished, the queen told Lauretta it was her turn. Lauretta cheerfully began: "Dear ladies, back in the days when good King William ruled Sicily, there lived on that island a gentleman named Messer Amerigo Abate of Trapani. Among his many worldly blessings, he was abundantly supplied with children. He also needed servants, and when some Genoese pirate galleys came through — having raided the coast of Armenia and captured a number of boys — he bought several of them, assuming they were Turks. Most of them looked like little shepherds, but one stood out: a boy named Teodoro, who had a nobler bearing and a finer appearance than any of the others.

Although Teodoro was treated as a slave, he grew up in the house alongside Messer Amerigo's own children. As he matured, his true nature asserted itself over his unfortunate circumstances. He proved himself so capable, well-mannered, and refined that Messer Amerigo set him free. Still believing the boy was Turkish, Amerigo had him baptized and renamed Pietro, made him head of all his household affairs, and placed enormous trust in him.

As Messer Amerigo's children grew older, so did his daughter Violante — a beautiful, delicate young woman. Her father was taking his time finding her a husband, and in the meantime she happened to fall in love with Pietro. She loved him deeply and admired everything about his character and manners, but she was too ashamed to tell him. Love, however, spared her the trouble. Pietro had stolen more than a few glances at her and had fallen so passionately in love that he was miserable every moment she was out of his sight. But he was terrified that someone might notice, since he knew perfectly well he had no business feeling this way. The girl, who took pleasure in watching him, picked up on his feelings soon enough. To put him at ease, she made it obvious that she was delighted by his attention — as indeed she was.

They went on like this for a long time, each of them desperately wanting to speak but neither daring to say a word. Both of them burned with the flames of love in silence. But Fortune, as if she'd decided in advance that this was going to happen, gave them their opening.

Messer Amerigo owned a beautiful estate about a mile outside Trapani, where his wife often went with Violante and other women for relaxation. One scorching hot day, they headed out there with Pietro in tow. While they were enjoying themselves, the sky suddenly went dark with heavy clouds, the way it does in summer. The lady decided to head back to Trapani before the storm caught them, and the whole party set off walking as fast as they could.

But Pietro and Violante were young and quick on their feet, and they pulled far ahead of the mother and the rest of the group — driven perhaps as much by love as by fear of the weather. They were so far ahead they'd almost disappeared from view when, suddenly, after a series of thunderclaps, a ferocious hailstorm came pounding down. The mother and her companions took shelter in a farmhouse.

Pietro and the girl, having no better refuge, ducked into a little old hut that was practically falling apart and completely abandoned. They huddled together under a small section of roof that was still intact. The cramped space forced them to press close against each other, and that contact was enough to embolden both of them to finally acknowledge the desire that had been consuming them.

Pietro spoke first: "I wish to God this hail would never stop, if it means I get to stay like this."

"I'd like that too," said the girl.

From those words, they moved on to holding hands, then squeezing them, then embracing, then kissing — the hail still hammering down all the while. To make a long story short, the weather didn't clear up before they'd discovered the ultimate pleasures of love and agreed on how they'd continue to see each other in secret. The storm ended, and they made their way to the city gate, which was nearby. They waited there for the lady and her group, then went home together as if nothing had happened.

After that, with great care and secrecy, they met again and again at the same spot, much to the delight of both. Things progressed at such a pace that the girl became pregnant — a development that was deeply unwelcome to both of them. She tried everything she could think of to end the pregnancy, going against the course of nature, but nothing worked.

Pietro, fearing for his life, decided to flee and told her so. She answered: "If you leave, I will kill myself. Without question."

Pietro loved her enormously. "My lady," he said, "how can you expect me to stay? Your pregnancy will expose what we've done. You'll be forgiven easily enough. But I'm the one — wretched as I am — who'll pay the price for your sin and mine."

"Pietro," she replied, "my condition will certainly come to light. But you can be sure that no one will ever learn your part in it — unless you tell them yourself."

"If you promise me that," he said, "then I'll stay. But you had better keep that promise."

The girl hid her condition as long as she possibly could, but eventually, as her body grew, she couldn't conceal it any longer. One day, in tears, she confessed everything to her mother and begged her to help. Her mother was beside herself with grief. She gave the girl an earful and demanded to know how this had happened. Violante, wanting to protect Pietro, made up a story — disguising the truth in a completely different version of events. Her mother believed it, and to cover up her daughter's situation, sent her off to a country estate of theirs.

The time of delivery came, and the girl began crying out in labor the way women do. Her mother never imagined that Messer Amerigo — who almost never visited the place — would show up. But as luck would have it, he happened to pass by the very room where his daughter lay, on his way home from hawking. Startled by her screams, he burst in and demanded to know what was going on.

His wife, seeing him appear so unexpectedly, leapt up in a panic and told him what had happened. But Amerigo, less gullible than his wife, declared it was impossible that the girl didn't know who the father was. He insisted on knowing the truth. If she confessed, she might regain his good graces. If she didn't, she should prepare to die without mercy.

The wife tried her best to get her husband to accept the story she'd been told, but it was useless. He flew into a rage and charged at his daughter — who had, in the midst of all this, given birth to a baby boy — with his naked sword in his hand.

"Either you tell me who fathered this child," he said, "or you die right now."

The girl, terrified of death, broke her promise to Pietro and confessed everything. When the gentleman heard the truth, he was consumed with fury and barely held himself back from killing her on the spot.

After saying everything that his rage dictated, he got back on his horse and rode to Trapani, where he went straight to a man named Messer Currado, who served as the king's captain in the city, and told him all about the outrage Pietro had committed. Currado immediately had Pietro arrested — he was completely off his guard — and put to the rack. Pietro confessed everything. A few days later, he was sentenced to be flogged through the streets and then hanged.

But Messer Amerigo's wrath wasn't satisfied by the mere fact that Pietro would die. He wanted to wipe out the two lovers and their child in one fell swoop. He poured poison into a cup of wine, and handing it to a servant along with a naked dagger, said: "Take these to Violante and tell her, on my behalf, that she is to choose one of these two deaths immediately — the poison or the blade. If she refuses, I'll have her burned alive in front of the whole city, as she deserves. Once that's done, take the newborn child and smash its head against the wall, then throw the body to the dogs."

This savage sentence delivered by a father against his own daughter and grandchild, the servant — who was the sort of man more inclined to cruelty than kindness — set off to carry out his orders.

Meanwhile, Pietro was being led to the gallows by the officers, getting whipped along the way. The route happened to pass — as those leading the procession chose it — in front of a hostelry where three Armenian noblemen were staying. These men had been sent by the king of Armenia as ambassadors to Rome, to discuss important matters with the Pope concerning an upcoming crusade. They had stopped in Trapani for a few days of rest and had been handsomely entertained by the local gentlemen, and by Messer Amerigo in particular. Hearing the procession pass by, they came to a window to watch.

Pietro was stripped to the waist, his hands bound behind his back. One of the three ambassadors — a man of considerable age and authority named Fineo — noticed a large, vivid red birthmark on the young man's chest. It wasn't painted on; it was a natural mark, the kind of thing that women here call a "rose." The sight of it triggered a sudden memory: a son of his who had been kidnapped by pirates fifteen years ago off the coast of Lazistan, and from whom he'd had no word since. Considering the age of the poor wretch being flogged before him, Fineo realized that if his son were still alive, he'd be about the same age as this young man. The birthmark made him suspect this might actually be his boy, and he reasoned that if it really was his son, the young man should still remember his own name, his father's name, and the Armenian language.

As the procession drew close, Fineo leaned out and called: "Teodoro!"

Pietro heard the name and immediately lifted his head. Fineo, speaking in Armenian, called down to him: "Where are you from? Whose son are you?"

The officers leading him halted out of respect for the nobleman. Pietro answered: "I was from Armenia, the son of a man named Fineo. I was brought here as a small child by people I don't remember."

Hearing this, Fineo knew beyond any doubt that this was his lost son. Weeping, he came down with his companions and ran through the crowd of officers to embrace him. He pulled the rich silk cloak from his own shoulders and wrapped it around the young man's bare back. Then he begged the officer leading the execution to please wait there until he received orders to bring the prisoner back. The officer agreed.

Fineo had already heard why Pietro was being led to his death — the story had spread all over the city. He went immediately, with his companions and their retinue, to see Messer Currado.

"Sir," he said, "the man you've condemned to die as a slave is a free man — and my son. He is prepared to marry the woman whose virginity he is said to have taken. I ask you to delay the execution long enough to find out whether she'll have him as her husband. That way, if she's willing, you won't find yourselves in violation of the law."

Messer Currado was stunned to learn that the condemned man was Fineo's son. Acknowledging the truth of what he said, and somewhat ashamed at how unjustly fortune had treated the young man, he immediately had Pietro brought home. Then he sent for Messer Amerigo and told him everything.

Messer Amerigo, who by this point believed his daughter and grandson were already dead, was the most miserable man in the world when he heard all this — because if Violante were still alive, everything could have been set right. He sent a runner to the country estate at full speed: if his orders hadn't yet been carried out, they were not to be.

The messenger arrived to find the servant Amerigo had sent standing over Violante, berating her. He'd laid out the dagger and the poison in front of her, and since she wasn't choosing fast enough for his liking, he was about to force her hand. But when he heard his master's new orders, he backed off and left her alone. He returned to Messer Amerigo and reported that she was still alive.

Amerigo, enormously relieved, went to where Fineo was staying and, practically in tears, apologized as best he could for everything that had happened. He begged forgiveness and swore that if Teodoro was willing to marry his daughter, he would be overjoyed to give her to him.

Fineo accepted his apologies graciously and said: "It is my intention that my son marry your daughter. And if he won't — then let the sentence that was passed on him take its course."

On that understanding, the two men went to see Teodoro, who was still shaking with fear of death, though overjoyed at having found his father. They asked him what he thought about all this. When he heard that he could have Violante as his wife, his joy was so overwhelming that he felt as if he'd vaulted from hell to heaven in a single leap. He said it would be the greatest blessing imaginable, if both their fathers approved.

They then sent to ask the girl what she wanted. Violante, who had been sitting there in utter misery expecting to die at any moment, listened as they told her what had happened and what was about to happen to Teodoro. After a good deal of persuasion, she finally began to believe them. Taking a little comfort, she answered that if she were free to follow her own heart, nothing in the world could make her happier than to be Teodoro's wife — but of course, she would do whatever her father commanded.

And so, with all parties in agreement, the two lovers were married with great magnificence, to the enormous satisfaction of the entire city. The young woman took heart, had her little son properly cared for, and before long was more beautiful than ever. When she had recovered from childbirth, she went to meet Fineo, whose return from Rome was expected, and paid him the respect due to a father. Fineo was delighted with his beautiful daughter-in-law. He had the wedding celebrated again with the utmost pomp and festivity, and from that day on, he treated her as his own daughter. A few days later, he took ship with his son, Violante, and his little grandson, and brought them all home to Lazistan, where the two lovers lived in peace and happiness for the rest of their days."

Day 5, Story 8

Nastagio degli Onesti, hopelessly in love with a woman of the Traversari family who won't give him the time of day, retreats to Chiassi at his friends' urging. There he witnesses a ghostly knight hunting down a woman, killing her, and feeding her heart to his dogs — every Friday, for eternity. Nastagio arranges for his beloved to witness the same spectacle. She gets the message and agrees to marry him.

Lauretta fell silent, and at the queen's command, Filomena began: "Dear ladies, just as we praise compassion in ourselves, divine justice is equally ruthless in punishing cruelty. To prove this to you — and to encourage you to purge yourselves of any such hardness of heart — I'd like to tell you a story that's as moving as it is satisfying.

In Ravenna, that ancient city of Romagna, there were once many noble families and gentlemen. Among them was a young man named Nastagio degli Onesti, who had been left fabulously wealthy after the deaths of his father and uncle. Being young and without a wife — as so often happens — he fell head over heels in love with a daughter of Messer Paolo Traversari, a girl from a far more distinguished family than his own. He hoped that his devotion and generosity would win her over. But nothing worked. Despite all his grand and worthy efforts, not only did he make no progress — things actually seemed to get worse. The girl was impossibly cruel, cold, and unyielding. Maybe it was her exceptional beauty, or maybe the prestige of her family name, but she had grown so proud and disdainful that she couldn't stand him or anything he liked.

This was agony for Nastagio. More than once, overwhelmed with frustration, he seriously considered killing himself — though he always pulled back at the last moment. Other times he resolved to simply give her up, or even to hate her the way she hated him. But these resolutions were useless. The more his hopes faded, the more his love seemed to double down. And so he went on loving her and spending lavishly, without any limit or restraint, until his friends and relatives grew convinced he was going to destroy both himself and his fortune.

They begged him, over and over, to leave Ravenna and go live somewhere else for a while. A change of scenery, they argued, would ease both his heartache and his wallet. Nastagio brushed off this advice for a long time, but eventually, worn down by their persistence and unable to keep saying no, he agreed to go — though he made preparations so extravagant you'd have thought he was heading off to France or Spain. He rode out of Ravenna with a whole entourage of friends and made his way to a place called Chiassi, about three miles from the city. There he sent for tents and pavilions, told his friends they could head back to Ravenna, and set up camp. He proceeded to live in the most magnificent style imaginable, inviting different groups of people to lavish dinners and suppers, just as he'd always done.

Now it happened one day — it was nearly the beginning of May, and the weather was beautiful — that Nastagio fell into his usual brooding about his cruel beloved. He sent all his servants away so he could be alone with his thoughts, and he wandered off, step by step, lost in melancholy, until he found himself deep in the pine forest without realizing how he'd gotten there. It was nearly midday, and he'd gone a good half mile into the woods, oblivious to food or anything else, when suddenly he heard a terrible wailing — the loud, desperate screams of a woman.

His reverie shattered, he looked up and was startled to find himself surrounded by pines. Then, looking ahead, he saw a beautiful young woman running toward him through a dense thicket of underbrush and briars. She was naked, weeping, screaming for mercy, her skin torn and bleeding from the brambles, her hair wild and tangled. Right behind her came two enormous, savage mastiffs that kept catching up and biting her viciously. And behind them rode a knight on a black horse, dressed in dark armor, his face twisted with fury, a short sword in his hand, shouting terrible threats of death.

The sight filled Nastagio first with terror, then with amazement, and finally with pity for the wretched woman — and a burning desire to save her from such agony and death. Finding himself unarmed, he grabbed a tree branch to use as a club and advanced to meet the dogs and the knight. But the knight called out to him from a distance: "Nastagio, stay out of this! Let the dogs and me do what this wicked woman has earned."

Even as he spoke, the two mastiffs seized the woman by her sides and brought her to a halt. The knight rode up and dismounted. Nastagio approached him and said, "I don't know who you are, though you seem to know me well enough. But I'll say this much — it's a monstrous thing for an armed knight to try to kill a naked woman and set dogs on her as if she were a wild animal. I'll defend her as best I can."

"Nastagio," the knight replied, "I was from the same city as you. You were still a small child when I — my name is Messer Guido degli Anastagi — was even more desperately in love with this woman than you are now with your Traversari girl. Her cruelty and contempt drove me to such despair that one day I killed myself with this very sword you see in my hand. For that, I was condemned to eternal punishment. And she — who was overjoyed when I died — didn't live much longer herself. For the sin of her cruelty, and for the pleasure she took in my suffering, and because she never repented of any of it — believing she deserved praise, not blame — she too was condemned to the torments of hell.

"The moment she arrived there, this was the sentence passed on both of us: she would flee before me, and I, who had once loved her so dearly, would pursue her — not as a beloved, but as a mortal enemy. Every time I catch her, I kill her with this sword, the same one I used on myself. I rip open her body and tear out that hard, cold heart where neither love nor pity could ever find a way in, along with the rest of her entrails, and I feed them to the dogs. Before long, as God's justice and power ordain it, she rises again as if she'd never died, and the whole terrible chase begins anew.

"Every Friday I catch up with her at this very spot and carry out the slaughter you're about to see. Don't think we rest on other days — I overtake her in other places too, wherever she once thought or acted cruelly toward me. You see how it is: from her lover, I've become her executioner. And I must pursue her like this for as many years as she was cruel to me for months. So step aside. Let me carry out the justice of God, and don't try to prevent what you have no power to stop."

Nastagio, hearing these words, shrank back in terror. Every hair on his body stood on end. He stared at the wretched woman and waited, trembling, to see what the knight would do. The knight, having finished his speech, lunged at the woman like a rabid dog, sword in hand. She had fallen to her knees, pinned by the two mastiffs, and was screaming for mercy. He drove the blade through the middle of her chest with all his strength, piercing her clean through. The moment the blow struck, she fell face-first to the ground, still weeping and crying out. The knight drew his hunting knife, ripped open her body, tore out her heart and everything around it, and threw the lot to the two mastiffs, who devoured it ravenously. But before long, as if none of this had happened, the woman suddenly rose to her feet and began running toward the sea, with the dogs after her, still tearing at her flesh. In moments, they had gone so far that Nastagio could no longer see them.

He stood there for a long time, caught between pity and fear. Then a thought struck him: this happened every Friday. It could be enormously useful.

He marked the spot carefully and returned to his servants. When the time was right, he sent for several of his kinsmen and friends and said to them: "You've been urging me for ages to stop loving this woman and rein in my spending. I'm ready to do it — on one condition. You must arrange for Messer Paolo Traversari to come to dinner here next Friday, along with his wife, his daughter, and all their kinswomen, plus whatever other ladies you'd like to invite. You'll see why when the time comes."

This seemed easy enough to them. They went back to Ravenna and issued the invitations at the appropriate time. Getting the girl Nastagio loved to come was no small feat, but she went along with the other ladies. Meanwhile, Nastagio arranged a magnificent banquet and had the tables set under the pines, right around the spot where he'd witnessed the slaughter of the ghostly woman.

When the day came, he seated the gentlemen and ladies at table, positioning his beloved directly across from the place where the apparition would appear. Sure enough, just as the last course was being served, they all began to hear the anguished screams of the hunted woman. Everyone was startled and asked what was happening, but nobody could explain it. They all rose to their feet to get a better look, and there she was — the wailing woman, the knight, the dogs — heading straight into their midst.

A tremendous outcry went up against the knight and the dogs, and several people rushed forward to help the woman. But the knight spoke to them just as he had spoken to Nastagio, and his words stopped them in their tracks and filled them all with horror. Then he did exactly what he had done before. Every lady present wept as piteously as if it were being done to her — and there were many there who had been relatives of both the ghostly woman and the knight, and who remembered his love and his death.

When it was over and the woman and knight had vanished, the spectacle set everyone talking — but no one was more terrified than the cruel young woman Nastagio loved. She had seen and heard every detail, and she understood perfectly well that this concerned her more than anyone else present. She remembered her own relentless cruelty toward Nastagio, and it was as if she were already fleeing before an enraged pursuer with mastiffs snapping at her heels.

Such terror seized her that — to make sure nothing like this ever happened to her — she seized the very first opportunity she could find, which came that same evening. She turned her hatred into love and sent a trusted maid to Nastagio, begging him to come to her, because she was ready to do whatever he wished.

He replied that this was wonderfully agreeable to him, but that if she was willing, he wished to take his pleasure with honor — that is, by marrying her. The girl, who knew perfectly well that it was nobody's fault but her own that she hadn't already been his wife, sent word that she was happy to accept. Then, acting as her own messenger, she told her father and mother that she wanted to marry Nastagio, which delighted them greatly.

The following Sunday he married her, and they celebrated their wedding and lived together long and happily. And the effects of that terror didn't stop with her alone — from that day on, all the ladies of Ravenna became so fearful that they were far more willing to accommodate their men's desires than they had ever been before."

Day 5, Story 9

Federigo degli Alberighi loves a woman who doesn't love him back. He spends every penny he has trying to win her, until all he has left in the world is one magnificent falcon. When the lady finally comes to his house, he has nothing else to feed her — so he kills the falcon and serves it for dinner. When she learns what he's done, her heart changes completely. She marries him and makes him rich again.

When Filomena finished, the queen — seeing that no one was left to tell a story except herself and Dioneo, who had the privilege of going last — spoke up with a cheerful expression: "It's my turn now, and I'll gladly take it, dearest ladies, with a story that partly resembles the one before it. My aim is not only to show you how much the love of a good woman can accomplish in a noble heart, but also to teach you to take control of bestowing your own favors, rather than always leaving it to fortune — which, as you might expect, gives without any sense of proportion.

Now, you should know that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi — who was a man of our own time, and may still be alive — was one of the most respected and distinguished citizens of Florence, a man worthy of eternal fame far more for his character and accomplishments than for his noble blood. In his later years, he loved nothing more than sitting with his neighbors and others, reminiscing about the past. Nobody could do this better than Coppo — more clearly, more methodically, with a sharper memory and more elegant turn of phrase. Among many fine stories of his, he used to tell this one.

There was once in Florence a young man named Federigo, the son of Messer Filippo Alberighi. He was celebrated above every other young gentleman in all of Tuscany for his feats of arms and his gracious manner. As happens to most such young men, he fell in love — with a gentlewoman named Madonna Giovanna, considered in her day one of the most beautiful and charming ladies in all of Florence. To win her love, he held jousts and tournaments, threw lavish parties, gave extravagant gifts, and spent his money without the slightest restraint. But she, being as virtuous as she was beautiful, paid no attention to any of this — neither to the things he did for her, nor to the man himself.

Spending so far beyond his means and getting nothing in return, Federigo's wealth eventually ran out, as it easily does. He was left poor, with nothing but a tiny farm whose meager income barely kept him alive — and one falcon, one of the finest in the world. More in love than ever, and realizing he could no longer cut the figure in the city that he wanted to, he moved out to Campi, where his little farm was. There he bore his poverty with patience, going hawking when he could, and asking nothing from anyone.

Now, while Federigo had reached this desperate state, it happened that Madonna Giovanna's husband fell ill. Seeing death approaching, he drew up his will. He was very wealthy, and he left everything to his young son, who was nearly grown. Then, as a secondary provision — because he had deeply loved his wife — he named her as heir in case the boy should die without legitimate children. And then he died.

Madonna Giovanna, now a widow, went out to the country for the summer, as our Florentine ladies customarily do, to an estate of hers that happened to be very near Federigo's farm. Her son quickly struck up a friendship with Federigo and developed a passion for hawks and hounds. He had watched Federigo's falcon fly many times and was absolutely captivated by it. He desperately wanted it but didn't dare ask, seeing how precious it was to its owner.

Things stood this way when the boy fell ill. His mother was beside herself — he was her only child, and she loved him with everything she had. She stayed at his side all day, trying to comfort him, and kept asking if there was anything he wanted, anything at all, begging him to tell her, because if it could be gotten, she would get it for him.

After hearing these offers many times over, the boy finally said: "Mother, if you could get me Federigo's falcon, I think I'd get better right away."

The lady paused at this and turned the problem over in her mind. She knew that Federigo had loved her for years and had never received so much as a glance from her in return. "How can I send for, or go and ask for, this falcon?" she said to herself. "From everything I hear, it's the finest bird that ever flew — and more than that, it's the only thing keeping him alive. How can I be so heartless as to take away the one remaining pleasure of a gentleman who has nothing else?"

Caught in this dilemma, certain she could have the bird if she asked for it, yet unable to bring herself to ask, she said nothing to her son. But in the end, her love for the boy won out. She resolved to satisfy him no matter what, and not to send someone — but to go herself and bring the falcon back.

"Take heart, my son," she told him, "and focus on getting well. I promise you, first thing tomorrow morning I'll go fetch it for you."

The boy brightened at this, and that very day he showed some improvement.

The next morning, the lady took another woman along for company and walked over to Federigo's little house as if she were just out for a casual stroll. She asked for him at the door. Federigo, since the weather hadn't been fit for hawking and hadn't been for several days, was in his garden, attending to a few small tasks. When he heard that Madonna Giovanna was asking for him at his door, he could hardly believe it. He ran to meet her, overjoyed and astonished.

She rose when she saw him coming, went forward with a woman's easy grace to greet him, and returned his respectful bow with: "Good morning, Federigo." Then she continued: "I've come to make up for the harm you've suffered on my account, by loving me more than was perhaps wise. And the way I'll make it up to you is this: I intend to have a simple, friendly dinner here with you this morning, just me and my companion."

"My lady," Federigo answered humbly, "I don't recall ever having suffered any harm at your hands — only good. Whatever I was ever worth, it was because of you and the love I bore you. And I promise you, this gracious visit of yours means more to me than if I could go back and spend all over again everything I once spent." With that, he modestly welcomed her into his house and led her out to his garden. Having no one else to keep her company, he said: "My lady, since there's no one else here, the wife of this good farmer will sit with you while I go see to the table."

Now, extreme as his poverty was, Federigo had never until that moment felt its full weight so painfully — the ruin he had brought on himself by squandering the riches that were gone forever. But that morning, finding he had absolutely nothing with which to decently feed the woman for whose love he had once entertained countless guests, he was forced to confront his situation. He dashed around, frantic, cursing his bad luck under his breath. He found no money, nothing he could pawn. It was getting late, and he desperately wanted to give the lady something worthy of her — yet he couldn't bring himself to beg from his own farmhand, let alone anyone else.

Then his eye fell on his falcon, sitting on its perch in the little parlor. He had no other option. He picked up the bird, found it good and fat, and decided it was a dish worthy of such a lady. Without another thought, he wrung its neck. He had his young serving girl pluck it, truss it, and put it on the spit to roast with care. Then he laid the table with the very white tablecloths he still had a few of, went back out to the garden with a cheerful face, and told the lady that dinner — such as he was able to provide — was ready.

The lady and her companion came in, sat down at the table, and together with Federigo — who served them with the greatest attentiveness — they ate the excellent falcon, having no idea what they were eating.

After they had risen from the table and spent a little while in pleasant conversation, the lady decided it was time to explain why she had come. She turned to Federigo and spoke graciously:

"Federigo, I have no doubt that when you hear the real reason for my visit, you'll be amazed at my nerve — especially when you think back on your former life and my own conduct, which you probably saw as cruelty and hard-heartedness. But if you had children, or had ever had them, and knew the power of a parent's love, I'm sure you'd at least partly forgive me. You don't have children — but I do, and I can't escape the universal laws that bind all mothers.

"Those laws force me, against my own wishes and against all decency and propriety, to ask you for something I know is supremely precious to you — and rightly so, since your unkind fortune has left you no other comfort, no other pleasure, no other consolation in the world. I'm asking for your falcon. My little boy is so desperately set on having it that I'm afraid, if I don't bring it to him, his illness will take such a turn that I'll lose him. So I beg you — not by the love you bear me, which owes you nothing in return — but by your own nobility of spirit, which has shown itself greater in acts of generosity than in any other man alive — please, give it to me. With this gift, I can say I've saved my son's life and made him forever in your debt."

Federigo, hearing what the lady was asking — and knowing he couldn't give it to her, because he'd already served it to her for dinner — began to weep right there in front of her, before he could get a single word out.

At first the lady thought his tears came from the grief of parting with his beloved falcon, and she was on the verge of telling him to forget it, she didn't want it. But she held herself back and waited for his reply.

After weeping for some time, Federigo managed to speak: "My lady, ever since God saw fit that I should set my love on you, I have blamed fortune as my enemy in a thousand ways. But all the bad turns she has dealt me were nothing — absolutely nothing — compared to what she's doing to me right now. I can never be reconciled with her after this. You have come to my poor house — you, who never deigned to visit when I was wealthy — and you ask me for a small gift. And fortune has made it so that I cannot give it to you. Let me tell you why, briefly.

"When I heard that you were graciously willing to dine with me, I thought it only right, given your worth and the distinction of your rank, to honor you with the finest food I could offer — something better than what ordinary people eat. So I thought of the falcon you're asking about, and how excellent a bird it was, and I judged it a dish worthy of you. This very morning, you had it roasted on your plate. I thought I'd found the best possible use for it. But now, seeing you wanted it for a different purpose entirely — the grief I feel at not being able to give it to you is so great that I don't think I'll ever forgive myself."

And as proof, he had the falcon's feathers, feet, and beak brought out and laid before her.

The lady, seeing and hearing all this, first reproached him for killing such a magnificent falcon just to serve as a meal for a woman. But then, inwardly, she couldn't help but admire the greatness of his spirit — a nobility that poverty had not been able to diminish and never would.

Then, losing all hope of getting the falcon and growing fearful for her son's recovery, she took her leave and returned home, heartsick. The boy, whether from his grief at not getting the bird or because his illness was simply fated to take that course, died within a few days, to his mother's unspeakable sorrow.

After a long period of tears and mourning, the lady — still young and now extremely wealthy — was urged repeatedly by her brothers to marry again. She would have preferred not to, but their pressure was relentless. And remembering Federigo's worth, and above all that last magnificent gesture — killing such a falcon to honor her — she said to her brothers:

"I'd be perfectly happy to stay as I am, if that suited you. But since you insist that I take another husband, I can tell you this much: I will never marry anyone except Federigo degli Alberighi."

Her brothers laughed at her. "Don't be ridiculous," they said. "What are you talking about? The man doesn't have a penny to his name."

"Brothers," she replied, "I'm well aware of that. But I'd rather have a man who lacks money than money that lacks a man."

Her brothers, hearing where her mind was set and knowing Federigo to be a man of great merit despite his poverty, gave her to him with all her wealth, just as she wished. And Federigo, finding himself married to the woman he had loved so long, and finding himself rich again into the bargain, became a far better manager of his fortune than he'd been before. He lived out his days with her in joy and contentment."

Day 5, Story 10

Pietro di Vinciolo goes out to dinner, so his wife invites a young man over for company. When Pietro comes home unexpectedly, she hides her lover under a chicken coop. Pietro tells her how his friend Ercolano caught a young man hidden in his wife's house — and she furiously denounces that woman's wickedness. Then an ass steps on the hidden lover's fingers, he screams, and Pietro discovers everything. But the three of them ultimately reach an arrangement that suits all parties.

When the queen's story was done and everyone had praised God for rewarding Federigo as he deserved, Dioneo — who never waited to be told it was his turn — began like this:

"I'm not sure whether it's a flaw that crept into human nature through bad habits and corrupt customs, or whether it's hardwired into us from birth, but we always seem to laugh harder at bad behavior than at good deeds — especially when we're not the ones involved. Now, since the trouble I've taken in the past, and am about to take again, has no purpose other than to chase away your gloom and give you something to laugh about — well, lovely ladies, even though the subject of my next story may not be entirely proper in places, it should provide some amusement, so I'll tell it anyway. Just do what you always do when you walk through a garden: reach out your delicate hands, pick the roses, and leave the thorns where they are. That's how you should handle my story — leave the wicked husband to his shame and bad luck, while you laugh freely at his wife's romantic ingenuity, and feel compassion when it's called for.

Not long ago in Perugia, there lived a wealthy man named Pietro di Vinciolo. He took a wife — though this was probably more to deceive people and deflect the suspicions that everyone in Perugia already had about him than from any desire of his own. And fortune, playing along with his inclinations, gave him exactly the wrong match: a sturdy, red-haired, hot-blooded woman who would gladly have had two husbands, let alone one — and instead she'd ended up with a man whose interests lay decidedly elsewhere.

In time, she figured this out. She could see that she was attractive, fresh, and full of vitality, and the discovery made her furious. She got into bitter fights with her husband about it — they were practically at war all the time. But eventually, realizing that this might wear her out before it ever reformed him, she said to herself:

"This wretch abandons me so he can go traipsing off on his little adventures on dry land — well, I'll just have to find a way to take on passengers by sea. I married him and brought him a fine, fat dowry because I thought he was a man, and I assumed he'd want what men are supposed to want. If I hadn't believed he'd act like a husband, I never would have married him. He knew I was a woman — so why did he marry me, if women weren't to his taste? This is intolerable.

"If I'd wanted to give up on worldly pleasures, I'd have become a nun. But I chose to live in the world, and if I wait around for delight or satisfaction from that one, I'll probably be waiting until I'm old — and then I'll look back and weep over my wasted youth for nothing. Besides, he's the perfect teacher when it comes to showing me how to enjoy myself. He leads by his own excellent example, showing me I should take my pleasure in the same things he takes his. The difference is that in my case it would only be a minor offense, whereas in his case he's sinning against both law and nature."

Having thought all this through — probably more than once — the good woman, looking to put her plans into discreet action, struck up a friendship with an old woman who looked like a walking portrait of Saint Verdiana feeding the serpents. This crone went to every religious service she could find, rosary always in hand, never talking about anything but the lives of the Holy Fathers and the wounds of Saint Francis. Nearly everyone considered her a saint. When the moment seemed right, the young wife candidly told her what she had in mind.

"My dear girl," the old woman replied, "God, who knows all things, knows you'll be doing exactly the right thing. If for no other reason, you and every other young woman should do it just to avoid wasting the precious time of your youth. Because there's no grief like looking back and realizing you let your best years slip away. I mean, what the devil are we women good for once we're old? Watching the ashes around the fire? If anyone knows this and can testify to it, it's me. Now that I'm old, I recognize — too late, and not without bitter, burning regret — all the time I let pass me by. Mind you, I didn't waste it entirely — I wouldn't want you thinking I was a fool — but I still didn't do everything I could have. And when I remember that, seeing myself the way I look now, the kind of woman you couldn't pay a man to give a second glance — God knows what it does to me.

"With men it's different. They're born useful for a thousand things, not just this one, and most of them are worth more old than young. But women? We're born into this world for one thing: to do this and to bear children. That's what we're valued for. And if nothing else proves it, consider this: we're always ready for the game. One woman can wear out a whole troop of men, while a whole troop of men can't wear out one woman. And since that's what we were born for, I'm telling you again — you'll be absolutely right to pay your husband back loaf for loaf, so your soul won't have any reason to blame your body when you're old.

"You only get out of this life what you take for yourself, and that goes double for women. We need to seize our time while we have it, far more than men do. You can see for yourself — when we get old, no husband, no man of any kind will give us a second look. They banish us to the kitchen to tell stories to the cat and count the pots and pans. And worse — they make up little rhymes about us:

"Treats for the young ones; the old wives get none."

"And plenty more along those lines. But I won't keep you talking any longer. I'll just say this: you couldn't have confided in anyone in the world who can be more useful to you than me. There's no man so high and mighty that I'm afraid to tell him what's what, and none so stern or prickly that I can't soften him up and bring him around to whatever I want. Just point out who you like, and leave the rest to me. But one thing I ask of you, dear girl — remember me, because I'm a poor woman. From now on, I'd like you to be a partner in all my indulgences and in every prayer I say, so God can light them like candles for your departed loved ones."

With that, she finished her pitch. The young wife came to an understanding with her: whenever the old woman spotted a certain good-looking young man who often passed through that neighborhood — and the wife described him in detail, every last feature — she would know what to do. The wife gave her a piece of salt meat and sent her off with God's blessing.

Before many days had passed, the old woman smuggled the young man in question into the wife's bedroom, and a little while later, another one, and then another, as different men caught the lady's fancy. She indulged herself whenever opportunity allowed, though always in fear of her husband.

Then one evening, when her husband was supposed to be out having supper with a friend of his named Ercolano, she had the old woman bring over a young man — one of the handsomest and most charming in all of Perugia. They had barely sat down at the table to eat when Pietro's voice was at the door, calling for someone to let him in.

The wife gave herself up for dead. Still, she wanted to hide the young man if she possibly could — and not having the presence of mind to get him out of the house or hide him properly, she shoved him under a chicken coop in a shed next to the room where they'd been eating, and threw the rough canvas cover from a straw mattress she'd emptied that day over the top of it.

That done, she hurried to open the door for her husband.

"Well!" she said as he walked in. "You polished off that supper awfully fast."

"We didn't so much as taste it," he said.

"How's that?" she asked.

"I'll tell you," said Pietro. "We'd barely sat down at the table — Ercolano, his wife, and I — when we heard someone sneeze nearby. We didn't think anything of it the first time, or the second. But then whoever it was sneezed a third time, and a fourth, and a fifth, and kept right on going. We were all baffled. Now Ercolano was already a little irritated with his wife because she'd kept us standing at the door for ages without opening it. So he said, furious: 'What is this? Who's doing all that sneezing?'

"He got up from the table and went over to a staircase nearby. Underneath it, right at the base, there was a wooden storage closet — the kind you see in every well-organized house, where people stow away all sorts of things. Since the sneezing seemed to be coming from inside it, he opened a little door, and the second he did, out came the most god-awful stench of sulfur you ever smelled. We'd already noticed a whiff of it earlier and complained, and his wife had said, 'Oh, that's just because I was bleaching my veils with sulfur a little while ago. I put the pan underneath the stairs so they could catch the fumes, and it's still smoking.'

"Once the smoke cleared a bit, Ercolano peered into the closet and there was the sneezer — still sneezing, because the sulfur fumes were forcing it out of him. In fact, they'd tightened his chest so badly that if he'd stayed in there much longer, he wouldn't have been sneezing or doing anything else ever again.

"Ercolano saw him and roared: 'Now I see, wife! Now I understand why we were standing outside for so long before you'd open the damn door! I'll make you pay for this if it's the last thing I do!'

"The wife, realizing she was caught, didn't bother making excuses. She bolted from the table and vanished — I have no idea where. Ercolano, without even noticing she'd run off, kept yelling at the sneezer to come out. But the man was in such bad shape he couldn't move. So Ercolano grabbed him by one foot, dragged him out, and ran for a knife to kill him. At that point I got scared — for my own sake, given the police and all — so I jumped up and wouldn't let him kill the man or do him any harm. In fact, I made such a racket defending the fellow that some neighbors came running in. They grabbed the half-dead young man and carried him out of the house — I don't know where. So our dinner was completely ruined. I didn't just not finish it — like I said, I never even tasted it."

The wife, hearing all this, realized there were other women in the world just as clever as she was — even if bad luck caught up with some of them. She would have loved to defend Ercolano's wife, but she figured that by piling on someone else's sins, she'd create more breathing room for her own. So she launched in:

"Well! What a fine state of affairs! What a holy, virtuous woman she must be! And I would have confessed my sins to her — that's how saintly I thought she was! The worst part is that she's getting on in years, and this is the example she sets for the young! Cursed be the hour she was born — and cursed be the woman herself, for letting herself go on living! The faithless, vile creature! The shame and disgrace of every woman in this city! She threw away her honor, her marriage vows, and her reputation in the eyes of the world — all for the sake of another man. And her husband! Such a fine, respectable citizen! A man who treated her so well! So help me God, women like that deserve no mercy. They should be killed. They should be thrown into the fire alive and burned to ashes!"

Then, remembering that her lover was crouching right there under the chicken coop, she started urging Pietro to go to bed — it was getting late, after all. But Pietro was more interested in eating than sleeping, and he asked if there was any supper to be had.

"Supper!" she exclaimed. "Oh yes, we always make supper when you're not here! Do I look like Ercolano's wife to you? Why don't you just go to bed tonight? You'd be much better off!"

Now it happened that some of Pietro's farmhands had arrived that evening with various things from the farm, and they'd stabled their donkeys in a little stable right next to the shed — without watering them. One of the donkeys, desperately thirsty, worked its head free of the halter, wandered out of the stable, and went sniffing around everywhere, hoping to find some water. Nosing along like this, it came right up against the chicken coop — under which the young man was crouching on all fours.

The young man, forced into that position, had his fingers splayed out on the ground beyond the edge of the coop. And as his luck would have it — or rather, his terrible, awful luck — the donkey planted a hoof right on them.

The pain was excruciating. The young man let out a blood-curdling scream.

Pietro heard it, was startled, and realized the noise was coming from somewhere inside the house. He went out to the shed, where the young man was still howling — the donkey hadn't lifted its hoof from his fingers and was still grinding down on them. "Who's there?" Pietro shouted. He ran to the chicken coop, lifted it up, and there was the young man — trembling with fear on top of the agony in his crushed fingers, terrified of what Pietro might do to him.

Pietro recognized the young man. He was someone Pietro had been pursuing for his own purposes for quite some time. "Well, well — what are you doing here?" he asked. The young man said nothing, but begged him for the love of God not to hurt him.

"Get up," Pietro said. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. Just tell me how you got here and why."

The young man told him everything.

Pietro, who was no less delighted to have found him than his wife was horrified, took the young man by the hand and led him into the bedroom, where the wife was waiting in a state of absolute terror.

Pietro sat down facing her and said: "Just now you were cursing Ercolano's wife to the heavens — saying she ought to be burned alive, saying she was a disgrace to all womankind. Why didn't you say the same about yourself? Or if you didn't want to incriminate yourself, how could your conscience let you say those things about her, knowing perfectly well you'd done exactly the same thing? The only thing that drove you to it is that you women are all the same: you try to cover your own sins by attacking everyone else's. I wish fire would rain down from the sky and burn the whole lot of you up — you wretched, twisted creatures."

The wife, seeing that in the first heat of discovery he hadn't actually done her any physical harm — and noticing that he seemed practically giddy with excitement at having such a good-looking young man by the hand — took courage and said:

"Oh, I'm quite sure you'd love fire to rain down and burn up all of us women, seeing as you're about as fond of us as a dog is of a beating. But by the cross of Christ, you won't get your wish. Still, I'd like to have a little talk with you, so I can understand exactly what you're complaining about. It would be a fine thing indeed if you tried to compare me to Ercolano's wife — that pious little fraud who gets everything she wants from her husband, who loves her the way a wife ought to be loved. That's not the case with me, is it?

"All right, I'll grant you this — you clothe me well enough and put shoes on my feet. But you know perfectly well how I fare in every other department, and how long it's been since you shared a bed with me. I'd rather go barefoot in rags and be treated like a wife in bed than have all these fine things while being treated the way you treat me.

"Get this through your head, Pietro. I'm a woman like any other woman, and I want what other women want. So if I go out and get it for myself, since I'm certainly not getting it from you, don't you dare reproach me for it. At least I do you the courtesy of not running around with stable boys and filthy lowlifes."

Pietro could see that she was going to keep this up all night. Since he didn't much care about her anyway, he said: "All right, wife, enough for now. I'll make this right. But do us a favor and find something for supper, because it seems to me this young fellow here, like myself, hasn't eaten yet."

"Of course he hasn't eaten!" said the wife. "We were just sitting down to the table when you came banging on the door at the worst possible moment."

"Well then," said Pietro, "go get us something to eat, and afterward I'll arrange this whole business in a way that will leave you nothing to complain about."

The wife, seeing that her husband was in an agreeable mood, got up and quickly had the table reset. She brought out the supper she'd prepared, and the three of them sat down to a merry meal together — she, her scoundrel of a husband, and the young man.

What exactly Pietro arranged after supper to satisfy all three of them has slipped my mind. But I can tell you this much: the next morning, when the young man was escorted back to the main square, he wasn't entirely sure which he had been that night — the wife or the husband.

So here's my advice to you, dear ladies: whoever does it to you, do it right back. And if you can't manage it right away, keep it stored in your memory until you can — so that what you get is every bit as good as what you give."

Dioneo's story drew somewhat less laughter from the ladies than his stories usually did — more out of modesty than from any lack of enjoyment. The queen, seeing that her reign had come to its end, rose to her feet, removed the laurel crown, and placed it cheerfully on Elisa's head, saying: "From now on, madam, it rests with you to command."

Elisa accepted the honor and, following the example of her predecessors, first consulted with the steward about everything the company would need during her term of rule. Then, to the satisfaction of everyone present, she announced: "We have heard many times how people, through sharp remarks, clever comebacks, and quick thinking, have managed to deflect someone's barb with an apt retort, or to escape an impending danger. Since this is an excellent topic and could prove instructive, I would like tomorrow's stories — with God's help — to be told on this theme: tales of people who, when targeted by a stinging remark, have defended themselves with a witty response, or who through some quick-witted reply or shrewd move have avoided loss, danger, or humiliation."

This was warmly approved by everyone. The queen then rose and dismissed the company until suppertime. The whole group, following her lead, stood up, and each of them went off to do whatever pleased them most. But when the crickets had finally stopped singing, the queen called everyone back, and they sat down to supper. When the meal was finished in good spirits, they all turned to singing and music-making. Emilia, at the queen's request, started up a dance, and Dioneo was called upon to sing a song. He immediately launched into: "Mistress Aldruda, come lift up your skirt now — I bring you good tidings, good tidings!"

All the ladies burst out laughing, and the queen most of all. She told him to stop that and sing something else.

"My lady," said Dioneo, "if I had a drum, I'd sing you 'Hike up your petticoats, Mistress Burdock' or maybe 'Oh, the waves of the sea do terrible things to me.' But I don't have a drum. So pick one of these instead. How about 'Come out to the meadow, so we can mow it down like a May flower'?"

"No," said the queen. "Give us another."

"All right then," said Dioneo, "how about 'Mistress Simona, fill up the barrel! But wait — it's not October yet!'"

"For heaven's sake!" the queen said, laughing in spite of herself. "Sing us something decent, would you? We don't want any of those."

"Now, now, madam, don't get upset," said Dioneo. "Just tell me which you prefer. I know more than a thousand. Would you like 'This little crack of mine, if I don't tend it right' — or 'Easy now, easy now, dear husband' — or maybe 'I'll buy myself a rooster for a hundred pounds'?"

The queen, somewhat exasperated though the rest of the ladies were laughing helplessly, said: "Dioneo, stop clowning around and sing us something proper. Otherwise you're going to find out what I'm like when I'm angry."

At that, he dropped the routine and sang, straight and true:

O Love, the tender light > That shines from my fair lady's lovely eyes > Has made me yours, and hers, in servant's guise. > > The splendor of those lovely eyes first brought > Your flame to life within my willing breast, > Passing through mine to find me; > Yes, and your power first revealed unto my thought > Her beautiful face, and since that day I've dressed > My heart, and placed enshrined there > Before that lady fair > Every virtue I possess, a sacrifice, > Become the new occasion of my sighs. > > So, dear my lord, your servant I have grown, > And humbly from your power I await > Some grace for my devotion; > Yet still I wonder — has she fully known > The depth of this desire you set so great > Within my heart's commotion, > And all my true emotion, > She who so holds my heart that from none 'neath the skies > But her alone would I take peace or prize? > > And so I pray you, sweet my lord and sire, > Reveal to her my love, and let her taste > Some little of your fire > Toward me — for you can see that in desire > I waste away, and bit by bit am faced > With death at her sweet feet; > Then, when the time is meet, > Commend me to her favor in such wise > As I would plead for you, should need arise.

When Dioneo's silence showed that his song was done, the queen called for several more, having praised his warmly despite everything. Then, with a good part of the night now spent and the queen sensing that the cool of evening had chased away the day's heat, she told each of them to go and rest until morning.

Here ends the Fifth Day of the Decameron.

Day 6 — Introduction

Here begins the sixth day of the Decameron, in which, under the rule of Elisa, the company tells stories of people who, when targeted by a cutting remark, saved themselves with a clever retort — or who escaped trouble, danger, or embarrassment through a well-timed reply.

The moon was still hanging in the middle of the sky, though its glow had faded, and the whole world was growing bright with the first light of a new day. The queen got up and called for the others, and they all set out at a relaxed pace across the dew-covered grass, strolling a short distance from the hilltop villa. They chatted about this and that, debating which of yesterday's stories were the best, laughing all over again at the various misadventures they'd heard about. By the time the sun had climbed high and the heat was starting to build, they all agreed it was time to head back.

They retraced their steps to the villa, where, on the queen's orders, the tables were already set and everything decorated with sweet-smelling herbs and lovely flowers. They sat down to eat before the day got any hotter. Lunch went cheerfully, and afterward, before doing anything else, they sang several charming little songs. Then some went off to sleep, while others sat down to play chess or backgammon, and Dioneo and Lauretta settled in together to sing about Troilus and Cressida.

When the hour came for them to reconvene in their usual fashion, they were all summoned by the queen and took their customary seats around the fountain. But just as she was about to call for the first story, something happened that had never happened there before: a tremendous uproar erupted from the kitchen, the maids and serving-men yelling at each other at full volume.

The steward was called over and asked who was making all that racket and what it was about. He reported that the fight was between Licisca and Tindaro, though he didn't know the cause — he'd only just arrived on the scene to shut them up when he was summoned.

The queen ordered both offenders brought before her at once. When they appeared, she asked what was going on. Tindaro started to answer, but Licisca — who was getting on in years, a bit bossy by nature, and thoroughly worked up from all the shouting — rounded on him with a furious look and snapped, "Look at this idiot who thinks he can speak before me! Let me talk!" Then she turned back to the queen.

"Ma'am," she said, "this fool here wants to teach me about Sicofante's wife. As if I didn't know her perfectly well! He actually wants me to believe that on her wedding night, her husband had to storm the gates by force, with blood spilled and everything. I say that's a load of nonsense — he walked right in peacefully, and the welcome committee was more than happy to receive him. This blockhead is naive enough to think girls are such idiots that they'd just sit around waiting for their fathers and brothers to get around to marrying them off — which takes three or four years longer than it should, six times out of seven! Fat chance they'd wait that long! I swear to Christ — and I know what I'm talking about — I don't have a single friend who went to her husband as a virgin. And when it comes to married women? I know exactly how many tricks they pull on their husbands, and exactly what kind. And this moron wants to teach me about women? As if I was born yesterday!"

The whole time Licisca was talking, the ladies were laughing so hard they could barely breathe. The queen told her to be quiet at least six times, but it was no use — Licisca wouldn't stop until she'd said everything she had to say.

When she finally finished, the queen turned to Dioneo with a laugh and said, "Dioneo, this sounds like a case for your court. When we've finished our stories, you can hand down the final verdict."

He answered without missing a beat: "Ma'am, the verdict is already in — no need to hear another word. Licisca is absolutely right. Things are exactly as she says, and Tindaro is an ass."

Licisca burst out laughing and turned to Tindaro. "See? I told you so! Now get out of here, and God be with you. You think you know better than me? You're still wet behind the ears! Thank goodness I haven't lived all these years for nothing!"

And if the queen hadn't put on her sternest face and ordered Licisca to stop talking and get out of there — warning that she'd have her whipped if she said one more word — they would have spent the entire day listening to her carry on.

Once the two of them were gone, the queen called on Filomena to begin the day's stories, and she cheerfully launched in.

Day 6, Story 1

A gentleman offers to "carry" Madonna Oretta on horseback with a story, but tells it so badly that she begs him to set her down.

"Young ladies, just as the stars adorn the sky on a clear night, and flowers and leafy branches adorn the green fields in springtime, so do clever remarks adorn good manners and fine conversation. And because they're brief, they actually suit women even better than men, since women are expected to keep their words more measured. Though to be honest — whether it's some fault in our understanding or just bad luck with the times we live in — there are hardly any women left nowadays who can deliver a witty line at the right moment, or who can properly appreciate one when they hear it. This is a sorry reflection on our entire sex. But Pampinea has already said enough on that subject, so I won't belabor the point. Instead, to show you just how delightful a well-timed witticism can be, let me tell you about the graceful way a lady once shut down a gentleman.

Many of you may know, either by sight or by reputation, that there was not long ago in our city a noble, well-bred, and well-spoken gentlewoman whose quality deserves to have her name remembered. She was called Madonna Oretta, and she was the wife of Messer Geri Spina. One day she happened to be out in the countryside, as we are now, going from place to place for amusement with a group of ladies and gentlemen she'd hosted for dinner. The walk between where they started and where they were headed was rather long, so one of the gentlemen in the party said to her, 'Madonna Oretta, if you'll allow me, I'll carry you on horseback for most of the journey with one of the finest stories in the world.'

'Oh please,' the lady replied, 'I'd like that very much — by all means, go ahead.'

So the gallant gentleman — who was probably no better with a story on his tongue than a sword at his side — began his tale. The story itself was actually quite good. But the way he told it was a disaster. He'd repeat the same word three, four, even six times. He'd stop and double back: 'Wait, that's not what I meant to say.' He'd mix up the names, swapping one character for another. And his delivery was completely wrong — the tone never matched the people or the events he was describing. The whole thing was an absolute wreck.

Madonna Oretta, listening to this performance, began to break out in a cold sweat. She felt faint and queasy, as though she were deathly ill. Finally, unable to take it any longer and seeing that the gentleman had gotten himself into a tangle he was never going to escape, she said to him with a sweet smile:

'Sir, this horse of yours has too rough a trot. Would you be so kind as to set me down?'

The gentleman — who, as it happened, was much better at taking a hint than telling a story — laughed, took it in stride, and moved on to other topics, leaving the tale he'd begun and so thoroughly butchered mercifully unfinished."

Day 6, Story 2

Cisti the baker, with a single well-chosen remark, opens Messer Geri Spina's eyes to his servant's rudeness.

Everyone praised Madonna Oretta's line, and the queen asked Pampinea to go next. She began: "Fair ladies, I honestly can't decide which is more at fault — nature, when she sticks a noble soul inside a humble body, or fortune, when she assigns a lowly station in life to a person with a truly noble spirit. We've seen both happen many times, and one perfect example was our fellow Florentine Cisti. The man was gifted with the most refined sensibility — and fortune made him a baker.

Now, I'd curse both nature and fortune for this if I didn't know that nature is deeply thoughtful and fortune has a thousand eyes, despite what fools say about her being blind. Here's what I think actually happens: just as we mortals, uncertain about the future, bury our most precious valuables in the shabbiest corners of the house — the last place a thief would look — and then bring them out when we truly need them, so too do the powers that govern the world sometimes hide their finest treasures behind the most unassuming occupations, only to reveal them at just the right moment, making them shine all the brighter. How Cisti the baker demonstrated this — in a small but perfect way — by giving Messer Geri Spina a gentle lesson in good taste, is what I'd like to tell you in a brief story. And the mention of Madonna Oretta, Messer Geri's wife, in the story we just heard is exactly what brought it to my mind.

Here's what happened. Pope Boniface had sent a delegation of his ambassadors to Florence on important papal business, and they were staying at the house of Messer Geri Spina, who was high in the pope's favor. As Messer Geri worked with the ambassadors on their affairs, it so happened that nearly every morning they all walked past the church of Santa Maria Ughi, right where Cisti the baker had his shop and ran his business in person.

Now, fortune may have given Cisti a humble trade, but she'd been kind to him in one respect: he'd grown very rich. He never felt any urge to abandon baking for anything else, and he lived extremely well. Among his many fine things, he kept the best white and red wines to be found anywhere in Florence or the surrounding countryside.

When Cisti noticed that Messer Geri and the pope's ambassadors were passing by his door every morning, and the weather was scorching hot, he thought what a fine act of courtesy it would be to offer them some of his excellent white wine. But then he considered his own station in life versus Messer Geri's, and he decided it wouldn't be proper for someone like him to just walk up and invite them over. Instead, he came up with a plan to make Messer Geri invite himself.

So every morning, right around the time he expected them to pass, Cisti put on his whitest doublet and a freshly laundered apron — looking more like a miller than a baker — and set out in front of his door a brand-new tin pail of fresh water, a small pitcher of fine Bolognese earthenware filled with his best white wine, and two drinking cups so polished they gleamed like silver. Then he sat himself down and waited.

When they came by, he'd clear his throat once or twice and start drinking that wine with such obvious, lip-smacking pleasure that he could have made a dead man thirsty.

After Messer Geri watched this performance two mornings in a row, he couldn't resist. On the third morning, he said, "Well, Cisti? Is it any good?"

Cisti jumped to his feet. "It certainly is, sir! But I can't possibly make you understand how good unless you taste it yourself."

Whether it was the heat or Cisti's obvious relish that did the trick, Messer Geri had worked up a real thirst. He turned to the ambassadors with a smile and said, "Gentlemen, we really ought to try this good man's wine. It might just be worth our while."

They all walked over to Cisti, who had a handsome bench brought out from the bakehouse and invited them to sit down. When their servants stepped forward to rinse the cups, he waved them off: "Stand back, friends — leave that to me. I'm every bit as skilled at pouring wine as I am at working a baking paddle. And don't expect to taste a single drop."

With that, he washed out four gleaming new cups with his own hands, had a small pitcher of his finest wine brought out, and personally served Messer Geri and his companions. The wine was the best any of them had tasted in ages, and they praised it to the skies. After that, nearly every morning for as long as the ambassadors remained in Florence, Messer Geri would stop by to drink with them.

Eventually, the ambassadors' business was concluded and they were about to leave. Messer Geri threw a magnificent farewell banquet and invited a number of the city's most distinguished citizens, including Cisti — who absolutely refused to attend, no matter what. So Messer Geri told one of his servants to go to the baker's shop, get a flask of his wine, and pour half a cup for each guest with the first course.

The servant — probably annoyed that he'd never been allowed to taste the wine himself — showed up at Cisti's door carrying an enormous jug. When Cisti saw it, he said, "Son, Messer Geri didn't send you to me."

The servant swore up and down that he had, but Cisti kept giving him the same answer. Finally the man went back to Messer Geri and reported what had happened.

"Go back," said Messer Geri, "and tell him that I most certainly did send you. And if he still says the same thing, ask him who I did send you to, if not him."

So the servant went back. "Cisti, I promise you — Messer Geri sent me to you and nobody else."

"And I promise you, son," Cisti replied, "he did not."

"Then who did he send me to?"

"To the Arno," said Cisti.

When the servant brought this answer back, Messer Geri's eyes were suddenly opened. "Let me see the flask you took over there," he said.

One look at that huge jug and he said, "Cisti is absolutely right." He gave the servant a sharp scolding and made him go back with a properly sized flask. When Cisti saw it, he said, "Now I know Messer Geri sent you to me," and cheerfully filled it up.

Later that same day, Cisti had a small barrel filled with the same wine and sent it over to Messer Geri's house. Then he went to see him in person and said, "Sir, I wouldn't want you to think that big jug this morning alarmed me. But it seemed to me that what I've been showing you these past days with my little pitchers had slipped your mind — namely, that this is not ordinary, everyday wine. I just wanted to remind you. But since I don't intend to be your wine steward forever, I've sent the whole supply over to you. Do with it as you please."

Messer Geri was deeply grateful for the gift and thanked Cisti warmly. From that day on, he considered him a man of great worth, and treated him as a true friend.

Day 6, Story 3

Madonna Nonna de' Pulci silences the Bishop of Florence with a sharp retort to his less-than-appropriate joke.

When Pampinea finished, everyone had warm praise for both Cisti's reply and his generosity. The queen then asked Lauretta to go next, and she cheerfully began:

"Dear ladies, first Pampinea and then Filomena spoke quite rightly about the value of witty sayings and about how few of us are skilled at delivering them. I won't go back over that ground, but I do want to add one thing on the subject: a clever remark should have a bite to it, yes — but like a sheep's nip, not a dog's. Because if a witticism bites like a dog, it's not really wit anymore — it's just an insult. Madonna Oretta's line and Cisti's reply both struck exactly the right balance. Now, it's also true that if someone bites you first, like a dog, and you bite back just as hard, that's fair play — you can't really be blamed for it. So the question is always: how, with whom, when, and where do you trade barbs? One of our local churchmen failed to consider any of these things and got bitten right back, at least as sharply as he thought he'd bitten. Let me tell you about it in a short tale.

When Messer Antonio d'Orso was Bishop of Florence — a learned and capable prelate — a Catalan nobleman named Messer Dego della Ratta came to the city. He was the marshal for King Robert, and he was a very handsome man with a great eye for the ladies. Among the Florentine women who caught his attention was a particularly beautiful one who happened to be the granddaughter of the bishop's own brother.

When the marshal learned that her husband, despite coming from a good family, was an absolute miser, he struck a deal with the man: five hundred gold florins in exchange for one night with his wife. But then the marshal pulled a trick — he had that many silver coins called poplins gilded to look like gold, and after sleeping with the woman (against her will, mind you), he paid off the husband with the counterfeits. Naturally, the whole thing eventually became public knowledge. The greedy husband ended up with both a financial loss and public humiliation, and the bishop — shrewd man that he was — pretended to know nothing about any of it.

The bishop and the marshal spent a good deal of time together after this. One St. John's Day, as the two of them were riding side by side along the parade route where they run the palio, looking at the ladies lined up on either side of the street, the bishop spotted a young woman — Madonna Nonna de' Pulci, a cousin of Messer Alessio Rinucci. All of you ladies would have known her; this recent plague has taken her from us, sadly. She was fresh-faced, beautiful, well-spoken, and spirited — she'd only recently been married and was living in the Porta San Piero quarter.

The bishop pointed her out to the marshal. Then, drawing close to her, he put his hand on the marshal's shoulder and said, "Well, Nonna — what do you think of this fellow? Think you could win him over?"

Now, it struck the lady that those words were an assault on her honor, and likely to damage her reputation in front of the many people within earshot. So rather than trying to clean up the stain, she decided to hit right back, blow for blow.

"Maybe he wouldn't win me over, sir," she answered coolly. "But in any case, I'd insist on good money."

The marshal and the bishop both felt that one cut straight to the bone — the marshal because he was the one who'd cheated the bishop's own relative's granddaughter with counterfeit coins, and the bishop because the insult had landed squarely on his own family member. The two of them slunk away, red-faced and silent, without looking at each other or saying another word to her for the rest of the day.

So you see — when you've been bitten first, there's nothing wrong with biting back."

Day 6, Story 4

Chichibio the cook, with one quick-witted answer, turns his master Currado Gianfigliazzi's fury into laughter and saves his own skin.

After Lauretta fell silent and everyone had finished praising Madonna Nonna's comeback, the queen called on Neifile to go next. She began:

"Dear ladies, while a quick mind can certainly supply people with the perfect words at the perfect moment, fortune herself sometimes steps in to help the frightened — putting answers on their tongues that they never in a million years could have come up with in advance. That's what I want to show you with my story.

Currado Gianfigliazzi, as many of you know firsthand, has always been one of the most prominent citizens of Florence — generous, magnificent, and a man who lives in grand style. Setting aside his more serious pursuits, he has always been passionate about hunting with hawks and hounds. One day, his falcon brought down a crane, and finding it young and plump, he sent it to his cook — a Venetian named Chichibio — with instructions to roast it for supper and make sure it was done right.

Chichibio, who looked every bit the simpleton he was, trussed up the crane, set it over the fire, and started cooking it with real care. When it was nearly done and giving off a magnificent smell, a woman from the neighborhood named Brunetta — with whom Chichibio was desperately in love — walked into the kitchen. She caught a whiff of the crane and laid eyes on it, and immediately started begging him for one of the thighs.

Chichibio answered her in a singsong voice: "You're not getting it from me, Mistress Brunetta — you're not getting it from me!"

This did not sit well with her. "I swear to God," she said, "if you don't give it to me, you will never get anything you want from me again."

Well. There were quite a few more words exchanged after that. But in the end, not wanting to make his lady angry, Chichibio carved off one of the crane's thighs and gave it to her.

The crane was then served at the table before Messer Currado and his dinner guests — minus one leg. Currado stared at it, bewildered, and had Chichibio called in.

"What happened to the other thigh?" he demanded.

Without missing a beat, the lying Venetian answered, "Sir, cranes only have one thigh and one leg."

"What the devil?" Currado exploded. "One thigh and one leg? Have I never seen a crane before in my life?"

"Sir," Chichibio replied calmly, "it's exactly as I'm telling you. Whenever you'd like, I'll prove it to you with a live one."

Currado, out of consideration for his dinner guests, decided not to push the argument any further. But he said: "Fine. Since you say you can show me this in a living crane — something I have never once seen or heard of — I want to see it first thing tomorrow morning. But I swear on the body of Christ: if it turns out otherwise, I will have you dealt with in such a way that you'll remember my name, painfully, for the rest of your miserable life."

That ended the discussion for the evening. But the next morning, at the crack of dawn, Currado — whose anger had not cooled one bit overnight — got up still seething and ordered the horses brought around. He had Chichibio mounted on a nag and rode him off toward a river where cranes could always be spotted in the early morning.

"We'll see soon enough," he said, "who was lying last night — you or me."

Chichibio, seeing that his master's rage was still going strong and that he now had to somehow back up his ridiculous lie, rode along in a state of absolute terror. He would have bolted if he could have, but there was no way out. So he kept looking around frantically — ahead, behind, left, right — and every shape he saw in the distance looked to him like a crane standing on two legs.

But then, as they neared the river, Chichibio was the first to spot them: a solid dozen cranes standing on the bank, every single one perched on one leg, the way cranes do when they're sleeping.

He pointed them out to Currado in triumph. "Now, sir — if you'll look at those cranes over there, you can see perfectly well that I was telling you the truth last night. Cranes have only one thigh and one leg!"

Currado looked, then said, "Just wait. I'll show you they have two."

He rode a little closer to the birds and shouted: "HO! HO!"

At that, the cranes put down their other legs and, after a few running steps, took off in flight.

Currado turned to Chichibio. "Well? What do you say now, you rascal? Do they have two legs or don't they?"

Chichibio, utterly panicked, with no idea which way was up, blurted out: "Yes, sir, they do! But you didn't yell 'Ho! Ho!' at last night's crane. If you had, it would have put out the other thigh and the other leg, just like those ones did!"

Currado was so delighted by this answer that all his anger dissolved into laughter. "Chichibio," he said, "you're right — that's exactly what I should have done."

And so, with one quick and comical reply, Chichibio dodged disaster and made peace with his master.

Day 6, Story 5

Messer Forese da Rabatta and the painter Giotto, returning from the countryside, each make fun of the other's wretched appearance — and Giotto gets in the better jab.

Once Neifile had finished and the ladies had gotten a good laugh out of Chichibio's comeback, Pamfilo, at the queen's bidding, spoke up. "Dear ladies, it often happens that Fortune hides extraordinary talent and brilliance beneath the most unpromising exterior — as Pampinea just showed us. And by the same token, Nature sometimes houses astonishing intellects inside the ugliest bodies you've ever seen. This was plainly the case with two of our fellow citizens, about whom I'd like to tell you briefly.

The first was a man named Messer Forese da Rabatta. He was short, misshapen, and had a flat, squashed face so hideous it would have stood out even among the ugliest street peddlers in all of Florence. Yet in spite of his appearance, he was such a brilliant legal mind that many distinguished scholars considered him a walking encyclopedia of civil law. The second was Giotto, a man of such extraordinary genius that there was nothing in all of nature — nothing produced by the ceaseless turning of the heavens — that he couldn't capture with his stylus, his pen, or his brush. And he did it so faithfully that what he painted didn't merely look like the thing itself — it was the thing itself, to the point where people's eyes were constantly fooled, mistaking painted images for reality.

By reviving an art that had lain buried for centuries under the mistakes of painters who cared more about impressing ignorant eyes than pleasing discerning minds, Giotto earned his place as one of the supreme glories of Florence. What made it all the more admirable was that he wore his honors with the deepest humility. Though he was the undisputed master of his art during his lifetime, he always refused to be called 'Master' — a title that shone all the more brightly on him precisely because he rejected it, while it was greedily snatched up by men who knew far less than he did, or by his own students. Still, for all his towering genius, Giotto was no better looking than Messer Forese. But let me get to my story.

Messer Forese and Giotto each had a country estate out in the Mugello region. It was summertime, when the courts are on holiday, and Forese had gone out to check on his property. Heading back to Florence on a sorry old workhorse, he happened to run into Giotto, who'd been doing the same thing and was riding homeward on an equally pathetic nag, no better kitted out than Forese himself. So the two of them joined up and ambled along at a gentle pace, like the aging men they were.

Then, as happens so often in summer, a sudden cloudburst caught them. They took shelter as fast as they could at the house of a farmer they both knew. After a while, when the rain showed no sign of letting up and they wanted to make it back to Florence before dark, they borrowed two shabby old homespun cloaks and two hats that were practically rotting with age — the best the farmer had to offer — and set out again.

They'd been riding for a while, soaked through and splattered with mud kicked up by their horses' hooves — which never improves anyone's appearance — when the weather finally began to clear. The two travelers, who'd been riding in silence, started chatting. Messer Forese, listening to Giotto, who was a wonderfully entertaining talker, sized up his companion from head to toe. Seeing him looking absolutely wretched in every way, he burst out laughing. Without giving a moment's thought to his own equally sorry state, he said, "Tell me, Giotto — if we ran into some stranger out here who'd never laid eyes on you before, do you think he'd believe you were the greatest painter in the world?"

Giotto shot back instantly: "Sir, I think he might believe it — about the same time that, looking at you, he believed you knew your ABCs."

When Messer Forese heard this, he recognized his mistake — and saw that he'd been paid back in exactly the same coin he'd spent.

Day 6, Story 6

Michele Scalza proves to a group of young men that the Baronci family is the noblest in all the world — and wins himself a free dinner.

The ladies were still laughing at Giotto's quick comeback when the queen told Fiammetta to go next. She began: "Young ladies, Pamfilo's mention of the Baronci family — whom you may not know as well as he does — has reminded me of a story that shows just how noble they truly are. And since it stays right on theme, I'd like to tell it to you.

Not so very long ago, there was a young man in our city named Michele Scalza, who was the most entertaining and delightful fellow in the world. He always had the most outrageous stories at the ready, which made him the favorite companion of every young Florentine whenever they got together for a good time.

One day, he was out with some friends at Monte Ughi, and the question came up: which family was the oldest and most distinguished in all of Florence? Some said the Uberti, others the Lamberti, and everyone threw out his own favorite, as you'd expect. Scalza listened to all this and then laughed. "Get out of here, you idiots! You don't know what you're talking about. The oldest and noblest family — not just in Florence, but in the entire world, including the boondocks of the Maremma — is the Baronci. Every philosopher agrees on this, and so does anyone who knows them the way I do. And just so we're clear, I'm talking about your neighbors, the Baronci from near Santa Maria Maggiore."

The young men, who'd been expecting him to say something else entirely, burst out laughing and mocked him. "You must be joking! As if we don't know the Baronci just as well as you do!"

"By the Gospels," Scalza replied, "I'm not joking at all. I'm telling the God's honest truth. And if anyone here wants to bet a dinner on it — the winner plus six friends of his choosing — I'll take that wager happily. And I'll go further: I'll let any judge you pick decide."

One of them, a man named Neri Mannini, spoke up. "I'll take that bet." They agreed to make Piero di Fiorentino, at whose house they were gathered, serve as judge. They went to find him, trailed by the whole group, all of them eager to see Scalza lose and to enjoy his humiliation. They explained the whole business to Piero.

Piero was a sharp young man. After hearing Neri's argument first, he turned to Scalza and said, "All right then — how do you plan to prove this claim of yours?"

"How?" said Scalza. "I'll prove it with such airtight reasoning that not just you, but even my opponent here will have to admit I'm right. Everyone knows that the older a family is, the nobler it is — that's what they were all saying just now. Well, the Baronci are older than anyone else, which makes them the noblest. So once I prove they're the most ancient family, I'll have won the bet beyond all doubt.

"Here's the thing: God made the Baronci back when He was first learning how to draw. The rest of humanity? He made them later, once He'd gotten good at it. Don't believe me? Just look at the Baronci and compare them to everyone else. While other people have nicely composed, well-proportioned faces, you'll notice that among the Baronci, one has an absurdly long, narrow face and another has one that's impossibly wide. This one has a nose that goes on forever; that one has a nose like a stub. One has a chin that juts out and curves upward, with a jawbone that looks like it belongs on a donkey. Some have one eye bigger than the other. Others have one eye set lower than the other — like the faces children draw when they're first picking up a pencil.

"So, as I said, it's perfectly obvious that God made the Baronci when He was still in His sketching phase. That makes them more ancient than everyone else, and therefore the noblest family of all."

When Piero, the judge, heard this ridiculous argument, and Neri, who'd wagered the dinner, and all the rest — when they thought about the Baronci and pictured their faces — they all collapsed laughing and agreed that Scalza was absolutely right. He'd won the dinner fair and square, because the Baronci were unquestionably the noblest and most ancient family to be found not just in Florence, but in the entire world, Maremma included.

And that's exactly why Pamfilo was right when he said, earlier, that Messer Forese's face was ugly enough — it would have looked particularly awful even on a Baronci.

Day 6, Story 7

Madonna Filippa, caught by her husband in bed with her lover, is hauled into court. She defends herself with such a clever and charming argument that she not only walks free but gets the law itself changed.

Fiammetta had finished, and everyone was still laughing at Scalza's brilliant reasoning in defense of the Baronci, when the queen told Filostrato to take his turn. He began: "It's always a fine thing to know how to speak well, noble ladies. But I think it's even finer to know how to do it at the exact moment when your life depends on it — as a certain gentlewoman I'm about to tell you about managed to do, saving herself not just from embarrassment, but from death."

In the city of Prato, there was once a statute on the books that was, frankly, as cruel as it was stupid. Without making any distinction whatsoever, it declared that any woman caught by her husband in bed with a lover should be burned alive — the same punishment given to a common prostitute. While this law was in force, it happened that a beautiful noblewoman named Madonna Filippa, who had a particularly passionate temperament, was discovered one night by her husband, Rinaldo de' Pugliesi, in the arms of Lazzerino de' Guazzagliotri. Lazzerino was a handsome young nobleman from the same city, and she loved him as much as she loved her own life.

When Rinaldo saw them together, he was so enraged he could barely keep himself from rushing at them and killing them both on the spot. If not for the fear of what would happen to him afterward, he might have given in to that impulse. He restrained himself from violence, but he couldn't restrain himself from wanting what the law of Prato would give him instead: his wife's death. So, armed with more than enough evidence to prove her guilt, he waited for daybreak and then, without consulting anyone, filed a formal accusation and had her summoned before the magistrate.

Madonna Filippa was a woman of tremendous courage — as women who are truly in love tend to be. Despite the urgent pleas of her friends and relatives, who all begged her not to go, she resolved to appear in court. She would rather face death with the truth on her lips and an unbroken spirit than live as a fugitive in exile and prove herself unworthy of the lover in whose arms she'd been caught. She presented herself before the magistrate with a large entourage of men and women who'd come to support her, and with a steady voice and a calm, composed expression, she asked what the charge was.

The magistrate looked at her — beautiful, poised, and clearly a woman of real strength — and began to feel sorry for her, especially since he suspected she was about to confess to something that would force him, for the sake of his own duty, to condemn her to death. But he had no choice; he had to ask. "Madam," he said, "as you can see, your husband Rinaldo is here. He has filed a complaint against you, claiming that he caught you in the act of adultery with another man. He's demanding that I punish you for it by putting you to death, as the law requires. I can't do that unless you confess. So think very carefully about your answer: is what your husband charges you with true?"

Madonna Filippa, not the least bit intimidated, answered in a bright, cheerful voice: "Sir, it's true that Rinaldo is my husband, and it's true that he found me last night in the arms of Lazzerino, where I have been many times before, because of the deep and genuine love I have for him. I won't deny it for a second.

"But as I'm sure you know, laws ought to apply equally to everyone, and they should be made with the consent of the people they affect. This law fails on both counts. It's binding only on us poor women, even though we're far more capable than men of satisfying multiple partners. What's more, when this statute was drafted, not a single woman was asked to consent to it — not one of us was even consulted. For all these reasons, it fully deserves to be called unjust.

"Now, if you choose to enforce this unjust law at the expense of my body and your own soul, that's your prerogative. But before you pass any judgment, I ask you to do me one small favor. Simply ask my husband whether I have ever, at any time, in any way, refused him — whether I haven't always given him everything he wanted, whenever he wanted it, as much as he wanted."

Rinaldo didn't even wait for the magistrate to put the question. He immediately admitted that yes, she had always given him everything he desired, without ever once turning him down.

"Well then, my lord magistrate," she said at once, "if he has always taken as much as he needed and as much as he pleased, what was I supposed to do with the leftovers? Throw them to the dogs? Isn't it far better to share them with a gentleman who loves me more than his own life, rather than let them go to waste?"

By this time, practically everyone in Prato had turned out for such a sensational trial involving such a beautiful and well-known woman, and when they heard this delicious argument, they roared with laughter and then, almost with a single voice, cried out that she was absolutely right.

Before the day was over, at the magistrate's own suggestion, the townspeople amended the cruel statute. From that point on, it applied only to women who cheated on their husbands for money.

Rinaldo, having gotten nothing out of this harebrained scheme but public humiliation, slunk out of court. And Madonna Filippa returned home in triumph — joyful, free, and practically risen from the ashes.

Day 6, Story 8

Fresco advises his vain niece that if she really can't stand the sight of disagreeable people, she should stay away from mirrors.

Filostrato's story gave the listening ladies a little jolt at first — you could see it in the modest blush that crept across their faces. But then they started exchanging glances and, barely suppressing their giggles, listened through the rest of it with smiles tugging at their lips. When he finished, the queen turned to Emilia and told her to go next.

Emilia sighed as though someone had just shaken her awake from a daydream and began: "Well, dear girls, a long train of thought had carried my mind somewhere else entirely, so to obey our queen I'll settle for a story that's probably slighter than what I might have come up with if I'd been paying attention. But here it is — the tale of a foolish young woman whose uncle tried to set her straight with a witty remark, though she wasn't smart enough to get it.

A man named Fresco da Celatico had a niece whom everyone called Ciesca. She had a pretty enough face and figure — though nothing like the angelic beauties we hear about in stories — but she thought so highly of herself and considered herself so superior that she'd gotten into the habit of finding fault with every single man and woman she laid eyes on. Nothing anyone did ever met her standards. She never once turned that critical eye on herself, of course, even though she was, in truth, more irritating, more difficult, and more petulant than any other woman alive. On top of all this, she was so full of pride that it would have been excessive in a member of the French royal family.

When she walked down the street, she put on so many airs and made so many sour faces that you'd have thought she was getting a whiff of sewage from every person she passed.

Setting aside her many other tiresome and obnoxious habits, one day she came home to where Fresco was sitting, plopped herself down beside him, and proceeded to puff and sigh and grimace as though she'd been deeply put upon. "Ciesca," he said, "what's all this? It's a holiday — why are you home so early?"

She answered, practically swooning with affectation, "Well, I came back because I simply cannot believe there have ever been so many disagreeable and tiresome people in this city as there are today — men and women both. Not a single person passed me in the street who didn't make my skin crawl. I honestly don't think there's a woman in the world who finds it more unbearable to look at ugly people than I do. I came home just to spare myself the sight."

"My girl," said Fresco, who found his niece's airs absolutely insufferable, "if disagreeable people are really so painful for you to look at, then do yourself a favor and never look in a mirror."

But Ciesca, who was emptier than a hollow reed despite believing herself a match for King Solomon in brains, completely failed to grasp what Fresco actually meant. She said that she intended to look in the mirror just as much as any other woman, thank you very much. And so she went right on being a fool — and as far as I know, she's a fool still.

Day 6, Story 9

Guido Cavalcanti, ambushed by a group of idle gentlemen among the tombs, puts them in their place with a single devastating remark — and a well-timed leap.

The queen, seeing that Emilia had finished and that no one was left to tell a story except herself and Dioneo (who had his usual privilege of going last), began: "Though you've stolen at least two of the stories I'd planned to tell today, dear ladies, I do have one left. And it ends with a remark so pointed that I don't think we've heard anything to match it yet.

You should know that in the old days, Florence had many fine and admirable customs — all of which have since vanished, driven out by the greed that came flooding in with prosperity. One such custom was this: gentlemen from the various neighborhoods of Florence would form social clubs of a certain number of members, taking care to admit only men who could comfortably bear the expense. Each member would take his turn hosting the whole group for dinner — today one, tomorrow another, and so on through the roster. They would often honor visiting noblemen with invitations, as well as prominent citizens. At least once a year, they'd all dress in matching outfits and ride through the city together on important feast days, and sometimes they held tournaments and jousts, especially on major holidays or whenever good news arrived, like a military victory.

One of these clubs belonged to Messer Betto Brunelleschi. He and his companions had tried very hard to recruit Guido Cavalcanti, the son of Messer Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti — and with good reason. Beyond being one of the finest logicians in the world and an outstanding natural philosopher (qualities that, frankly, didn't matter much to this crowd), Guido was also tremendously elegant, well-mannered, and eloquent. He excelled at everything a gentleman might undertake, and he was rich to boot, with an exceptional talent for lavish hospitality when he believed someone deserved it.

But Messer Betto had never managed to reel him in. He and his friends assumed this was because Guido, absorbed in his philosophical speculations, had become detached from ordinary social life. And since he leaned somewhat toward the views of the Epicureans, the common rumor on the street was that all his deep thinking amounted to nothing more than trying to prove that God didn't exist.

One day, Guido set out from the church of Orsanmichele and walked along the Corso degli Adimari, which was one of his regular routes, heading toward the church of San Giovanni. Around the church at that time there stood several large marble tombs (which have since been moved to Santa Reparata), along with many others. Guido was making his way between the porphyry columns and these tombs, with the church door shut behind him, when Messer Betto and his gang came riding through the Piazza di Santa Reparata on horseback. Spotting him among the tombs, they said, "Let's go have some fun with him."

They spurred their horses and charged down on him in a playful ambush, surrounding him before he knew what was happening. "So, Guido!" they said. "You refuse to join our club. But tell us this — when you finally prove that God doesn't exist, what exactly will you have accomplished?"

Guido, seeing himself hemmed in on all sides, answered without missing a beat: "Gentlemen, you may say whatever you like to me in your own house." Then he placed his hand on one of the tall tombs, and being an extremely agile man, he vaulted right over it, landed on the other side, and walked away, leaving them behind.

The gentlemen stood there staring at each other, then started saying he must be out of his mind, and that his remark made no sense at all — after all, the spot where they were standing had no more to do with them than with any other citizen, Guido included.

But Messer Betto turned to them and said, "No — you're the ones who aren't making sense, if you didn't understand him. He just gave us the most elegantly savage insult in the world, in the fewest possible words. Think about it: these tombs are the houses of the dead. They're where dead people are laid to rest. And Guido is telling us that these are our house — meaning that we, and ignorant men like us, are so far beneath him and other men of learning that we might as well be dead. Standing here among the tombs, we're right at home."

Once Messer Betto explained it, every one of them understood what Guido had meant. They were thoroughly ashamed of themselves. They never bothered him again, and from that day forward, they considered Messer Betto a man of remarkably sharp wit.

Day 6, Story 10

Fra Cipolla promises the peasants of Certaldo a look at one of the Angel Gabriel's feathers. When two pranksters swap it out for a handful of coals, the friar improvises a jaw-dropping speech about his travels across the globe and his collection of holy relics — and turns the coals into an even bigger hit than the feather.

Everyone had finished their stories, and Dioneo knew it was his turn. Without waiting for a formal invitation, he jumped in as soon as the applause for Guido's razor-sharp comeback had died down.

"Charming ladies, even though I have the right to talk about whatever I want, today I'm not going to stray from the subject you've all handled so well. Following in your footsteps, I'm going to show you how cleverly a certain friar of the Order of Saint Anthony — a man named Fra Cipolla — wriggled his way out of a trap that two young men had set for him. And you'll have to forgive me if I go on at some length, because if you look up at the sun, you'll see it's still right in the middle of the sky."

—-

Certaldo, as you may have heard, is a small town in the Val d'Elsa, within our territory. Though it's not very big, it was once home to families of real wealth and standing. Because the pickings were good there, one of the friars of the Order of Saint Anthony made a habit of visiting once a year to collect the donations that gullible people made to the order. His name was Fra Cipolla — Friar Onion, essentially — and he was as warmly received there for his name's sake as for any other reason, since that part of Tuscany is famous for its onions.

Fra Cipolla was a small man, red-haired, with a perpetually cheerful face — the merriest rascal you ever met. He had no formal education whatsoever, but he was such a smooth and quick-witted talker that anyone who didn't know better would have taken him not just for a great orator, but for Cicero himself, or maybe Quintilian. He was everybody's friend, everybody's buddy, everybody's pal — practically the whole countryside knew him.

One August, as was his custom, he showed up in Certaldo. On a Sunday morning, when all the good men and women of the surrounding villages had gathered at the parish church to hear mass, he stepped forward when the time seemed right and said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, it's your custom every year to send a portion of your wheat and oats to the poor brethren of our lord, the blessed Baron Saint Anthony — some giving a little, some giving a lot, according to their means and their devotion. You do this so that the blessed Saint Anthony will keep watch over your oxen, your donkeys, your pigs, and your sheep. Beyond that, those of you who are enrolled in our confraternity also pay the small annual dues. I've been sent here by my superior — that is, by my lord abbot — to collect all of this. So, with God's blessing, after the noon bells ring, come on outside the church, where I'll preach to you in the usual manner, and you can all kiss the cross.

"But on top of that — because I know you are all tremendously devoted to our lord Saint Anthony — I'm going to do something special for you. As a mark of particular favor, I'm going to show you a truly sacred and magnificent relic, one that I myself brought back from the Holy Land across the sea. And that relic is one of the Angel Gabriel's very own feathers, which was left behind in the Virgin Mary's bedchamber when he came to Nazareth to deliver the Annunciation."

Having said this, he went back to finishing the mass.

Now, among the many people in the church that morning were two mischievous young men named Giovanni del Bragoniera and Biagio Pizzini. After snickering together for a while about Fra Cipolla's so-called relic, they hatched a plan: even though they were good friends of the friar's, they decided to play a trick on him involving the feather. They found out he was having lunch that morning with a friend of his in town, and as soon as they knew he was safely seated at the table, they headed down to the inn where he was staying. The plan was simple: Biagio would keep Fra Cipolla's servant occupied in conversation while Giovanni searched the friar's luggage for the feather — whatever it turned out to be — and made off with it, just to see what the friar would say to the crowd.

Now, Fra Cipolla had a servant — the kind of man who went by many names. Some people called him Guccio the Whale, others called him Guccio the Slob, and still others called him Guccio the Pig. He was such a thoroughgoing disaster of a human being that even the legendary trickster Lippo Topo never produced anyone to rival him. In fact, Fra Cipolla himself used to joke about him with friends, saying: "My servant has nine qualities, any one of which, found in Solomon or Aristotle or Seneca, would have been enough to ruin all their wisdom, all their intellect, and all their virtue. So just imagine what kind of man he must be, having all nine — and possessing no wisdom, no intellect, and no virtue to begin with."

When people asked what these nine qualities were, Fra Cipolla had worked them into a little rhyme: "He's a liar, a sloven, and a slugabed. He's disobedient, neglectful, and ill-bred. He's arrogant, foul-mouthed, and a dunderhead. And on top of all that, he's got a few other charming habits I won't bother going into. But the funniest thing about him is this: wherever he goes, he's always trying to find a wife and rent a house. He's got this big, black, greasy beard, and he's so convinced of his own handsomeness and charm that he imagines every woman who sees him is falling head over heels in love with him. If you left him alone, he'd chase every skirt in sight until his belt fell off. I'll grant you this much, though — he is useful to me in one way: no matter how secretly someone tries to speak to me, Guccio always manages to hear his share of it. And if anyone asks me a question, he's so terrified I won't know the answer that he immediately answers it himself — both yes and no — as he sees fit."

Now, when Fra Cipolla had left Guccio at the inn, he'd told him to make sure that nobody touched his belongings, especially the saddlebags — because that's where the sacred relics were kept. But Guccio, who was fonder of the kitchen than a nightingale is of a leafy branch — especially when he detected the presence of a serving girl — had spotted a kitchen maid at the inn: a fat, dumpy, misshapen creature with a pair of breasts like two manure baskets and a face like a Baronci, all greasy and sweaty and covered in soot. Abandoning Fra Cipolla's room and all his gear to fend for themselves, Guccio swooped down on the kitchen like a vulture on a carcass. Even though it was August, he planted himself by the fire and struck up a conversation with this woman, whose name was Nuta.

He told her he was a gentleman of means, that he had more than nine million florins to his name — not counting the money he owed to other people, which was rather more than less — and that he could do and say things that only God himself fully understood. He said all this without a trace of self-awareness, despite the fact that his cap was so caked with grease it could have seasoned the great cauldron at Altopascio, and his doublet was ripped and patched and stiff with filth around the collar and under the arms, sporting more stains and spots of different colors than any Turkish or Indian fabric ever woven. His shoes were falling apart and his stockings were coming unsewn. But none of this stopped him from telling Nuta — as if he were some great lord — that he intended to buy her new clothes and set her up properly and free her from the misery of working for other people and give her hope of a better life, and so on and so on. All of which he delivered with tremendous earnestness, and all of which, like most of his enterprises, came to absolutely nothing.

The two young men, then, found Guccio thoroughly occupied with Nuta — which suited them perfectly, since it saved them half the work. With no one to stop them, they walked into Fra Cipolla's room, which they found wide open. The first thing they went for was the saddlebags. Inside, wrapped in an elaborate taffeta cloth, they found a small box, and when they opened it, they discovered a parrot's tail feather. This, they realized, had to be the relic that Fra Cipolla had promised to show the people of Certaldo.

And honestly, he could have gotten away with it in those days. The exotic luxuries of Egypt and the East hadn't yet reached much of Tuscany — though they would later flood in to the ruin of all Italy. Even where such things were slightly known, in this part of the countryside people had absolutely no acquaintance with them. The plain, honest ways of the old days still held sway here. These people hadn't just never seen a parrot — they'd never even heard of one.

Delighted with their find, the young men pocketed the feather. But they didn't want to leave the box empty, so they grabbed some coals from the corner of the room, filled the box, closed it, and put everything back exactly as they'd found it. Then they slipped out with the feather, completely undetected, and settled in to wait and see what Fra Cipolla would say when he found coals instead of his relic.

The simple men and women who'd been at church that morning, having heard the announcement about the Angel Gabriel's feather, went home after mass and spread the news to all their neighbors and friends. After everyone had eaten lunch, such an enormous crowd of men and women poured into the town to see the feather that the place could barely hold them all.

Fra Cipolla, having eaten a fine lunch and then enjoyed a nap, woke up a little after noon. When he heard that a huge throng of country people had gathered to see the feather, he sent word for Guccio the Slob to come with the bells and bring the saddlebags. Guccio tore himself away from the kitchen and Nuta with the greatest reluctance, and hauled himself over to the appointed spot, panting and bloated — because all the water he'd been drinking had swelled his belly enormously. On his master's orders, he went to the church door and started ringing the bells with gusto.

When the entire crowd had assembled, Fra Cipolla began his sermon, never having noticed that anyone had tampered with his things. He went on at length about various matters relating to himself and his order. Then, when the moment arrived to reveal the Angel Gabriel's feather, he solemnly recited the Confiteor, had two tall candles lit, and slowly, reverently, drew back his hood. Then he unwrapped the taffeta cloth with exquisite delicacy and lifted out the box.

After delivering a few words of praise and wonder about the Angel Gabriel and his relic, he opened the box — and found it full of coals.

He didn't suspect Guccio the Whale of having done this, because he knew the man wasn't capable of that kind of initiative. He didn't even curse Guccio for failing to keep others from doing it, though he silently cursed himself for having left his things in the care of a man he knew perfectly well to be negligent, disobedient, careless, and forgetful.

But without changing color so much as a shade, he raised his eyes and his hands to heaven and said, loud enough for all to hear: "O God! May your power be praised forever!"

Then he closed the box, turned to face the crowd, and began.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let me explain. When I was still a very young man, my superior sent me to those lands where the sun rises. I was given an express commission to seek out the Privileges of Porcellana — documents that cost nothing to stamp but are far more useful to others than they are to us.

"I set out from Venice and traveled through the Greek Quarter. From there I rode through the Kingdom of Algebra and on to Baldacca, and eventually I reached Parione — where, I must say, it was not without a certain thirst that I finally arrived in Sardinia. But what's the use of listing every country I explored along the way?

"After passing through the Strait of Saint George, I came to Truffia and Buffia — two countries with enormous populations — and from there I entered the land of Menzogna, where I found great numbers of our own brothers, along with friars of various other orders, all of them wandering around those parts avoiding discomfort for the love of God. They didn't give much thought to other people's troubles, as long as they could spot some advantage for themselves, and they spent no money in those lands except the kind that hadn't been coined. From there I passed into the land of Abruzzi, where men and women walk around the mountains in wooden clogs, dressing up their pigs in the pigs' own intestines. A little farther on I found people who carried their bread on the tips of sticks and their wine in leather bags.

"Leaving there, I arrived at the Mountains of the Basques, where all the water runs downhill. In short, I traveled so deep into the interior that I finally reached India Pastinaca itself, where I swear to you — by the habit on my back — I saw pruning hooks fly through the air. An incredible sight, if you've never seen it. But don't take my word for it alone: Maso del Saggio will back me up. I found him there doing a booming business as a merchant, cracking walnuts and selling the shells by the piece.

"Since I couldn't find what I'd been sent to look for — because from that point on you had to travel by water — I turned back and eventually arrived in those holy lands where, in good years, cold bread costs four cents a loaf and hot bread goes for nothing. There I met the venerable Father Blamemenot Ifyouplease, the most worshipful Patriarch of Jerusalem. Out of reverence for the habit I wear — the habit of our lord, the Baron Saint Anthony — he was kind enough to let me see all the holy relics he had in his keeping. There were so many that if I tried to list them all, I'd be talking for miles and never reach the end. But so as not to leave you without any consolation, let me mention a few.

"First, he showed me the Finger of the Holy Ghost, as whole and intact as the day it was made. Then the Forelock of the Seraph that appeared to Saint Francis. Then one of the Nails of the Cherubim, and one of the Ribs of the Word-Made-Flesh-Go-to-the-Window. He showed me some of the Vestments of the Holy Catholic Faith, and several Rays from the Star that appeared to the Three Wise Men in the East. Then a Vial of Saint Michael's Sweat, collected during his battle with the Devil, and the Jawbone of the Death of Saint Lazarus, among others.

"And because I freely gave him the Slopes of Monte Morello in the vernacular, along with several chapters of the Caprezio — a text he'd been searching for a long time — he was kind enough to share some of his holy relics with me. He gave me one of the Teeth of the Holy Cross, and a small vial containing some of the Sound of the Bells of Solomon's Temple, and the Feather of the Angel Gabriel that I already told you about, and one of the Wooden Clogs of Saint Gherardo da Villamagna — which, not long ago in Florence, I gave to Gherardo di Bonsi, who has a particular devotion to that saint. He also gave me some of the Coals upon which the most blessed martyr Saint Lawrence was roasted alive. I brought all of these relics home with me, and I have them still.

"Now, it's true that my superior never allowed me to display them publicly until he could verify their authenticity. But recently, through certain miracles the relics have performed, and through letters received from the Patriarch himself, he has confirmed that they are genuine and granted me permission to show them. However, I'm always nervous about entrusting them to anyone else, so I carry them with me wherever I go.

"Here's the thing: I keep the Angel Gabriel's feather in one box and the coals that roasted Saint Lawrence in another. And the two boxes are so similar that I've mixed them up more than once — which is exactly what happened today. I thought I was bringing the box with the feather, but instead I grabbed the one with the coals.

"But I don't believe this was an accident. In fact, I'm now certain it was God's own doing. He himself placed the box of coals in my hands — especially when I remember that the feast of Saint Lawrence is only two days away. God wanted me to rekindle the devotion you should feel for Saint Lawrence by showing you the coals upon which his blessed body was roasted, rather than the feather of Gabriel, which was my original intention. So pull off your hats, my blessed children, and come forward reverently to behold them!

"But first, I want you to know this: whoever is marked with these coals, in the sign of the cross, can be absolutely certain that for the entire year to come, no fire will touch him without his feeling it."

Having delivered this speech, he sang a hymn in praise of Saint Lawrence, opened the box, and displayed the coals. The simple crowd gazed at them with slack-jawed reverence for a good long while. Then they all pressed forward around Fra Cipolla, making even more generous donations than usual, and begged him, one after another, to touch them with the coals. So Fra Cipolla took the coals in hand and began drawing the biggest crosses he could fit on their white shirts and doublets and on the women's veils, assuring them all the while that no matter how much the coals shrank from being used to make crosses, they always grew back to their original size inside the box — as he had proven many times.

In this fashion, he crossed every last person in Certaldo, to his considerable profit. And so, by his quick thinking and ready wit, he turned the tables on the two young men who'd thought they were going to make a fool of him. The pair of them had been right there in the crowd during his whole performance, and they'd laughed so hard at his outrageous invention — the length and elaborateness of his speech, how far afield he'd gone for his material, and the sheer brazenness of his language — that they thought their jaws would crack. After the common folk had dispersed, they went up to him, howling with delight, and told him what they'd done. Then they gave him back his feather — which, the following year, served him every bit as well as the coals had done that day.

—-

This story gave the whole company equal measures of pleasure and amusement, and everyone had a good long laugh about Fra Cipolla, especially his pilgrimage and the relics he claimed to have seen and brought home. When it was over, the queen, recognizing that her story was told and her reign was at an end, stood up and lifted the crown from her own head. With a smile, she placed it on Dioneo's head and said, "It's time for you to find out what it's like to have women to govern and guide, Dioneo. You're the king now — rule us in such a way that when it's over, we'll have reason to praise your leadership."

Dioneo took the crown and replied, laughing, "You've probably seen kings better than me plenty of times — on chessboards, at least. But if you obey me the way a king truly ought to be obeyed, I'll make sure you enjoy the one thing without which no party is ever really complete. Enough about that, though — I'll rule as best I can."

Then, following the usual custom, he sent for the steward and gave him detailed instructions about what to arrange for the duration of his reign. After that, he turned to the company and said:

"Noble ladies, we've talked about all kinds of human cleverness and twists of fortune, to the point where if Lady Licisca hadn't shown up a little while ago and given me an idea for tomorrow's topic with that outburst of hers, I might have had a hard time choosing one. As you heard, she declared that she didn't have a single friend or neighbor who'd come to her husband as a virgin — and on top of that, she claimed to know plenty about the various tricks that married women play on their husbands. Leaving aside the first part, which is kid stuff, I think the second could make for an entertaining day. So here's my decree: tomorrow we'll tell stories about the tricks that women have played on their husbands, whether for love or to save their own skins, whether the husbands found out or not."

Some of the ladies felt that telling stories on this subject would be beneath their dignity, and they asked him to change the theme. But Dioneo answered: "Ladies, I know perfectly well what I've just ordered, and what you're trying to argue won't change my mind. Consider the times we're living in: as long as men and women are careful to behave properly in their actions, any subject at all is fair game for conversation. Don't you realize that, because of the state of the world right now, judges have abandoned their courts, the laws — both divine and human — have gone silent, and everyone has been given the broadest possible license just to stay alive? If your sense of propriety can handle a little freedom in what we talk about — not with any intention of following it up with improper behavior, but just for amusement and entertainment — then I don't see how anyone could reasonably criticize you later.

"Besides, this company has conducted itself with perfect decorum from the very first day until now. Nothing anyone has said here has stained our collective honor in the slightest. And who doesn't know your virtue? I don't think even the fear of death could shake it, let alone a few playful stories. Honestly, if anyone found out that you'd shied away from talking about these things even once in a while, they might start to suspect you actually had a guilty conscience about it. Not to mention what a fine compliment you'd be paying me: I've been obedient to every one of your rules, and now that you've made me king, you want to start laying down the law? Put aside these worries — they're more suited to small minds than to yours. Go ahead and let each of you start thinking of a good story."

When the ladies heard this, they agreed to do as he said. The king then gave everyone leave to do as they pleased until suppertime.

The sun was still high, since the day's storytelling had been brief. When Dioneo sat down with the other young men to play backgammon, Elisa pulled the other ladies aside and said, "Ever since we arrived here, I've been wanting to take you to a place nearby that I don't think any of you has ever seen. It's called the Valley of the Ladies, and I've never found the right moment until today. The sun is still well up, so if you'd like to come, I'm sure you'll be glad you did."

They told her they were ready. Without telling the young men, they called one of their maids and set out. They'd walked barely a mile when they came to the Valley of the Ladies. They entered it through a very narrow path, along one side of which ran a beautifully clear stream, and found it as lovely and delightful as any place could be, especially in such hot weather.

As one of them later told me, the valley floor was as perfectly round as if it had been drawn with a compass, though it was obviously the work of nature and not of human hands. Its circumference was a little more than half a mile, and it was ringed by six gentle hills, none of them very tall. On the crest of each stood a small palace built to look like a miniature castle. The slopes of the hills descended toward the central plain in orderly tiers, like the rows of seats in an amphitheater, gradually narrowing as they went. The south-facing slopes were covered with grapevines, olive trees, almond trees, cherry trees, fig trees, and every other kind of fruit tree you could name, without a single patch of wasted ground. The north-facing slopes were thick with groves of dwarf oaks, ash trees, and other species, as green and straight as could be.

The valley floor itself — which had no entrance except the one by which the ladies had come — was full of fir trees, cypresses, laurels, and several varieties of pine, so beautifully arranged that they might have been planted by the finest landscape artist alive. Beneath these trees, even at high noon, the sun barely reached the ground, which was a single unbroken meadow of fine grass, thickly sprinkled with purple flowers and others. And what delighted them no less than everything else was a small stream that tumbled down from a ravine between two of the hills and cascaded over a cliff of living rock, making the most wonderfully musical sound as it fell — looking from a distance like a spray of quicksilver bursting under pressure into a fine mist.

When the stream reached the valley floor, it was caught in a pretty little channel and flowed swiftly to the center, where it formed a miniature lake, no bigger than the fish ponds that well-off city people sometimes build in their gardens. The lake was no deeper than chest height. Its water was so perfectly clear and undisturbed that you could see straight to the bottom, which was a bed of the finest gravel — grains you could have counted, if you'd had nothing better to do. And it wasn't just the bottom you saw when you looked down: there were fish darting in every direction, so many of them that it was a marvel to watch, and a pleasure on top of the marvel. The lake had no built-up banks; its shores were simply the meadow itself, which grew all the more lush and green for the moisture it received. The water that overflowed the lake drained off through another little channel, flowing out of the valley and down to the lowlands below.

This, then, was where the young ladies arrived. After they'd looked around in every direction and praised the place to the skies, they decided — since the heat was fierce and the lake was right there, and there was no chance of anyone seeing them — to go for a swim. They told their maid to stand guard at the entrance, keep an eye out for anyone approaching, and warn them if she saw somebody coming. Then all seven of them undressed and slipped into the water. The lake hid their white bodies about as well as a thin sheet of glass would hide a red rose. They were in the water, which stayed perfectly clear despite their presence, and they began chasing the fish this way and that, trying to catch them with their bare hands — though the fish had very little room to hide.

After splashing around in this happy game for a while and catching a few, they climbed out of the lake and got dressed again. Unable to praise the place any more than they already had, and feeling it was time to head home, they set off at a leisurely pace, talking all the while about how beautiful the valley was.

They reached the palace well before dark and found the young men still playing where they'd left them. "Well!" said Pampinea with a laugh. "We've stolen a march on you today."

"Really?" said Dioneo. "You've started doing things before you've gotten around to telling stories about them?"

"That's right, my lord," she answered, and gave him a full account of where they'd been, what the place looked like, how far away it was, and what they'd done there.

The king, intrigued by her description, immediately ordered supper. When the excellent meal was over, the three young men took their servants and went to see the valley for themselves. None of them had ever been there before, and they declared it one of the loveliest places in the world. After they'd explored every corner of it and taken their own swim, they got dressed and headed back, since it was getting late. Back at the palace, they found the ladies dancing in a circle to a song led by Fiammetta.

When the dance ended, the young men joined them in a conversation about the Valley of the Ladies, which everyone praised to the skies. The king sent for the steward and ordered him to have tomorrow's dinner prepared down in the valley, and to have beds set up there as well, in case anyone wanted to lie down or sleep through the afternoon heat. Then he called for lights and wine and pastries, and after the company had refreshed themselves a bit, he ordered everyone to dance. At his request, Pamfilo led the first dance, and then the king turned courteously to Elisa and said:

"Fair lady, today you honored me with the crown. Tonight I'd like to honor you with the song. Sing us whichever one you like best."

Elisa smiled and said she'd be happy to. In a sweet, clear voice, she began:

Love, if I could break free from your claws, > I doubt that any hook could catch me again. > > I entered your wars a young girl, > thinking your battles were sweetness and peace. > I laid all my weapons down on the ground, > trusting, unguarded, certain of safety. > But you, false tyrant, with greedy heat > fell on me hard > with every grappling iron in your arsenal. > > Tangled and chained, you handed me over — > bound tight, full of anguish and bitter tears — > to a man who was born in an evil hour > to be my death. And in his power > I've stayed, and his rule is so harsh and cold > that no sighs move him, > no wasting cries of mine can set me free. > > The wind carries all my prayers away. > He listens to none, and none will hear. > And so my suffering grows, hour by hour. > I cannot die, though living is a burden. > Lord, take pity on my sorrow — > do what I cannot: > give him to me, bound in your chains. > > But if you won't do that, at least untie > the knots that hope once tied. > Please, Lord — I'm begging you. > If you would do it, I still believe > that I could be beautiful again, the way I used to be, > and being free of pain, > I'd deck myself with flowers, white and red.

Elisa ended her song with a deeply felt sigh. Though everyone was curious about the words, no one could quite figure out what had prompted her to sing such a thing. But the king, who was in excellent spirits, called for Tindaro and had him bring out his bagpipes. To that lively music he led the company through many dances, and by the time they were done, a good part of the night had slipped away. He bid them all goodnight and sent everyone off to sleep.

Here ends the Sixth Day of the Decameron.

Day 7 — Introduction

Here begins the seventh day of the Decameron, in which, under the rule of Dioneo, the company tells stories of the tricks that wives have played on their husbands — whether for love or for self-preservation — with or without their husbands ever finding out.

Every star had already faded from the eastern sky, except for the one we call the Morning Star, still shining in the whitening dawn, when the steward got up and set off with a great train of baggage toward the Valley of the Ladies to set everything up according to his lord's instructions. The king, woken by the noise of the packers and the pack animals, didn't linger long before rising himself, and once he was up, he had all the ladies and the young men roused as well. The sun's rays had barely broken over the horizon when they all set out on the road. The nightingales and the other birds seemed to be singing more cheerfully than ever that morning, and the group walked along to the accompaniment of their birdsong, heading toward the Valley of the Ladies, where still more birds seemed to welcome them with happy songs of their own. There, strolling around the whole place and taking it all in anew, they agreed it looked even more beautiful than the day before, the morning light being especially kind to its charms.

After breaking their fast with good wine and light snacks, not wanting to be outdone by the birds in the matter of song, they struck up some tunes of their own — and the valley echoed them back, while all the birds, as if refusing to be bested, added fresh, sweet notes of their own. When dinnertime came, the tables were set beside the lovely little lake under the dense laurels and other fine trees, and they sat down as the king directed. While they ate, they watched enormous schools of fish swimming through the lake, which inspired as much conversation as it did admiration.

Once dinner was done and the food and tables were cleared away, they started singing again, even more spiritedly than before. After that, beds had been set up in various spots around the little valley, all enclosed by the thoughtful steward with curtains and canopies of fine French cloth. Anyone who wished could, with the king's permission, go take a nap, while those who had no interest in sleeping could amuse themselves with whatever pastimes they liked.

Later, when everyone was up and the hour for storytelling had arrived, carpets were spread on the grass at the king's command, not far from where they'd eaten. They all settled down near the lake, and the king called on Emilia to begin. She smiled and cheerfully started in:

Day 7, Story 1

Gianni Lotteringhi hears a knock at his door one night and wakes his wife, who convinces him it's a ghost. They go to exorcise it with a special prayer, and the knocking stops.

"My lord, I'd have been perfectly happy if someone else had kicked off such a fine topic as the one we're discussing today. But since you'd like me to set the example for the other ladies, I'll do it gladly. And what's more, dear ladies, I'll try to tell you something that may actually prove useful down the road — because if you're as easily frightened as I am, and especially of ghosts (though God knows what ghosts really are, and I've never met a woman who could explain them either, even though we're all terrified of them), then by paying close attention to my story, you'll learn a holy and effective prayer for chasing them away, should one ever come calling.

There was once in Florence, in the San Brancazio neighborhood, a wool-comber named Gianni Lotteringhi — a man far more talented at his trade than at anything requiring actual brains. Being something of a simpleton, he was constantly getting elected captain of the hymn-singers at Santa Maria Novella and put in charge of their confraternity, and he was always being handed one little honorary position or another, all of which he took enormously seriously. This happened because he was well off and gave generous donations to the clergy — a pair of stockings here, a robe there, a scapular to the next one — and in return they taught him all sorts of fine prayers and gave him the Lord's Prayer in Italian, the Song of Saint Alexis, the Lamentations of Saint Bernard, the Hymns of Lady Matilda, and other such religious bric-a-brac, all of which he treasured greatly and kept close to his heart for the good of his soul.

Now, this man had a very beautiful and charming wife named Monna Tessa, the daughter of Mannuccio dalla Cuculia, and she was a woman of considerable wit and good sense. Knowing her husband for the simpleton he was, she fell in love with Federigo di Neri Pegolotti, a handsome and lively young man who returned her feelings enthusiastically. She arranged through a maid of hers for him to come visit her at a fine country house her husband owned at Camerata, where she spent the whole summer. Gianni would come out sometimes to eat supper and sleep, then head back in the morning to his shop or his beloved hymn-singers.

Federigo, who wanted this more than anything, seized his opportunity and went out there on the appointed day, around vespers. Since Gianni didn't show up that evening, Federigo had supper and spent the night in perfect comfort and delight with the lady, who taught him a good half dozen of her husband's hymns while lying in his arms. Neither she nor Federigo intended this to be a one-time affair, so they worked out a system to avoid having to send the maid every time. The plan was this: every day, as Federigo came and went from a place he had a little farther up the road, he'd keep an eye on a vineyard next to the house. There he'd see a donkey's skull mounted on one of the vine poles. If the skull's snout was pointed toward Florence, he should come to her that evening after dark without fail — and if he found the door shut, he should knock softly three times and she'd let him in. But if the skull's snout was turned toward Fiesole, he should stay away, because Gianni would be there. Using this system, they got together many, many times.

But on one occasion, when Federigo was supposed to come have supper with Monna Tessa and she'd had two fat capons cooked for the occasion, Gianni showed up late that night completely unexpectedly. The lady was mortified. She and her husband ate a piece of salt pork she'd had boiled separately, while she told the maid to wrap up the two capons in a white napkin, along with plenty of fresh eggs and a flask of good wine, and carry them out to a garden she could reach without going through the house — a garden where she sometimes had supper with her lover. She told the maid to leave everything at the foot of a peach tree near a little clearing. But she was so flustered that she forgot to tell the maid to wait for Federigo and let him know Gianni was there and that he should take the food from the garden instead.

So she and Gianni went to bed, and the maid went to bed too, and it wasn't long before Federigo came to the door and knocked softly once. The door was so close to the bedroom that Gianni heard it immediately — and so did the lady. But she pretended to be asleep so her husband wouldn't suspect anything. After a short pause, Federigo knocked a second time. Gianni, puzzled, nudged his wife and said, "Tessa, do you hear that? I think someone's knocking at our door."

The lady, who had heard it much better than he had, pretended to wake up and said, "Hmm? What did you say?"

"I said," Gianni repeated, "it sounds like someone's knocking at our door."

"Knocking!" she cried. "Oh, Gianni, don't you know what that is? It's a ghost! It's been terrifying me for the past several nights. Every time I hear it, I pull the covers over my head and don't dare peek out until it's broad daylight."

"Come on, wife, don't be scared," said Gianni. "If that's what it is, there's nothing to worry about. I said the Te Lucis and the Intemerata and plenty of other holy prayers before we went to bed, and I made the sign of the cross over the whole bed in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. No matter how powerful this thing is, it can't hurt us."

The lady, afraid that Federigo might get the wrong idea and be angry with her, decided she absolutely had to get up and let him know Gianni was there. So she said to her husband, "Well, that's all fine and good for you — you've said your prayers. But as for me, I'll never feel safe unless we go exorcise it, since you're here to help."

"And how exactly do you exorcise it?" he asked.

"I know just how to do it," she said. "The other day, when I went to get my indulgence at Fiesole, one of the holy women there — the most saintly creature, Gianni, you can't imagine how holy — saw how frightened I was and taught me a sacred and powerful prayer. She said she'd tried it several times herself before she became a recluse, and it always worked. God knows I'd never have had the nerve to try it alone, but now that you're here, I say we go exorcise this ghost."

Gianni said he was all for it. They both got up and tiptoed to the door, where Federigo, who was beginning to suspect something had gone wrong, was still waiting outside. When they reached the door, the lady said to Gianni, "Now, spit when I tell you to." He said, "Right."

Then she began the exorcism:

"Ghost, ghost, walking by night, you came here with your tail held high — now leave the same way, tail held high! Go into the garden, to the foot of the great peach tree. There you'll find a greasy offering and a hundred droppings from my hen. Put your mouth to the flask, and then be on your way — and do no harm to my Gianni or to me."

Then she turned to her husband: "Spit, Gianni!" And he spat.

Federigo, who heard every word from outside and was now completely cured of any jealousy, was dying so hard to laugh despite his frustration that he could barely contain himself. When Gianni spat, Federigo muttered under his breath, "Your teeth, more like!"

The lady performed the exorcism three times in this manner, then went back to bed with her husband. Meanwhile, Federigo — who hadn't eaten supper and had been counting on dining with her — had understood the words of the prayer perfectly well. He went around to the garden, found the two capons, the wine, and the eggs at the foot of the great peach tree, carried them off to his house, and ate at his leisure. And the next time he and the lady got together, they had a very good laugh about her exorcism.

Now, some people say the lady actually had turned the donkey skull toward Fiesole, but a farmer passing through the vineyard gave it a whack with a stick and spun it around so it ended up facing Florence — which is why Federigo, thinking he'd been summoned, came over. According to this version, the lady's prayer went like this: "Ghost, ghost, get yourself gone in God's name! I'm not the one who turned the donkey's head — someone else did it, and God punish him! I'm right here with my Gianni in bed." And so Federigo went away and had neither supper nor a place to sleep.

But a neighbor of mine, a very old woman, tells me that according to what she heard as a child, both versions are true — except the second one didn't happen to Gianni Lotteringhi but to a man named Gianni di Nello, who lived near the Porta San Piero and was every bit as magnificent a blockhead as the other one.

So, dear ladies, the choice is yours — take whichever prayer suits you best, or both if you like. They're remarkably effective in situations like these, as you've just heard. Learn them by heart, and they may serve you well someday."

Day 7, Story 2

Peronella hides her lover in a barrel when her husband comes home unexpectedly. When the husband announces he's sold the barrel, she claims she's already sold it for a better price to a man who's inside it right now, inspecting it. The lover pops out, has the husband scrape the barrel clean, and then carries it home.

Emilia's story was met with roars of laughter, and everyone agreed the ghost exorcism was a fine piece of work. When it was done, the king called on Filostrato to go next, and he began:

"Dearest ladies, there are so many tricks that men — and husbands especially — play on you that whenever some woman happens to pull one over on her husband, you shouldn't just be glad it happened and enjoy hearing about it. You should go around telling everyone, so that men understand this: if they're clever, women are every bit as clever. And that can only work in your favor, because when a man knows that others are on their guard, he's not so quick to try anything. So who could doubt that what we say today on this subject, once it reaches the ears of men, might be a powerful deterrent against their cheating you — since they'll learn that you know how to cheat right back, if you want to? What I'm going to tell you, then, is the trick that a young woman — common as they come — played on her husband on the spur of the moment, to save her own skin.

Not too long ago in Naples, there was a poor man who married a beautiful, charming young woman named Peronella. He was a mason, and she spun thread, and between the two of them they barely scraped together a living — but they got by as best they could. One day, a dashing young man from the neighborhood spotted Peronella, and she pleased him so much that he fell in love with her. He pursued her one way and another until they became intimate, and they worked out the following arrangement for seeing each other: since her husband got up early every morning to go to work or look for work, the young man would position himself where he could watch him leave. As soon as the husband was gone — the street where she lived, called Avorio, being very quiet — the lover would come to her house. And that's exactly what they did, many times.

But one morning, after the husband had gone out and Giannello Strignario — that was the lover's name — had let himself in and was with Peronella, the husband came back home after only a short while, though he normally stayed out all day. Finding the door locked from inside, he knocked, and then started talking to himself: "Oh God, praised be Your name forever! You may have made me poor, but at least You've given me a good, honest wife. Look at that — she locked the door the minute I left, so no one could get in and bother her."

Peronella recognized her husband's knock and said to her lover, "Oh no, Giannello, I'm done for! My husband's back — God damn him — and I have no idea what this means, because he's never come home at this hour before. Maybe he saw you coming in! But whatever the case, for the love of God, get into that barrel over there while I go let him in, and we'll figure out what's going on."

Giannello jumped into the barrel without a second thought. Peronella went to the door, opened it for her husband, and greeted him with a scowl.

"Well, what's this? Back home already this morning? It looks like you plan to do nothing today, showing up here with your tools in hand. And if you do that, what are we supposed to live on? Where do you think our bread is going to come from? Do you think I'm going to let you pawn my dress and my other poor clothes? All I do is sit here spinning day and night until my fingers are raw, just so we have enough oil to keep the lamp lit! Husband, husband, there's not a woman in the neighborhood who doesn't stare at me in amazement and make fun of me for all the work I put myself through, all that I endure — and you come home with your hands dangling at your sides when you should be out working!"

Having said all that, she burst into tears and kept going: "Poor me! What an unlucky woman I am! Born under a bad star, the day I ended up here! I could have married a fine young man — a real catch — and I turned him down so I could come home to this one, who doesn't give a single thought to the wife he brought under his roof! Other women have a wonderful time with their lovers — there's not one I know who doesn't have two or three of them — and they enjoy themselves and make their husbands believe the moon is the sun. But me? Miserable wretch that I am! Because I'm a good woman and don't go in for that sort of thing, I get nothing but grief and bad luck. I don't know why I don't just take a lover like everyone else. Let me make one thing perfectly clear, husband: if I wanted to do wrong, I could find a willing partner easily enough. There are plenty of handsome young men around here who love me and have sent messages offering me all the money, dresses, and jewelry I could want. But my heart would never let me do it, because my mother didn't raise that kind of daughter. And here you come, waltzing home when you should be at work!"

"Whoa, wife," the husband answered, "calm down, for God's sake! You should know by now what kind of woman I think you are, and this very morning I've seen even more proof of it. Look, it's true I went out to work, but it seems you don't know — and I didn't either — that today is the feast of San Galeone, and there's no work to be had. That's why I'm home early. But even so, I've found a way to keep us in bread for more than a month. See this man here with me? I've sold him that barrel — you know, the one that's been taking up space forever — for five gold florins."

"And that," said Peronella, "makes me even more upset! You — a man, someone who goes out into the world, who's supposed to know how things work — you sold a barrel for five florins? I'm a poor simple woman who barely sets foot outside the front door, and I sold it for seven, to a perfectly respectable man who climbed into it just before you got back to check whether it's sound!"

When the husband heard this, he was more than satisfied. He turned to the man who'd come to buy the barrel and said, "Sorry, friend, but you heard — my wife sold it for seven florins, and you were only going to give me five."

"Fair enough," said the other man, and went on his way.

Peronella said to her husband, "Well, since you're here, come on up and settle things with the buyer yourself."

Giannello, who'd been listening with his ears pricked up the whole time to hear whether he needed to worry, caught his mistress's cue and scrambled out of the barrel. "Where are you, good woman?" he called out, as though he hadn't heard a thing about the husband's return.

The husband came up and said, "Right here. What do you need?"

"Who are you?" asked Giannello. "I want the woman I made the deal with for this barrel."

"You can deal with me," the husband said. "I'm her husband."

"Well then," said Giannello, "the barrel seems solid enough, but it looks like you've had dregs or something sitting in it — there's a hard, dried-on crust all over the inside that I can't scrape off with my fingernails. I'm not taking it unless I see it cleaned out first."

"Oh, the deal's not falling apart over that," Peronella said quickly. "My husband will clean the whole thing out."

"Sure I will," said the husband. He set down his tools, took off his coat, called for a lamp and a scraper, climbed into the barrel, and started scraping. Peronella leaned over the opening as if she wanted to watch his work, sticking her head and one arm — shoulder and all — into the mouth of the barrel, which wasn't very big, and directing him: "Scrape here... and there... and over there too... look, you missed a spot."

While she was busy instructing her husband and showing him where to scrape, Giannello — who had barely gotten started that morning when the mason's return interrupted them — decided that since he couldn't finish the job the way he'd planned, he'd finish it however he could. So he came up behind her as she blocked the barrel's opening, and in the manner of a wild stallion mounting a mare on the open plains, he satisfied his young man's appetite. The enterprise reached its conclusion at very nearly the same moment the scraping of the barrel was complete. He stepped back, Peronella pulled her head out of the barrel, and the husband climbed out.

"Here," Peronella said to her lover, "take this lamp and see if it's clean enough for you."

Giannello looked inside, declared it was fine, said he was satisfied, paid the husband seven florins, and had the barrel carried off to his own house."

Day 7, Story 3

Friar Rinaldo sleeps with his godchild's mother. When her husband finds them locked in the bedroom together, they convince him the friar was performing a charm to cure the boy of worms.

Filostrato hadn't managed to be quite obscure enough about those "mares on the open plains," because the mischievous ladies laughed at it anyway, pretending they were laughing at something else. When the king saw his story was done, he called on Elisa, who obediently began:

"Charming ladies, Emilia's ghost exorcism has reminded me of another kind of exorcism — one that, while perhaps not as elegant as hers, is the only story on today's topic that comes to mind at the moment, so I'll go ahead and tell it.

You should know that there was once in Siena a very agreeable young man from a distinguished family, named Rinaldo. He was desperately in love with a beautiful woman who lived nearby — the wife of a wealthy man — and he flattered himself that if he could only find a way to speak with her without arousing suspicion, he could get everything he wanted from her. Seeing no other option, and since the lady happened to be pregnant, he hit upon the idea of becoming the child's godfather. He struck up a friendship with her husband and offered, as gracefully as he could manage, to stand as godfather to the baby. The offer was accepted.

Now that he was officially Madonna Agnesa's compari — her child's godfather — and had a somewhat more plausible excuse for talking to her, he worked up the courage to tell her plainly, in so many words, what she had in fact already gathered from the way he looked at her. But it did him little good — even though the lady wasn't entirely displeased to hear it.

Not long afterward, for whatever reason, Rinaldo became a friar. And whether or not he found the monastic diet to his liking, he stuck with it. For a while after taking the habit, he did set aside his love for his godchild's mother, along with various other worldly vanities. But as time went on — without ever giving up the monk's robe — he picked them all back up again. He started taking pleasure in looking sharp, wearing fine fabrics, being dainty and elegant in all his ways, composing little songs and sonnets and ballads, singing, and indulging in every similar pursuit.

But why am I singling out our Friar Rinaldo? What monks don't do this? Shamefully — rotten products of a corrupt world that they are — they're not the least bit embarrassed to show themselves fat and ruddy-faced, fastidious in their dress and in everything about them. They strut around not like doves but like puffed-up turkeys, crests erect and chests thrust out. And what's worse — to say nothing of their cells crammed with jars of medicinal pastes and ointments, boxes of fancy confections, vials and bottles of distilled waters and perfumed oils, pitchers brimming with Malmsey and fine Cypriot wine and every other expensive vintage, so that their cells look less like monks' quarters and more like apothecary shops or perfume counters — they aren't the least bit ashamed when people notice they have gout. They seem to think nobody realizes that strict fasting, plain food, and sober, moderate living make people lean, fit, and generally healthy — and that if monks do get sick from such a life, at least they don't get gout, for which the standard prescription is chastity and everything else that belongs to an honest friar's way of life.

Yet they convince themselves that others don't know what they know perfectly well: that long vigils, prayer, and self-discipline should make a man pale and gaunt, and that neither Saint Dominic nor Saint Francis — far from owning four robes where one would do — dressed themselves in fine, dyed cloth, but in rough, undyed wool garments, worn to keep out the cold rather than to make a fashion statement. May God sort all of this out — for the sake of their souls and for the simple people who feed and clothe them.

Anyway. Friar Rinaldo, having returned to his old appetites, began visiting his godchild's mother frequently. Growing bolder, he pressed her even more insistently than before for what he wanted. The good lady, seeing herself under siege and finding Friar Rinaldo perhaps handsomer than she'd previously given him credit for, was sorely tempted one day when he was being especially persistent. She resorted to the argument that all women use when they're about half ready to give in: "Really, Friar Rinaldo? Do monks actually do things like that?"

"Madam," he answered, "the moment I take this robe off my back — and I can take it off very easily — you'll see a man shaped like any other man, and not a monk at all."

The lady put on a prim face and said, "Oh dear, how terrible! You're my child's godfather — how could I possibly? It would be dreadfully wrong. I've heard many times that it's a very grave sin. If it weren't for that, I'd do whatever you wanted."

"You're being silly if you're holding back over that," said Friar Rinaldo. "I'm not saying it isn't a sin, but God forgives greater sins than this for those who repent. But tell me something: who is more closely related to your child — me, who held him at the baptismal font, or your husband, who fathered him?"

"My husband is more closely related," the lady answered.

"Exactly right," said the friar. "And your husband sleeps with you, doesn't he?"

"Of course he does," she said.

"Well then," said Friar Rinaldo, "since I'm less closely related to your child than your husband is, I can sleep with you just the same as he does."

The lady, who wasn't much of a logician and didn't need a lot of persuading, either genuinely believed the friar was telling the truth or pretended to. She said, "Who could argue with such learned reasoning?" And after that, godfather relationship or not, she gave herself over to his pleasure. Nor did they stop at one time — they got together again and again, finding the cover of the godfather relationship actually gave them more freedom, since it aroused less suspicion.

But one day it happened that Friar Rinaldo came to the lady's house and found no one there except her and a cute little maid of hers. He sent his companion off with the maid to the pigeon loft, ostensibly to teach her the Lord's Prayer, and went with the lady — who had her child by the hand — into her bedroom. They locked the door and settled onto a daybed to enjoy themselves.

While they were right in the middle of things, the husband happened to come home. He went straight to the bedroom door — and no one had heard him coming — knocked, and called out to his wife. When she heard him, she said to the friar, "I'm dead. That's my husband. Now he's going to find out exactly what's been going on between us."

Rinaldo was stripped down to his undershirt — he'd taken off his robe and his scapular — and he said, "You're right. If I were dressed, there might be some way out of this. But if you open that door and he finds me like this, there's no possible excuse."

The lady, struck by a sudden idea, said, "Listen — get dressed. Once you're dressed, take your godson in your arms and pay close attention to what I tell my husband, so your story matches mine. Leave the rest to me."

The good man was still knocking. "Coming!" she called. She got up, opened the bedroom door, and said with a perfectly calm expression, "Husband, I have to tell you — Friar Rinaldo, our son's godfather, stopped by, and it was God Himself who sent him to us. Because honestly, if he hadn't come when he did, we would have lost our boy today."

The simple husband went white as a sheet and said, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, husband," said Agnesa, "just a little while ago, the child was suddenly seized by a fainting spell — I thought he was dead! I had no idea what to do. But right then, Friar Rinaldo our compari walked in, and he picked the boy up and said, 'My dear woman, this child has worms in his body. They're moving toward his heart and they'll certainly kill him. But don't be afraid — I'll recite a charm over him and make them all die. Before I leave, you'll see the child as healthy as he's ever been.' We needed you to say certain prayers too, but the maid couldn't find you anywhere, so his companion went to the highest room in the house to say them while the friar and I came in here and locked ourselves in — because no one but the child's mother can be present for this kind of treatment. He's still got the boy in his arms right now. I think he's just waiting for his companion to finish the prayers, and then it will be done — the child already looks perfectly fine again."

The poor simpleton believed every word of this. He was so overcome with concern for his son that it never once crossed his mind to suspect his wife of anything. He heaved a huge sigh and said, "I need to go see him."

"No!" she said. "You'll ruin everything that's been done. Wait here — let me go check whether you can come in. I'll call you."

Meanwhile, Friar Rinaldo had heard the whole thing, had gotten dressed at his leisure, and had taken the boy in his arms. When he had everything arranged to his satisfaction, he called out, "Hey there, is that my compari I hear out there?"

"Yes, sir," said the guileless husband.

"Then come in," said the friar.

The cuckold went to him, and Friar Rinaldo said, "Take your son — restored to full health by the grace of God, when I truly didn't think you'd see him alive by evening. You should have a wax figure made, the same size as the child, and set it up in front of the statue of our lord Saint Ambrose, through whose intercession God has graciously given the boy back to you."

The little boy, seeing his father, ran to him and hugged him the way small children do. The father picked him up with tears in his eyes, as though he'd just pulled the child from the grave, and kissed him over and over, thanking his compari for saving the boy's life.

Now, Friar Rinaldo's companion, who had by this time taught the little maid not just one but probably four or five Lord's Prayers — and had given her a little purse of white thread that he'd gotten from a nun, and made her his devoted admirer — had heard the husband knocking at the bedroom door. He'd quietly moved to a spot where he could see and hear everything without being seen. When he saw that things had worked out beautifully, he came downstairs and entered the room, saying, "Friar Rinaldo, I've finished all four of those prayers you told me to say."

"Well done, brother," the friar replied. "You've got good lungs! As for me, I'd only gotten through two of them when my compari showed up. But between your efforts and mine, God the Lord has shown us such grace that the child is cured."

The overjoyed cuckold sent for fine wines and refreshments and treated his compari and the companion to exactly what they needed most. Then he walked them to the door, commended them to God's care, and immediately had a wax figure made, which he sent to hang up with all the other offerings before the statue of Saint Ambrose — though not the one in Milan."

Day 7, Story 4

Tofano locks his wife out of the house one night. When her pleas to be let back in fail, she pretends to throw herself down a well by dropping a large stone into it. Tofano rushes out to save her, and she slips inside and locks him out — then screams at him from the window.

The king saw that Elisa's story was finished and immediately turned to Lauretta, signaling it was her turn. Without hesitation, she began:

"Oh, Love! How vast is your power, how endless your resources and strategies! What philosopher, what craftsman could ever have taught — or could ever teach — the tricks, the feints, the clever dodges that you whisper to anyone who follows in your footsteps? Every other teacher is stumbling in the dark compared to you. This should be perfectly clear from the stories already told today, and to them, dear ladies, I'll add one more — a trick pulled off by a woman who wasn't especially clever, but who was inspired by the kind of genius that only Love can provide.

There was once in Arezzo a wealthy man named Tofano. He was given a very beautiful wife, Madonna Ghita, and almost immediately — for no good reason — he became insanely jealous. When the lady figured this out, she was furious. She asked him again and again what had caused this jealousy, but he could never give her any answer that wasn't vague and meaningless. So she decided she'd give him something real to be sick about — she'd make him die of the very disease he'd been suffering from without cause.

She'd noticed that a certain young man, very much to her taste, had been sighing after her. She began, discreetly, to come to an understanding with him. Things progressed to the point where all that was left was to move from words to action, and she started looking for a way to make that happen. She had already observed, among her husband's many bad habits, that he loved to drink. She began not only encouraging this but actively and cleverly goading him into it. It became so much his routine that she could get him drunk practically whenever she felt like it. Once she saw he was good and loaded, she'd put him to bed and then meet up with her lover. She did this the first time with complete success, and many times after that with equal confidence. In fact, she grew so bold about her husband's drunkenness that she not only brought her lover into the house but sometimes went and spent a large part of the night at his place, which wasn't far away.

The love-struck lady kept this up until one day her wretched husband happened to notice something: while she kept encouraging him to drink, she herself never touched a drop. This made him suspicious. Maybe — and it was, in fact, exactly right — she was getting him drunk so she could do whatever she wanted while he slept. Wanting to test this theory, he came home one evening without having drunk anything all day and put on a magnificent act, slurring his words and stumbling around as if he were the drunkest man alive. The lady bought it completely. Deciding he didn't need another drop, she bundled him off to bed in a hurry. That done, she headed out, as she sometimes did, to her lover's house, where she stayed until midnight.

The moment Tofano knew his wife had left, he got straight out of bed, went to the front door, and locked it from inside. Then he stationed himself at the window to watch for her return and show her that he was onto her game. He waited there until she came home.

When the lady got back and found herself locked out, she was beside herself. She started trying to force the door open. After Tofano had let her struggle with it for a while, he spoke up: "Don't bother, wife. There's no way you're getting back in here. Go on — go back to wherever you've been all this time. And rest assured, you're not setting foot in this house again until I've given you exactly the kind of public honor you deserve, right in front of your family and the whole neighborhood."

The lady begged him, for the love of God, to please open the door. She wasn't coming from where he thought — she'd just been sitting up with a neighbor, because the nights were so long and she couldn't sleep through them all, and she couldn't sit at home alone either. But her begging did no good whatsoever, because her pig of a husband had made up his mind that every last person in Arezzo was going to learn about their shame — even though, at that point, nobody knew a thing.

When she saw that pleading was useless, she switched to threats. "If you don't let me in," she said, "I'm going to make you the most miserable man who ever lived."

"And what exactly can you do to me?" asked Tofano.

The lady — her wits already sharpened to a fine edge by Love's coaching — answered, "Rather than suffer the disgrace you're trying to pin on me when I don't deserve it, I'll throw myself into that well right over there. And when they find me dead, everyone in the world is going to believe that you threw me in while you were drunk. So either you'll have to run for it and lose everything you own and live in exile, or you'll have your head chopped off for murdering me — which, in truth, is exactly what you'll have done."

Tofano didn't budge an inch from his pig-headed position. The lady said to him, "Fine. I can't take any more of this. May God forgive you — but I'm leaving my distaff here, so you'll know where to find it."

The night was so dark you could barely see your hand in front of your face. She walked over to the well, picked up a large stone that was lying beside it, and cried out, "God forgive me!" — then let the stone drop. It hit the water with a tremendous splash. When Tofano heard it, he was absolutely certain she'd thrown herself in. He grabbed the bucket and rope and went flying out of the house and straight to the well to save her.

The lady, who'd been hiding near the door, watched him run to the well and slipped inside the house. She locked the door. Then she went to the window and called down to him:

"You should water your wine when you're drinking it — not afterward, in the middle of the night!"

Tofano realized he'd been played. He went back to the door but couldn't get in. He told her to let him in.

She dropped the quiet tone she'd been using until now and practically screamed: "By the cross of Christ, you tiresome drunk, you are NOT getting in here tonight! I've had it with the way you carry on! It's time the whole world sees what kind of man you are and what hour you stumble home at!"

Tofano, for his part, flew into a rage and started yelling back at her. The neighbors, roused by the commotion, got out of bed — men and women alike — and came to their windows, asking what was going on.

The lady answered in tears: "It's this worthless man of mine! He comes home drunk every night, or passes out in the taverns and then shows up at this hour. I've put up with it for ages, but it hasn't done any good, and I just can't take it anymore, so I've decided to shame him by locking him out. Maybe that'll cure him."

Tofano, the jackass, told them how it really was and made all sorts of threats against her. But the lady called back to the neighbors, "Look at him! Look at this man! What would you say if I were the one out in the street and he were in the house? I swear to God, I'm afraid you'd actually believe him. That tells you how clever he is. He says I've done exactly what I think he's done himself. He tried to scare me by throwing something — God knows what — into the well. I only wish he'd actually jumped in and drowned himself! That way, all the wine he's drunk would've gotten properly watered at last."

The neighbors, men and women both, all took the lady's side. They decided Tofano was in the wrong and scolded him roundly for what he'd been saying about his wife. The news spread from neighbor to neighbor until it reached the ears of the lady's family. They came to the scene, heard the story from one neighbor after another, grabbed Tofano, and beat him until they'd broken every bone in his body. Then they went inside, packed up the lady's things, and took her home with them, warning Tofano that worse was coming.

Tofano, finding himself battered and alone, realized that his jealousy had landed him in a thoroughly miserable situation. Since he still loved his wife with all his heart, he got some friends to intercede on his behalf, and after much effort he managed to make peace and bring her home. He promised never to be jealous again. What's more, he gave her permission to do whatever she pleased — provided she was discreet enough that he never found out about it. And so, like the dimwit he was, he made peace only after getting the beating of a lifetime.

Long live Love, and death to war and all its company!"

Day 7, Story 5

A jealous husband disguises himself as a priest and hears his wife's confession. She sees right through him and gives him to believe she's in love with a priest who visits her every night. While the husband keeps watch at the door waiting to catch this priest, she brings her lover in through the roof and has a grand time with him.

When Lauretta's story was done and everyone had agreed that the lady had done exactly right — giving that wretch of a husband precisely what he deserved — the king turned to Fiammetta without wasting a moment and courteously gave her the floor. She began like this:

"Noble ladies, the previous story moves me to tell you another one about a jealous husband. And I want to say upfront: I consider everything that wives do to such men — especially when they're jealous without cause — to be perfectly well done. If the lawmakers had thought of everything, they should have assigned women who cheat on jealous husbands the same penalty they give to someone who acts in self-defense — which is to say, no penalty at all. Because jealous men are a genuine threat to young women's lives and devote themselves tirelessly to making their wives miserable.

Think about it: wives spend the whole week shut up at home, tending to domestic duties and household business. When the holidays come around, they'd like a little rest and recreation, just like everyone else — the way farmers do, the way tradesmen do, the way even judges do, following the example of God Himself, who rested from all His labors on the seventh day, and in keeping with both human and divine law, which wisely distinguish working days from days of rest. But jealous husbands won't hear of it. The very days that bring joy to every other woman become even more wretched than the rest for their wives, who find themselves locked up even more tightly than usual. What a misery and a torment that is, only those who've experienced it can truly know. And so, to sum it up: whatever a woman does to a husband who's jealous without cause should not be condemned — it should be commended.

Now then. There was once a merchant in Rimini, very wealthy in both land and money, who had married a beautiful wife and promptly became jealous of her beyond all reason. He had no grounds for it whatsoever — he simply loved her so much, and found her so beautiful, and saw how hard she worked to please him, that he convinced himself every other man must love her too, that she must look beautiful to everyone, and that she must be trying to please other men just as she pleased him. Which was, of course, the reasoning of a complete idiot.

Having worked himself into this jealous frenzy, he kept such strict watch over her and held her under such tight control that plenty of prisoners on death row probably have more freedom than she did. Forget about going to weddings, parties, or even church — she didn't dare so much as stand at a window or glance outside for any reason at all. Her life was utterly miserable, and she resented it all the more because she knew she'd done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

Finally, seeing that her husband suspected her without the slightest justification, she made up her mind — for her own consolation — to find a way to give him a real reason for treating her so badly, since he was going to treat her that way regardless. Since she couldn't station herself at the window and had no chance of encouraging any potential suitor who might pass by her street, she remembered that there was a handsome and charming young man living right next door. It occurred to her to look for some opening in the wall that separated the two houses — somewhere she could peek through until she spotted this young man and found an opportunity to speak with him and offer her love, if he was willing to accept it. If she could find a way to meet with him now and then, it would help her endure her miserable existence until this demon of jealousy finally left her husband.

She went looking all around the walls of the house, here and there, whenever her husband was out. At last she found a very hidden spot where the wall had a small crack. Peering through it, she couldn't make out much of what was on the other side, but she could tell that the opening looked into a bedroom. "If this turns out to be Filippo's room," she thought — Filippo being the young neighbor — "then I'm halfway there." She had her maid, who felt sorry for her, quietly investigate, and sure enough, the young man slept alone in that very room.

From then on, she visited the crack often. Whenever she could tell he was there, she'd drop pebbles and other small things through the opening to get his attention. Eventually he came to see what was going on, and she called to him softly. He recognized her voice and answered, and she took her chance to tell him exactly what she had in mind. He was thrilled, and he managed to widen the hole from his side so that no one would notice. Through that opening they talked many a time and touched hands, but they couldn't go any further, thanks to the jealous husband's constant vigilance.

As Christmas approached, the lady told her husband that she'd like to go to church on Christmas morning and confess and take communion, like every other Christian.

"And what sin have you committed," he asked, "that you need to confess?"

"Excuse me?" she replied. "Do you think I'm a saint just because you keep me locked up like one? You know perfectly well that I commit sins like every other living person — but I'm not going to tell them to you, since you're not a priest."

These words planted a seed of suspicion in the jealous fool, and he hatched a plan to find out exactly what sins she'd committed. He told her he was happy to let her go, but she must go to their own parish chapel and nowhere else. She should get there early and confess either to the chaplain or to whatever priest the chaplain assigned her — no one else — and then come straight home. She half-guessed what he was up to, but said nothing except that she'd do as he asked.

On Christmas Day, the lady got up at dawn, dressed herself, and headed to the church her husband had specified. Meanwhile, her husband had gone to the same church and gotten there first. Having already arranged things with the chaplain, he quickly threw on one of the man's robes — the kind with a big floppy cowl, the sort you see priests wearing. He pulled the hood well down over his face and took a seat in the choir.

The lady arrived, asked for the chaplain, and was told he couldn't hear her confession just now but would send one of his colleagues. Off went the chaplain, and back came the jealous husband — to his own great misfortune, though he didn't know it yet. He approached with a very solemn air. The day wasn't particularly bright, and he'd tugged the cowl down low over his eyes, so he was quite sure his disguise was flawless. But his wife recognized him immediately.

"Well, well," she said to herself. "Praise God! My jealous husband has turned himself into a priest. No matter — I'll give him exactly what he's looking for."

Pretending not to know him, she knelt at his feet. The genius had put some pebbles in his mouth to distort his voice, convinced that between that and the cowl he was perfectly unrecognizable.

The confession began. Among other things, the lady — having first mentioned that she was married — told him she was in love with a priest who came to lie with her every single night.

Hearing this, the jealous man felt as if someone had driven a knife into his heart. If he hadn't been burning to know more, he would have abandoned the whole charade and stormed off right then. Holding himself together, he asked, "But doesn't your husband sleep with you?"

"He certainly does, Father."

"Then how can the priest also sleep with you?"

"Father," she answered, "I have no idea what art he uses, but there's not a door in the house so firmly locked that it doesn't spring open the moment he touches it. He tells me that when he arrives at my bedroom door, before opening it, he recites certain words that instantly put my husband into a deep sleep. And as soon as he can tell my husband is out cold, he opens the door, comes in, and lies with me. It never fails."

"Madam," said the fake priest, "this is a terrible thing, and you absolutely must stop doing it."

"Father," she replied, "I don't think I could ever do that. I love him far too much."

"Then I can't grant you absolution."

"That's unfortunate," she said. "But I didn't come here to tell you lies. If I thought I could stop, I would say so."

"Well, madam," the husband managed to reply, "I'm truly concerned for you, because I can see you're losing your soul over this. But let me do what I can: I'll offer some special prayers to God on your behalf, which may well do you some good. And from time to time I'll send a young clerk of mine to ask whether my prayers have helped. If they have, we'll proceed further."

"Father," she answered, "please, whatever you do, don't send anyone to my house. If my husband found out, he's so insanely jealous that nothing in the world would convince him the messenger came for any innocent reason, and I'd have no peace for the rest of the year."

"Madam, have no fear," he said. "I'll arrange it so that you never hear a word about it from your husband."

"As long as you can guarantee that," she said, "then fine."

She finished her confession, received her penance, rose to her feet, and went to hear Mass. Meanwhile, the jealous husband — may bad luck follow him wherever he goes — went off bursting with rage to take off his priest costume and return home, his mind racing with schemes to catch his wife's priest lover in the act so he could make them both pay.

The lady came home from church and could read on her husband's face that she'd given him a terrible Christmas, even though he was trying his best to hide what he'd done and what he thought he'd learned. Having already decided to set a trap, he told her, "I have to go out tonight for dinner and won't be back till morning. Make sure you lock the front door, the door to the middle stairway, and your bedroom door, and go to bed whenever you like."

"Very well," she said.

As soon as she had a chance, she went to the hole in the wall and gave Filippo the usual signal. When he came to the opening, she told him everything — what she'd done that morning at church and what her husband had said afterward. "I'm positive he won't actually leave the house," she added. "He'll be down there watching the front door all night. So find a way to come to me over the roof, and we can be together."

The young man was delighted. "Leave it to me," he said.

When night fell, the jealous husband took up his weapons and hid himself in a room on the ground floor. The lady waited until she judged the time was right, then made sure all the doors were locked — especially the one to the middle stairway, so he couldn't come up even if he tried — and then summoned the young man, who came to her through a very well-hidden route from his side of the building. They went to bed and had a wonderful time, taking their pleasure with each other until dawn, when the young man returned to his own house.

Meanwhile, the jealous husband stood guard by the front door nearly the entire night — weaponless against the cold, without supper, and miserable — waiting for the priest to show up. Close to daybreak, unable to stay awake any longer, he retreated to the ground floor room and collapsed into sleep. Around mid-morning he woke up, and since the front door was now unlocked, he pretended to be arriving home from elsewhere. He went upstairs and had dinner. Shortly after, he sent a boy to his wife — posing as the clerk from the priest who had heard her confession — to ask whether "that certain person" had visited her again. She recognized the messenger easily enough and replied that he hadn't come that particular night, though if he kept staying away, she might start to forget about him — not that she wanted to.

What more is there to tell you? The jealous husband kept up his vigil night after night, watching the door for the priest who never came, while the lady kept right on having a lovely time with her lover.

At last, unable to contain himself any longer, the husband confronted his wife with an angry look and demanded to know what she'd said to the priest the morning she went to confession. She told him she wouldn't say, since it was neither right nor proper to reveal such things.

"You worthless woman!" he burst out. "In spite of you, I know what you told him, and I'm going to find out who this priest is that you're so in love with — the one who uses his magic spells to sleep with you every night — or else I'll slit your throat!"

She insisted it wasn't true that she was in love with any priest.

"What do you mean?" he cried. "Didn't you say this and this and that to the priest who heard your confession?"

"You couldn't have reported it more precisely," she answered, "not even if he'd told you himself — or if you'd been right there in the room. Yes, I said all of that."

"Then tell me who this priest is," the husband demanded. "Now."

The lady began to smile.

"How wonderful," she said, "to watch a supposedly wise man being led around by the nose by a woman — the way you'd lead a ram by the horns to the slaughterhouse. Though 'wise' is hardly the word for you anymore, not since the moment you let the evil spirit of jealousy take root in your heart for no reason at all. And the more foolish and dim-witted you are, the less credit I can take for outwitting you.

"Do you really think, husband, that I'm as blind in my eyes as you are in your mind? Of course not. I recognized who was hearing my confession the instant I sat down. I knew it was you. But I'd made up my mind to give you exactly what you were looking for, and that's precisely what I did.

"If you were as clever as you think you are, you wouldn't have tried this little scheme to worm out your wife's secrets. You would have recognized the plain truth in what she was confessing, without her having sinned at all.

"I told you I loved a priest. Well? Hadn't you turned yourself into a priest — you, whom I love far more than I should? I told you no door in my house could stay locked when he wanted to come lie with me. What door in the house was ever locked against you when you wanted to come to me? I told you the priest lay with me every single night. When was there ever a night you didn't lie with me? And every time you sent your little 'clerk' to ask, which was — as you well know — every time you slept away from home, I sent back word that the priest hadn't come. What kind of dimwit, other than one blinded by jealousy, could have failed to understand all of this?

"So there you were, lurking around the house, keeping your nighttime vigil, thinking you'd fooled me into believing you were out having dinner and sleeping elsewhere. Take a good hard look at yourself and be a man again, the way you used to be. Stop making yourself a laughingstock to everyone who knows your habits — because believe me, I know them all. And drop this insane surveillance, because I swear to God: if I ever did get the urge to put horns on your head, I'd manage it so neatly that you wouldn't catch on even if you had a hundred eyes instead of just two."

The jealous wretch, who had thought he was being so terribly clever in uncovering his wife's secrets, stood there and realized he'd been made an absolute fool of. He said nothing in reply and from that moment on considered her a virtuous and wise woman. And so, at the very time when he should have been jealous, he stripped himself of every last shred of jealousy — just as he'd put it on back when there was no reason for it. The clever lady, having in effect been given license to do as she pleased, no longer needed to bring her lover in across the roof like a stray cat. From then on, she simply let him in through the front door, and with a bit of prudence and discretion, she had herself a grand time with him for many a day thereafter.

Day 7, Story 6

Madonna Isabella is entertaining her lover Leonetto when Messer Lambertuccio — another man who's been pursuing her — shows up uninvited. When her husband returns unexpectedly, she sends Lambertuccio storming out of the house with his sword drawn, and the husband ends up personally escorting Leonetto safely home.

Everyone thoroughly enjoyed Fiammetta's story, and when it was done, the king called on Pampinea to go next. She began:

"There are plenty of people who say, quite ignorantly, that love robs people of their senses and turns anyone who falls in love into a fool. I think that's a ridiculous claim, as the stories we've already heard have amply demonstrated. And I intend to prove it yet again.

In our own city — which has always been well supplied with everything worth having — there was once a young gentlewoman, very beautiful, who was married to a worthy and distinguished gentleman. But as often happens, people can't eat the same food forever and sometimes want a change of diet. This lady, finding that her husband didn't entirely satisfy her, fell in love with a young man named Leonetto — well-mannered and charming, even if he wasn't from a particularly distinguished family. He fell in love with her too, and as you know, when both parties want the same thing, it rarely stays unfulfilled for long. Before much time had passed, they became lovers.

Now, because she was both beautiful and appealing, a gentleman named Messer Lambertuccio also fell desperately in love with her. She couldn't stand the man — she found him disagreeable and tiresome, and nothing in the world could make her love him. But after he bombarded her with messages and got absolutely nowhere, he sent her threats instead. He was a powerful man, and he made it clear he'd ruin her reputation if she didn't give him what he wanted. Frightened, and knowing what he was capable of, she submitted.

One day in summer, the lady — whose name was Madonna Isabella — had gone to stay at a very fine country estate of hers. Her husband had ridden off somewhere for a few days, so she sent for Leonetto to come and keep her company. He was overjoyed and came immediately.

Meanwhile, Messer Lambertuccio heard that her husband was away. He mounted his horse and rode out to her house entirely alone, and knocked at the door. The lady's maid saw who it was and ran straight to her mistress, who was behind closed doors with Leonetto.

"Madam, Messer Lambertuccio is downstairs — all by himself."

The lady was beside herself. She was terrified of Messer Lambertuccio, but she begged Leonetto not to be upset and to please hide himself behind the bed curtains until the other man left. Leonetto, who feared Lambertuccio every bit as much as she did, did as she asked. She told the maid to go let him in.

In he came, dismounted in the courtyard, tied up his horse, and went upstairs. The lady put on a cheerful face and met him at the top of the stairs, welcoming him as graciously as she could manage.

"What brings you here?" she asked.

He took her in his arms, kissed her, and said, "My darling, I heard your husband was away, so I've come to spend some time with you."

After these pleasantries, they went into a bedroom, locked the door, and Messer Lambertuccio set about enjoying himself with her.

While they were thus engaged, something the lady had never expected happened: her husband came home. The maid spotted him near the house, and she raced to the bedroom door.

"Madam! The master is back! I think he's already in the courtyard!"

When the lady heard this — realizing she had two men in the house and knowing there was no way to hide Messer Lambertuccio, since his horse was standing right there in the courtyard — she gave herself up for lost. But in a flash, her mind seized on a plan. She leapt off the bed and said to Messer Lambertuccio:

"Sir, if you have any regard for me at all and don't want me dead, do exactly what I tell you. Draw your sword, hold it naked in your hand, storm down the stairs looking furious and disheveled, and as you go, shout: 'I swear to God, I'll catch him somewhere else!' And if my husband tries to stop you or asks you anything, say nothing except what I've told you. Get on your horse and don't linger with him for any reason."

Messer Lambertuccio agreed. He drew his sword and did exactly as she'd instructed, his face flushed red — partly from the exertions he'd been engaged in, partly from genuine anger at the husband's return. The husband had just dismounted in the courtyard and was puzzled to see the horse tied up there. He was about to go upstairs when he saw Messer Lambertuccio come charging down, and was startled both by his words and his wild expression.

"What's going on, sir?" he asked.

Messer Lambertuccio, one foot already in the stirrup, swung up onto his horse and said nothing except: "God's blood, I'll find him again somewhere else!" And he rode off.

The gentleman went upstairs and found his wife at the top of the landing, looking shaken and frightened.

"What's all this about?" he asked. "Who is Messer Lambertuccio threatening like that, in such a fury?"

The lady moved toward the bedroom where Leonetto was hiding, making sure he could hear her clearly, and answered: "Husband, I've never had such a fright in my life! A young man I don't even know came running in here just now with Messer Lambertuccio chasing him, sword in hand. By sheer luck he found this bedroom door open and cried out, trembling all over: 'For God's sake, madam, help me! Don't let me be killed in your arms!' I jumped to my feet and was about to ask him who he was and what was going on when Messer Lambertuccio came storming in, shouting: 'Where are you, you traitor!' I planted myself in front of the bedroom door and wouldn't let him pass. He was at least courteous enough that after a good deal of argument, seeing I wouldn't budge, he turned around and went back down, as you saw."

"You did well, wife," said her husband. "It would have been a terrible disgrace to have a man killed in our house. Messer Lambertuccio behaved very badly, chasing someone who'd taken refuge here."

Then he asked where the young man had gone. The lady said she didn't know where he was hiding. The husband called out: "Where are you? Come out — you're safe."

Leonetto, who had heard every word, came out trembling — and he was genuinely frightened, not just pretending — from where he'd been hiding.

"What business do you have with Messer Lambertuccio?" the husband asked.

"Sir, I have absolutely nothing to do with him. That's why I'm sure he's either out of his mind or he mistook me for someone else. The moment he spotted me in the road, not far from this house, he grabbed for his sword and shouted: 'Traitor, you're a dead man!' I didn't stop to ask why — I just ran for my life and ended up here. Thank God and this gracious lady, I escaped."

"There, there," said the husband. "Don't worry. I'll see you home safe and sound, and then you can sort out whatever business you have with him."

They had supper together, and afterward the husband mounted the young man on a horse, escorted him all the way back to Florence, and left him at his own door. That very evening, following the lady's instructions, Leonetto privately sought out Messer Lambertuccio and arranged things with him. And though there was quite a bit of gossip about the incident afterward, the husband never once caught on to the trick his wife had played on him.

Day 7, Story 7

Lodovico reveals his love to Madonna Beatrice. She sends her husband Egano out into the garden disguised in her own clothes, then lies with Lodovico, who afterward goes out and gives Egano a sound thrashing — all while the husband thinks he's punishing his unfaithful wife.

Everyone agreed that Madonna Isabella's quick thinking, as told by Pampinea, was truly admirable. While they were still marveling over it, Filomena — whom the king had appointed to go next — spoke up:

"Lovely ladies, unless I'm mistaken, I believe I can tell you an equally fine story on the same subject, and I'll get right to it.

You should know that there was once a Florentine gentleman living in Paris who had turned to trade out of necessity and done so well that he'd become very rich. He had one son by his wife, whom he named Lodovico. Since he wanted the boy to follow in his father's noble footsteps rather than go into commerce, he chose not to place him in any shop or warehouse but instead sent him to serve in the household of the King of France, where he was among other gentlemen and learned a great deal about manners and refinement.

While Lodovico was living there, it happened that a group of knights who had just returned from visiting the Holy Sepulchre came upon a conversation among several young men, Lodovico included, about the beautiful women of France, England, and elsewhere in the world. One of the returning knights declared that in all his travels and among all the women he'd seen, he had never encountered anyone as beautiful as Madonna Beatrice, the wife of Messer Egano de' Galluzzi of Bologna. All his companions who had seen her there agreed completely.

Lodovico, who had never yet been in love with anyone, was seized by such a fierce longing to see this woman that he could think of nothing else. Determined to travel to Bologna for the sole purpose of seeing her — and to stay there if she pleased him — he told his father he wanted to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. With great difficulty, he got permission.

Taking the assumed name Anichino, he set out for Bologna. The very day after his arrival, as fortune would have it, he saw the lady in question at a social gathering. She was far more beautiful than he had ever imagined, and he fell passionately in love on the spot, resolving never to leave Bologna until he'd won her heart.

Thinking over how to accomplish this, he set aside every other approach and decided that if he could just manage to become one of her husband's servants — Egano kept many — he might find his opportunity. He sold his horses, discreetly dismissed his own servants with instructions to pretend they didn't know him, and then approached his innkeeper, telling him he was looking for a position serving a gentleman of standing.

"You're exactly the kind of servant a certain gentleman in this city would like," said the innkeeper. "His name is Egano; he keeps a large household and insists that all his men be good-looking, which you certainly are. I'll speak to him about you."

And so he did. Before the innkeeper took his leave of Egano, he had arranged for Anichino to enter his service — much to the young man's satisfaction. Living under Egano's roof, with plenty of opportunities to see the lady, Anichino served his master so well and so faithfully that Egano grew to depend on him completely. He couldn't do a thing without him and eventually entrusted Anichino with the management of not just his household but all his affairs.

One day, when Egano had gone hawking and left Anichino at home, Madonna Beatrice — who hadn't yet realized that the young man was in love with her, though she'd noticed him often enough and found him quite impressive and attractive — sat down to play chess with him. Anichino, wanting to please her, played just skillfully enough to let her win, which delighted her enormously. After a while, all her ladies-in-waiting drifted away, leaving the two of them alone at the chessboard. That was when Anichino let out a deep sigh.

She looked at him. "What's the matter, Anichino? Does it really upset you that much to lose to me?"

"My lady," he replied, "something far greater than that caused my sigh."

"Well then," she said, "if you care for me at all, tell me what it is."

When Anichino heard the words "if you care for me at all" from the lips of the woman he loved more than anything in the world, he heaved an even heavier sigh. She pressed him again, and finally he said:

"My lady, I'm terrified it will displease you if I tell you. And I'm afraid you'll repeat it to others."

"It certainly won't displease me," she assured him. "And whatever you say, I'll never breathe a word of it to anyone — unless you want me to."

"Since you promise me that," he said, "I'll tell you."

Then, with tears in his eyes, he told her who he really was, what he had heard about her, when and how he had fallen in love with her, and why he had taken service with her husband. He humbly begged her to have compassion on him and return his love, if she was willing. And if she couldn't do that, he asked only that she let him go on loving her and allow him to remain as he was.

Oh, the sweet temper of Bolognese women! How you deserve to be praised in moments like these! You were never one for tears and sighs — you were always ready to yield to entreaties and open to the desires of love! If I had words worthy of your praises, my voice would never tire of singing them.

The gentle lady kept her eyes fixed on Anichino while he spoke. She believed every word, and the power of his plea drove his love so deep into her heart that she too began to sigh. At last she answered:

"Sweet Anichino, take heart. Gifts, promises, and the attentions of noblemen and gentlemen and every other kind of man — and I've been courted by plenty of them — have never been able to move my heart to love a single one. But you, in the little time your words have lasted, have made me far more yours than my own. I think you've more than earned my love, so I give it to you, and I promise that before this next night is over, you'll have the full enjoyment of it.

"To make it happen, come to my bedroom around midnight. I'll leave the door open. You know which side of the bed I sleep on — come to me there, and if I'm asleep, touch me so I wake up. I'll cure you of this long desire of yours. And so you'll believe I mean what I say, here's a kiss to seal the bargain."

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him lovingly, and he kissed her just the same. After that, he went about his duties, waiting for nightfall with the greatest joy in the world.

Egano came home from hawking and, being tired, went straight to bed after supper. The lady followed soon after, leaving the bedroom door open as she'd promised. At the appointed hour, Anichino came softly in, shut the door behind him, went to the lady's side of the bed, and placed his hand on her breast. She was awake.

The instant she felt him, she seized his hand in both of hers and held it tight. Then, turning over in the bed, she made enough commotion to wake Egano — which was exactly what she wanted.

"I didn't want to bother you last night," she said to her husband, "because you seemed so tired. But tell me, Egano — honestly — of all the servants in this house, who do you consider the best, the most trustworthy, and the most loyal?"

"Wife," answered Egano groggily, "why are you asking me that? You know the answer. I've never had anyone I trusted or loved as much as Anichino. But why do you want to know?"

Anichino, hearing himself discussed while Egano was wide awake, was seized with terror. He was convinced the lady meant to betray him and tried again and again to pull his hand free so he could escape. But she held on so tight he couldn't break loose.

"I'll tell you why," she said to Egano. "I used to think the same thing about him — that he was more loyal to you than anyone. But he's shown me otherwise. Today, while you were out hawking and he stayed behind, he waited until he thought the moment was right and then had the nerve to proposition me. He wanted me to sleep with him. Now, to make absolutely sure you could see the truth with your own eyes — and to spare myself from having to convince you with a lot of complicated proof — I told him I'd be happy to oblige, and that tonight, after midnight, I'd go wait for him in the garden at the foot of the pine tree. I have no intention of actually going, of course. But if you want to see your servant's loyalty for yourself, the test is easy: put on one of my dresses and a veil, go down to the garden, and wait to see if he comes — because I'm certain he will."

Egano heard this and said, "I absolutely have to go see for myself." He got out of bed, fumbled into one of his wife's dresses as best he could in the dark, covered his head with a veil, went down to the garden, and stationed himself at the foot of the pine tree to wait for Anichino.

The lady, the instant she knew he'd left the room, got up and locked the door from the inside.

Anichino — who had just endured the worst scare of his life, who had struggled desperately to wrench his hand from the lady's grip, who had silently cursed her and her love and his own foolishness for trusting her a hundred thousand times over — now saw what she'd actually done, and became the happiest man alive.

The lady came back to bed, and at her bidding, he undressed and got in with her. They took their delight and pleasure together for a good long while. Then, when she decided he'd stayed long enough, she told him to get dressed and said:

"Now, sweetheart, take a good stout stick and go down to the garden. Pretend you propositioned me to test my virtue, and then give Egano a dressing-down as if he were me — the unfaithful wife — and beat him soundly with the stick. The fun we'll get out of this will be extraordinary."

Anichino went out to the garden with a willow switch in his hand. Egano, seeing him approach the pine tree, jumped up and came forward to greet him with open arms, thrilled that his wife had kept her assignation.

Anichino let fly: "You wicked woman! So you actually came out here! Did you really think I'd betray my master like that? A thousand curses on you!" And he raised the stick and started laying into him.

Egano, hearing this and seeing the stick, took off running without saying a word. Anichino chased after him, shouting: "Get out of here! God give you a miserable year, you shameless woman! I'm going to tell Egano about this first thing tomorrow morning!"

Egano scrambled back to the bedroom as fast as he could, covered in welts. When his wife asked him whether Anichino had come to the garden, he groaned: "I wish to God he hadn't! He thought I was you, and he beat me to a pulp and called me every filthy name you can think of. I was genuinely amazed that he'd said those things to you, as if he actually intended to dishonor me — but clearly, he only said them because he wanted to test your virtue."

"Praise God," said the lady, "that he tested me with words and you with deeds! I'd say he can rightly claim I bore his words more patiently than you bore his stick. But since he's proved himself so loyal to you, you ought to hold him dear and treat him well."

"You're absolutely right," said Egano.

And from all of this, he concluded that he had the truest wife and the most faithful servant any gentleman could wish for. Although both he and the lady had many a laugh with Anichino about the episode in the garden, the incident gave the lovers all the opportunity they could have hoped for — leisure and license to do what gave them both delight and pleasure, for as long as Anichino chose to remain in Bologna.

Day 7, Story 8

A jealous husband discovers his wife has been using a string tied to her toe to signal her lover at night. He ties the string to his own toe and goes to confront the man, but while he's away, the wife puts her maid in the bed in her place. The husband comes home and beats the maid senseless, then cuts off her hair. He fetches his wife's brothers to witness her shame — only to find his wife sitting calmly with not a mark on her.

Everyone thought Madonna Beatrice had been extraordinarily clever in outwitting her husband, and all agreed that Anichino must have been terrified out of his mind when the lady held him fast and announced to her husband that the servant had propositioned her. But when the king saw that Filomena had finished, he turned to Neifile and said, "Your turn." She smiled slightly and began:

"Fair ladies, I've got a tough act to follow if I'm going to delight you with a story as good as the ones that came before. But with God's help, I think I can manage.

You should know that there was once a very wealthy merchant in our city named Arriguccio Berlinghieri, who — as merchants still foolishly do to this day — decided he'd elevate his social standing by marrying above his station. He took as his wife a young noblewoman named Madonna Sismonda, who was not at all his type. Since he was always running around on business, as merchants do, and was rarely home, she fell in love with a young man named Ruberto, who had been courting her for a long time. They became lovers.

Whether she was a bit too careless in her affair — because it gave her such exquisite pleasure — or whether Arriguccio picked up some hint through other means, I couldn't say. But somehow, the man became the most jealous husband alive. He dropped all his traveling, abandoned his business concerns, and devoted himself almost entirely to keeping watch over his wife. He wouldn't fall asleep at night unless he first felt her get into the bed beside him. The lady was beside herself with frustration, because there was simply no way to be with her Ruberto.

After much scheming, and with Ruberto constantly pressing her to find a solution, she finally came up with a plan. She'd noticed that Arriguccio always took a very long time to fall asleep, but once he was out, he slept like the dead. So she arranged to have Ruberto come to the front door around midnight, and she would go down and let him in and spend time with him while her husband slept.

To know when Ruberto had arrived, she devised a signal: she hung a length of twine from the window of her bedroom, which overlooked the street, with one end dangling nearly to the ground. She ran the other end along the floor to the bed and hid it under the covers, planning to tie it to her big toe once she was in bed. She sent word to Ruberto explaining the system: when he arrived, he should tug on the string. If her husband was asleep, she'd let go of the string and come down to open the door. If he was still awake, she'd hold the string tight and pull it toward her, letting Ruberto know not to wait. The scheme pleased Ruberto, and he came often — sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

This went on for a while until one night, while the lady was sleeping, her husband happened to stretch his leg in bed and felt the string. He reached for it, found it tied to his wife's toe, and thought: "This has to be some kind of trick." Then he followed the string and discovered it led to the window. Now he was certain.

Carefully, he cut the string from his wife's toe and tied it to his own. Then he lay awake, waiting. He didn't have to wait long. Ruberto arrived and tugged the string, as was his habit. Arriguccio jumped, but because he hadn't tied the string firmly enough to his own toe, Ruberto's hard pull yanked it loose. The string came away in Ruberto's hand, which told him to wait — and wait he did.

Arriguccio leapt out of bed, grabbed his weapons, and ran to the door to find out who this person was and do him some damage — because even though he was a merchant, he was tough and strong. But when he got to the door, he didn't open it softly the way his wife always did. Ruberto, waiting outside, noticed the difference and guessed exactly what had happened — it was Arriguccio, not the lady. He took off running, and Arriguccio chased after him. After they'd run a long way, with Arriguccio refusing to give up the pursuit, Ruberto — who was armed himself — drew his sword and turned to face him. They came to blows, one attacking and the other defending.

Meanwhile, the lady had woken up the moment Arriguccio opened the bedroom door. Finding the string cut from her toe, she instantly knew her system had been discovered. She could hear that her husband had run off after her lover, so she got up immediately, foresaw exactly what was going to happen, and called her maid — who knew everything. It took some persuading, but she convinced the maid to take her place in the bed, begging her to bear whatever beating Arriguccio might dish out without giving herself away. She promised to reward her so generously that the maid would have nothing to complain about. Then she blew out the lamp that was burning in the bedroom, slipped out, and hid herself elsewhere in the house to wait and see what would happen.

The neighbors, awakened by the noise of the scuffle between Arriguccio and Ruberto, got out of bed and started yelling at them from their windows. Arriguccio, afraid of being recognized, let the young man go without managing to find out who he was or land a blow on him. He stormed back to the house, seething with rage.

Bursting into the bedroom, he shouted: "Where are you, you worthless woman? You put out the light so I wouldn't find you, but you're wrong about that!" He went straight to the bed, seized the maid — thinking she was his wife — and proceeded to beat her with his fists and feet so viciously and for so long that he bruised every inch of her face. To finish things off, he cut off her hair, all the while calling her every vile name that was ever hurled at a faithless woman.

The maid wept bitterly — she had every reason to — and though she cried out "Please! Mercy! For God's sake, stop!" between sobs, her voice was so broken with weeping and Arriguccio was so blinded by rage that he never realized it wasn't his wife.

When he'd finally beaten her to his satisfaction and hacked off her hair, he said: "Filthy whore, I'm not going to touch you again tonight. But I am going to fetch your brothers, tell them all about your fine behavior, and let them come get you and deal with you however they think their family honor requires — because you are never setting foot in this house again." And with that, he stormed out of the room, locked the door behind him, and left the house alone.

As soon as Madonna Sismonda, who had heard everything, was sure her husband had gone, she opened the door and relit the lamp. She found her maid battered, bruised, and sobbing. She comforted her as best she could, carried her back to her own quarters, and had her secretly tended to and cared for. Then she rewarded her so handsomely — out of Arriguccio's own money — that the maid declared herself perfectly satisfied.

With the maid taken care of, the lady rushed to her own bedroom. She remade the bed from scratch, tidied the whole room, and put everything in order so that it looked as if no one had slept there that night. Then she got dressed and did her hair as if she hadn't gone to bed at all. She lit a lamp, took out her sewing, and sat down at the top of the stairs to wait for whatever came next.

Arriguccio, meanwhile, had hurried to his wife's brothers' house and knocked on the door so long and so loudly that someone finally heard him and let him in. The lady's three brothers and her mother all got up, had lamps lit, and came to see what he wanted at this hour, coming alone.

Starting with the string he'd found tied to his wife's toe, Arriguccio poured out the whole story — everything he'd discovered and everything he'd done. As final proof, he placed in their hands the hair he believed he'd cut from his wife's head. He demanded that they come take her away and deal with her as they saw fit to protect their honor, because he was never keeping her in his house again.

The brothers were furious. Taking it all for certain, they had torches lit and set out with Arriguccio, fully intending to make their sister pay. But their mother followed behind, weeping, tugging at one son and then another, begging them not to be so quick to believe these things without seeing the evidence for themselves. Their husband, she pointed out, might have been angry with her for some other reason entirely and might now be making these accusations to cover himself. She added that she was utterly astonished such a thing could have happened, because she knew her daughter well, having raised her from a little girl. She went on in this vein at considerable length.

When they reached Arriguccio's house, they went in and started up the stairs. Madonna Sismonda, hearing them approach, called out: "Who's there?"

One of her brothers answered: "You'll find out soon enough, you worthless woman!"

"God help us!" she cried. "What is this about?" Then, rising to her feet, she said: "Brothers! Welcome — but what are all three of you doing here at this hour?"

The brothers stopped in their tracks. There sat their sister, calmly sewing, with not a mark on her face — whereas Arriguccio had just sworn he'd beaten her to a pulp. Their fury wavered, and they asked her to explain what Arriguccio had accused her of, warning her sternly that it would go badly for her if she didn't tell them everything.

"I have no idea what you want me to say," she replied, "or what Arriguccio could possibly have been complaining about."

Arriguccio stared at her as if he'd lost his mind. He remembered dealing her what must have been a thousand blows to the face, scratching her, and giving her every kind of abuse — and yet here she sat looking as though nothing had happened.

Her brothers told her briefly what they'd heard from Arriguccio — the string, the beating, all of it. She turned to her husband and said:

"Husband, what is this? Why are you making me out to be a wicked woman — to your own shame — when I'm nothing of the sort? And why are you making yourself out to be a cruel and brutal man, which you're not? When were you even in this house tonight before just now, let alone in the same room with me? When did you beat me? I certainly have no memory of it."

"What are you talking about, you miserable woman?" he shouted. "Didn't we go to bed together right here? Didn't I come running back after chasing your lover? Didn't I punch you a thousand times and cut off your hair?"

"You never went to bed in this house tonight," Sismonda replied. "But let's set that aside, since the only proof I can offer is my own honest word. Let's talk about what you claim you did — beating me and cutting my hair. You've never laid a hand on me. Go on — everyone here, and you yourself, take a good look at me. Is there a single mark anywhere on my body? I wouldn't advise you to try hitting me, by the way, because by the cross of Christ, I'd rearrange your face. And as for cutting off my hair — I didn't feel or see anything of the kind. But maybe you did it so cleverly that I didn't notice. Let me check."

She lifted the veil from her head and showed them all her hair — intact, unshorn, and every strand in place.

Her mother and brothers, seeing and hearing all of this, turned on Arriguccio and said: "What's the meaning of this? This doesn't match what you came to tell us at all. We'd like to know how you plan to explain the rest."

Arriguccio stood there like a man in a trance. He wanted to speak, but since reality clearly didn't match what he'd been so sure of, he didn't dare say a word.

The lady turned to her brothers: "I see now that he's forced me to do something I never wanted to do — tell you about his disgusting habits. So here it is. This fine man, whom you married me off to in an evil hour — this fellow who calls himself a merchant and wants the world to think him respectable, who ought to be more sober than a monk and purer than a maiden — there are barely any nights he doesn't go out getting drunk in the taverns, keeping company with one prostitute after another, and leaving me to sit up waiting for him — just as you found me — until midnight or even dawn.

"I have no doubt that tonight, after getting himself good and drunk, he crawled into bed with one of his whores. When he woke up, he found the string on her foot, and then he performed all his brave deeds on her — beat her senseless and cut off her hair — and then, not having sobered up yet, he convinced himself he'd done it all to me. I'm sure he still believes it. Just look at his face — he's still half drunk.

"But whatever he's said about me, I don't want you to take it to heart. It's nothing but a drunkard's babbling. I forgive him, and you should too."

Her mother, hearing all this, exploded:

"By the cross of Christ, daughter, we will NOT let this pass! He deserves to be killed — the ungrateful, worthless dog! He was never worthy of a girl like you! What a fine thing this is! He couldn't have treated you worse if he'd found you in a gutter! Devil take him if you're going to live at the mercy of this pathetic little dealer in mule dung! These people crawl into the city from their pigsties in the country, dressed in homespun rags with their baggy breeches and a pen stuck in their backsides, and the moment they scrape together three coins they want the daughters of gentlemen and proper ladies for wives — and then they put on airs about their family name and their coat of arms! I wish to God my sons had listened to me when I told them not to let you marry this man. They could have settled you with the noble family of the Counts Guidi, even with a crust of bread for a dowry! But no, they had to give you to this fine specimen — this man who, when you're the best and most modest girl in all of Florence, has the gall to wake us up in the middle of the night to tell us you're a whore — as if we didn't know you! If my sons would listen to me, he'd get such a beating he'd stink from it for a week!"

Then she turned to the brothers:

"My boys, I told you this couldn't be true. Did you hear how your lovely brother-in-law treats your sister? A two-bit peddler is what he is! If I were in your shoes, after the things he's said about her and done tonight, I'd never rest until I'd wiped him off the face of the earth. And if I were a man instead of a woman, I'd handle it myself. Damn him for a sorry, shameless drunk!"

The young men looked at what they saw, looked at what they heard, and gave Arriguccio the most savage tongue-lashing any fool has ever received. In the end they told him: "We'll let this go because you're drunk. But if you value your life, make sure we never hear anything like this again. Because if one more word of this kind reaches our ears, we'll pay you back for tonight and whatever comes next — all at once."

And they left.

Arriguccio stood there in a daze, no longer certain whether what he'd done had actually happened or whether he'd dreamed the whole thing. He never brought it up again and left his wife in peace.

And so the clever lady, through her quick thinking, not only escaped the danger that was bearing down on her but opened up a path to enjoy herself freely from then on, without ever having to fear her husband again.

Day 7, Story 9

Lydia, wife of Nicostratus, falls in love with his servant Pyrrhus. To prove her love is real and not a trap, she carries out three impossible tasks he demands — killing her husband's prized hawk, plucking a tuft from his beard, and pulling one of his teeth. Then, for good measure, she makes love to Pyrrhus right in front of Nicostratus and convinces her husband that what he saw with his own eyes never happened.

Neifile's story had the ladies laughing so hard they couldn't stop, and they were still going on about it even though the king had already told Panfilo to start his tale and had called for quiet several times. Finally, when they settled down, Panfilo began:

"I don't believe, dear ladies, that there's anything — no matter how difficult or dangerous — that a person passionately in love won't dare to attempt. This has been shown many times over in the stories we've heard, but I think I can demonstrate it even more dramatically with the one I'm about to tell you. It involves a lady whose schemes were blessed by fortune far more than they were guided by reason. So I wouldn't advise anyone to follow in her footsteps, because fortune isn't always so generous, and not every husband in the world is equally blind.

In Argos, a city in Greece that was far more famous for its ancient kings than it was large, there once lived a nobleman named Nicostratus. When he was already getting on in years, fortune presented him with a wife from a distinguished family. Her name was Lydia, and she was every bit as spirited as she was beautiful. Being a nobleman and a wealthy man, Nicostratus kept many servants, hounds, and hawks, and took the greatest pleasure in hunting. Among his servants was a young man named Pyrrhus — sharp, well-bred, handsome, and talented at anything he set his hand to. Nicostratus loved and trusted him above all the rest.

Lydia fell so desperately in love with Pyrrhus that she couldn't keep her mind on anything else, day or night. But whether Pyrrhus truly didn't notice her feelings or simply chose to ignore them, he gave no sign of returning her interest. This caused the lady unbearable anguish. Determined to let him know how she felt, she called on a trusted chambermaid of hers named Lusca.

"Lusca," she said, "all the favors I've given you over the years should have earned me your loyalty and obedience. So make sure that what I'm about to tell you never reaches anyone's ears except the man I instruct you to tell. As you can see, Lusca, I'm a young, healthy woman, well provided with everything a woman could want. In short, I have only one complaint: my husband's years far outnumber my own, which means I don't get nearly enough of what young women enjoy most. But I desire it every bit as much as any other woman, and I made up my mind a long time ago that — since fortune was unkind enough to saddle me with such an old husband — I would not be such an enemy to myself as to fail to find some means of satisfying my needs. And so that I may have pleasure in this area as fully as I do in everything else, I've decided that our Pyrrhus, as the worthiest candidate available, should provide it with his embraces. In fact, I've fallen so deeply in love with him that I feel no peace unless I'm looking at him or thinking about him. If I don't have him soon, I'm quite certain I'll die. So if you value my life, find the best way you can to let him know how I feel. Beg him on my behalf to come to me when you go to fetch him."

The chambermaid said she'd be happy to help, and at the first opportunity she found Pyrrhus alone and delivered her mistress's message as persuasively as she could. Pyrrhus was stunned — he'd never picked up on any of this — and suspected the lady had put Lusca up to it just to test his loyalty. So he answered bluntly and harshly:

"Lusca, I can't believe these words come from my lady. But if they do, I don't believe she really means it. And even if she does — my master has shown me more honor than I deserve, and I would never in my life commit such an outrage against him. So don't ever talk to me about this again."

Lusca, completely undaunted by his stern response, said: "I'll talk to you about this and anything else my lady tells me to, whenever and as often as she likes, whether it makes you happy or not. But you're an ass."

Somewhat stung by his words, she went back to her mistress. When Lydia heard what Pyrrhus had said, she wished she could die. But a few days later, she raised the subject again.

"Lusca, you know the oak doesn't fall at the first stroke. I think you should go back to this man who's so determined to be loyal at my expense. Find the right moment, explain my feelings fully, and do everything in your power to make this happen — because if it falls through, I'll die of it. And besides, he'll think the whole thing was a trick, and instead of winning his love, we'll end up with his hatred."

The maid reassured her and went to find Pyrrhus. She caught him in a cheerful mood and said:

"Pyrrhus, a few days ago I showed you what a fire my lady — and yours — is burning in for the love she bears you. Now I'm here to tell you again: if you persist in the coldness you showed last time, you can be sure she won't live long. So please, satisfy her desire. If you keep clinging to your stubbornness, I'll have to rethink my opinion of you — I always took you for a very smart man, but I'll start thinking you're a fool.

"What greater glory could there be than to have such a lady — so beautiful and so noble — love you above all others? And think about how grateful you should be to Fortune for offering you something so precious, so perfectly suited to the desires of a young man like you, and on top of that, such a boon to your fortunes! Name one of your peers who's better set up for pleasure than you could be, if you had any sense. What other man could have such fine weapons, horses, clothes, and money as you could, if you'd just give this lady your love?

"Open your ears and come to your senses. Remember: fortune comes to a man with a smile and open arms once, and only once. If he doesn't know how to welcome her then, he has only himself to blame when he ends up poor and miserable.

"And another thing — the loyalty owed between servants and masters isn't the same as what's owed between friends or family. Servants should treat their masters the same way their masters would treat them. Do you honestly think that if you had a beautiful wife, or a mother, or a daughter, or a sister who caught Nicostratus's eye, he'd go searching for the kind of loyalty you're so eager to show him? You're a fool if you believe that. You can take it for a certainty that if flattery and persuasion weren't enough, he'd use force, whatever you might think about it. So let's treat them and their affairs the same way they'd treat us and ours. Take what fortune is offering you. Don't push her away — welcome her with open arms and go halfway to meet her. Because if you don't, your lady will surely die of it, and you'll end up regretting your refusal so many times that you'll wish you could die too."

Pyrrhus had been mulling over what Lusca told him the first time, and he'd already decided that if she came back, he'd give a different answer and do whatever the lady wanted — provided he could be sure it wasn't all a test. So he replied:

"Listen, Lusca — I accept everything you've said. But on the other hand, I know my master to be very shrewd and perceptive, and since he entrusts all his affairs to me, I'm terrified that Lydia might be doing this on his orders, to test me. So here's what I need: if she'll do three things to reassure me, then I swear I'll do whatever she commands without hesitation. The three things are these: first, she must kill Nicostratus's prized hawk right in front of him. Second, she must send me a lock of her husband's beard. And third, she must send me one of his best teeth."

These conditions seemed harsh to Lusca, and even harsher to the lady. But Love — who is an excellent counselor and a master of creative solutions — gave her the resolve to do it all. She sent word back through her maid that she would carry out every one of his demands, and promptly too. And on top of all that, since Pyrrhus considered Nicostratus so shrewd, she would go even further: she would enjoy herself with Pyrrhus right in her husband's presence and make Nicostratus believe that what he'd seen with his own eyes hadn't happened.

Pyrrhus settled in to wait and see what the lady would do.

A few days later, Nicostratus hosted a grand dinner for some gentlemen, as he often did. When the tables were cleared, Lydia came out of her chamber dressed in a gown of green silk, richly adorned, and entered the great hall where the guests were gathered. There, in full view of Pyrrhus and everyone else, she walked up to the perch where Nicostratus's beloved hawk sat. She unhooked it as though she meant to set it on her hand — then seized it by the leather straps and smashed it against the wall, killing it.

Nicostratus cried out: "Wife! What have you done?"

She ignored him completely. Instead, she turned to the gentlemen who had dined with him and said:

"Gentlemen, I'd be a poor avenger if I couldn't take my revenge on a hawk when I wouldn't dare take it on a king. I want you to know that this bird has long been robbing me of all the time that husbands should rightly devote to their wives' pleasure. Every single morning, the moment the sun rises, Nicostratus is up and dressed and off on horseback with this hawk on his fist, riding out to the open fields to watch it fly — while I, as you see me now, lie alone in bed, neglected and unhappy. I've wanted to do this for a long time. The only reason I waited was so I could do it in the presence of gentlemen who would be fair judges in my case — as I trust you will be."

The gentlemen, hearing this and fully believing that her feelings for Nicostratus were exactly what her words suggested, all turned to the angry husband and said with a laugh: "Ha! How well the lady has avenged her wrong by dispatching the hawk!" Then, with various witty remarks on the subject — the lady having already returned to her chamber — they joked Nicostratus out of his anger and into laughter.

Pyrrhus, watching all of this, said to himself: "The lady has given a magnificent start to our happy love affair. God grant she keeps it up!"

Not many days passed after Lydia killed the hawk before she found herself in her chamber with Nicostratus, playfully teasing and flirting with him. He pulled her by the hair a little, just for fun, which gave her the opening she needed for the second task. She suddenly grabbed a tuft of his beard and yanked it so hard — laughing the whole time — that she ripped it clean off his chin.

"What's the matter?" she said when he yelped. "Why are you making that face? Just because I pulled out maybe half a dozen hairs from your beard? That was nothing compared to what I felt when you were just pulling my hair!"

And so, trading one playful insult for another, she secretly kept the lock of beard she'd torn out and sent it to her lover that same day.

The third task gave her more trouble. But Lydia was extraordinarily clever, and Love sharpened her wits even further, so it wasn't long before she thought of a plan.

Nicostratus had two boys in his household, given to him by their father so that, being of noble birth, they could learn proper manners and social graces. Whenever Nicostratus was eating, one of them carved his meat and the other served his drink. Lydia called both boys aside and convinced them that they had terrible breath. She told them that whenever they were serving Nicostratus, they should keep their heads turned away from him as far as possible — and they must never mention this to anyone. The boys believed her and did exactly as she'd instructed.

After a while, she said to her husband one day: "Have you noticed what those boys do when they're serving you?"

"I have, actually," said Nicostratus. "I've been meaning to ask them about it."

"Don't bother," said the lady. "I can tell you the reason. I've kept quiet about it for a long time because I didn't want to upset you, but now that other people are starting to notice, there's no point hiding it anymore. This is happening because your breath smells terrible. I don't know what could be causing it — it never used to be this way. But it's a very awkward problem for someone in your position, who's constantly entertaining gentlemen. We need to find a way to fix it."

"What could it be?" said Nicostratus. "Could I have a rotten tooth?"

"Maybe," said Lydia, and led him to a window. She had him open his mouth and examined it thoroughly from every angle.

"Oh, Nicostratus!" she cried. "How have you put up with this so long? You have a tooth on this side that isn't just decayed — it's completely rotten! If you keep it much longer, it'll ruin the teeth on either side. I'd strongly advise you to have it pulled before things get worse."

"If you think that's best," he said, "then let's do it. Send for a surgeon right away."

"God forbid a surgeon come here for this!" said the lady. "It looks to me like I can pull it myself without any surgeon at all. Besides, those surgeons are so brutal with this kind of thing — I couldn't bear to watch you in the hands of one of them, much less see you suffering. No — if it hurts too badly, I'll stop immediately, which is something no surgeon would do."

She had the proper instruments brought in and sent everyone out of the room except Lusca. Then she locked the door, made Nicostratus lie down on a table, and — with Lusca holding him still — shoved the pincers into his mouth and wrenched out one of his teeth by brute force. He howled with pain. But she kept the real tooth hidden and produced a horribly decayed one she'd had ready in her hand.

"Look at this!" she said, showing it to her half-dead husband. "Look at what's been sitting in your mouth all this time!"

Nicostratus believed her. Despite the excruciating pain and his loud complaints, he felt he was cured now that the tooth was out. After she'd soothed him with one thing and another and the pain had subsided, he left the room. His wife immediately sent the tooth to her lover, who — now fully convinced of her devotion — declared himself ready to do anything she pleased.

Lydia, to whom every hour apart from Pyrrhus felt like a thousand, wanted to give him even more proof and to fulfill the additional promise she'd made. So one day she pretended to be feeling unwell. Nicostratus came to visit her after dinner with no company but Pyrrhus, and she asked them to help her out to the garden to ease her discomfort.

So Nicostratus took her by one arm and Pyrrhus by the other, and they carried her into the garden, setting her down on the grass at the foot of a beautiful pear tree. After they'd been sitting there for a while, the lady — who had already told Pyrrhus exactly what to do — said:

"Pyrrhus, I have such a craving for some of those pears. Would you climb up and throw some down for us?"

Pyrrhus scrambled up the tree and started tossing down pears. But as he did, he began shouting:

"My lord! What are you doing? And madam — aren't you ashamed to let this happen right in front of me? Do you think I'm blind? Just a moment ago you could barely stand, and now suddenly you've recovered enough for that? If you want to do such things, you've got plenty of bedrooms! Why don't you go use one of them? It would be a lot more decent than doing it in front of me!"

The lady turned to her husband and said: "What on earth is Pyrrhus talking about? Has he gone mad?"

"No, madam," Pyrrhus called down. "I haven't gone mad. Do you think I can't see?"

Nicostratus was baffled. "Pyrrhus," he said, "I think you must be dreaming."

"My lord," Pyrrhus replied, "I am not dreaming one bit — and neither are you. In fact, you're both going at it so energetically that if this tree were doing the same, there wouldn't be a pear left on it."

"What is he talking about?" said the lady. "Can he really be seeing what he says he's seeing? God help me, if I were as healthy as I used to be, I'd climb up there myself to see what wonders this fellow thinks he's witnessing."

Meanwhile, Pyrrhus kept up the charade from the top of the tree, shouting about what he supposedly saw. Finally Nicostratus told him to come down. He climbed down, and his master asked:

"All right, what exactly did you see up there?"

"I think you take me for an idiot," said Pyrrhus. "Since you're making me say it — I saw you on top of your wife. And then, as I was climbing down, I saw you get up and sit back down where you are right now."

"You're definitely out of your mind," said Nicostratus. "We haven't budged an inch since you went up that tree."

"What's the point in arguing about it?" said Pyrrhus. "I know what I saw. And if I did see it, it was you on top of your own wife."

Nicostratus grew more and more astonished. "I have to find out whether this pear tree is enchanted," he said, "and whether everyone who climbs it sees miracles." And up he went.

The moment he reached the top, Lydia and Pyrrhus fell into each other's arms.

Nicostratus, looking down, began to shout: "You vile woman! What are you doing? And you, Pyrrhus — you, of all people, whom I trusted more than anyone?" He started climbing down, while the two lovers called up to him: "We're just sitting here!" Then, seeing him descend, they quickly repositioned themselves exactly where he'd left them.

As soon as Nicostratus was on the ground and found them sitting exactly where they'd been before, he launched into a tirade. But Pyrrhus cut in:

"Nicostratus, I have to admit now that you were right before — I must have been seeing things up in that pear tree. And the only way I know this is that you clearly saw the same kind of false vision up there yourself. If you need proof that I'm telling the truth, just think about it rationally. Is it even possible that your wife — the most virtuous and sensible woman alive — would decide to dishonor you in such a way and then do it right before your eyes? I won't even speak for myself — I'd sooner let myself be torn limb from limb than so much as think of such a thing, let alone actually do it in your presence. Whatever's causing these illusions, it has to be coming from the pear tree. Nothing in the world could have convinced me you weren't making love to your wife up there — except that you yourself just told me I was seeing something that I know perfectly well never happened."

The lady, pretending to be deeply offended, sprang to her feet and said:

"A curse on you if you think I'm stupid enough that — even if I wanted to carry on like that — I'd do it right in front of your face! You can rest assured that if the urge ever struck me, I wouldn't come out here. I'd find one of our bedrooms and arrange it so discreetly that I'd be amazed if you ever found out about it."

Nicostratus, hearing both of them swear that they would never have dared to do such a thing right in front of him, dropped his accusations. He began marveling instead at the strangeness of it all — the miraculous power of this pear tree to distort the vision of anyone who climbed it.

But the lady, still pretending to be hurt by his suspicions, said: "This pear tree will never shame me or any other woman again, if I have anything to say about it. Pyrrhus — go fetch a hatchet and avenge us both by chopping it down. Though honestly, it would be better to bring it down on Nicostratus's thick skull — because without the slightest thought, he let the eyes of his understanding be blinded. No matter how real things looked to those eyes in his head, he should never have allowed his mind to believe such a thing was possible."

Pyrrhus fetched the hatchet in a flash and cut the tree down. When the lady saw it fall, she turned to Nicostratus and said: "Now that the enemy of my honor lies in the dirt, my anger is over." She graciously forgave her husband, who begged for her pardon, making him swear never again to suspect such things of a woman who loved him more than she loved herself.

And so the poor befooled husband went back inside with his wife and her lover. From that day forward, Pyrrhus and Lydia found many opportunities to enjoy each other at their leisure — and with considerably more comfort. May God grant us all the same!

Day 7, Story 10

Two young men from Siena both fall in love with the same woman, who happens to be the godmother of one of them. When the godfather dies, he returns from the afterlife — as promised — to report on conditions in the next world. His friend is especially curious about one thing: what's the punishment for sleeping with your child's godmother?

It now fell to the king alone to tell a story, and as soon as he saw that the ladies had recovered from laughing over the fate of the innocent pear tree, he began:

"It's plain enough that every just king should be the first to follow the laws he makes. If he doesn't, he deserves to be called a slave who merits punishment rather than a king worthy of respect — and that's exactly the transgression I'm about to commit. Yesterday I set the rules for today's stories, fully intending not to use my royal privilege but to hold myself to the same theme as the rest of you. But not only has someone already told the story I had in mind — so many other, far better stories have been told on the subject that no matter how hard I search my memory, I can't think of a single thing that would measure up to what we've already heard. So, since I'm forced to break my own law, I declare myself in advance ready to accept whatever penalty you see fit to impose, and I'll fall back on my usual privilege to go off-topic.

"Dear ladies, the story Elisa told about Friar Rinaldo and his godmother, along with the charming foolishness of the Sienese in general, has put something in my mind. I'm going to set aside the tricks wives play on their husbands and tell you instead a short little story about Siena. It has a fair amount of stuff in it that you probably shouldn't believe, but parts of it, at least, should give you a good laugh.

There were once two young men of modest birth living in Siena, near the Porta Salaia. One was called Tingoccio Mini and the other Meuccio di Tura. They were virtually inseparable and, by all appearances, the best of friends. Like good citizens, they regularly attended church and listened to sermons, and over time they'd heard plenty about what awaited souls in the afterlife — the rewards of the blessed and the punishments of the damned. They desperately wanted to know for certain whether any of this was true, but couldn't figure out how to verify it. So they made a pact: whichever of them died first would come back, if he could, and report to the survivor on conditions in the next world. They sealed it with an oath.

Having struck this deal, the two went on as before, spending nearly all their time together. Then it happened that Tingoccio became godfather to a baby born to one Ambruogio Anselmini, who lived in Campo Reggi, and his wife, a very beautiful and charming woman named Monna Mita. Visiting his godchild's mother from time to time, with Meuccio often tagging along, Tingoccio fell head over heels in love with her — godmother or not. Meuccio, for his part, heard Tingoccio praising the woman so constantly, and found her so appealing himself, that he fell in love with her too.

Each man hid his love from the other, though for different reasons. Tingoccio kept quiet because he knew that lusting after your own child's godmother was considered a serious sin, and he'd have been ashamed for anyone to find out. Meuccio kept quiet because he'd noticed how taken Tingoccio was with the woman, and he thought: "If I tell him, he'll get jealous. And since he can visit her whenever he likes as the baby's godfather, he'll find ways to poison her against me. That way I'll never get anywhere with her."

Things went on like this for a while until Tingoccio, who had more opportunity to press his case with the lady, managed through words and deeds to get what he wanted from her. Meuccio soon figured out what was going on, and though it annoyed him greatly, he pretended not to know — hoping he might still get his own chance eventually, and not wanting to give Tingoccio any reason to interfere with his prospects.

So the two friends continued in love — one more happily than the other. Now, Tingoccio found his godmother's terrain so soft and agreeable to plow that he threw himself into the work with such enthusiasm that he fell seriously ill. The sickness worsened over the course of several days until he could no longer fight it off, and he died.

On the third night after his death — apparently unable to manage it any sooner — he appeared in Meuccio's bedroom, just as they'd agreed, and called out to his friend, who was sound asleep.

Meuccio woke up. "Who's there?"

"It's Tingoccio," came the reply. "I've come back, just like I promised, to bring you news from the other side."

Meuccio was somewhat frightened at seeing him, but he gathered his courage. "Welcome, brother," he said. Then he asked: "Are you lost?"

"Things are lost when they can't be found," said Tingoccio. "How could I be here if I were lost?"

"No, no," said Meuccio. "That's not what I mean. I'm asking — are you among the damned souls, in the fires of hell?"

"Not exactly," said Tingoccio. "But I am suffering very grievous and agonizing torment for the sins I committed."

Meuccio then questioned him in detail about which punishments were assigned for which sins in the afterlife, and Tingoccio described them all. After that, Meuccio asked whether there was anything he could do for him in this world. Tingoccio said yes: Meuccio should have masses said for him, offer up prayers, and give alms in his name, because those things were enormously helpful to the souls over there. Meuccio promised he would.

Tingoccio was about to leave when Meuccio suddenly remembered his friend's affair with the godmother. He raised his head from the pillow and said:

"Wait — now that I think of it, Tingoccio, what punishment did they give you over there for sleeping with your godmother?"

"Brother," said Tingoccio, "when I arrived, there was someone there who seemed to know every single one of my sins by heart. He directed me to a certain place where I wept bitterly over my offenses in horrible torment, surrounded by a great many others who'd been condemned to the same punishment. Standing among them, and remembering what I'd been doing with my godmother, I started trembling — certain that an even worse punishment was coming for that particular sin, on top of everything else. I was already standing in a blazing fire, but I shook like a leaf.

"One of my fellow sufferers noticed this and said: 'What's the matter with you? Why are you shaking when you're already in the fire, same as the rest of us?'

"'My friend,' I said, 'I'm terrified of the sentence I'm expecting for one especially terrible sin.'

"He asked me what sin that was, and I said: 'I slept with my child's godmother — and I did it so often and so vigorously that it killed me.'

"He burst out laughing and said: 'Go on, you idiot — don't worry about that! Nobody here keeps any account of godmothers!'"

Tingoccio paused. "When I heard that, you can imagine my relief."

Then, as the first light of dawn began to creep in, he said: "Meuccio, God be with you — I can't stay any longer." And just like that, he vanished.

Meuccio, having learned that nobody in the afterlife kept any account of godmothers, began to laugh at his own stupidity — because in the past he'd let that scruple keep him from going after several of them. He threw off his ignorance and became considerably wiser on that point from then on.

If only Friar Rinaldo had known as much, he wouldn't have needed all those elaborate theological arguments to talk his pretty godmother into bed.

—-

A westerly breeze had picked up as the sun drew near the horizon. The king finished his story, and since there was no one left to tell one, he lifted the crown from his own head and placed it on Lauretta's, saying: "Madam, I crown you queen of our company. From this moment forward, as our sovereign lady, command whatever you think will bring the most pleasure and enjoyment to us all." Then he sat back down.

Lauretta, now queen, summoned the steward and instructed him to set the tables in the pleasant valley a bit earlier than usual, so they could return to the palace at their leisure. She also gave him his orders for the remainder of her reign. Then, turning to the group, she said:

"Yesterday Dioneo had us spend the day talking about the tricks women play on their husbands. I'd love to get even — like one of those snappish little dogs that bites back the moment it's nipped — and have tomorrow's stories be about the tricks men play on their wives. But I'll resist the urge. Instead, I decree that each of us should prepare a story about the tricks that women play on men, or men on women, or men on other men. I have no doubt this subject will provide every bit as much entertainment as today's has."

With that, she rose and dismissed the company until suppertime.

They all got up — ladies and men alike. Some wandered barefoot through the clear shallow water; others strolled for pleasure across the green lawn among the tall, graceful trees. Dioneo and Fiammetta sang together for a long while about Arcite and Palemon. And so, taking their various pleasures, they passed the time in the greatest contentment until the supper hour arrived.

They sat down to eat beside the little lake. A thousand birds serenaded them, a gentle breeze drifted down from the surrounding hills, and not a single fly troubled them as they dined in peace and good cheer. When the tables were cleared, with the sun still well above the horizon, they took a leisurely stroll around the valley. Then, just as their queen wished, they made their way slowly back toward the palace, joking and chattering about the day's stories and a thousand other things, until they arrived at the beautiful house just as night was falling.

There, with cool wines and sweets, they shook off the mild weariness of their little walk and soon fell to dancing around the lovely fountain — sometimes to the sound of Tindaro's bagpipe, sometimes to other instruments. After a while, the queen asked Filomena to sing, and she began:

Alas, my weary heart! > Will I ever find my way back again > to the place from which cruel fortune tore me apart? > > I cannot say, so fierce a burning wish > I carry in my breast > to be once more where I was before. > O my dear treasure, my only desire, > you who hold my heart in your hands — > tell me, you; I know no one else to ask, > and I dare not ask another. > Ah, my love, my lord, give me hope again > and let me soothe my weary, wandering soul. > > What was the spell — I cannot rightly say — > that lit in me so fierce > a flame of love that day and night alike > I find no rest? For by some strange new power > each sense — hearing, touch, and sight — > kindled fresh fires in me, > and I burn in all of them. > No one but you can ease my pain > or call my senses back, undone by love. > > Oh, tell me if and when > I'll find you once more there > where once I kissed those eyes that struck me down. > O my dear love, my soul, tell me — > when will you come back? > Say "Soon" and comfort my despair > a little. Let the wait be short > and the stay be long. > I am so lovesick, I don't care what people say. > > If ever I should hold you close again > I won't be fool enough, > as I was before, to let you slip away. > No — I'll hold you fast, come what may, > and having you in my arms > I'll take my fill of your sweet lips. > Of anything else, I will say nothing more. > Come quickly — come press me to your heart. > The very thought of it makes me sing like a lark at dawn.

The song made everyone conclude that Filomena was in the grip of some new and delightful love, and since the words suggested she'd tasted more of it than just looking, certain members of the company envied her and considered her all the luckier for it. When her song was over, the queen, remembering that the following day was Friday, addressed them all graciously:

"As you know, noble ladies and young men, tomorrow is the day devoted to the Passion of our Lord. If you recall, when Neifile was queen, we observed it devoutly and set aside our pleasant storytelling, and we did the same on the Saturday that followed. Since I wish to follow the good example Neifile set, I think it's fitting that tomorrow and the day after, we should once again abstain from our stories, as we did a week ago, and turn our thoughts to matters of the spirit."

The queen's pious words pleased everyone. A good part of the night had already passed, so she dismissed the company, and they all went off to bed.

Here ends the Seventh Day of the Decameron.

Day 8 — Introduction

Here begins the eighth day of the Decameron, in which, under the rule of Lauretta, the company tells stories of the tricks that men and women are forever playing on one another.

By Sunday morning, the first rays of sunlight were already glowing on the mountain peaks, every shadow had melted away, and the whole countryside lay sharp and clear. The queen rose with her companions and they wandered first through the dewy grass, then made their way to a little church nearby around mid-morning, where they attended services. Returning home, they ate in high spirits, sang and danced for a while, and then the queen dismissed them so that anyone who wished could go rest.

But once the sun had crossed its midday height, they all gathered by the beautiful fountain, as it pleased the queen, for the day's storytelling. At Lauretta's command, Neifile began.

Day 8, Story 1

Gulfardo borrows money from Guasparruolo, having secretly agreed with the man's wife to pay her for sleeping with him. He hands her the money, then tells the husband — right in front of her — that he returned the loan directly to her. She has to admit it's true.

"Since God has arranged it so that I'm the one to kick off today's stories, I'm happy to oblige. Now, dear ladies, we've heard plenty about tricks that women play on men, so I'd like to tell you about one that a man played on a woman. And I don't mean to criticize what he did, or pretend the woman didn't have it coming — no, I want to commend the man and blame the woman, and show you that men are perfectly capable of outsmarting those who try to outsmart them. To be precise, what I'm about to describe shouldn't really be called a con — it should be called justice. Here's my reasoning: a woman should always guard her virtue and protect her chastity as she would her own life, never allowing anything to compromise it. But since, being human, that isn't always possible, I'll say this: any woman who sells herself for a price deserves to burn, whereas a woman who gives in to the sheer power of love deserves forgiveness from any fair-minded judge — as Filostrato showed us just a few days ago with the story of Madonna Filippa in Prato.

So then. There was once in Milan a German soldier named Gulfardo, in the pay of the state — a tough, capable man and unusually honest when it came to his obligations, which is rare for soldiers of fortune. Because he always repaid his debts on time, he could find any number of merchants willing to lend him whatever he wanted at low interest.

During his time in Milan, Gulfardo fell in love with a very beautiful woman named Madonna Ambruogia, the wife of a wealthy merchant called Guasparruolo Cagastraccio, who happened to be a good friend and acquaintance of his. Gulfardo courted her so discreetly that neither her husband nor anyone else suspected a thing. One day he sent her a message, begging her to grant him her favors and promising he would do whatever she asked in return.

The lady, after a good deal of back and forth, laid out her terms: she was willing to do what Gulfardo wanted, on two conditions. First, he must never breathe a word of it to anyone. Second — since she was a rich man's wife who needed some money of her own — he would give her two hundred gold florins, and she'd be at his service whenever he liked.

Gulfardo, hearing this and disgusted by the greediness of a woman he'd thought had real class, felt his burning love curdle into something close to contempt. He decided to cheat the cheater. He sent back word that he'd be happy to do this and anything else that might please her. Just let him know when she wanted him to come — he'd bring the money, and no one would ever hear a word about it, except for a trusted friend who always accompanied him in everything.

The lady — or rather, the greedy creature — was delighted when she heard this. She sent word that her husband Guasparruolo was due to travel to Genoa on business in a few days, and she'd let Gulfardo know and send for him then.

Meanwhile, Gulfardo waited for the right moment, then went to Guasparruolo and said, "I've come into a situation where I need two hundred gold florins. Would you lend them to me at the same rate you usually charge?" Guasparruolo said he'd be glad to and counted out the money on the spot.

A few days later, Guasparruolo left for Genoa, just as the lady had said. She sent for Gulfardo to come and bring the two hundred gold florins. So Gulfardo took his friend along and went to the lady's house. Finding her waiting for him, the very first thing he did was place the two hundred gold florins in her hands — right in front of his companion — and say, "My lady, take this money and give it to your husband when he gets back."

The lady took the coins, never guessing why he'd phrased it that way. She assumed he was just being careful so his friend wouldn't realize the money was payment for her services. "Of course," she said. "But let me just count them first." She poured the coins out on the table, found them to be exactly two hundred, and tucked them away, very pleased with herself. Then she led Gulfardo to her bedroom, and she satisfied him with her body — not just that night but several more before her husband returned from Genoa.

As soon as Guasparruolo came back, Gulfardo watched for a time when the merchant was with his wife, then showed up at their house with his friend — the same one as before — and said, right in front of her: "Guasparruolo, it turns out I didn't need the money after all — those two hundred gold florins you lent me the other day. I couldn't close the deal I'd borrowed them for. So I brought them straight back and gave them to your wife here. You can cancel my debt."

Guasparruolo turned to his wife and asked, "Did you get the money?"

She could see the witness standing right there and knew there was no way to deny it. "Yes," she said. "I got them. I just hadn't gotten around to telling you yet."

"Well then," said Guasparruolo, "Gulfardo, we're square. Go with God — I'll settle the account."

Once Gulfardo was gone, the lady found herself well and truly conned. She had no choice but to hand over to her husband the shameful price of her own dishonor. And that is how the clever lover enjoyed his mercenary mistress without spending a penny."

Day 8, Story 2

The parish priest of Varlungo sleeps with Mistress Belcolore and leaves her his cloak as a pledge. Then, after borrowing a mortar from her, he sends it back with a demand for the return of his cloak — left, he claims, merely "as a token." The good woman grudgingly gives it back.

Everyone — men and women alike — approved of what Gulfardo had done to the greedy Milanese lady. The queen turned to Panfilo with a smile and told him to go next, and he began:

"Fair ladies, it occurs to me to tell you a little story aimed at people who constantly offend against us layfolk without any possibility of retaliation — I'm talking about the clergy. They've practically declared a holy war on our wives, and whenever they manage to get one of them in bed, they act as though they've won the same forgiveness of sins as if they'd dragged the Sultan himself in chains from Alexandria to Avignon. Meanwhile, the wretched laymen can't do the same back to them — though we do take out our frustrations on the priests' mothers, sisters, mistresses, and daughters, going after them with no less enthusiasm than they show toward our wives. With that in mind, I want to tell you about a little village love affair — more amusing for its ending than it is long in the telling — from which you may draw the useful lesson that priests should not always be taken at their word.

You should know, then, that there was once at Varlungo — a village quite near here, as you ladies either know or may have heard — a worthy priest who was vigorous in his personal attentions to the ladies. Though he wasn't the greatest reader, he did a fine job regaling his parishioners with uplifting sayings and proverbs under the elm tree on Sundays. And whenever the menfolk went away on business, he visited their wives more diligently than any priest who'd served there before him, bringing them little gifts and holy water and the odd candle end, sometimes right to their front doors.

Now, among all his favorite female parishioners, one pleased him above all the rest — a woman called Mistress Belcolore, the wife of a farmer who went by the name Bentivegna del Mazzo. She was a lively, buxom country girl with a tan complexion and a tight figure, as good at grinding the grain as any woman alive. What's more, she could play the tambourine, sing "The Water Runs Down to the Ravine," and lead a dance with a pretty handkerchief in her hand better than any woman in the neighborhood. All of which drove the priest so wild with desire that he was practically losing his mind over her. He'd prowl around all day just to catch a glimpse of her. When he spotted her in church on a Sunday morning, he'd belt out the Kyrie and the Sanctus with such intensity — trying to show off his vocal range — that it sounded more like a donkey braying. But when she wasn't there, he rushed right through that part of the service. Still, he was careful enough that neither Bentivegna nor any of the neighbors suspected a thing.

To win Mistress Belcolore over, he sent her presents from time to time — sometimes a head of garlic (he had the finest in the whole countryside, from a garden he tended with his own hands), sometimes a basket of peas or a bunch of chives or spring onions. And whenever he got the chance, he'd give her meaningful looks and toss out a flirty comment or two. But she played the prude, pretending not to notice and sailing past him with a prim expression. The priest couldn't make any headway.

One day, as he was strolling through the neighborhood around noon, he ran into Bentivegna del Mazzo driving a donkey loaded with goods. He stopped him and asked where he was going. "Well, Father," said the farmer, "to tell you the truth, I'm heading into town on business. I'm bringing these things to Squire Bonaccorri da Ginestreto so he can help me out with some summons the judge sent me through his lawyer — something about a mandatory court appearance."

The priest was thrilled to hear this. "Good for you, my son," he said. "Go with my blessing and come back soon. And if you happen to see Lapuccio or Naldino, don't forget to tell them to send me those leather straps for my flails."

Bentivegna said he'd take care of it and went on his way toward Florence. The priest immediately decided that now was his chance with Belcolore. He set off at a brisk pace and didn't stop until he reached her house. He went right in and called out, "God bless this house! Anyone home?"

Belcolore, who was up in the hayloft, called down, "Oh, Father — welcome! But what are you doing out wandering in this heat?"

"God willing, I came to spend a little time with you," he said, "since I ran into your husband on his way to town."

Belcolore came downstairs, sat down, and started sorting through cabbage seeds that her husband had threshed out earlier. The priest said, "So, Belcolore — are you really going to keep letting me die for love of you like this?"

She laughed. "What am I doing to you?"

"You're not doing anything to me," he said, "but you won't let me do to you what I'd like to do — and what God himself commands."

"Oh, come on!" said Belcolore. "Priests do that sort of thing?"

"We absolutely do," he said, "just as well as other men. And why not? I'll tell you something — we do far better work. And do you know why? Because we grind with a full head of water. But seriously, it'll be very much worth your while if you just hold still and let me get to it."

"And what exactly does 'worth my while' mean?" she asked. "You priests are all stingier than the devil."

"I don't know — you tell me," he said. "What do you want? A pair of shoes? A silk headband? A nice scarlet sash? Name it."

"Oh, please!" said Belcolore. "I've got plenty of all that. But if you really care for me so much, do me a favor and I'll do what you want."

"Tell me what you need," said the priest. "I'll do it gladly."

"I have to go to Florence on Saturday," she said, "to return the wool I've spun and get my spinning wheel fixed. If you'll lend me five silver crowns — I know you have them — I can get my good blue dress out of pawn, and my Sunday belt too, the one from my dowry. You see, I can't go to church or anywhere decent without them. And after that, I'll do whatever you want. Always."

"God give me a good year," said the priest, "but I don't have the money on me right now. Trust me, though — before Saturday comes, I'll make sure you get it, and gladly."

"Sure," said Belcolore. "You're all the same — big promises, and then nothing. You think you're going to treat me the way you treated Biliuzza, who ran off with the guitar player? Not a chance — she turned into a common tramp because of stunts like that. If you don't have the money on you, go home and get it."

"Oh, come on," the priest said. "Don't make me walk all the way home now. Can't you see my luck — you're here alone. But by the time I get back, somebody else might be around to get in our way. I don't know when I'll find this good an opportunity again."

"That's fine," she said. "If you want to go get it, go. If not, do without."

The priest, seeing she wasn't going to cooperate without some guarantee — whereas he would have been perfectly happy to proceed on faith alone — said, "Look, you don't believe I'll bring you the money. So you'll trust me, I'll leave you this blue cloth cloak of mine as a pledge."

Belcolore looked up. "That cloak? What's it worth?"

"What's it worth?" said the priest. "I'll have you know this is cloth of Douai — practically cloth of Throuai — and some folks around here would even call it Fouray. It cost me seven crowns in hard cash from Lotto the broker not two weeks ago, and Buglietto — who you know is an excellent judge of fabric — tells me I got it at least five shillings under market price."

"Really!" said Belcolore. "Well, God help me, I never would have guessed. But give it here first."

The good priest, whose crossbow was already cocked and loaded, pulled off the cloak and handed it over. She put it safely away and said, "Come on, Father — let's go to the barn. Nobody ever comes out there."

And so they did. There the priest covered her in the most enthusiastic kisses you ever saw, made her a kinswoman of God Almighty — so to speak — and had a grand time with her for a good long while. Afterward, he took his leave and headed back to the rectory in nothing but his cassock, looking for all the world like he was coming from officiating at a wedding.

Back home, he started thinking about how all the candle ends he collected as offerings in an entire year weren't worth half of five crowns, and it dawned on him that he'd made a bad deal. He regretted leaving the cloak behind and began scheming for a way to get it back without paying. Being a clever enough fellow in a small-minded way, he soon hit on the perfect plan — and it worked beautifully.

The next day was a holiday, and he sent a neighbor's boy over to Mistress Belcolore's house with a message: would she be kind enough to lend him her stone mortar? Binguccio dal Poggio and Nuto Buglietti were coming for dinner, and he needed to make sauce. She sent it over. Then, around dinnertime, the priest waited until he knew Bentivegna and Belcolore were sitting down to eat. He called his clerk and said, "Take this mortar back to Belcolore, and tell her: 'His Reverence thanks you kindly and asks you to send back the cloak that the boy left as a token.'"

The clerk went to her house, found her at the table with Bentivegna, set down the mortar, and delivered the priest's message. When Belcolore heard him asking for the cloak back, she was about to give the clerk a piece of her mind, but her husband cut in with a sour look: "You took a pledge from the Father? I swear to Christ, I've half a mind to smack you one. Go on — give it back to him right now, and the pox take you! And from now on, whatever his Reverence asks for — even if he wants our donkey — don't you dare say no."

Belcolore got up, grumbling, pulled the cloak out of the chest, and handed it to the clerk. "Tell his Reverence this from me," she said. "Belcolore says she swears to God you'll never pound sauce in her mortar again. You certainly didn't do her any great honor this time around."

The clerk took the cloak back and relayed her message to the priest, who laughed and said, "Tell her, next time you see her, that if she won't lend me her mortar, I won't lend her my pestle — and that makes us even."

Bentivegna figured his wife had said what she said because he'd scolded her, and thought nothing more of it. But Belcolore held a grudge against the priest and kept him at arm's length all the way through harvest time. Then, after he threatened to have her thrown into the mouth of Lucifer himself, she got scared enough to make her peace with him over new wine and roast chestnuts, and from then on they had a fine time together whenever the mood struck them. Instead of the five crowns, the priest had new parchment put on her tambourine and a set of jingle bells strung on it, and with that she was satisfied."

Day 8, Story 3

Calandrino, Bruno, and Buffalmacco go hunting along the Mugnone stream for the heliotrope — a stone that supposedly makes its bearer invisible. Calandrino thinks he's found it. He staggers home loaded down with rocks, and when his wife sees him and scolds him, he flies into a rage and beats her — then tells his friends the whole story, which of course they know better than he does.

When Panfilo finished his story — the ladies had laughed so hard at it that they were still laughing — the queen told Elisa to go next. Still giggling, she began:

"I don't know, charming ladies, if my little story — which is every bit as true as it is funny — will make you laugh as hard as Panfilo's did. But I'll do my best.

In our city, which has always been full of colorful characters and eccentric types, there lived not so long ago a painter named Calandrino. He was a simpleton, with the strangest habits you ever saw. He spent most of his time in the company of two other painters — one called Bruno, the other Buffalmacco. These two were lively, entertaining fellows, but also shrewd and sharp-witted. They hung around with Calandrino because his peculiar ways and gullibility gave them endless amusement.

There was also living in Florence at this time a hugely entertaining young man named Maso del Saggio, who was remarkably clever and could talk his way into or out of anything. When Maso heard about Calandrino's legendary simple-mindedness, he decided to have some fun at his expense by feeding him some outrageous story.

One day Maso happened to find Calandrino in the church of San Giovanni, staring intently at the carvings and paintings on the tabernacle above the altar, which had only recently been installed. Maso decided the time and place were perfect for what he had in mind. He filled in a friend on his plan, and the two of them sidled over to where Calandrino was sitting alone. Pretending not to notice him, they struck up a conversation about the magical properties of various gemstones, with Maso holding forth as authoritatively as if he were a famous jeweler.

Calandrino perked up his ears. After a while, seeing that the conversation wasn't meant to be private, he stood up and joined them — which was exactly what Maso was hoping for. Continuing his lecture, Calandrino asked him where these miraculous stones could be found.

Maso replied that most of them came from Berlinzone, a city in the land of the Basques, in a country called Bengodi — the Land of Plenty. There, he explained, the grapevines were tied up with sausage links, you could buy a goose for a penny with a gosling thrown in for free, and there was an entire mountain made of grated Parmesan cheese. On top of this mountain lived people who did nothing all day but make macaroni and ravioli, cook them in capon broth, and roll them down the mountainside, where whoever grabbed the most got the most. And nearby there ran a stream of the finest white wine ever tasted, without a drop of water in it.

"Oh, wonderful!" cried Calandrino. "That sounds like paradise! But tell me — what do they do with the capons they boil for the broth?"

"The Basques eat them all," said Maso.

"Have you ever been there?" asked Calandrino.

"Have I been there?" said Maso. "If I've been once, I've been a thousand times."

"And how far away is it?" asked Calandrino.

"A million miles or more," said Maso. "You could count all night and still not reach the number."

"Then it must be even farther than the Abruzzi," said Calandrino.

"Oh, a bit farther, yes," said Maso.

Calandrino, simpleton that he was, heard Maso say all this with a perfectly straight face and without the slightest hint of a smile, and believed every word of it as though it were the most self-evident truth in the world. Taking it all as gospel, he said, "Well, that's a bit too far for my budget. But if it were closer, I'd definitely go with you sometime, just to see the macaroni come tumbling down the hill and stuff myself with it. But tell me — are any of those magical stones found in these parts?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Maso. "There are two kinds of exceptionally powerful stones found right here. The first are the sandstone blocks of Settignano and Montisci, which, when they're shaped into millstones, produce flour — and that's why they have a saying in those parts: 'Grace comes from God, and millstones from Montisci.' There's such an enormous supply of this sandstone that it's as cheap here as emeralds are among the people over in Bengodi, where they have mountains of emeralds bigger than Mount Morello, and they glow in the dark, I'll have you know. And listen to this: if someone were to set perfect, undrilled millstones into rings and bring them to the Sultan, he could name his price.

"The other stone is what we jewelers call the heliotrope. It has truly extraordinary powers: whoever carries it on his person becomes completely invisible to everyone else, for as long as he's holding it."

"Those are incredible powers!" said Calandrino. "But where is this second stone found?"

Maso said it was commonly found in the Mugnone — the stream right outside Florence.

"How big is it?" asked Calandrino. "And what color?"

"They come in all sizes," said Maso, "some bigger, some smaller. But they're all nearly black."

Calandrino filed all of this away in his mind. Then, pretending he had other business to attend to, he said goodbye to Maso, secretly determined to go look for this stone. But first he decided he shouldn't do it without Bruno and Buffalmacco, his two closest friends. So he set about looking for them, wanting to get the search underway immediately, before anyone else beat them to it. He spent the entire rest of the morning hunting for them. Finally, well past noon, he remembered they were working at the convent in the Faenza district. Dropping everything else, he practically ran all the way there despite the blazing heat.

As soon as he spotted them, he called out: "Listen, friends, if you'll just hear me out, we can become the richest men in all of Florence! I've learned from a very reliable source that there's a stone in the Mugnone, and whoever carries it becomes invisible. I say we go find it right away, before anyone else does. We'll definitely find it — I know what it looks like. And once we have it, all we have to do is walk over to the money changers' tables — you know, the ones that are always loaded with silver coins and gold florins — and help ourselves to as much as we want. Nobody will see us! We'll be rich overnight, instead of spending the rest of our lives smearing paint on walls like a couple of snails!"

Bruno and Buffalmacco, hearing this, started laughing behind their hands. They exchanged sidelong glances, put on expressions of astonishment, and praised Calandrino's plan as brilliant. Then Bruno asked what the stone was called.

Calandrino, blockhead that he was, had already forgotten the name. "What do we care about the name," he said, "when we know what it does? I say we skip the chatter and go find it."

"All right then," said Bruno, "what does it look like?"

"They come in all shapes," said Calandrino, "but they're all nearly black. So the way I see it, we just pick up every black stone we find until we hit the right one. Come on, let's not waste any more time!"

"Hold on a minute," said Bruno. He turned to Buffalmacco and said, "I think Calandrino's got a point. But this isn't the right time to go looking. The sun is high and shining straight down on the Mugnone, which means it's dried out all the stones. The ones that look black in the morning, when they're still wet, look white in the heat of the day. Besides, it's a workday, and there'll be all kinds of people along the banks for one reason or another. If they see us, they might figure out what we're up to and try the same thing — and then the stone could end up in their hands, and we'd have lost everything by trying to rush it. If you agree, this seems like a job for a morning — when you can better tell the black stones from the white ones — and a holiday, when there won't be anyone around to see us."

Buffalmacco agreed with Bruno, and Calandrino went along with it. They settled on the following Sunday morning. Above all else, Calandrino begged them not to breathe a word of this to a living soul — he'd been told about it in strictest confidence, he said. Then he shared everything he'd heard about the wondrous land of Bengodi, swearing up and down that it was all true.

As soon as Calandrino left, the other two agreed on their plan. Calandrino could barely contain himself as he waited out the week. When Sunday morning finally came, he got up at the crack of dawn and roused his friends. The three of them went out through the San Gallo gate, descended into the bed of the Mugnone, and started searching downstream for the stone.

Calandrino, being the most eager of the three, charged out ahead, darting nimbly this way and that. Every time he spotted a black stone, he pounced on it, scooped it up, and stuffed it inside his shirt. His companions followed along behind, picking up a stone here and there. Before long, Calandrino's shirt was bulging. So he gathered up the skirts of his tunic — which wasn't cut in the short Flemish style — tucked them firmly into his belt all the way around, and made himself a big pouch. That filled up too before long. Then he did the same with his cloak, and soon that was stuffed with stones as well.

When the other two saw that Calandrino was fully loaded up and dinnertime was approaching, Bruno said to Buffalmacco, following the plan they'd agreed on: "Where's Calandrino?"

Buffalmacco, who could see Calandrino standing right nearby, made a show of looking around in every direction. "I don't know. He was right in front of us just a second ago."

"A second ago?" said Bruno. "I'll bet you anything he's already at home eating his dinner! He's left us here like idiots, picking through black rocks in the Mugnone."

"Well," said Buffalmacco, "he did us one right, then, to trick us and leave us here — since we were stupid enough to believe him in the first place. Honestly, who but the two of us would be gullible enough to think you could find an invisibility stone in the Mugnone?"

Calandrino, hearing all this, was beside himself with joy. He concluded that the heliotrope must have fallen into his hands and that its power was already working — they were looking right at him and couldn't see him! Overjoyed at his incredible luck, he decided not to say a word and just head home. He turned around and started walking back.

Buffalmacco saw him go and said to Bruno, "What should we do? Shall we leave too?"

"Let's go," said Bruno. "But I swear to God, Calandrino will never pull one over on me again. If I were as close to him right now as I've been all morning, I'd give him such a whack on the shin with this rock that he'd remember this trick for a month."

And in the same breath, he let the stone fly and caught Calandrino right in the shin. Calandrino felt the pain, lifted his foot, and started puffing and blowing — but kept his mouth shut and pressed on.

Then Buffalmacco picked up one of the flints he'd collected and said to Bruno, "Look at this nice stone. I wish it would hit Calandrino right in the back." He let it fly and nailed Calandrino with a solid thump right in the small of his back.

In short, the two of them kept this up all the way back along the Mugnone — a comment here, a thrown rock there — pelting Calandrino the whole way to the San Gallo gate. There they tossed aside whatever stones they were still carrying and stopped to have a word with the customs officers, whom they'd tipped off in advance. The officers pretended not to see Calandrino and let him pass, roaring with laughter at the joke.

Calandrino marched straight home without stopping. His house was near the Canto alla Macina, and fortune was so kind to the prank that nobody stopped him, either along the stream or through the city streets — though this was mostly because almost everyone was at dinner. So he reached his house still carrying his enormous load of rocks.

As luck would have it, his wife — a good-looking, respectable woman named Monna Tessa — was standing at the top of the stairs. Annoyed at how long he'd been gone, the moment she saw him she started scolding: "Where the devil have you been? Everyone in the city has already finished eating, and here you come strolling home!"

Calandrino heard this and realized he'd been seen. He was overwhelmed with fury and heartbreak. "You wretched woman!" he screamed. "You were here? You've ruined me! But by the faith of God, you'll pay for this!"

He ran upstairs to a little room and dumped out the enormous pile of stones he'd carried home. Then, in a blind rage, he went after his wife. He grabbed her by the hair, threw her to the floor, and kicked and punched her everywhere he could reach, for as long as his arms and legs held out. He left not a hair on her head unpulled or a bone in her body unbruised, and it did her no good at all to beg for mercy with her hands clasped together.

Meanwhile, Bruno and Buffalmacco had spent a few minutes laughing with the gatekeepers, then followed Calandrino home at a leisurely pace. Arriving at his door, they heard the savage beating he was giving his wife. They called up to him, pretending they'd just gotten back.

Calandrino came to the window, sweating and red-faced with rage, and asked them to come up. They went upstairs, putting on serious faces, and found the room full of stones and the wife in one corner — hair torn out, clothes ripped, her face black and blue with bruises, crying pitifully — while Calandrino sat in the other corner with his belt undone, panting like a man who'd run a marathon.

They took all this in for a moment, then said, "What's all this, Calandrino? Are you building a wall? What are all these rocks? And Monna Tessa — what happened to her? It looks like you beat her. What is going on?"

Calandrino, worn out by the weight of the stones, the fury of the beating he'd given his wife, and his grief at the good luck he believed he'd lost, couldn't catch enough breath to string a sentence together. When he didn't answer quickly enough, Buffalmacco continued: "Listen, Calandrino, whatever other reason you had for being angry, you shouldn't have played us for fools the way you did. You talked us into going to search for this magic stone, and then you ditched us in the Mugnone like a pair of idiots and took off without even saying goodbye. We're not happy about this. And I can tell you right now — this is the last trick you'll ever play on us."

At this, Calandrino forced himself to speak. "Don't be mad, friends — it's not what you think. Unlucky wretch that I am, I actually found the stone! Listen — I'll prove it. When you first started asking each other where I was, I was standing less than ten yards away from you. But you started walking off and couldn't see me, so I went on ahead and came back here, keeping just a little in front of you the whole way."

Then, starting from the very beginning, he told them everything they'd said and done, first to last, and showed them the bruises on his shins and back from the stones they'd thrown. "And I'll tell you something else," he went on. "When I came through the gate carrying all these stones you see here — not a word was said to me. And you know how those gatekeepers are, always wanting to inspect everything and hassle you. On top of that, I ran into several friends and neighbors along the way — people who would normally stop me for a chat and invite me for a drink — and not one of them said a single word to me. Not even half a word! Because they couldn't see me!

"But then, when I finally got home, this damned devil of a woman appeared right in front of me — and as you know, women make everything lose its power. So I, who could have been the luckiest man in all of Florence, am now the unluckiest. That's why I beat her for as long as I could move my fists, and I don't know what's stopping me from slitting her throat right now. Cursed be the day I first laid eyes on her, and the day she set foot in this house!"

And with that, he worked himself into a fresh rage and was about to get up and beat her all over again.

Bruno and Buffalmacco listened to all this and pretended to be absolutely amazed, nodding along and confirming everything Calandrino said — even though they were fighting so hard not to laugh that they were practically bursting. But when they saw him leap up to go after his wife again, they jumped in front of him and held him back. They told him the wife wasn't to blame at all — he had only himself to blame, since he knew perfectly well that women make things lose their power, and yet he hadn't warned her to stay out of his sight that day. God, they said, must have robbed him of that foresight, either because this stroke of fortune wasn't meant to be his, or because he'd been planning to cheat his friends — he should have told them the instant he realized he'd found the stone.

After a long back-and-forth, they managed, with considerable effort, to broker a peace between Calandrino and his poor battered wife. And then they left him there, miserable and surrounded by a house full of rocks."

Day 8, Story 4

The Rector of Fiesole falls in love with a widow, but she can't stand him. Thinking he's climbing into bed with her, he ends up sleeping with her hideous serving-maid instead — and her brothers arrange for the bishop to catch him in the act.

When Elisa finished her story — which the whole company had thoroughly enjoyed — the queen turned to Emilia and signaled for her to go next. She promptly began:

"Noble ladies, it's already been demonstrated in several of our earlier stories just how much we women have to put up with from the pestering of priests, friars, and clergy of every stripe. But since you could talk about that subject forever and still not run out of material, I'd like to add another tale to the pile. This one is about a rector who was determined to make a gentlewoman love him whether she wanted to or not — and how she, being a very sensible woman, gave him exactly what he deserved.

As you all know, Fiesole — whose hilltop we can see from right here — was once a great and ancient city. Though it's mostly in ruins now, it has never lost its bishop. Near the cathedral there, a widow of noble birth named Madonna Piccarda owned a property, and since her finances were modest, she lived there most of the year in a house that wasn't very large. With her lived her two brothers, both courteous and upstanding young men.

Now, Madonna Piccarda attended services regularly at the cathedral, and since she was still young, beautiful, and charming, the rector of the church fell desperately in love with her — so much so that he could think of nothing else. Eventually, he worked up the nerve to tell her his feelings. He begged her to accept his love and return it.

This rector, however, was old in years but very young in sense — obnoxious, arrogant, and insufferably full of himself, with the manners and style of a man who thought he was God's gift to the world when in fact he was everyone's least favorite person. If there was anyone who had less use for him than most, it was Madonna Piccarda, who not only didn't like him — she hated him worse than a migraine.

Being the sensible woman she was, she answered him diplomatically: "Sir, the fact that you love me ought to be very flattering, and I am bound to love you in return and will gladly do so. But between your love and mine, nothing improper should ever take place. You are my spiritual father, a priest, and getting on in years — all of which should make you both modest and chaste. I, for my part, am no young girl; these romantic games don't suit a widow of my station, and you well know how much discretion is expected of widows. So I beg you to excuse me: I will never love you in the way you're asking, and I don't wish to be loved that way by you."

The rector got nothing more out of her that day, but he was neither discouraged nor deterred by this first rejection. He kept after her with the most outrageous persistence — letters, messages, and even cornering her in person whenever she came to church. It became such a relentless, unbearable nuisance that she resolved to get rid of him once and for all, in a fashion he richly deserved, since nothing else seemed to work. But she wouldn't do anything without consulting her brothers first.

She told them about the rector's behavior and what she had in mind. They gave her their full blessing. So a few days later, she went to the church as usual. The moment the rector spotted her, he came over and accosted her with his customary brazenness. She received him with a pleasant expression and let him draw her aside. After he'd gone on at length in his usual style, she heaved a great sigh and said:

"Sir, I've heard it said that no fortress is so strong that it won't eventually fall if it's attacked every single day — and I can see that this is exactly what has happened to me. You've pressed me so hard with sweet words and one kindness after another that you've broken through my resolve. Since I seem to please you this much, I'm ready to be yours."

"Thank God!" the rector said, overjoyed. "To tell you the truth, I've often wondered how you held out so long. Nothing like this has ever happened to me with any other woman. In fact, I've sometimes said to myself: if women were made of silver, they still wouldn't be worth a penny, because not one of them can withstand the hammer. But never mind that. When and where can we be together?"

"Sweet my lord," replied the lady, "the 'when' can be whenever suits us best, since I have no husband I need to account to for my nights. But the 'where' is the problem — I can't figure that part out."

"What do you mean?" said the rector. "Your house, of course!"

"Sir," she said, "you know I have two young brothers who come and go with their friends at all hours of the day and night, and my house isn't very big. So it would have to be done in complete silence — not a single word, not the smallest sound — and in total darkness, as if we were blind. If you can live with those conditions, it could work, because they don't come into my bedroom. But their room is right next to mine, and you can't even whisper without being overheard."

"My lady," answered the rector, "that won't stop us for a night or two while I figure out a place where we can meet more comfortably."

"That's entirely up to you, sir," she said. "But I beg you — let this stay absolutely secret. Not a word to anyone, ever."

"Have no fear," he said. "But if possible, arrange things so we can get together tonight."

"With pleasure," she said. She told him how and when to come, and they parted ways.

Now, this lady had a serving-maid who was not exactly young and who possessed the ugliest, most horrifying face you have ever seen. She had a nose so squashed it looked like it had been sat on, a mouth twisted to one side, fat lips, huge crooked teeth, and a permanent squint. On top of that, her eyes were perpetually red and runny, and her complexion was a sickly yellow-green that made her look like she'd spent the summer not in Fiesole but in the swamps of Sinigaglia. To crown it all, she was lame in one hip and slightly crooked on the right side. Her name was Ciuta, but because her face was so spectacularly doglike, everyone called her Ciutazza. Despite her frightful appearance, she had a certain roguish streak in her.

The lady called her over and said, "Listen, Ciutazza — if you'll do me a favor tonight, I'll give you a beautiful new shift."

Ciutazza's eyes lit up at the mention of a shift. "My lady, for a new shift, I'd throw myself in the fire, let alone anything else."

"Good," said her mistress. "I want you to sleep with a man in my bed tonight. Give him plenty of affection — but whatever you do, don't say a single word, or my brothers in the next room will hear you. And afterward, the shift is yours."

"Absolutely," said Ciutazza. "I'll sleep with half a dozen men if you need me to, never mind just one."

That evening, when darkness fell, the rector made his appearance as arranged. Meanwhile, the two young brothers were in their bedroom as the lady had planned, making sure they could be heard. So the rector crept into the lady's bedchamber in silence and total darkness and went straight to the bed, as she'd instructed. Ciutazza, who had been thoroughly coached on what to do, was already there waiting for him. The good rector, believing he had his beloved lady beside him, pulled Ciutazza into his arms and started kissing her, and she kissed him right back. Then he proceeded to take his pleasure with her, claiming what he thought was his long-awaited prize.

Once the lady had set this part of the plan in motion, she told her brothers it was time for the rest. They slipped quietly out of the bedchamber and headed for the town square. And fortune was even more generous to them than they could have hoped, because the heat that evening was oppressive, and the bishop had come looking for the two young men, intending to stop by their house for a cool drink. When he spotted them coming toward him, he told them his plan, and they all went back to the house together. There, in a pleasant little courtyard lit by torches, the bishop had a long, satisfying drink of their excellent wine.

When he'd had his fill, the young men said, "My lord, since you've been kind enough to honor us with a visit to our modest home — and we were actually on our way to invite you — we'd like you to see a little something, if you'd be so kind."

The bishop said he'd be happy to. So one of the brothers took a lit torch and led the way to the bedroom where the rector was lying with Ciutazza. The bishop and the rest followed.

Now, the rector had been in quite a hurry to reach his destination and had galloped hard — he'd already ridden more than three miles, so to speak — and the effort had worn him out. Despite the heat, he had fallen sound asleep with Ciutazza in his arms.

The young man walked into the room with the torch held high, and there behind him came the bishop with the whole party. The rector was presented to the prelate in all his glory — asleep in the arms of Ciutazza.

At that point the rector woke up. Seeing the torchlight and all those people standing around the bed, he was overcome with shame and dove under the covers in terror. The bishop gave him a tremendous tongue-lashing and made him pull his head out and see exactly who he'd been sleeping with. When the rector understood the trick the lady had played on him, between the deception and the humiliation, he became in an instant the most miserable man who ever lived.

The bishop ordered him to get dressed, and then, under guard, the rector was marched home to do severe penance for his sin. The bishop then asked how it had come about that the rector had ended up in bed with Ciutazza, and the young men told him the whole story from beginning to end. When he'd heard it all, the bishop had nothing but praise for both the lady and her brothers — they had handled the situation perfectly, he said, punishing the rector as he deserved without dirtying their hands with a clergyman's blood.

The bishop made the rector do penance for forty days. But love and humiliation made him suffer for more than forty-nine, especially since for a long time afterward, he couldn't set foot outside without the local children pointing and shouting, "Look! There's the one who slept with Ciutazza!" — which annoyed him so badly that it nearly drove him out of his mind.

And that is how the worthy lady rid herself of the pestilent rector's unwanted attentions, and Ciutazza earned herself a new shift and a very merry night."

Day 8, Story 5

Three young men pull down a judge's trousers while he sits on the bench in Florence, administering justice.

When Emilia finished her story and the widow lady had been duly praised by everyone, the queen turned to Filostrato and told him it was his turn. He answered promptly that he was ready and began:

"Delightful ladies, the mention a little earlier by Elisa of a certain young man — Maso del Saggio — has made me set aside the story I'd planned to tell you, so I can share one about him and some of his friends. It involves certain expressions that you ladies might think too coarse to use yourselves, but the whole thing is so funny that I'm going to tell it anyway.

As you've probably all heard, governors from the Marches of Ancona regularly come to our city, and they're generally a petty, small-minded lot, living such cheap and shabby lives that everything about them looks like some beggar's racket. And thanks to this inborn stinginess, they bring along judges and notaries who look like they were plucked from behind a plow or a cobbler's bench rather than from any school of law. Well, one of these governors came to Florence as provost, and among the many judges he brought with him was one who styled himself Messer Niccola da San Lepidio — a man who looked more like a tinker than anything else. He was assigned to hear criminal cases.

Now, as often happens, townsfolk who have absolutely no business at the courts sometimes wander in anyway, and that's what Maso del Saggio did one morning. He'd gone looking for a friend and happened to glance over to where Messer Niccola was sitting, and it struck him that here was the rarest, most outlandish specimen of humanity he'd ever seen. So he looked him over from head to foot: the fur-lined hat, black with smoke and grease; the cheap little inkhorn dangling from his belt; a gown longer than his cloak; and a whole collection of other things no man of good breeding would be caught dead in. But the crowning glory, in Maso's opinion, was a pair of trousers so enormous that, with the judge's robes hanging open in front because they were too tight to close, the seat of those trousers drooped halfway down to his knees.

Maso didn't waste another second looking for his friend. He had a new mission now. He quickly tracked down two companions of his — one named Ribi and the other Matteuzzo, both men of the same wild humor — and said to them, "If you love me, come with me to the courts. I want to show you the finest scarecrow you've ever laid eyes on."

He led them to the courthouse and showed them the judge and his remarkable trousers. They started laughing the moment they caught sight of him from across the room. Then, moving closer to the platform where his lordship sat, they noticed you could easily slip under the bench and that the boards under his feet were so broken that a man could easily shove his hand and arm right through the cracks.

"We absolutely have to pull those trousers off him," Maso said to his friends. "It can be done perfectly well."

The other two had already seen how. They agreed on their plan and came back the next morning. The courtroom was packed with people. Matteuzzo crept under the bench without anyone noticing and positioned himself directly beneath the judge's feet. Meanwhile, Maso came up to his lordship on one side and grabbed the hem of his gown, while Ribi did the same on the other.

"My lord! My lord!" Maso began. "I beg you, for the love of God, before that thief on the other side of you gets away, make him give me back a pair of saddlebags he stole from me! He swears he didn't do it, but I saw him not a month ago getting them resoled!"

At the same time, Ribi was yelling at the top of his lungs on the other side: "Don't believe him, my lord! He's a dirty liar! He knows I've come to file a complaint against him for stealing a pair of boots from me — boots I've had in my house for ages. If you don't believe me, I can call as witnesses my next-door neighbor Trecca, and Grassa the tripe-seller, and a woman who collects the sweepings from Santa Maria in Verzaia. They all saw him coming back from the countryside!"

But Maso wouldn't let Ribi get a word in edgewise and kept bawling louder, which only made Ribi shout even more. The judge stood up and leaned toward them, trying to make out what they were saying. That was Matteuzzo's moment. He thrust his hand through the crack in the boards, grabbed the seat of Messer Niccola's trousers, and yanked hard. The trousers came down instantly — the judge was as lean and bony in the backside as a rail. Feeling something give way but not understanding what had happened, he tried to sit back down and pull his robes forward to cover himself. But Maso on one side and Ribi on the other held him fast.

"My lord, it's outrageous that you won't hear my case! You're trying to leave! In this city, there are no writs required for cases as small as this!" And between the two of them, they held onto his clothes long enough for everyone in the courtroom to see that his trousers had been pulled down.

Finally, Matteuzzo — having held onto the trousers for a good while — let them go, crawled out from under the platform, and slipped out of the courthouse without being spotted. Ribi, figuring he'd done enough, declared, "I swear to God, I'll appeal to a higher court!" And Maso, letting go of the judge's cloak, said, "No, I think I'll just keep coming back here until I find you less ... occupied ... than you seem to be this morning."

They both made off as fast as they could, each heading a different direction, while his lordship the judge pulled up his trousers in front of everyone, as if he were just getting out of bed. Then, realizing what had actually happened, he demanded to know where the two men who'd been arguing about the boots and the saddlebags had gone. But they were long gone.

He started swearing up a storm — by various unprintable oaths — that he absolutely needed to know whether it was the custom in Florence to pull down a judge's trousers while he sat on the bench!

The provost kicked up a fuss about the whole business, but his friends explained to him that this had only been done to send a message: the Florentines had noticed that instead of bringing real judges, he'd brought cheap impostors to save money. The provost decided it was best to keep his mouth shut, and so the matter went no further."

Day 8, Story 6

Bruno and Buffalmacco steal Calandrino's pig, then make him undergo a trial by ginger pills and wine. When he's the one who spits his out, they convince everyone — including Calandrino himself — that he must be the thief, and blackmail him into paying up.

No sooner had Filostrato finished his story, which got plenty of laughs, than the queen called on Filomena to continue. She began:

"Gracious ladies, just as Filostrato was inspired by the mention of Maso to tell you the story you just heard, I'm equally inspired by the earlier mention of Calandrino and his friends to tell you another tale about them, which I think you'll enjoy.

I don't need to explain who Calandrino, Bruno, and Buffalmacco were — you've heard plenty about them already. So let me get on with the story.

Calandrino had a small farm not far from Florence that had come to him as part of his wife's dowry. Among the things he got from this farm each year was a pig, and it was his custom to go out there with his wife every year to slaughter the pig and have it salted on the spot. One year, his wife happened to be feeling unwell, so Calandrino went alone to do the slaughtering.

Bruno and Buffalmacco heard about this, and knowing that his wife hadn't gone with him, they arranged to stay for a few days with a priest who was a close friend of theirs and a neighbor of Calandrino's. Now, Calandrino had killed the pig that very morning, and when he spotted the two of them with the priest, he called out, "Welcome, welcome! Come in — I want you to see what a fine job I've done." He brought them into the house and proudly showed them the pig.

They could see it was a very fine pig indeed, and when they heard that Calandrino intended to salt it down for his family, Bruno said, "Oh, come on — don't be stupid! Sell the thing and let's have a good time with the money. Just tell your wife it was stolen."

"No way," said Calandrino. "She'd never believe it. She'd throw me out of the house. Don't waste your breath — I'll never do it."

They argued back and forth, but it was useless.

Calandrino invited them to stay for supper, but he did it with such bad grace that they turned him down and went on their way. Once they were out, Bruno said to Buffalmacco, "What do you say we steal that pig from him tonight?"

"I'd love to," said Buffalmacco. "But how?"

"I can see exactly how," said Bruno, "as long as he doesn't move it from where it is right now."

"Then let's do it," said Buffalmacco. "Why not? Afterward we can all enjoy it with the priest here."

The priest said he was very much in favor of this plan. Bruno said, "Now, this requires a bit of finesse. You know how cheap Calandrino is, Buffalmacco, and how happy he is to drink when someone else is paying. Let's take him to the tavern. The priest here will pretend to treat the whole party in our honor and won't let Calandrino pay for anything. Calandrino will get drunk in no time — he always does — and then we can manage the rest easily enough, since he's home alone."

They did exactly as Bruno suggested. When Calandrino saw that the priest wouldn't let him pay for a single drink, he threw himself into the wine with enthusiasm and took on quite a load — though it never took much to put Calandrino under. It was pretty late when they left the tavern. Calandrino didn't bother with supper — he went straight home, and thinking he'd shut the door behind him, left it wide open and tumbled into bed.

Buffalmacco and Bruno went to have supper with the priest, and afterward, carrying some tools with which they'd planned to break in at the spot Bruno had picked out, they crept over to Calandrino's house. Finding the door standing open, they walked right in, unhooked the pig, and carried it off to the priest's house, where they stashed it and went to bed.

The next morning, Calandrino woke up with the wine cleared from his head, came downstairs, and found his pig gone and the door standing open. He asked everyone in the neighborhood if they knew who'd taken it. Getting no answers, he started carrying on at the top of his lungs: "Oh, God help me! What a disaster! The pig's been stolen!"

As soon as Bruno and Buffalmacco were up, they headed over to Calandrino's to hear what he'd say about the missing pig. The moment he saw them, he called out in a voice cracking with emotion, "Oh, friends — terrible news! My pig's been stolen!"

Bruno sidled up to him and said quietly, "Well, well. Look at you being clever for once in your life."

"No, no!" cried Calandrino. "I'm telling you the truth!"

"That's the spirit," said Bruno. "Keep it up — yell louder, so everyone really believes it."

Calandrino bawled even louder: "God's blood, I'm telling you it really has been stolen!"

"Good, good," said Bruno. "That's perfect. Scream it out, make yourself heard — that's the way to make it convincing."

"You're going to make me lose my soul!" Calandrino shouted. "I'm telling you — and you refuse to believe me — may I be hanged by the neck if that pig hasn't been stolen!"

"No!" gasped Bruno. "How can that be? I saw it here just yesterday. You can't expect me to believe it flew away."

"I'm telling you, it's exactly as I say," Calandrino insisted.

"No!" said Bruno. "Really?"

"Really!" said Calandrino. "It's gone, and that's the truth — and I'm ruined. I don't know how I can even go home. My wife will never believe me, and even if she does, I won't have a moment's peace for the rest of the year."

"God help me, that's terrible — if it's true," said Bruno. "But you know, Calandrino, I was telling you just yesterday to say exactly this sort of thing. I hope you're not trying to fool your wife and us at the same time."

At this, Calandrino started shouting and nearly crying: "Why are you trying to drive me to despair and make me curse God and all the Saints? I'm telling you: the pig was stolen from me last night!"

Then Buffalmacco spoke up: "Well, if that's really the case, we need to figure out how to get it back."

"But how?" asked Calandrino. "What can we possibly do?"

"Well," said Buffalmacco, "we can be pretty sure nobody came all the way from India to rob you. It must have been one of your neighbors. If you can get them all together, I know how to run the trial by bread and cheese, and we'll find out right away who took it."

"Oh, sure," Bruno cut in, "bread and cheese will work beautifully with the kind of people who live around here. One of them definitely took the pig, and he'd see through the trick in a second and refuse to show up."

"So what do we do?" asked Buffalmacco.

"We use ginger pills and good Vernaccia wine," said Bruno, "and we invite them all for a drink. They won't suspect a thing, and they'll come. The ginger pills can be blessed the same way as the bread and cheese."

"Now that," said Buffalmacco, "is a real plan. What do you say, Calandrino? Shall we do it?"

"Please, yes — for the love of God," begged the poor fool. "If I could just find out who took it, I'd feel halfway consoled."

"All right then," said Bruno. "I'm willing to go all the way to Florence to get the supplies for you, if you'll give me the money."

Calandrino had about forty shillings, which he handed over. Bruno went to Florence, to a friend of his who was a druggist, and bought a pound of fine ginger pills. Then he had two special pills made up from fresh aloes mixed into a confection, and had them sugar-coated just like the others. He put a little secret mark on these two so he'd never confuse them with the real ones. Then he bought a flask of good Vernaccia and headed back to the country.

"Tomorrow morning," he told Calandrino, "invite everyone you suspect to come have a drink. It's a holiday, so they'll all come willingly. Tonight, Buffalmacco and I will perform the magical incantation over the pills and bring them to you in the morning. And out of friendship, I'll administer them myself and say everything that needs to be said."

Calandrino did as he was told and assembled a good crowd the next morning — a mix of young Florentines who happened to be staying in the area and local farmworkers. Bruno and Buffalmacco arrived with a box of pills and the flask of wine, and had everyone stand in a circle.

"Gentlemen," Bruno announced, "I need to explain why you're all here, so that if anything happens that you don't like, you won't blame me. Last night, Calandrino here was robbed of a fine pig, and he can't figure out who took it. Since nobody but one of us here could have done it, he's offering each of you one of these pills to eat, with a sip of wine, so we can discover who the thief is. Now, here's how it works: whoever stole the pig won't be able to swallow his pill. It'll taste more bitter than poison, and he'll spit it right out. So rather than suffer that humiliation in front of all these people, it would probably be better for the guilty party to just confess to the priest beforehand, and I'll drop the whole thing."

Everyone there said they'd be happy to eat the pills. So Bruno lined them all up with Calandrino in the middle, and starting at one end, he gave each man his ginger pill. When he got to Calandrino, he slipped him one of the special aloe pills.

Calandrino popped it into his mouth and started chewing. The instant his tongue tasted the aloes, he spat it out — the bitterness was unbearable. Meanwhile, everyone was watching everyone else to see who would spit. Bruno, still working his way down the line and pretending to pay no attention to Calandrino, heard someone behind him say, "Hey — Calandrino! What's going on?"

He spun around, and seeing that Calandrino had spat out his pill, said, "Hold on — maybe something else made him spit. Here, try another one." He grabbed the second aloe pill and shoved it into Calandrino's mouth, then continued distributing the rest.

If the first pill had tasted bitter, the second was even worse. But Calandrino was too embarrassed to spit it out, so he kept it in his mouth and chewed, tears streaming down his face — tears as big as hazelnuts. Finally, unable to hold out any longer, he spat it out, just as he had the first.

Meanwhile, Buffalmacco and Bruno were passing around the wine for everyone to drink. When they all saw what had happened, the verdict was unanimous: Calandrino had obviously stolen his own pig. Several of the men told him off to his face before they left.

After everyone had gone and the two rogues were alone with Calandrino, Buffalmacco said, "I knew it all along. I was sure you stole that pig yourself and then wanted us to think someone else had taken it, just so you wouldn't have to buy us a round of drinks with the money."

Calandrino — who still had the bitter taste of aloes in his mouth — started swearing up and down that he hadn't taken it.

"Come on, buddy," said Buffalmacco. "Tell us honestly — how much did you get for it? Six florins?"

Hearing this, Calandrino began to lose his mind. Then Bruno said, "Listen, Calandrino — one of the guys who was eating and drinking with us today told me you've got a girl on the side out here, someone you keep for your pleasure, and that you give her whatever you can scrape together. He said he was dead certain you'd sent her that pig. You've really gotten good at these tricks, haven't you? Remember the time you dragged us down the Mugnone River collecting black stones? You got us lost on that wild goose chase and then tried to make us believe you'd found a magic stone. And now it's the same thing all over again — you think you can convince us with your oaths that a pig you sold or gave away was stolen. But we're onto your tricks by now, Calandrino. You're not fooling us again. And to be perfectly frank, since we went to all this trouble setting up the trial, here's what's going to happen: you're going to give us two pairs of capons. Otherwise, we tell Tessa everything."

Calandrino could see that nobody believed him, and it seemed to him he'd already suffered enough without adding his wife's fury to the mix. So he gave them two pairs of capons.

Bruno and Buffalmacco salted the pig at the priest's house, then headed back to Florence with the capons, leaving Calandrino behind to digest his losses and his humiliation as best he could."

Day 8, Story 7

A scholar falls in love with a widow, who tricks him into spending a winter's night freezing in the snow while she's in bed with her lover. Later, through his own cunning, he traps her naked on top of a tower in the blazing July sun, exposed to flies, horseflies, and scorching heat.

The ladies had laughed heartily at the unfortunate Calandrino and would have laughed even more, except that it bothered them to see him fleeced of the capons on top of being robbed of his pig. But once the story was over, the queen told Pampinea to tell hers, and she promptly began:

"Dearest ladies, it often happens that craft is defeated by craft, and so it's a sign of very little wisdom to take pleasure in making fools of other people. For several stories now, we've been laughing at tricks played on various people, with no vengeance ever recorded against the tricksters. But now I intend to make you feel some sympathy for a just punishment that rebounded on a woman of our own city — a woman whose own trick nearly killed her. Hearing this won't be without profit to you, either, because it should make you much more careful about mocking other people. And that would be an excellent use of your good sense.

Not many years ago there lived in Florence a young woman named Elena: beautiful, proud, of very distinguished family, and well provided for in worldly goods. Having been widowed, she chose never to remarry, because she'd fallen in love with a handsome and charming young man of her own choosing. Freed from every other care, she regularly enjoyed herself with him, with the help of a trusted maid.

Around this same time, a young gentleman of our city named Rinieri, who had studied for years in Paris — not to peddle his learning for money, as many do, but to understand the true nature of things and their causes, which is exactly what befits a gentleman — returned to Florence. He lived there in the manner of a respected citizen, honored for both his noble birth and his scholarship.

But as often happens — that those who understand the deepest things are the quickest to be ensnared by love — so it was with Rinieri. One day, seeking some amusement at a public gathering, this Elena appeared before his eyes, all dressed in black as our widows wear, and she seemed to him more beautiful and more pleasing than any woman he'd ever seen. In his heart he told himself that the man God allowed to hold her naked in his arms could truly call himself blessed. He studied her furtively, again and again, and knowing that great and precious things are never won without effort, he resolved to devote all his energy and skill to pleasing her, in the hope that he might win her love and eventually have his fill of her.

The young widow — who was not in the habit of keeping her eyes cast modestly downward but rather moved them about artfully, sizing up the room and taking quick note of who admired her — spotted Rinieri right away. She laughed to herself and thought, "I haven't come here for nothing today. Unless I'm mistaken, I've caught a woodcock by the beak." She began to steal glances at him from the corner of her eye, doing her best to show him she'd noticed his attention. Her reasoning was that the more men she attracted and ensnared with her charms, the more valuable her beauty would seem — especially to the one she'd actually given her love to.

The learned scholar, setting aside his philosophical studies, turned all his thoughts to her. Hoping to please her, he found out where she lived and started finding excuses to walk past her house, coming and going under various pretexts. The lady, vain about this attention for the reasons already mentioned, made a show of being delighted to see him. So he found a way to befriend her maid, confided his love, and begged the maid to intercede with her mistress on his behalf.

The maid promised freely and told her lady everything. Elena listened with the most delighted laughter in the world and said, "Do you see where this man has come to lose the brains he brought back from Paris? Well then — we'll give him exactly what he's looking for. When he speaks to you again, tell him I love him far more than he loves me, but that I have to protect my reputation so I can hold my head high among the other ladies. If he's really as clever as they say, he should value me all the more for it."

Oh, the foolish woman — she had no idea, dear ladies, what it really means to match wits with a scholar.

The maid found Rinieri and delivered her mistress's message. He was overjoyed. He pressed his suit harder, writing letters and sending gifts. Everything was accepted, but all he got back were vague, noncommittal replies. And in this way, she strung him along for a very long time.

Eventually, having told her lover about all of this — which made him somewhat jealous of Rinieri at times, and a bit angry with her — Elena decided to prove to him that his suspicions were groundless. She sent her maid to the scholar, who by now was growing very insistent, to tell him on her mistress's behalf that she hadn't yet had an opportunity to be with him since he'd first declared his love, but that she hoped to be able to during the Christmas holidays. If he was willing, he should come to her courtyard on Christmas night, and she'd come for him as soon as she could.

The scholar was the happiest man alive. He went to her house at the appointed time. The maid let him into the courtyard, locked him in, and left him there to wait for her lady.

That evening, Elena had sent for her lover. After a merry supper together, she told him what she planned to do that night. "And now," she added, "you can see for yourself exactly how deep the love is that I've supposedly been carrying on with the man you've been so jealous about."

Her lover heard this with great satisfaction and was eager to see the proof in action.

As it happened, it had snowed heavily during the day, and everything was blanketed in white. The scholar hadn't been waiting long in the courtyard before he started feeling colder than he would have liked. But expecting to warm up soon enough, he gritted his teeth and endured it.

After a while, the lady said to her lover, "Let's go to the window and see what your rival is doing — and hear what he says when the maid goes to talk to him. It should be entertaining."

They went to a window from which they could see without being seen. They heard the maid call out to the scholar from another window: "Rinieri, my lady is the most miserable woman alive. One of her brothers showed up tonight unexpectedly — he talked and talked and then insisted on staying for supper, and he still hasn't left. But she thinks he'll go soon. She hasn't been able to come to you, but she will shortly. She begs you not to be upset about the wait."

Rinieri, believing every word, replied, "Tell my lady not to worry about me. Just ask her to come as soon as she can."

The maid went back inside and straight to bed. The lady, turning to her lover, said, "Well? What do you think? If I cared about him the way you're afraid I do, would I let him stand down there freezing?"

With that, she went to bed with her partly reassured lover, and there they stayed for a very long time, laughing and making sport and mocking the wretched scholar.

Meanwhile, Rinieri paced the courtyard, trying to keep warm with exercise. He had nowhere to sit and no shelter from the cold and damp. He cursed the brother's long visit and mistook every sound for the door opening to admit him. But he hoped in vain.

The lady, having enjoyed herself with her lover until nearly midnight, said, "What do you think of our scholar, my darling? Which is greater — his intelligence, or the love I bear him? Will the cold I'm putting him through now drive the doubts from your heart that my little jokes gave you the other day?"

"Heart of my heart," he answered, "yes — I know perfectly well that you're my treasure, my peace, my joy, and all my hope — just as I am yours."

"Then kiss me a thousand times," she said, "so I can see if you mean it." He held her tight and kissed her not a thousand times but more than a hundred thousand.

After they'd lain together a while longer, the lady said, "Come — let's get up and go check whether the fire has died down at all in this new suitor of mine, who writes to me every day that he's burning alive with love."

They got up and went to the same window. Looking down into the courtyard, they saw the scholar dancing a frantic jig in the snow — the fastest, most energetic dance you ever saw, driven by the violent chattering of his teeth. The lady said, "Well, my love? Don't you think I know how to make a man dance without trumpets or bagpipes?"

"You certainly do, my darling," he answered, laughing.

"Let's go down to the door," she said. "You stay quiet while I talk to him. We'll see what he says — it should be just as funny as watching him."

They crept down to the front door. Without opening it, the lady called softly through a small hole: "Rinieri?"

Hearing his name, he praised God, too quickly assuming he was about to be let in. He hurried to the door. "Here I am, my lady. Open up, for God's sake — I'm dying of cold."

"Oh, I'm sure you are," she said. "I know you're the chilly type. Is it really so terribly cold? Just because there's a little snow? I've heard the nights are much colder in Paris. I can't let you in yet — that wretched brother of mine who came to dinner still hasn't left. But he will soon, and then I'll come right down and open the door. I could barely slip away from him just now, to come encourage you not to give up."

"Please, my lady," cried the scholar, "for God's sake, let me in so I can at least wait under cover! It's started snowing again — harder than ever — and I'll wait for you as long as you like."

"Oh, my sweet," she said, "I wish I could, but this door makes such a terrible noise when it opens — my brother would hear it instantly."

"Then go make him leave!" said Rinieri. "And please, have them build up a good fire so I can warm myself the moment I come in. I'm so cold I can barely feel my own body."

"That shouldn't be possible," said the lady, "if what you've written to me so many times is true — that you burn with love for me. Now I have to go. Wait, and keep your spirits up."

With her lover, who had heard every word and was thoroughly delighted, she went back to bed. That night they slept very little — they spent nearly all of it in pleasure and amusement and in mocking Rinieri.

The miserable scholar — by now practically turning into a stork, his teeth were chattering so hard — eventually realized he'd been played. He tried the door again and again. He searched for any other way out of the courtyard. Finding none, he paced back and forth like a caged lion, cursing the weather, the lady's cruelty, the endless night, and his own gullibility. His fury against her was so intense that the long, ardent love he'd carried for her was transformed in an instant into fierce and bitter hatred. He turned over a thousand plans in his mind, searching for a way to get his revenge — which he now desired far more passionately than he'd ever desired to be with her.

At last, after an eternity, the night began to give way to dawn. The maid, as instructed by her mistress, came down and opened the courtyard door. Putting on a sympathetic face, she said, "Bad luck to that brother for coming last night! He kept us all on pins and needles and made you freeze half to death. But you know what? Be patient. What couldn't happen tonight will happen another time. Believe me — nothing could have displeased my lady more than this."

The enraged scholar — who was a wise man and understood that threats are nothing but weapons that arm the threatened — locked away everything his unchecked fury would have loved to unleash and said in a calm, even voice, without a trace of anger: "Honestly, it was the worst night I've ever had. But I understand perfectly well that my lady isn't to blame for it. She came down here herself, out of compassion for me, to apologize and give me hope. And as you say — what didn't happen tonight will happen another time. Give her my regards, and God be with you."

Nearly frozen stiff, he dragged himself home as best he could. At his house, half dead with exhaustion, he collapsed into bed and woke up to find his arms and legs almost crippled. He sent for doctors, told them about the cold he'd endured, and put himself under their care. They applied the strongest and most urgent remedies, and even then, it took some time before they managed to undo the damage to his tendons and restore his ability to move. If he hadn't been young, and if the warm weather hadn't been coming on, it would have been far worse. But eventually he recovered his health and strength. He kept his hatred to himself, and outwardly he pretended to be more in love with his widow than ever.

After some time, fortune gave him his chance.

The young man Elena loved had fallen for another woman and now wanted nothing to do with her — wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't do a thing for her. She wasted away in tears and misery. Her maid, who pitied her greatly but could find no way to lift her mistress's spirits, hit upon a wild idea: perhaps the scholar, through some kind of magic or sorcery, could make the lover come back. She remembered that the scholar was supposed to be a great expert in such things and said as much to her mistress. Elena, who was not particularly wise, never stopped to consider that if the scholar actually knew magic, he'd have used it on his own behalf. She took the maid's suggestion seriously and told her to go find out if he'd be willing to help, with a promise that in return she'd do anything he asked.

The maid delivered the message faithfully. When the scholar heard it, he was overjoyed. "Praised be God!" he said to himself. "The time has come when, with Your help, I can make that wicked woman pay for what she did to me in return for the great love I bore her."

To the maid, he said: "Tell my lady not to worry about this. Even if her lover were in India, I could quickly make him come to her begging forgiveness for everything he's done. But the method she'll need to follow — I'll explain that to her in person, whenever and wherever she likes. Tell her that, and give her my encouragement."

The maid carried back his answer. A meeting was arranged at the church of Santa Lucia del Prato. There the lady and the scholar met privately, and she — forgetting entirely that she'd once nearly killed him — openly laid out her problem and begged for his help.

"Madam," the scholar answered, "it's true that among the many things I studied in Paris was the art of necromancy, and I certainly know everything there is to know about it. But because the practice is supremely displeasing to God, I'd sworn never to use it, for myself or anyone else. Still, the love I bear you is so powerful that I don't know how to refuse you anything. So even if this one act were enough to damn me to hell, I'm prepared to do it, since it's what you want. But I must warn you: the thing is harder than you might imagine, especially when a woman wants to reclaim a man's love, or a man a woman's. It can only be done by the person herself. It must be done at night, in a solitary place, with no companions. I don't know how you feel about those conditions."

The lady, more driven by love than by good sense, replied: "Love pushes me so hard that there's nothing I wouldn't do to get back the man who's wrongfully abandoned me. But please — tell me what I'll need to prove my courage."

The scholar — who had a streak of real malice under that learned exterior — said: "Madam, I must make a pewter image in the name of the man you wish to recover. When I send it to you, you must take it to a running stream, all alone, at the hour of first sleep, when the moon is well into its waning phase, and bathe yourself in the stream seven times with the image, completely naked. After that, still naked, you must climb a tree or go to the top of some uninhabited building and face north. Holding the image in your hand, say the words I'll give you — seven times. When you've done that, two of the most beautiful maidens you've ever seen will appear. They'll greet you courteously and ask what you desire. Tell them clearly and completely what you want, and make absolutely sure you don't mix up any names. Once you've told them, they'll leave, and you can come back down to where you left your clothes, get dressed, and go home. Before the middle of the following night, your lover will come to you in tears, begging your forgiveness. And I promise you — from that moment on, he will never leave you for another woman."

The lady believed every word of this and felt half-comforted already, as if she could already feel her lover in her arms.

"Don't worry," she said, "I can do all of this perfectly. I have the ideal spot for it. I have a farm near the upper end of the Val d'Arno, right on the riverbank. And it's July now, so bathing will be pleasant. What's more, I remember there's a little abandoned tower not far from the river — the only people who ever go near it are shepherds who sometimes climb up on the chestnut-wood ladder to a platform at the top, to look for their stray animals. Otherwise, it's completely isolated and out of the way. I'll go there, and I'll follow your instructions to the letter."

The scholar, who knew both the farm and the tower very well, was delighted to have his plan confirmed. "Madam," he said, "I've never been to that area, so I don't know your farm or the tower. But if it's as you describe, there couldn't be a better place. So when the time is right, I'll send you the image and the incantation. But I beg you — when you've gotten what you want and you realize how well I've served you, please remember me and keep your promise."

She swore she would, without fail. She said goodbye and went home. The scholar, thrilled that his plan seemed likely to work, fashioned an image covered in mysterious-looking symbols of his own invention and wrote out a string of nonsense disguised as an incantation. When the time was right, he sent both to the lady with a message that she should proceed that very night without delay. Then he secretly made his way, with a servant, to the house of a friend who lived near the tower, so he could carry out his plan.

The lady set out with her maid and went to the farm. When night fell, she pretended to go to bed and sent the maid off to sleep. Then, at the hour of first sleep, she slipped quietly out of the house and made her way to the bank of the Arno near the tower. She looked carefully in every direction, listened, and hearing and seeing no one, undressed. She hid her clothes under a bush and bathed seven times in the river with the image. Then, still naked, image in hand, she headed for the tower.

The scholar, who had hidden himself with his servant among the willows and other trees near the tower at nightfall, watched the whole performance. As she passed close by him, her naked body so white that it conquered the darkness of the night, and as he studied her breasts and the rest of her — seeing how beautiful she was and reflecting on what was about to become of all that beauty — he did feel a twinge of pity. At the same time, the urgings of the flesh ambushed him with sudden force, causing a certain part of his anatomy that had been lying down to stand straight up, urging him to leap from his hiding place, seize her, and take his pleasure. Between pity and lust, he nearly gave in. But then he remembered who he was, how grievous the injury he'd suffered, who had done it, and why — and his rage was rekindled. Pity and appetite were banished alike. He held firm to his purpose and let her pass.

The lady climbed the tower, faced north, and began reciting the words the scholar had given her. Meanwhile, the scholar crept quietly into the tower and, little by little, removed the ladder that led to the platform where she stood. Then he waited to see what she would do and say.

The lady repeated her incantation seven times, then began looking for the two beautiful maidens. She waited and waited. It grew cooler than she would have liked. She watched the dawn begin to appear, despairing that nothing had happened the way the scholar had promised.

"I'm afraid," she said to herself, "that he's given me a night like the one I gave him. But if that's his game, he's chosen his revenge badly — this night hasn't been a third as long as his was, and the cold doesn't begin to compare."

Then, not wanting daylight to catch her up there, she tried to climb down. The ladder was gone. It was as if the ground had dropped out from under her. She fainted dead away on the platform.

When she came to, she burst into pitiful weeping and wailing. She understood all too well that the scholar had done this. She cursed herself for having wronged others and then for having trusted a man she had every reason to consider her enemy. She stayed like that for a long time.

Then she looked around for any way down and found none. She broke down again, sobbing with bitter self-pity: "Oh, miserable woman! What will your brothers say? Your relatives? Your neighbors? What will all of Florence say when they find out you were discovered up here, naked? Your reputation — which has always been so spotless — will be revealed as a fraud. And even if you tried to make up some lying excuse — if any excuse could even be found — that cursed scholar knows everything about your affairs and won't let you get away with it. Oh, wretched woman! At a single stroke, you'll lose the man you so foolishly loved and your honor as well!"

With that, she was so overcome with misery that she nearly threw herself off the tower. But the sun had just risen, and she moved toward one side of the tower wall to see if some boy might be passing with cattle, someone she could send for her maid.

As it happened, the scholar had fallen asleep at the foot of a bush and was just waking up. They saw each other. He called up to her: "Good morning, madam. Have the maidens arrived yet?"

The lady, seeing and hearing him, started weeping furiously all over again and begged him to come into the tower so she could speak with him. He was courteous enough to oblige. She lay face-down on the platform with only her head showing through the opening and said through her tears:

"Rinieri, if I gave you a bad night, you've certainly gotten your revenge. Even though it's July, I've been freezing up here all night, naked as I am — and I've cried so much over the trick I played on you and over my own stupidity in trusting you that it's a miracle I have any eyes left. I'm begging you — not for love of me, since you have no reason to love me, but for your own honor as a gentleman — let what you've already done be enough to avenge the wrong I did you. Have my clothes brought to me and let me come down. Don't try to take from me the one thing you could never give back even if you wanted to: my honor. If I took one night away from you, I can repay you with many nights whenever you like. Let this be enough. Be content, as a man of honor, that you were able to take your revenge and make me confess it. Don't use your strength against a woman. An eagle gets no glory from conquering a dove. For the love of God and for your own honor, have mercy on me."

The scholar, with cold determination, turned over in his mind the injury he'd suffered. He saw her tears and heard her pleading. He felt both pleasure and pain at the same time — pleasure in the revenge he'd wanted more than anything, and pain because his humanity stirred him to pity the poor woman. But his humanity was not strong enough to overcome his fierce appetite for vengeance.

"Madam Elena," he answered, "if my prayers — which, I'll admit, I didn't know how to bathe in tears or coat with honey the way you clearly know how to deliver yours — if my prayers had been enough, that night when I was dying of cold in your snow-filled courtyard, to get you to put me under the smallest bit of shelter, it would be easy for me to listen to yours now. But if you're suddenly so much more concerned about your honor than you used to be, and if it bothers you to be stuck up there naked, why don't you direct those prayers to the man in whose arms you had no problem lying naked that night — the night you remember so well — while you listened to me stumbling around your courtyard, stamping in the snow, my teeth chattering? Get help from him. Have him bring you your clothes and put the ladder back. Try to make him care about your honor — this honor you've never hesitated to risk for his sake, not just that night but a thousand other times. Why don't you call out to him? Who should come rescue you, if not him? You're his. And what should he care about, if not you?

"Call him, foolish woman, and see whether the love you have for him — and his brains and yours put together — can get you out of the trap my stupidity got you into. Remember? While you were in bed with him, you asked him which he thought was greater: my stupidity or the love you bore him. You can't be generous to me now with something I no longer want, and you couldn't have denied it to me if I still did. Keep your nights for your lover, if you manage to get off this tower alive. Let them be yours and his. One of those nights was more than enough for me. Being made a fool of once is plenty.

"And now, being clever with words, you try to win me over by flattery, calling me a gentleman and a man of honor — hoping to get me to be magnanimous and forgive your wickedness. But your sweet talk won't cloud my judgment now the way your lying promises did before. I know myself now. I didn't learn as much about myself during my whole time in Paris as you taught me in a single one of your nights.

"But even supposing I were magnanimous — you're not the kind of person magnanimity should be wasted on. For wild beasts like you, the proper end of punishment — and of revenge too — is death. What I'm doing to you is really just a correction, since true vengeance would have to far exceed the offense. And if I really wanted to avenge myself — considering what you did to my soul — your life wouldn't be enough. Nor would the lives of a hundred women like you. Killing you would only mean killing a vile, wicked, worthless little tramp.

"And what are you, really, beyond this fraction of good looks that a few years will ruin, filling your face with wrinkles? How are you any different from any other miserable serving-girl? And yet it was no fault of yours that you didn't manage to kill a man of worth — a 'man of honor,' as you called me a moment ago — whose life may in a single day be of more use to the world than a hundred thousand of your kind could be as long as the world lasts.

"Through this suffering of yours, I'm going to teach you what it means to mock men of intelligence — and scholars in particular. I'll give you reason never to fall into such foolishness again, if you survive this. But if you're really so eager to come down, why don't you just throw yourself off? That way, with God's help, you'd break your neck, free yourself from the torment you're in, and make me the happiest man in the world, all at once. That's all I have to say. I was clever enough to get you up there. Now you be clever enough to get yourself down — just as you were clever enough to make a fool of me."

While the scholar delivered this speech, the wretched lady wept without stopping. The time passed and the sun kept climbing. When he finally fell silent, she spoke again:

"You heartless man — if that accursed night was so terrible for you, and if my offense seems so unforgivable that neither my youth and beauty nor my bitter tears and humble prayers can move you to any pity, then at least let this one thing soften you a little and ease the harshness of your anger: the fact that I recently put my trust in you and confided all my secrets to you, which gave you the very means to make me see my sin. Because if I hadn't trusted you, you would have had no way to take this revenge you seem to have wanted so desperately.

"Please, let go of your anger and forgive me. If you'll pardon me and help me down from here, I'm ready to give up that faithless young man entirely and have you as my only lover and lord — even though you mock my beauty and call it short-lived and worthless. Whatever it may be compared to other women's, I know at least this much: it deserves to be valued as the desire and delight and pleasure of men in their youth, and you're not old yourself.

"And even though you're treating me cruelly, I can't believe you'd actually want to watch me die in such a hideous way — jumping from this tower in desperation, right before your eyes. Those eyes — if you weren't the liar you've since become — once found me so pleasing. Please, have mercy! For God's sake, have pity! The sun is getting hotter and hotter, and just as the terrible cold tormented me last night, the heat is starting to torment me now."

The scholar, who was dragging out the conversation for his own amusement, replied:

"Madam, you didn't put your trust in me out of any love for me. You did it to get your lover back. So that deserves even harsher treatment. And if you think this tower was the only way I could have taken my revenge, you're foolish. I had a thousand other options. While I was pretending to love you, I'd laid a thousand traps at your feet, and it wouldn't have been long before you fell into one of them. And any of those traps would have caused you more pain and more shame than this. I chose this one not to go easy on you, but because it would give me satisfaction the quickest.

"And even if every other plan had failed me, I'd still have had the pen. I would have written such things about you, in such a way, that when you found out — and you would have found out — you'd have wished a thousand times a day that you'd never been born. The power of the pen is far greater than people realize who haven't experienced it firsthand. I swear to God — may He grant me as much joy at the end of this revenge as He's given me at the beginning — I would have written things about you so devastating that you'd have been ashamed not just in front of other people, but in front of yourself. You'd have gouged out your own eyes rather than look at yourself in the mirror. So don't blame the ocean for what a little stream has done.

"As for your love, or whether you belong to me — I don't care a bit, as I've already said. Go ahead and belong to the man you belonged to before, if you can. I used to hate him, but now I actually like him, considering how he's treated you lately.

"You women fall in love with young men and crave their affections because you see their fresh complexions, their dark beards, the way they strut and dance and joust. Men who are a bit older had all those things once — and they also know things the young ones have yet to learn. You think young men are better riders, and you believe they cover more ground in a day than older men. Well, I'll grant you this: they do shake the bedframe more vigorously. But men of experience know where the fleas bite. A small meal with flavor beats a huge bland one every time. Hard riding wears out even the youngest man; an easy pace may get you to the inn a little later, but at least you arrive in one piece.

"You creatures don't see — brainless animals that you are — how much evil hides behind that little scrap of good looks. Young men aren't satisfied with one woman. They want every one they see, and they think they deserve them all. So their love can never be stable — as you yourself can now testify from personal experience. They believe they deserve to be worshipped and adored by their mistresses, and their greatest glory is bragging about their conquests. That one flaw alone has driven many a woman into the arms of the friars — who at least keep their mouths shut.

"You say nobody knew about your affair except your maid and me? You're wrong, and you're deluding yourself if you believe it. His whole neighborhood talks of nothing else, and so does yours. But the last person to hear these things is usually the one they're about. And young men rob you, while older men give you gifts.

"So — since you chose badly, you can stay with the man you gave yourself to. Leave me to others. I've found a lady of far greater worth, one who knew me better than you did. And if you want stronger proof of what my eyes feel than my words seem to give you, just go ahead and throw yourself off right now. Your soul — which I'm sure will be received straight into the devil's arms — will be able to see for itself whether my eyes are troubled by watching you fall.

"But I suspect you won't do me that favor. So let me suggest this: if the sun starts to burn you, remember the cold you made me suffer. Mix the two together, and I'm sure you'll find the sunshine much more bearable."

The anguished lady, seeing that the scholar's words all pointed toward a merciless conclusion, burst into tears again.

"Listen," she said, "since nothing I say can move you to pity, at least let the love you bear for that other lady you say you've found — the one you say is wiser than me — let that move you. Forgive me for her sake, and bring me my clothes, and let me come down."

At this, the scholar laughed. Seeing that the morning was now well past mid-morning, he replied: "Well, when you put it that way — invoking such a lady — I don't see how I can refuse. Tell me where your clothes are and I'll go get them and help you down."

The lady, believing this, felt a little better. She told him where she'd left her clothes. He went out of the tower, ordered his servant to stay nearby, watch the tower, and not let anyone in until he returned, and then headed off to his friend's house. There he ate a leisurely dinner, and when he felt like it, took a nap.

The lady, left on the tower, encouraged just enough by that false hope and yet utterly miserable, sat up and crept to the side of the wall where there was a sliver of shade. There she waited, accompanied by the most bitter thoughts. She waited, now hoping and now despairing that the scholar would return with her clothes. She drifted from one thought to another and eventually, overcome by grief and exhaustion — having not slept at all the night before — she fell asleep.

The sun, which was brutally hot, had risen to its highest point and was beating down full force, directly and mercilessly, on her tender, delicate body and her uncovered head. It burned her flesh wherever it touched and cracked it open in tiny fissures all over, and the pain was so intense that it woke her despite her deep exhaustion. When she stirred, it felt as though all her scorched skin was cracking and splitting apart with the movement — the way a charred sheepskin does when you stretch it. Her head ached so violently she thought it would burst, which was no surprise. The stone platform of the tower was so burning hot that she couldn't find a place to put her feet or any other part of her body. She couldn't stand still. She shifted this way and that, weeping.

And on top of everything else, there wasn't a breath of wind. Flies and horseflies descended on her in swarms, settling on her cracked and blistered skin and stinging her so savagely that each bite felt like a spear thrust. She kept flailing her hands at them, cursing herself, her life, her lover, and the scholar without pause.

Tortured and stung and pierced to the core by the unspeakable heat of the sun, the flies, the horseflies, hunger, and above all thirst — plus a thousand agonizing thoughts — she struggled to her feet and looked around, hoping to see or hear someone nearby. She was prepared to call out for help, no matter what the consequences.

But even this last recourse had been taken from her by her hostile fortune. The farmworkers had all left the fields because of the heat — none had come to work nearby that day, since they were all home threshing grain. She heard nothing but crickets. She could see the Arno in the distance, and the sight of water only made her thirst worse. She could see woods and shady spots and scattered houses in every direction, and each one was a fresh torment of longing.

What more can we say about this unfortunate woman? The sun overhead, the scorching stone underfoot, the stinging insects all around — they had so ravaged her that where she had been white enough the night before to outshine the darkness, she was now as red as raw meat, and so covered in bloody welts and blisters that anyone who saw her would have thought her the most hideous creature in the world.

She stayed there like that, with no hope and no plan, expecting death more than anything else. It was now past the middle of the afternoon when the scholar woke from his nap, remembered his lady, and returned to the tower to see what had become of her. He sent his servant, who hadn't eaten yet, off to get food.

The lady, hearing his voice, dragged herself — weak and wretched from the horrible ordeal she'd endured — to the trapdoor. She sat down at its edge and said through her tears: "Rinieri, you've more than avenged yourself. If I made you freeze in my courtyard by night, you've made me roast — no, burn — on this tower by day, and die of hunger and thirst into the bargain. For the love of God, I beg you: come up here. Since I can't bring myself to end my own life, do it for me. Death is what I want more than anything, given the torments I'm suffering. Or if you won't grant me that, at least bring me a cup of water to wet my mouth. My tears aren't enough — my throat is so dry and burning that I can barely breathe."

The scholar could hear from her voice how weak she was. He could see, too, that her body was completely burned by the sun. Between her feebleness and her humble prayers, he felt a small stirring of compassion. But he answered nonetheless:

"You wicked woman — you won't die by my hand. You can die by your own, if that's what you want. You'll get as much water from me to ease your heat as I got fire from you to ease my cold. The one thing I truly regret is that while I had to cure the damage from my freezing with the heat of stinking manure, your burns will be soothed by cool, sweet-smelling rosewater. And while I nearly lost my limbs and my life, you'll just shed your skin from the heat — like a snake molting — and be as pretty as ever."

"God help me!" cried the lady. "May God give beauty earned this way to my worst enemies! But you — more cruel than any wild beast — how can you bear to torture me like this? What worse could I expect from you if I'd murdered your entire family with the cruelest torments? Truly, I can't imagine what greater cruelty could be inflicted on a traitor who'd brought a whole city to ruin than what you've done to me: roasting me alive in the sun, letting the flies devour me, and refusing me even a cup of water — when even convicted murderers on their way to execution are given wine to drink if they ask for it.

"But since I see you're immovable in your savage cruelty and nothing I suffer can touch you, I'll resign myself to die with patience. May God, whom I beg to look with just eyes on what you've done, have mercy on my soul."

With that, she crawled painfully to the middle of the platform, despairing of surviving the ferocious heat. Again and again, on top of all her other torments, she thought she would faint from thirst. She never stopped weeping and lamenting her misery.

Finally, at the hour of vespers, the scholar decided he'd done enough. He had his servant pick up the lady's clothes and wrap them in his cloak. Then he went to her house, where he found the maid sitting in front of the door, sad and helpless, not knowing what to do.

"Good woman," he said, "what's become of your mistress?"

"Sir, I don't know. I expected to find her in bed this morning, where I thought I saw her go last night. But she's not there, and she's not anywhere else either. I'm worried sick. Can you tell me anything about her?"

"I wish I'd had you up there with her," he said, "right where she's been, so I could have punished you for your part in this the same way I've punished her. But mark my words: you won't escape my hands. I'll pay you back for your role in this so thoroughly that you'll never mock another man without remembering me."

Then he told his servant, "Give her the clothes and tell her she can go to her mistress, if she wants."

The servant handed over the clothes. The maid recognized them, and hearing what Rinieri said, was terrified they'd killed her mistress. She could barely keep from screaming. Then, as the scholar walked away, she set off for the tower, weeping the whole way.

It happened that one of the lady's farmworkers had lost two of his pigs that day and had come looking for them. He arrived at the tower shortly after the scholar's departure. Poking around everywhere, looking for his pigs, he heard the agonized crying from above and shouted up: "Who's up there?"

The lady recognized his voice and called him by name. "For God's sake," she said, "find my maid and get her to come up here to me."

The man recognized her too. "Good heavens, ma'am — who got you up there? Your maid's been looking for you all day. But who would ever have thought to look up here?"

He found the two posts of the ladder, set them upright, and began lashing the rungs back in place with willow ties. While he was working, the maid arrived. She rushed into the tower and, unable to hold back any longer, started beating her own face with her fists and screaming: "Oh, my poor lady! Where are you?"

"Up here, sister," the lady called down as loudly as she could. "Don't cry — just bring my clothes, quickly."

When the maid heard her voice, she was somewhat comforted. With the farmworker's help, she climbed the now mostly repaired ladder and reached the platform. When she saw her mistress lying there on the ground, naked, utterly spent and pale, looking more like a half-burned log than a human being, she dug her nails into her own face and began weeping over her as if she were dead.

The lady begged her, for God's sake, to be quiet and help her get dressed. She learned from the maid that no one knew where she'd been except the people who'd brought the clothes and the farmworker standing right there. She was somewhat comforted by this and begged them both, for the love of God, never to breathe a word of this to anyone.

After much discussion, the farmworker lifted the lady in his arms — since she couldn't walk — and carried her safely out of the tower. But the poor maid, who'd stayed behind, came down the ladder less carefully. Her foot slipped, she fell from the ladder to the ground, and broke her thigh. She started screaming in pain so loud it sounded like a wounded lion.

The farmworker set the lady down on the grass, went back to see what had happened to the maid, and found her with her thigh broken. He carried her out too and laid her on the grass beside her mistress. The lady, seeing this disaster on top of everything else — the one person she'd been counting on most for help now lying there with a broken leg — was so utterly undone that she broke down weeping again, so piteously that not only could the farmworker not console her, but he started weeping himself.

As the sun sank low, the distraught lady begged him not to let nightfall catch them there. He went to his house and returned with his wife and two brothers, carrying a plank. They laid the maid on the plank and carried her home, while the farmworker himself comforted the lady with a little cold water and kind words, lifted her in his arms, and carried her to her own bedroom.

His wife gave her a wine-soaked piece of bread to eat, then undressed her and put her to bed. That night, they arranged to have both the lady and the maid transported to Florence.

Once there, the lady — who had no shortage of cleverness when it came to making up stories — invented a tale that bore no resemblance to what had actually happened. She convinced her brothers, her sisters, and everyone else that the whole thing had been caused by some kind of demonic bewitchment. Doctors were called in immediately, and they managed — not without causing her considerable additional pain and anguish — to cure her of a severe fever, though she left her skin stuck to the bedsheets more than once in the process. They also healed the maid's broken thigh.

After that, the lady gave up her lover for good. From then on, she wisely refrained both from mocking others and from falling in love. As for the scholar, when he heard the maid had broken her thigh, he considered his vengeance fully complete and went on his way, content, without saying another word about the matter.

So that's what happened to the foolish young lady and her pranks — because she thought she could play games with a scholar the same way she would with anyone else, not understanding that scholars — I won't say all of them, but most — know where the devil keeps his tail. So take care, ladies, when you think about making fun of people, and especially of scholars."

Day 8, Story 8

Two close friends make an arrangement: one sleeps with the other's wife, and when it's discovered, the other does the same in return — right on top of the chest where the first man is locked inside.

Elena's ordeal had been painful and distressing for the ladies to hear. They felt she'd gotten at least part of what she deserved, but they still thought the scholar had been terribly harsh — obdurate, even cruel. Once Pampinea had finished her story, the queen called on Fiammetta to go next.

"Charming ladies," she began, "since the severity of that offended scholar seems to have upset you somewhat, I think it's time to soothe your spirits with something lighter. So I'm going to tell you a little story about a young man who took an injury in a much milder spirit and avenged it in a much more moderate fashion — which should demonstrate that when a man sets out to settle a score, it's enough to give as good as he got, without going overboard.

In Siena, as I've been told, there once lived two young men of comfortable means and good families. One was named Spinelloccio Tanena and the other Zeppa di Mino, and they lived right next door to each other in the neighborhood of Camollia. These two were inseparable — to all appearances, they loved each other like brothers, or better. And each of them had a very attractive wife.

It happened that Spinelloccio, who spent a great deal of time at Zeppa's house whether Zeppa was home or not, grew so familiar with Zeppa's wife that he ended up sleeping with her. This went on for quite a while before anyone found out.

But one day, Zeppa happened to be home — though his wife didn't know it — when Spinelloccio came calling. The wife told Spinelloccio that Zeppa was out, so he came right upstairs. Finding her alone in the sitting room, he took her in his arms and started kissing her, and she kissed him back.

Zeppa saw everything. He said nothing and stayed hidden, waiting to see how far it would go. Sure enough, he watched his wife and Spinelloccio go arm in arm into the bedroom and lock the door behind them.

He was furious. But he knew that making a scene wouldn't undo the injury — it would only add public humiliation to private hurt. So he sat there thinking about what kind of revenge would satisfy his soul without the whole city finding out. After turning it over for a while, he thought he'd found the answer. He stayed hidden until Spinelloccio left.

Then he went into the bedroom, where he found his wife still fixing the veils on her head — Spinelloccio had pulled them loose during their fun. "Wife," he said, "what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" she answered.

"Oh, I can see," said Zeppa. "I've seen rather more than I'd like."

He confronted her with exactly what had happened. She was terrified, but after a lot of back and forth, she confessed what she couldn't very well deny about her relationship with Spinelloccio. She started crying and begging his forgiveness.

"Listen," Zeppa said, "you've done wrong, and if you want me to forgive you, here's exactly what you're going to do. I want you to tell Spinelloccio to find some excuse to leave me tomorrow morning, around mid-morning, and come over here to you. Once he's here, I'll come back. The moment you hear me, get him into this chest right here and lock it. Once you've done that, I'll tell you what comes next. And don't worry about doing this — I promise you I won't hurt him."

The wife, eager to make amends, promised to do exactly as he said. And she did.

The next morning, Zeppa and Spinelloccio were together when, right around mid-morning, Spinelloccio — who had promised the wife he'd come to her at that hour — said, "I'm dining with a friend this morning and I don't want to keep him waiting. I'll see you later."

"It's not even close to dinnertime yet," Zeppa pointed out.

"Doesn't matter — I need to talk to him about some business, so I've got to be there early."

Off went Spinelloccio, and after a roundabout route, he arrived at Zeppa's house and went into the bedroom with Zeppa's wife. He hadn't been there long when Zeppa came home. The moment his wife heard him, she pretended to be in a panic and made Spinelloccio climb into the chest, just as her husband had told her. She locked it and came out of the room.

"Wife, is it time to eat?" Zeppa called up.

"Just about," she said.

"Spinelloccio went off to dine with some friend," he said, "and left his wife all alone. Go to the window and call her — tell her to come have dinner with us."

The wife — who was now extremely cooperative, being thoroughly frightened for her own skin — did as she was told. Spinelloccio's wife, hearing that her husband was dining elsewhere and that she'd been warmly invited, came right over.

Zeppa made a big fuss over her. Then, whispering to his own wife to go to the kitchen, he took Spinelloccio's wife familiarly by the hand and led her into the bedroom. The moment they were inside, he turned around and locked the door.

When she saw him lock the door, she said, "Zeppa! What is this? Is this why you invited me here? Is this the love you have for Spinelloccio? Is this how you repay his friendship?"

Zeppa moved closer to the chest where her husband was locked up, holding her firmly, and said, "Madam, before you complain, hear me out. I've loved Spinelloccio like a brother, and I always will. But yesterday, even though he doesn't know I know, I discovered that the trust I placed in him has brought things to this: he's been sleeping with my wife, the same way he sleeps with you. Now, because I do love him, I don't intend to punish him any more severely than he's offended me. He's had my wife — and I mean to have you. If you won't consent, I'll have to deal with him right here in this room. And since I don't intend to let this insult go unanswered, I'll make him pay in a way that neither of you will ever be happy again."

The lady, hearing this and believing Zeppa after he made several convincing assurances, replied, "Zeppa dear, if this vengeance has to fall on me, then fine — I'm willing. But you must promise to arrange things so that I stay on good terms with your wife, despite what she's done to me. Because I intend to stay on good terms with her."

"Absolutely," said Zeppa. "And what's more, I'll give you a precious jewel — finer than anything else you own."

With that, he embraced her. Then he laid her down on the chest and proceeded to enjoy himself to his heart's content right there on top of it. And she enjoyed herself with him.

Spinelloccio, locked inside the chest, heard everything Zeppa said and his wife's reply, and felt the merry dance being performed over his head. For a while he was so furious he thought he'd die. If he hadn't been afraid of Zeppa, he would have given his wife a piece of his mind, even shut up as he was. But then he thought it over. The offense had started with him. Zeppa was within his rights. Zeppa had actually handled things humanely and like a true friend. So he quietly resolved to be an even better friend to Zeppa than before — if Zeppa would have him.

When Zeppa had finished with the lady, he climbed off the chest. She asked for the jewel he'd promised. He opened the bedroom door and called in his wife, who said nothing except, "Well, madam — I'd say you've given me a loaf for my bannock." She said it with a laugh.

"Open this chest," Zeppa told her.

She opened it. And there inside, Zeppa showed the lady her husband.

"Here," he said, "is the jewel I promised you."

It would be hard to say who was more embarrassed: Spinelloccio, looking up at Zeppa and knowing that Zeppa knew everything, or his wife, seeing her husband there and knowing he'd both heard and felt everything that had just been done directly over his head.

But Spinelloccio, climbing out of the chest, said without further ado, "Zeppa, we're even. So it's just as well — as you said to my wife a moment ago — that we stay friends the way we were. Since there's nothing between the two of us that isn't shared, let's share our wives too."

Zeppa agreed. And all four of them sat down and had the most harmonious dinner imaginable. From that day forward, each of the two wives had two husbands, and each of the two husbands had two wives, and there was never a quarrel or grudge about it again."

Day 8, Story 9

Master Simone the doctor, having been lured by Bruno and Buffalmacco to a certain location at night under the pretense of joining a secret society that goes on magical adventures, is thrown by Buffalmacco into a ditch full of sewage and left there.

After the ladies had chatted for a while about the two Sienese men sharing their wives, the queen — being the only one left to speak before Dioneo — began her story like this:

"Dear ladies, Spinelloccio certainly deserved the trick Zeppa pulled on him, and so I agree with what Pampinea argued earlier: that you shouldn't judge too harshly the person who plays a trick on someone who was asking for it — or who deserved it. Spinelloccio deserved it. But now I want to tell you about a man who went looking for trouble all on his own. As for the men who tricked him? I think they deserve praise, not blame. Their victim was a doctor who came to Florence from Bologna a complete sheep and returned home dressed in ermine — as if a fancy costume could make up for being an utter fool.

As we see every day, our fellow citizens come back from Bologna decked out in their new titles — this one a judge, that one a doctor, another a notary — all tricked out in flowing robes, scarlet cloaks, ermine hoods, and all sorts of impressive finery. They put on a great show. How well the show matches reality? Well, that's something you can judge for yourself any day of the week. Among these was a certain Master Simone da Villa, richer in inherited property than in actual learning, who returned not long ago as a doctor of medicine — or so he said — dressed head to toe in scarlet with a magnificent ermine-lined hood. He set up house on the street we now call Via del Cocomero.

This newly returned Master Simone had, among his other notable habits, a peculiar tic of questioning everyone around him about every person he saw passing in the street — as if he were compounding medicines from the habits and occupations of his fellow man. He took note of everything and everyone and filed it all away in his memory. Two of the people who particularly caught his eye were a pair of painters we've already heard about twice today: Bruno and Buffalmacco, who were his neighbors and always went about together. It struck him that they seemed to care less about the world and live more merrily than anyone else — which was perfectly true. He asked around about their circumstances, and when everyone told him they were poor men and painters, he decided it was simply impossible that they could live so happily on painter's wages. He concluded that they must be pulling in enormous profits from some secret source. So he became consumed with the desire to make friends with one or both of them, and he managed to strike up a friendship with Bruno.

It didn't take Bruno many visits to realize that the doctor was a complete jackass. He began to have the finest time in the world with him, finding endless amusement in the man's extraordinary stupidity, while Master Simone, for his part, took a marvelous delight in Bruno's company.

After a while, having invited Bruno to dinner several times and feeling this entitled him to speak freely, the doctor confided the amazement he felt at how Bruno and Buffalmacco — poor men though they were — managed to live so merrily. He begged Bruno to tell him their secret.

Bruno, hearing this and recognizing it as yet another of the doctor's witless blunders, laughed up his sleeve and decided to give an answer that matched the man's foolishness. "Doctor," he said, "there aren't many people I'd tell this to. But since you're a friend and I know you won't repeat it to a soul, I'll let you in on it. It's true that my friend and I live as merrily and comfortably as you've seen — actually, even more so. But from our trade, and from whatever property we own, we couldn't scrape together enough to pay for the water we drink. Not that I'd want you to think we go around stealing, mind you. No — we go roving. And from that, without harming a soul, we get everything we want or need. That's the secret behind the merry life you see us leading."

The doctor, hearing this and believing every word without having the faintest idea what it meant, was overwhelmed with curiosity. He begged Bruno urgently to explain what this "going roving" business was, swearing up and down that he'd never tell anyone.

"Good God, Doctor!" Bruno cried. "What are you asking me? This is a huge secret — the kind of thing that could destroy me and get me thrown out of the world entirely, that could land me in the very jaws of the Devil of San Gallo, if it ever got out! But my love for your right worshipful pumpkin-headship of Legnaia is so great, and my trust in you so deep, that I can't refuse you anything. So I'll tell you — on the condition that you swear to me by the Cross of Montesone never to breathe a word of it to anyone."

The doctor solemnly promised, and Bruno began.

"Well then, my sweet doctor, you should know that not long ago there lived in this city a great master of the dark arts who was called Michael Scott — because he came from Scotland. He received magnificent hospitality from many Florentine gentlemen, most of whom are dead now. When the time came for him to leave, at their urgent request he left behind two of his most capable disciples and commanded them to hold themselves always ready to fulfill every wish of those gentlemen who had treated him so well.

"These two disciples served the gentlemen freely in certain love affairs and other little matters. Then, finding that they liked the city and its customs, they decided to settle here permanently. They struck up close friendships with various townspeople, caring nothing about whether a man was noble or common, rich or poor — only that he lived in a manner that suited their tastes. To please these friends, they founded a society of about twenty-five men who would meet at least twice a month in a designated place. At the meeting, each man would state his desire, and the two sorcerers would make it come true for that very night.

"Buffalmacco and I, being especially close friends with these two, were enrolled in the society from the start and are still members. And let me tell you: whenever we assemble, it's a marvel to behold. The banquet hall is hung with gorgeous tapestries, the tables are set with royal magnificence, and there's a whole army of noble and handsome servants — male and female alike — at every member's beck and call. The basins, pitchers, flagons, goblets, and every kind of vessel we eat and drink from are solid gold and silver. And the food! Course after course of every delicacy you can imagine, each served in its proper season, according to whatever each man desires. I couldn't begin to describe the sweet music of countless instruments, the gorgeous singing, the mountains of wax candles that burn there, the confections and sweets that are consumed, or the quality of the wines we drink.

"And don't think, my good brainless pumpkin, that we show up in the rags you see us wearing every day. No — every last one of us looks like an emperor, so richly are we dressed in sumptuous robes and finery. But the greatest pleasure of all? The beautiful women. If a man so much as wishes it, they're instantly brought from every corner of the earth. You'd find the Grand Duchess of Ragamuffin Land, the Queen of the Basques, the Sultan's wife, the Empress of the Tartar hordes, the Ragged-tail of Norway, the Moll O'Green of Flapdoodleland, and the Mad Kate of Woolgather Green. But why list them all? Every queen in the world is there, right down to the She-Turd of Prester John — who, I might mention, has his horns growing right out of his backside. Pretty picture, isn't it?

"So there we are: after we've feasted and eaten our sweets and danced a round or two, each lady retires to her private chamber with the man who summoned her. And these bedchambers — let me tell you, they're a paradise to look at. They smell even better than the spice jars in your shop when you're grinding cumin seed. And the beds? They'd put the Doge of Venice's to shame. I'll leave it to your imagination what kind of treadle-work and shuttle-driving goes on in them — if you catch my meaning. But I'll say this: of all the members, the ones who fare best are Buffalmacco and me. He usually has the Queen of France brought in for himself, and I send for the Queen of England — two of the most beautiful women in the world. And we've arranged things so that they have eyes for nobody but us.

"So you can judge for yourself whether we have good reason to live more happily than other men, seeing that we enjoy the love of two queens. And as a bonus, whenever we ask them for a thousand or two thousand florins, we get them instantly. This is what we call 'going roving' — because, just like pirates who take everyone's goods, so do we. The only difference is that pirates never give back what they take, while we return everything once we've had our fun with it.

"Now, my worthy doctor, you've heard what going roving means. But I'm sure you can see for yourself how absolutely secret this must be kept, so I won't waste my breath lecturing you about it."

The doctor — whose medical expertise probably didn't extend much beyond treating children's ringworm — believed every word of Bruno's tale as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. He was seized with a desire to be admitted to this society more intense than any longing any man ever felt for anything. He told Bruno that it was certainly no surprise they went about so merrily, and he could barely restrain himself from begging for admission on the spot. But he managed to hold back, deciding that after he'd shown Bruno a bit more hospitality, he could make the request with greater confidence.

From then on, he cultivated Bruno's friendship assiduously, having him over for breakfast and dinner and showering him with affection. Their companionship became so constant that the doctor seemed unable to live without the painter. Bruno, seeing himself well taken care of — and not wanting to seem ungrateful for all this hospitality — had painted Master Simone a picture of Lent in his dining room, an Agnus Dei at the entrance to his bedroom, and a chamber pot over the front door so that patients would know how to tell his house from the others. In a little gallery the doctor had, Bruno painted the Battle of the Rats and the Cats, which Master Simone pronounced a masterpiece.

Now and then, when he hadn't dined with the doctor the night before, Bruno would say things like, "I was at the society last night, and I got a little bored with the Queen of England, so I had them bring me the Dolladoxy of the Grand Cham of Tartary."

"The Dolladoxy?" asked Master Simone. "What does that mean? I don't know these names."

"Well, my dear doctor," said Bruno, "that doesn't surprise me one bit, because I've heard that Porcograsso and Vannacena say nothing about it."

"You mean Hippocrates and Avicenna," corrected the doctor.

"I wouldn't know," Bruno replied. "I'm as bad with your names as you are with mine. But 'Dolladoxy' in the Grand Cham's language means what we'd call 'Empress' in ours. And by God, you'd think she was one hell of a woman! She'd make you forget all about your drugs and your enemas and your plasters, I can tell you that."

Bruno kept this up, dropping these hints from time to time to keep the doctor's desire burning. Then one night, while Master Simone was holding the candle for Bruno as he painted the Battle of the Rats and the Cats, the doctor decided the time had come — he'd been hospitable enough — and made his move. They were alone together.

"God knows, Bruno," he said, "there's no one on earth I'd do as much for as I would for you. Why, if you told me to walk all the way to Peretola, I think I'd pretty much do it. So don't be surprised if I ask you something as a close friend. As you know, not long ago you told me about the activities of your merry society, and ever since, I've been dying to join. I've never wanted anything so badly in my life — and not without good reason, as you'll see if I ever get in. Because I give you full permission to make fun of me if I don't bring along the prettiest serving girl you've ever laid eyes on. I saw her just last year in Cacavincigli, and I'm absolutely crazy about her. By the Body of Christ, I even offered her ten Bolognese groats, but she wouldn't have me. So please — with everything I've got — tell me what I need to do to get into the society, and use your influence to make it happen. I promise you'll have a good, loyal, and distinguished member. Just look at me, for starters — what a fine figure of a man I am, how well set up on my legs! I've got a face like a rose, plus I'm a doctor of medicine, and I don't think you've got any of those in your society. Besides, I know loads of fine songs — let me sing you one!" And he immediately launched into song.

Bruno was so desperate to laugh he nearly burst. But he held himself together. When the doctor finished his song, he asked, "Well? What did you think?"

"Remarkable," Bruno replied. "No Jew's harp could compete with you. That was some world-class caterwauling."

"I told you!" said Master Simone. "You'd never have believed it if you hadn't heard it yourself."

"Absolutely true," said Bruno.

The doctor continued, "I know plenty more, but never mind that for now. Let me tell you the rest. My father was a gentleman, even though he lived in the country, and on my mother's side I'm from the Vallecchio family. Plus, as you may have noticed, I have the finest books and gowns of any doctor in Florence. By God, I've got a gown that cost me — all told — nearly a hundred pounds of small coin, and that was over ten years ago! So I'm begging you: get me into the society. And by God, once you do, you can fall as sick as you like — I'll never charge you a penny."

Bruno heard all this, and the doctor seemed to him an even bigger numbskull than ever. "Doctor," he said, "hold the candle a little more to the left, and be patient until I finish these rats' tails. Then I'll answer you."

Once the tails were done, Bruno put on a show of finding the request terribly burdensome. "Doctor," he said, "you're offering to do great things for me, and I appreciate it. But what you're asking — small as it may seem to a brain as magnificent as yours — is a very serious matter for me. There's nobody else in the world I'd do it for, if it were in my power, except you. I'd do it because I love you as I should, and because your words are seasoned with so much wit they could charm the laces out of a pair of boots — let alone change my mind. The more time I spend with you, the wiser you seem to me. And let me add this: even if I had no other reason, I'd wish you well just because you're in love with such a beautiful creature. But I have to tell you: I don't have as much influence in this matter as you might think, and I can't do for you what needs to be done directly. However, if you'll give me your solemn and most sacred word to keep what I tell you secret, I'll explain the approach you need to take. And with those fine books and all the other impressive things you've described, I feel certain you'll succeed."

"Go ahead," said the doctor. "Say it with confidence. You don't know me well enough yet — you don't know how good I am at keeping secrets. There was hardly anything Messer Guasparruolo da Saliceto did when he was judge at Forlimpopoli that he didn't send to tell me, because he found me such an excellent secret-keeper. Want proof? I was the very first man he told that he was going to marry Bergamina. What do you say to that?"

"Well then," said Bruno, "if a man like that trusted you, I certainly can too. Here's what you need to do. You should know that our society always has a captain and two counselors, and they're replaced every six months. Come the first of the month, Buffalmacco will be captain and I'll be counselor — it's already been decided. Now, the captain has the power to get anyone he wants admitted to the society. So I think you should do everything you can to get on Buffalmacco's good side and show him plenty of hospitality. He's the kind of man who, once he sees how clever you are, will fall for you immediately. And once you've used your wit and all those fine possessions of yours to butter him up a bit, you can make your request, and he won't be able to refuse. I've already told him about you, and he wishes you all the best. Do all that, and leave the rest to me."

"What you suggest sounds perfect," said the doctor. "In fact, if he's a man who appreciates learning and just talks with me for a little while, I guarantee he'll be seeking out my company nonstop. Because when it comes to brains, I've got enough to stock an entire city and still have plenty left over."

With this agreed, Bruno laid the whole scheme out for Buffalmacco, and Buffalmacco could barely wait to deliver this supreme ass the reward he was begging for. The doctor, desperate to go roving, didn't rest until he'd befriended Buffalmacco — which wasn't hard to do. He began hosting the two painters for the finest suppers and dinners in the world. Bruno and Buffalmacco, being the accommodating gentlemen they were, needed no second invitation. Having once tasted the doctor's excellent wines, fat capons, and all the other delicacies he plied them with, they stuck to him like glue, practically moving in without waiting to be asked, always declaring they wouldn't do this for just anyone.

Eventually, the doctor made the same request to Buffalmacco that he'd made to Bruno. Buffalmacco flew into a theatrical rage, turning on Bruno with a great show of indignation.

"I swear to the High God of Pasignano," he bellowed, "I can barely keep myself from smashing your face so hard your nose ends up at your heels, you traitor! Nobody but you could have told the doctor about our affairs!"

Master Simone did his best to defend Bruno, saying and swearing that he'd learned about it from a completely different source. After a torrent of his wise words, he finally managed to calm Buffalmacco down.

Buffalmacco turned to him and said, "Doctor, it's quite clear that you've been to Bologna and that you brought a sealed pair of lips back with you. And let me tell you something else: you didn't learn your ABCs on the apple, like all those common blockheads. No, you learned them on the pumpkin — the long one. And if I'm not mistaken, you were baptized on a Sunday. Bruno told me you studied medicine at Bologna, but it seems to me you studied something much more impressive: the art of capturing men's hearts. Because with your wit and your fine conversation, you do it better than anyone I've ever seen."

At this, the doctor cut him off and turned to Bruno. "What a thing it is to talk with educated men! Who else could have grasped every particular of my brilliance so quickly? You certainly didn't catch on this fast. But at the very least, you remember what I told you — about Buffalmacco being drawn to learned men? Wouldn't you say I've delivered?"

"And then some," Bruno agreed.

Then the doctor said to Buffalmacco, "You'd have spoken even more highly of me if you'd seen me in Bologna, where there wasn't a single person — professor or student, great or small — who didn't adore me. I knew how to charm every last one of them with my conversation and my wit. And what's more, I never said a single word that didn't make everyone laugh — that's how hugely I delighted them. When I left, they all wailed with grief and begged me to stay. In fact, it got to the point where they offered to let me — me alone — give all the medical lectures to every student there. But I turned them down, because I'd already decided to come back here to claim certain very large inheritances that have been in my family for generations. And so I did."

Bruno said to Buffalmacco, "See? Didn't I tell you? You didn't believe me. By the Gospels, there isn't a doctor in these parts who knows donkey-piss from medicine compared to this man. You won't find his equal from here to the gates of Paris. Now try not to do what he wants."

"Bruno speaks the truth," said Master Simone. "But I'm not appreciated here. You Florentines are a bit slow on the uptake. I wish you could see me among my fellow physicians, in my proper element."

"Truly, Doctor," said Buffalmacco, "you are far wiser than I ever imagined. So let me speak to you the way a man should speak to a scholar of your caliber: I tell you, straight and plain, that I will absolutely get you into our society."

After this promise, the doctor redoubled his hospitality to the two rogues. They had the time of their lives at his expense, stuffing him with the most outrageous nonsense in the world and stringing him along to the top of his bent. They promised to arrange for him a mistress called the Countess of the Cesspool, who was, they said, the most beautiful creature in all the hindquarters of the human race.

The doctor asked who this countess was. Buffalmacco said, "Ah, my good seed-pumpkin, she is a very great lady. There are few houses in the world where she doesn't have some jurisdiction. Even the Franciscan friars pay her tribute, to the sound of kettle drums, I might add. And I can assure you that when she goes abroad, she makes her presence strongly felt, though she usually keeps herself shut away. But it wasn't long ago that she passed right by your front door one night on her way to the Arno, to wash her feet and take a little fresh air. Her permanent residence, though, is in Privy-land. She has a large retinue of attendants who all carry, as symbols of her sovereignty, the rod and the plumb-line. And you can see her barons all over the place: Lord Floater of the Gatehouse, Sir Turd, Baron Hardcake, Count Squirtbreeches, and others who I believe are old friends of yours, though you may not recall them at this moment. So there you have it: into the soft arms of this great lady — and never mind that girl from Cacavincigli — we intend to deliver you. That is, if all goes according to plan."

The doctor, who had been born and bred in Bologna, didn't catch any of the crude double meanings, and declared himself perfectly satisfied with this lady. Not long after, the two painters brought him the happy news that he'd been accepted into the society. On the day before the night of the scheduled assembly, the doctor invited them both to dinner.

After they'd eaten, he asked what he needed to do to get there. Buffalmacco answered, "Now listen carefully, Doctor, because you're going to need a lot of nerve. If you lose your courage even for a moment, you could suffer serious trouble and cause us great harm. Here's what you'll need to prove. You must find a way to be, this very evening, at the hour of first sleep, on top of one of those raised tombs that have recently been built outside Santa Maria Novella. Wear one of your finest gowns, so you'll make a distinguished impression at your first appearance before the society. Also — we weren't there for this part, but we're told — the Countess intends, since you're a man of gentle birth, to make you a Knight of the Bath at her own personal expense. Wait there on the tomb until someone comes for you — someone we'll send.

"Now, so you know what to expect: a black, horned beast will come for you. Not too big. It'll go capering around the piazza in front of you, whistling and bellowing and leaping to try to frighten you. But once it sees you're not the least bit scared, it'll come up to you quietly. When it does, climb down from the tomb without any fear and get on its back. But be careful: once you're mounted, cross your arms over your chest, like this, in a posture of obedience, and don't touch the beast again. It will then carry you gently to us.

"But I must warn you: if at any point you call upon God or the saints, or if you show any fear, the beast might throw you off or smash you into someplace where you'll be sorry. So unless you're absolutely certain you can hold your nerve, do us a favor and don't come at all. You'd only bring trouble on us without doing yourself any good."

"You still don't know me," said the doctor. "Maybe you're judging me by my gloves and long gown. If you knew what I used to get up to in Bologna on those nights when my friends and I went out chasing women, you'd be amazed. I swear to God, there was this one night when one of them — she wouldn't come with us, and she was a scrawny little thing no bigger than my fist — well, first I gave her a good round of punches, then I picked her up bodily and carried her — I'd say a full crossbow-shot — and forced her to come along. And another time, I remember I walked past the cemetery of the Franciscan friars all by myself, with nobody but my servant, just after the evening prayers, even though a woman had been buried there that very day. I wasn't scared in the slightest.

"So don't you worry about my courage. As for making a good impression, I'll wear my scarlet gown — the one I wore when I received my doctorate. You'll see how the whole society rejoices when they see me. I bet I'll be made captain before the night's over. Just wait — you'll see how it goes. This countess hasn't even laid eyes on me yet and she's already so head over heels that she wants to make me a Knight of the Bath. Well, maybe knighthood won't suit me so badly, and maybe I'll carry it off with style. Just leave it to me."

"Excellent," said Buffalmacco. "But be sure you don't let us down by not showing up, or not being at the meeting place when we send for you. I say this because it's cold out, and you medical gentlemen are usually quite careful about that sort of thing."

"God forbid!" cried Master Simone. "I'm not one of your delicate types. I don't care about the cold. In fact, when I get up at night for my — well, for nature's purposes, as a man does now and then — I almost never put on anything more than my fur robe over my doublet. I'll be there. Count on it."

They took their leave, and as night began to fall, Master Simone invented some excuse or other for his wife and secretly got out his fine gown. When the hour felt right, he put it on and made his way to Santa Maria Novella. He climbed up on top of one of the raised tombs and, huddling himself up on the marble against the bitter cold, settled in to wait for the beast.

Meanwhile, Buffalmacco — who was tall and powerfully built — had gotten hold of one of those masks that used to be worn for certain festivals they don't hold anymore. He put on a black fur cloak, inside out, and arranged himself so that he looked exactly like a bear, except that his mask had a devil's face and horns. Dressed like this, he headed for the piazza of Santa Maria Novella, with Bruno following behind to watch the show.

The moment Buffalmacco spotted the doctor perched up on the tomb, he began capering and prancing around the piazza, whistling and howling and bellowing as if every demon in Hell had possessed him. When Master Simone — who was more timid than a woman — heard and saw this, every hair on his body stood on end and he shook from head to foot. For a moment, he'd have given anything to be home in bed. But since he was already there, he forced himself to take heart, so powerful was his desire to see the marvels the painters had promised him.

After Buffalmacco had raged around for a while, he pretended to calm down and approached the tomb where the doctor sat. He stood perfectly still. Master Simone, trembling from head to foot, couldn't decide whether to get on or stay put. Finally, more afraid of what the beast would do if he didn't mount it than of getting on, he let the second fear overcome the first. He climbed down from the tomb, got onto Buffalmacco's back, and whispered, "God help me!" Then he settled himself as best he could and, still shaking in every limb, crossed his arms over his chest as he'd been told.

Buffalmacco set off at an amble toward the church of Santa Maria della Scala, shuffling along on all fours, and carried the doctor nearly as far as the Convent of Ripole. In that district at the time there were open drainage ditches where the local farmers would empty the contents of their cesspits to use as fertilizer. When Buffalmacco reached the edge of one of these ditches, he grabbed one of the doctor's legs, heaved him off his back, and pitched him headfirst straight into the muck.

Then he began snorting and snarling and capering around in a fury for a bit before taking off back along the route past Santa Maria della Scala to the fields near Allhallows. There he found Bruno, who had fled the scene because he was physically incapable of holding in his laughter. The two of them celebrated together at Master Simone's expense, then positioned themselves at a distance to watch what the filth-covered doctor would do next.

His Lordship the Physician, finding himself in that abominable place, struggled to get to his feet and tried everything he could think of to climb out. He fell back in again and again — here, there, everywhere — swallowing several hefty gulps of the stuff in the process. Finally, covered from head to foot, gagging, and having lost his hat in the muck, he managed to drag himself out.

He wiped himself off as well as he could with his hands and, not knowing what else to do, staggered home and knocked on the door until someone let him in. He'd barely gotten inside, reeking to high heaven, and the door had barely closed behind him, when Bruno and Buffalmacco crept up to listen to the reception his wife would give him.

Standing outside, they heard the lady delivering one of the most scorching tongue-lashings any man has ever received.

"Lord have mercy, look at the state of you! You've been out gallivanting with some other woman, haven't you, and you just had to do it in your scarlet gown! What, wasn't I enough for you? I'm enough woman for an army, let alone for you! I wish they'd choked you instead of just dumping you where you deserved to be dumped! Here's a fine physician for you — a man with a wife at home, gadding about at night after other men's women!"

With these and many other choice words, she kept at him until midnight, while the doctor got himself scrubbed from head to toe.

The next morning, Bruno and Buffalmacco painted their skin under their clothes with dark bruise-like blotches, the kind that a good beating leaves behind, and went to the doctor's house. They found him already up. Everything still reeked — they hadn't managed to clean well enough to get rid of the smell. When Master Simone saw them come in, he went to greet them and wish them good morning.

Bruno and Buffalmacco, just as they'd rehearsed, put on furious faces and replied, "We're not wishing you any such thing! We're praying God sends you enough miserable years that you die like a dog, because you're the most disloyal, treacherous man alive. It's no thanks to you that we weren't killed last night, even though we were trying to do you a favor. Your disloyalty earned us a beating so vicious that a donkey would walk to Rome with less provocation — not to mention that we nearly got thrown out of the society we'd arranged to get you into. If you don't believe us, just look at our bodies."

They opened their shirts just enough to give the doctor a glimpse of their painted chests in the dim light, then quickly covered up again.

The doctor tried to apologize and explain what had happened to him — how he'd been thrown into the ditch and where. But Buffalmacco cut him off.

"I wish he'd thrown you off the bridge into the Arno! Why did you call on God and the saints? Weren't you warned about that?"

"I swear to God, I didn't!" the doctor protested.

"What do you mean, you didn't?" Buffalmacco roared. "You absolutely did — again and again! Our messenger told us you were shaking like a leaf and had no idea where you were. You've really done us a fine turn this time, and no one will ever fool us like this again. But mark our words: we'll make sure you get all the honor you deserve for this."

The doctor threw himself into begging their forgiveness, imploring them for God's sake not to dishonor him, and desperately trying to smooth things over with every honeyed word he could muster. And if he'd treated them well before, from that day forward he treated them like royalty, lavishing them with banquets and every other kindness, terrified that they might make his humiliation public.

And that, dear ladies, is how wisdom is taught to someone who didn't pick up very much of it in Bologna."

Day 8, Story 10

A Sicilian con woman expertly fleeces a merchant of everything he brought to Palermo; but he pretends to return with far more merchandise, borrows money from her on the strength of it, and leaves her with nothing but seawater and tow.

You hardly need to ask how much the queen's story had made the ladies laugh — suffice it to say that every last one of them had tears running down their cheeks a dozen times over from laughing so hard. When it was finished, Dioneo knew his turn had come.

"Gracious ladies," he said, "it's a well-known fact that a trick is most satisfying when the person being outwitted is a master trickster herself. And so, while you've all told excellent stories, I intend to tell you one that should please you more than any of the rest, since the woman who got cheated was a far greater artist of deception than any of the men or women who were duped in the stories you've heard today.

In every coastal town with a port, there used to be a custom — and probably still is — that whenever merchants arrive with goods, they unload everything into a warehouse, which in many places is called the customhouse, operated either by the city or by the local lord. There, they submit to the officials a detailed invoice of all their merchandise and its value. The officials then assign each merchant a storage room where he locks up his goods. They also record everything in the customs ledger under each merchant's name, and the merchant pays his fees either on the full lot or on whatever portion he withdraws. It's from this customs ledger that the local brokers learn what goods are in the warehouse, how much of them there are, and who owns them. Then, as opportunities arise, the brokers negotiate exchanges, trades, sales, and other deals with the merchants.

This was the practice in Palermo, Sicily, among many other places. And there, too, there were — and still are — plenty of women who are very beautiful but sworn enemies of virtue. Anyone who doesn't know them would take them for great ladies of the highest respectability. But their business isn't shaving men — it's skinning them alive. The moment they spot a foreign merchant, they check the customs ledger to find out what he's got in storage and what he's worth. Then, with their charm and their alluring ways and the sweetest words imaginable, they set about luring the merchant into the trap of their love. They've hooked plenty of men this way, stripping some of the better part of their goods and others of absolutely everything. Some poor devils have left their goods, their ships, their flesh, and their very bones in these women's hands — so skillfully does the barberess know how to wield her razor.

Not long ago, one of our young Florentines arrived in Palermo, sent there by his employers. His name was Niccolo da Cignano, though everyone called him Salabaetto. He had a consignment of woolen cloths left over from the Salerno fair, worth about five hundred gold florins. He filed his invoice at the customhouse, locked up the goods in a warehouse, and — being in no particular rush to sell — started going around the city enjoying himself.

He was fair-skinned, blond-haired, and very handsome and charming. It wasn't long before one of these barberesses — a woman who styled herself Madam Biancofiore — caught wind of his affairs and started giving him the eye. He noticed, and since he took her for some grand lady, he assumed she was attracted to him for his good looks. He decided to handle this love affair with the utmost discretion. So, without saying a word to anyone, he began strolling back and forth past her house.

She noticed this. After a few days of carefully stoking his interest with smoldering glances and pretending to languish for him, she secretly sent him one of her women — a true master of the go-between's art. This woman, with a great deal of preamble and nearly with tears in her eyes, told Salabaetto that his good looks and charming ways had so captivated her mistress that she could find no rest, day or night. More than anything in the world, she wanted to meet him in private at a bathhouse, whenever it might please him. Then she pulled a ring from her purse and presented it to him as a gift from her mistress.

Salabaetto, hearing this, was the happiest man alive. He took the ring, rubbed it against his eyes and kissed it, then slipped it on his finger. He told the woman that if Madam Biancofiore loved him, the feeling was more than mutual: he loved her more than life itself and was ready to go wherever she wished, at any hour. The messenger carried back this answer, and Salabaetto was promptly told at which bathhouse to expect the lady the following afternoon, after vespers.

He went to the appointed place right on time, without breathing a word to anyone, and found that the bathhouse had already been reserved by the lady. He hadn't waited long when two slave girls arrived, loaded down with supplies: one carrying a beautiful large cotton mattress on her head, the other a huge basket full of linens and other things. They set the mattress on a bedframe in one of the private rooms and covered it with the finest silk-edged sheets, a snow-white Cypriot counterpane, and two exquisitely embroidered pillows. Then they undressed, stepped into the bath, and scrubbed it spotless.

It wasn't long before the lady herself arrived with two more slave girls. She greeted Salabaetto with wild enthusiasm, and at the first opportunity, after covering him in hugs and kisses and heaving the most extravagant sighs imaginable, she said to him, "I don't know what man but you could have brought me to this. You've set a fire burning in my soul, you little Tuscan dog."

Then, at her urging, they both undressed and stepped into the bath together, along with two of the slave girls. There, without letting anyone else lay a finger on him, she washed Salabaetto from head to foot with her own hands, using soap scented with musk and cloves. Afterward, she had the slave girls wash and massage her. When they were done, the girls brought out two linen sheets so white and fine that they smelled overwhelmingly of roses — everything in the room seemed made of roses. They wrapped Salabaetto in one and the lady in the other, then lifted them both in their arms and carried them to the waiting bed.

Once they'd stopped sweating, the slave girls unwrapped them from those sheets and left them lying naked on the others. Meanwhile, out of the basket came gorgeous silver perfume bottles filled with scented water — rose, jasmine, orange blossom, citron flower — and the girls sprinkled them from head to foot. Then came boxes of candied fruits and wines of the finest quality, and the two of them refreshed themselves for a while.

Salabaetto felt as if he'd arrived in Paradise. He stole a thousand glances at the lady — who really was very beautiful — and every moment felt like a hundred years until those slave girls would finally leave and he'd have her in his arms. At last, at her command, the girls withdrew from the room, leaving a single torch burning. She threw her arms around Salabaetto, and he around her, and they stayed together for a very long time — to the Florentine's immense pleasure, since he was utterly convinced that she was burning with love for him.

When she felt it was time to get up, she called the slave girls back in and they dressed. They had another round of wine and sweets, and washed their hands and faces with perfumed water. As they were about to part, the lady said to Salabaetto, "If it would please you, it would make me so happy if you came to my house this evening for dinner and to spend the night."

Salabaetto, by this point completely captured by her beauty and the artful sweetness of her manners, firmly believing that she loved him with all her heart, replied, "Madam, your every wish is my supreme pleasure. Tonight and always, I intend to do whatever pleases you and whatever you command."

So the lady went home and had her bedroom lavishly decorated with her finest dresses and furnishings, ordered a magnificent dinner prepared, and waited for Salabaetto. As soon as darkness fell, he went to her house and was received with open arms. They dined in style, waited on hand and foot.

Afterward, they retired to her bedroom, where he was engulfed by the marvelous fragrance of aloeswood. The bed was gorgeously appointed, and he noticed beautiful Cypriot songbirds in cages and expensive dresses hanging on every hook. All of this, taken together and individually, convinced him that she must be some great and wealthy lady. And although he'd heard some whispers about the way she made her living, he absolutely refused to believe them. Even if he half-admitted she might have cheated other men before, nothing on earth could have made him believe it could happen to him.

He spent that night with her in the most exquisite delight, falling more deeply in love by the hour. In the morning, she fastened a stylish little silver belt around his waist, with a lovely purse attached, and said, "My sweet Salabaetto, I entrust myself to your memory. Just as my body is at your pleasure, so is everything here and everything I have at your service and command."

Salabaetto, overjoyed, kissed and embraced her, then left and went to where the other merchants gathered.

He continued seeing her, on and off, without it costing him a cent, and grew more entangled by the day. Then he sold his woolens for cash and made a good profit. The lady heard about this immediately — not from him, but from others.

That night, when Salabaetto came to visit, she played with him and flirted and kissed and caressed him, pretending to be so desperately in love that she seemed about to die in his arms. She even tried to give him two beautiful silver cups, but he wouldn't accept them — he'd already received from her, at one time or another, gifts worth a good thirty gold florins, without ever managing to get her to accept so much as a penny's worth in return.

When she'd worked him into a thorough frenzy of passion and generosity, one of her slave girls called her out of the room — exactly as she'd planned. She left and came back a few minutes later in tears, threw herself face-down on the bed, and began wailing as if her heart would break.

Salabaetto was alarmed. He gathered her in his arms and started crying himself. "My God, sweetheart, what's wrong? What happened? For God's sake, tell me!"

The lady let herself be begged for a good long while before answering. "Oh, my sweet lord, I don't know what to do or say! I've just received a letter from Messina. My brother writes that unless I sell or pawn everything I own and send him a thousand gold florins within eight days, they'll cut off his head. I have no idea how I can raise that kind of money so quickly. If I had just two more weeks, I could get it from a certain source that owes me much more than that. Or I could sell one of our properties. But I can't do either in time. I'd rather be dead than receive news like this!" And she went on sobbing as if her world had ended.

Salabaetto — whose common sense had been largely incinerated by the fires of love, so that he took her tears for real and her words for gospel truth — said, "Madam, I can't oblige you with a thousand florins, but I can certainly let you have five hundred, if you think you can pay me back within two weeks. Lucky for you, I just sold my goods yesterday. Otherwise, I couldn't have lent you a penny."

"Oh no!" cried the lady. "You mean you've been short of money? Why didn't you ask me? I may not have a thousand, but I had at least a hundred or two hundred I could have given you! Now you've taken away all my courage to accept what you're offering."

Salabaetto fell even harder. "Madam, please don't hold back on that account. If I'd had a need like yours, I would certainly have asked you."

"Oh, my Salabaetto," the lady replied, "now I truly see that yours is a real and perfect love. Without even being asked, you freely offer me such a huge sum in my time of crisis. I was already entirely yours, but after this, I'll be even more so. I'll never forget that I owe you my brother's life. But God knows I take the money reluctantly, since you're a merchant and merchants do all their business with cash. Still, necessity compels me, and I have every assurance I can pay you back quickly, so I'll accept. And for the rest of it, if I can't find a faster way, I'll pawn everything I own."

Weeping, she let herself collapse against Salabaetto's chest. He comforted her. After spending the night together, he went out the next morning — eager to prove himself her most generous servant, without even waiting for her to ask — and brought her five hundred shiny gold florins. She took them with tears in her eyes and laughter in her heart. Salabaetto was content with nothing more than her promise.

The moment the lady had the money, the signs changed. Where before he'd had free access to her whenever he pleased, now suddenly there were always reasons why six times out of seven he couldn't get in. And when he did get in, the warm welcomes and passionate embraces were gone. The repayment deadline came and went — not by a day, but by a month, then two. When he asked for his money, he got excuses instead of florins.

His eyes finally opened. He saw the con woman's artistry and his own stupidity for what they were. But there was nothing he could say to her about it beyond whatever she felt like hearing, since he had no receipt, no contract, no witness. He was ashamed to complain to anyone else, partly because he'd been warned about women like her and partly because of the ridicule he knew he'd deserve for his foolishness. He was miserable beyond words and silently cursed his own gullibility.

Then he received several letters from his employers demanding that he convert the money and send it to them. Knowing that if he didn't, his embezzlement would come to light, he decided to leave. He boarded a small ship and sailed — not to Pisa, as he should have, but to Naples.

Now, it happened that his old friend Pietro dello Canigiano was living in Naples at the time, serving as treasurer to the Empress of Constantinople. Pietro was a man of great intelligence, sharp wits, and a close friend to both Salabaetto and his family. Salabaetto, trusting him as a discreet man, poured out the whole sorry tale — what he'd done and the disaster that had befallen him — and begged for help and advice in making a living there, swearing he would never go back to Florence.

Canigiano was upset. "This is a mess," he said. "You've behaved badly, carried yourself badly, cheated your employers, and blown a mountain of money on a woman. But what's done is done — we need to figure out what comes next."

Being the shrewd man he was, Canigiano quickly came up with a plan and laid it out for Salabaetto, who liked it immediately and set about putting it into action.

He had a little money of his own, and Canigiano lent him more. With these funds, he packed up a number of bales — tightly bound and corded to look like serious merchandise — and bought twenty oil casks, which he filled up. Then he loaded everything onto a ship and sailed back to Palermo.

At the customhouse, he presented his bill of lading and declared the value of the casks. He had everything entered under his name and locked up in the warehouse, saying he didn't intend to touch any of it until some other merchandise he was expecting had arrived.

Biancofiore got wind of all this in no time. Hearing that the goods he'd already brought were worth a good two thousand florins, and that the shipment he was still expecting was valued at over three thousand more, she decided she'd been thinking too small. She resolved to return the five hundred florins so she could get her hands on the lion's share of the five thousand.

She sent for him. Salabaetto, now much wiser, went to her house. She pretended to know nothing about what he'd brought back and received him with a great show of affection.

"Listen," she said, "if you were upset with me for not repaying your money on the exact day I promised —"

Salabaetto laughed. "To tell you the truth, madam, it did bother me a little — seeing as I'd have torn my own heart out and given it to you if I thought it would make you happy. But let me tell you just how upset I am with you: my love for you is so great that I've sold most of what I own and brought merchandise here worth more than two thousand florins. I'm expecting another shipment from the west worth over three thousand more. I plan to set up a permanent warehouse in this city and settle here for good — just so I can always be near you. I'm more content with your love than any lover has ever been with any woman."

"Salabaetto," the lady answered, "you know that anything that's good for you is good for me, since I love you more than my own life. It makes me so happy that you've come back with plans to stay, because I expect to have many more good times with you. But let me explain myself a little. During those last days before you left, there were times you came here and couldn't get in, and times you did get in but weren't given the warm welcome you were used to — and I know the money wasn't returned on time either. You have to understand, I was going through a terrible ordeal at that point, overcome with worry and grief. When you're in a state like that, no matter how much you love someone, you can't always put on a happy face or give them the attention they deserve.

"And you must know that it's incredibly difficult for a woman to come up with a thousand gold florins. People lie to us all day long — they promise and don't deliver. So we're forced to lie in turn. That's the only reason I didn't pay you back — not because of any fault in my heart. But I did get the money shortly after you left, and if I'd known where to send it, believe me, I would have. Since I didn't know, I kept it safe for you."

She sent for a purse that contained the very coins he'd given her and placed it in his hands. "Count them," she said. "There should be five hundred."

Salabaetto had never been so pleased. He counted the coins, found them all there, tucked the purse away, and said, "Madam, I'm convinced you're telling the truth. You've done more than enough to prove your love, and I want you to know that because of this — and because of the love I bear you — you could never ask me for any sum I can lay my hands on without my giving it to you. Once I'm established here, you can put that to the test."

Having renewed their love affair with these pretty words, Salabaetto went back to spending time with her, and she went back to lavishing attention on him, showing him every kindness and honor and faking the most passionate devotion.

But Salabaetto intended to repay her trick with a trick. One day, having received an invitation to come to her house for dinner and to spend the night, he arrived looking so miserable and gloomy that it seemed as if he were about to die.

Biancofiore threw her arms around him, kissed him, and pressed him to tell her what was wrong. He let himself be begged for a long while, then finally answered.

"I'm ruined. The ship carrying the merchandise I was expecting has been captured by the corsairs of Monaco. They're demanding a ransom of ten thousand gold florins, and my share is a thousand. I don't have a penny, because the five hundred you returned to me I immediately sent to Naples to invest in a shipment of cloth to bring here. If I tried to sell the goods I have in the warehouse right now, I'd get half a penny on the penny — it's the wrong time to sell. And I'm not well enough known here yet to find anyone who'd lend me the money. I don't know what to do. If I don't send the ransom quickly, the merchandise will be shipped off to Monaco and I'll never see it again."

The lady was deeply alarmed at the thought of losing him entirely. She considered what she could do to keep him from going to Monaco and said, "God knows how much this pains me, for your sake. But what good does it do to tear your hair out? If I had the money, God knows I'd give it to you in a heartbeat. But I don't have it. However — there is a certain person here who lent me the five hundred I was short the other day. The problem is, he charges outrageous interest — at least thirty percent. If you want to borrow from him, he'll need a solid guarantee. Now, for my part, I'm ready to pledge everything I own — my possessions and my very self — as security for whatever he'll lend on that. But how will you guarantee the rest?"

Salabaetto immediately understood what was motivating her generosity, and he guessed that she was the one who'd be doing the lending. This suited him perfectly. He thanked her and said that, with need pressing him this hard, he wouldn't let the usurious interest stop him. He added that as collateral for the remainder, he would pledge the merchandise he had in the customhouse, having it registered in the lender's name. Of course, he'd keep the key to the warehouse himself, both so he could show the goods if asked and so that nothing would be touched, moved, or tampered with.

The lady said this was perfectly reasonable and more than adequate security. As soon as morning came, she sent for a broker she trusted and, after discussing the arrangement with him, gave him a thousand gold florins. The broker lent the money to Salabaetto and had the goods in the customhouse registered in his own name. They drew up their contracts and counter-contracts, settled everything to both sides' satisfaction, and went about their other business.

At the first opportunity, Salabaetto boarded a ship with fifteen hundred gold florins and sailed to Naples, to Pietro dello Canigiano. From there, he sent his employers a full and honest accounting for the woolens they'd originally consigned to him. He repaid Pietro and everyone else he owed, and spent several merry days celebrating with Canigiano over the trick he'd played on the Sicilian trickstress. Then, having decided he was done being a merchant, he took himself off to Ferrara.

Meanwhile, back in Palermo, Biancofiore realized that Salabaetto had left the city. She began to wonder, then to worry. After waiting a good two months and seeing no sign of him, she had the broker break open the warehouse.

First they tried the casks. She was expecting oil. What she found was seawater — every single one of them — with just a thin layer of oil at the top, near the bung hole. Then they cut open the bales. They were stuffed with tow — plain, worthless tow. Two of them did contain actual cloth, but all told, everything in that warehouse wasn't worth more than two hundred florins.

Biancofiore, forced to admit she'd been outfoxed, wept long and bitterly over the five hundred she'd returned and even longer over the thousand she'd lent. As she often said afterward:

"If you deal with a Tuscan, you'd best not be cross-eyed."

And so, having earned nothing but a loss and a lesson, she learned at her own expense that some people are just as clever as she was."

Dioneo's story was finished, and Lauretta, knowing that her reign had come to its end, praised Canigiano's cunning advice — which had clearly proved sound by its results — and Salabaetto's shrewdness in carrying it out, which deserved no less admiration. Then she lifted the laurel wreath from her own head and set it on Emilia's, saying with womanly grace, "Madam, I don't know how pleasant a queen you'll make us, but at least we'll have a beautiful one. See to it that your deeds match your looks."

She returned to her seat. Emilia blushed a little — not so much at being made queen as at hearing herself publicly praised for the thing women most love to be praised for — and her face turned the color of fresh-bloomed roses at dawn. She kept her eyes lowered until the redness faded, then gave instructions to the steward about the group's arrangements and addressed them all.

"Delightful ladies, it's common to see oxen, after they've toiled under the yoke for part of the day, unyoked and set free to graze wherever they please in the woods. And we can see just as plainly that gardens planted with all sorts of trees are not less beautiful than groves of nothing but oaks — they're far more beautiful. So, considering how many days we've been telling our stories under the constraint of a fixed theme, I think that — like workers who need a holiday to come back refreshed — a little freedom would do us good. Therefore, for tomorrow's storytelling, I'm not going to restrict you to any particular subject. Let each person tell whatever story they please. I'm quite sure that the variety of topics will entertain us just as much as sticking to a single theme — if not more. And having done this, whoever succeeds me as ruler can, with renewed confidence, impose whatever restrictions they see fit."

With that, she set everyone free until suppertime.

They all praised the queen's wisdom. Rising from their seats, they went their separate ways: the ladies to weaving garlands and amusing themselves, the young men to games and songs. They passed the time this way until supper, which they ate in high spirits around the beautiful fountain. Afterward, they sang and danced according to their usual custom. At last, to follow the tradition of her predecessors, the queen asked Pamfilo to sing a song — despite the fact that several others had already performed of their own accord. He obliged without hesitation:

Such is your pleasure, Love, > And such the joy I feel thereby, > That I am happy, burning in your fire. > > The overflowing gladness in my heart > For the high, precious joy > To which you've led me — > Too vast to be contained — spills over > And shows upon my face > The happiness I know. > For being in love > With one so worthy and so far above > Makes sweet to me the burning I endure. > > I cannot sketch in words or song, O Love, > The thing I feel, > Nor voice the bliss I know. > And even if I could, I'd have to hide it, > For once revealed, I think > It would turn to sorrow. > Yet I'm so content > That every word would limp and fail > If I tried to speak the smallest part of it. > > Who would have dreamed these arms of mine > Could ever reach > The place where they have held her close? > Or that my face would ever touch > So fair a shrine > As that which, by her grace, I've won? > Such fortune I would never > Have been believed to hold — and so I burn, > Concealing the bright source of all my joy.

This was the end of Pamfilo's song. Everyone had joined in the refrains, but more than a few of them paid unusually close attention to the words, trying to guess what it was that he sang he must keep hidden. Various theories were whispered, but none of them hit the mark. Finally, the queen, seeing that the song was done and that the young ladies and gentlemen were all ready for rest, commanded everyone to bed.

Here ends the Eighth Day of the Decameron.

Day 9 — Introduction

Here begins the ninth day of the Decameron, in which, under the rule of Emilia, everyone tells whatever story pleases them most.

The light whose brightness chases away the night had already turned the whole sky from deep blue to pale azure, and the wildflowers were beginning to lift their heads across the meadows, when Emilia rose and sent for her fellow ladies and the three young men. Once they had all gathered, they set out after the queen's unhurried steps and made their way to a little grove not far from the palace. Entering it, they spotted wild goats, deer, and other animals who, seemingly confident that the hunters had been driven off by the plague, stood watching the group approach without any fear, as tame as if they had been raised by hand. The company amused themselves for a while, drawing close to this animal and that, making them run and skip, before the climbing sun convinced them it was time to head back.

They were all crowned with wreaths of oak leaves, their hands full of flowers and fragrant herbs, and anyone who met them along the way would have said, "Either death won't get the better of these people, or it will find them in good spirits." Step by step, singing, chatting, and laughing, they made their way back to the palace, where they found everything in perfect order and their servants cheerful and in high spirits.

After resting for a while, they wouldn't sit down to eat until half a dozen little songs, each one livelier than the last, had been sung by the young men and the ladies. Then water was brought for their hands, and the steward seated everyone at the table according to the queen's wishes. When the food arrived, they all ate happily. After the meal, they danced and made music for a time, and then, by the queen's leave, whoever wished to rest went off to do so.

When the usual hour arrived, they all gathered in their accustomed spot to tell their stories. The queen looked at Filomena and told her to start the day's tales, and she, smiling, began like this:

Day 9, Story 1

Madonna Francesca, courted by both Rinuccio Palermini and Alessandro Chiarmontesi and loving neither of them, cleverly rids herself of both by making one lie in a dead man's tomb and the other carry the "corpse" to her house — a task neither one manages to complete.

"Since it's your pleasure, my lady, I'm happy to be the one who runs the first lap in this open, free field of storytelling that your generosity has given us today. And if I do well, I have no doubt those who follow will do even better. Many times, dear ladies, our stories have shown just how great and powerful love can be. Still, I don't think the subject has been fully exhausted — nor would it be if we talked about nothing else for a whole year. Love doesn't just lead lovers into all kinds of mortal danger; it even drives them to climb into the resting places of the dead. So I'd like to tell you a story on that very theme, one that will show you not only the power of love, but also the cleverness of a worthy lady who managed to shake off two men who loved her against her will.

The story goes, then, that in the city of Pistoia there once lived a very beautiful widow. Two Florentines who were living there in exile — one named Rinuccio Palermini, the other Alessandro Chiarmontesi — had both fallen passionately in love with her, each without knowing about the other, and each was doing everything in his power, on the sly, to win her favor. The lady in question, whose name was Madonna Francesca de' Lazzari, was constantly besieged by messages and pleas from both of them. She had sometimes, rather unwisely, given them an encouraging ear, and now she wanted to pull back but couldn't manage it gracefully. So she came up with a plan: she would demand a service from each of them that, while technically possible, she was sure neither would actually perform. That way, when they failed, she'd have a perfectly reasonable excuse to stop listening to their messages. Here's what she devised.

On that very day, a man had died in Pistoia who, despite coming from a noble family, was considered the worst person alive — and not just in Pistoia, but in the entire world. To make matters worse, he had been so hideously ugly and deformed that anyone seeing him for the first time would have been terrified. He had been buried in a tomb outside the church of the Franciscan friars. This detail, the lady realized, would suit her purposes perfectly.

She said to her maid, "You know the misery and aggravation I put up with every day from those two Florentines, Rinuccio and Alessandro. Well, I have no intention of rewarding either of them with my love, and to get rid of them, I've thought of a way to put them to the test — something I'm positive they won't actually do. That way I'll be rid of their pestering once and for all. Here's the plan.

"You know that Scannadio" — for that was the dead man's name — "was buried this morning at the Franciscan church. Scannadio, who even when he was alive scared the bravest men in this city out of their wits, let alone now that he's dead. So here's what I want you to do. Go first to Alessandro and tell him this: 'Madonna Francesca wants you to know that the time has come for you to have her love, which you've wanted for so long. You can be with her tonight, if you're willing to do the following. Tonight, for reasons she'll explain later, the body of Scannadio, who was buried this morning, is to be brought to her house by one of her relatives. Since she's terrified of the corpse, even though it's dead, she'd rather not have it in her home. So she's asking you to do her a great service: go tonight, around the time of the first sleep, to the tomb where Scannadio is buried, put on the dead man's clothes, and lie there in his place until someone comes to collect you. Then, without moving or saying a word, let yourself be picked up and carried to her house, where she'll welcome you. After that, you can stay with her as long as you like, and she'll take care of everything else.' If he agrees, fine. But if he refuses, tell him from me that he should never show his face where I might see it, and if he values his life, he'd better never send me another letter or message.

"After that, go to Rinuccio Palermini and tell him: 'Madonna Francesca says she's ready to do whatever you desire, if you'll do her one great service. Tonight, around midnight, go to the tomb where Scannadio was buried this morning, quietly take his body out, and carry it to her house without saying a word, no matter what you might hear or feel along the way. There you'll learn what she wants with it, and you'll have your reward.' But if he doesn't want to do it, tell him never to send me another word or message again."

The maid went to both lovers and delivered each message exactly as instructed. Both of them gave the same answer: if it pleased the lady, they'd go not just into a tomb but straight to hell itself. The maid brought their replies back to her mistress, who sat back and waited to see if they'd actually be crazy enough to go through with it.

When night came, and the hour of the first sleep arrived, Alessandro Chiarmontesi stripped down to his doublet and set out from his house to take Scannadio's place in the tomb. But on the way, a very frightening thought crept into his head, and he started talking to himself: "God, what a fool I am! Where am I going? How do I know her family hasn't figured out that I'm in love with her and jumped to conclusions, and arranged this whole thing so they can murder me in that tomb? If that happened, I'd be the one who suffered, and nobody would ever find out the truth — it would never come back on them. Or what if some enemy of mine set this up, somebody she's in love with and is trying to do a favor for?"

Then he said, "But suppose none of that's true and her relatives really do plan to carry me to her house. Am I supposed to believe they want Scannadio's corpse so they can cuddle with it or put it in her arms? No — they obviously want to do something nasty to it, since maybe he wronged them somehow. She says I'm not to make a sound no matter what I feel. But what if they gouge out my eyes, or pull my teeth, or chop off my hands, or do some other horrible thing? How could I keep quiet then? And if I speak, they'll recognize me and probably hurt me on purpose. But even if they don't touch me, I'll have accomplished nothing, because they won't leave me alone with the lady. And then she'll say I broke her rules and will never do anything for me."

Having talked himself nearly into turning back, his great love pushed him forward with arguments just as powerful, and they brought him all the way to the tomb. He opened it, climbed in, stripped Scannadio of his clothes, put them on, pulled the tomb shut over himself, and lay down in the dead man's place. Then he started thinking about what kind of man Scannadio had been, and he remembered all the stories he'd heard about things that happened at night — not just in tombs, but everywhere — and every hair on his body stood on end. Any moment, it seemed like Scannadio was going to sit up and butcher him right there. But his fierce love won out over his terror, and he lay as still as a corpse, waiting to see what would happen.

Meanwhile, around midnight, Rinuccio left his house to do what the lady had asked. On his way, all kinds of dire possibilities ran through his mind: that he might be caught by the police with a dead body on his shoulders and condemned as a sorcerer, or that the dead man's family would find out and come after him, and a hundred other worries that almost stopped him in his tracks. But then he caught himself: "Come on — am I really going to refuse this gentlewoman, whom I've loved so much and still love, the very first thing she's asked of me? Especially when doing it will win me her favor? God forbid! Even if it meant certain death, I have to do what I promised." And so he kept going.

He reached the tomb and opened it easily. Alessandro, hearing the lid move, held perfectly still despite his terror. Rinuccio climbed in and, thinking he was grabbing Scannadio's body, seized Alessandro by the feet and dragged him out of the tomb. Then, hoisting him onto his shoulders, he set off toward the lady's house.

As he went, paying no attention to his cargo, he bashed Alessandro against one corner and then another of the stone benches that lined the street — especially since the night was so overcast and dark that he couldn't see where he was going. He was nearly at the gentlewoman's door — she had stationed herself at the window with her maid to see if Rinuccio would actually bring Alessandro, already armed with an excuse to send them both packing — when disaster struck. The night watch, who had been hiding in the street on an ambush for a wanted man, heard the scuffing of Rinuccio's feet. They suddenly flashed a lantern to see what was going on and who was coming, and rattled their shields and halberds, shouting, "Who goes there!"

Rinuccio saw this and, with no time to think, dropped his burden and ran for his life. Alessandro scrambled to his feet and took off in the other direction, though he was badly hampered by the dead man's clothes, which were far too long for him.

By the light of the lantern the watchmen had raised, the lady had clearly seen Rinuccio carrying Alessandro on his shoulders, and she'd also spotted that Alessandro was wearing Scannadio's clothes. She was amazed at the sheer nerve of both of them. But for all her amazement, she laughed her head off watching Alessandro get dumped on the ground and then seeing him scramble away. Overjoyed by this stroke of luck and praising God for ridding her of these two pests, she turned from the window, went back to her bedroom, and assured her maid that both men must truly love her deeply, since they had clearly done exactly what she'd asked.

Meanwhile, Rinuccio was miserable and cursing his rotten luck. But even so, he didn't go home. As soon as the watch had cleared off, he went back to the spot where he'd dropped Alessandro and got down on his hands and knees, groping around in the dark, hoping to find the body and finish the job. But Alessandro was long gone, and Rinuccio, figuring the police must have hauled him away, trudged home in despair. Alessandro, for his part, not knowing what else to do, headed home the same way, baffled and upset by the whole misadventure, without ever having recognized the man who'd been carrying him.

The next morning, when Scannadio's tomb was found open and his body was nowhere to be seen — since Alessandro had rolled it to the bottom of the vault — all of Pistoia buzzed with theories about what had happened. The more simple-minded folks concluded that the devils had carried him off.

In the end, each of the two lovers sent word to the lady explaining what he had done and what had gone wrong, using this as an excuse for not having fully carried out her instructions, and each asked for her love and favor. But she pretended not to believe either of them and got rid of both with a curt reply: since they hadn't done what she'd asked, she would never do a thing for them.

Day 9, Story 2

An abbess rushes out in the dark to catch one of her nuns in bed with a lover. But in her haste, she grabs a priest's breeches instead of her veil and puts them on her head. The accused nun spots this, points it out, and is let off the hook — free to carry on with her lover as she pleases.

Filomena had finished, and everyone had praised the lady's cleverness in shaking off two men she didn't want, while also agreeing that the reckless nerve of the two suitors was not really love but madness. Then the queen said cheerfully to Elisa, "Your turn." And Elisa promptly began:

"Cleverly indeed, dear ladies, did Madonna Francesca free herself from her nuisance, as we've just heard. But let me tell you about a young nun who, with fortune's help, delivered herself from an imminent danger with one well-aimed remark. As you know, there are plenty of very foolish people who set themselves up as teachers and judges of everyone else, yet whom fortune sometimes puts to shame in the most satisfying way — as happened to the abbess who was in charge of the nun I'm about to tell you about.

You should know, then, that there was once a convent in Lombardy, very famous for its holiness and strict religious life. Among the nuns who lived there was a young woman of noble birth and stunning beauty, whose name was Isabetta. One day, she came to the convent grille to speak with a relative of hers, and she fell in love with a handsome young man who had come along with him. The young man, seeing how beautiful she was and reading her feelings through her eyes, fell just as hard for her. For a long time, they suffered through this love without any way to act on it, which caused both of them no small amount of misery. At last, both of them driven by the same desire, the young man figured out a way to visit his nun in secret. She agreed, and he came to see her — not just once, but many times — to the great satisfaction of both.

But as this went on, it happened one night that one of the other nuns saw him, without either his or Isabetta's knowledge, leaving her cell and heading off. The nun shared this discovery with several others. At first, they were all for reporting Isabetta straight to the abbess, a woman named Madonna Usimbalda who, in the opinion of both the nuns and everyone who knew her, was a good and pious lady. But on second thought, they decided it would be better to arrange things so the abbess would catch Isabetta with the young man in the act, leaving no room for denial. So they kept quiet and set up a secret watch, taking turns to catch her in the act.

Now Isabetta, suspecting nothing of this and completely off her guard, had her lover come to her one night. The nuns who were keeping watch spotted him immediately. When a good portion of the night had passed, they split into two groups: one stayed on guard at the door of Isabetta's cell, while the other ran to the abbess's bedroom. They knocked at her door and, as soon as she answered, said, "Get up, Reverend Mother! Come quick! We've discovered that Isabetta has a young man in her cell!"

Now, as it happened, the abbess was entertaining company of her own that night — a priest, whom she regularly smuggled in hidden inside a chest. Hearing the nuns' outcry, and afraid they might be so eager and impatient that they'd shove the door open, she jumped out of bed and threw on her clothes as best she could in the dark. Reaching for the pleated veil that nuns wear on their heads — the one they call a psalter — she grabbed the priest's breeches by mistake. She was in such a rush that, without noticing what she'd done, she threw them over her head in place of the veil. Then she hurried out, locking the door behind her, and said, "Where is this woman cursed by God?"

Together with the other nuns, who were so fired up and so focused on catching Isabetta red-handed that they never noticed what the abbess had on her head, she marched to the cell door, broke it open with the others' help, and burst in. There they found the two lovers in bed in each other's arms. The couple, utterly stunned by the surprise, lay frozen, not knowing what to do.

The young nun was immediately seized by the other sisters and, on the abbess's orders, dragged off to the chapter house, while her lover got dressed and waited to see what would happen, resolved that if anyone tried to hurt his beloved, he'd attack as many nuns as he could get his hands on and carry her away. The abbess took her seat in the chapter house and, in front of all the assembled nuns — who had eyes only for the accused — launched into the most vicious tongue-lashing any woman has ever received. She told Isabetta that her filthy, disgusting behavior, if word of it ever leaked beyond the convent walls, had defiled the holiness, the honor, and the good name of the entire house. And she piled on one terrible threat after another.

The young woman, ashamed and frightened, knowing perfectly well she was guilty, had no idea what to say. Her silence made the other nuns feel sorry for her. But eventually, as the abbess went on and on, Isabetta happened to raise her eyes and spotted what the abbess was wearing on her head — complete with the garter-straps dangling down on either side. Suddenly grasping the situation, she felt a wave of confidence wash over her.

"Reverend Mother," she said, "God help you — tie up your cap. And then you can say whatever you want to me."

The abbess, not understanding, snapped, "What cap, you wicked woman? You have the nerve to crack jokes at a time like this? You think what you've done is a laughing matter?"

"Reverend Mother," Isabetta said again, "please, tie up your cap. Then say whatever you like to me."

At this, several of the nuns looked up at the abbess's head, and she herself put a hand up to it. And then they all saw why Isabetta had said what she said.

The abbess, realizing her own sin was now on full display for everyone to see and that there was no covering it up, abruptly changed her tune. She began speaking in a completely different manner from before, and eventually arrived at the conclusion that it is simply impossible to resist the urges of the flesh. Therefore, she said, everyone should feel free to enjoy herself in private whenever the opportunity arose, just as they had all been doing up to that point.

And so Isabetta was set free. The abbess went back to bed with her priest, and Isabetta went back to her lover, whom she invited over many more times after that, much to the envy of those nuns who had no lovers of their own. As for those unlucky ones, they set about pursuing their own romantic fortunes in secret, as best they could.

Day 9, Story 3

At the urging of Bruno, Buffalmacco, and Nello, Doctor Simone convinces Calandrino that he is pregnant. Calandrino hands over capons and cash for "medicine" and makes a full recovery — without ever going into labor.

After Elisa had finished her story and all the ladies had given thanks to God for delivering the young nun from the clutches of her envious sisters, the queen called on Filostrato, who didn't wait to be told twice and began:

"Lovely ladies, that boorish lout of a judge from the Marches whom I told you about yesterday stole right out of my mouth a story about Calandrino and his friends that I'd been meaning to tell. And since anything we say about Calandrino can only add to our amusement, I'll go ahead and tell it now.

We've already been introduced to Calandrino and the rest of the cast, so without further ado, here's what happened. An aunt of Calandrino's died and left him two hundred silver coins. Right away he started talking about wanting to buy a country estate, and he went around to every broker in Florence as if he had ten thousand gold florins to spend. But every deal fell through the moment they got to the actual price. Bruno and Buffalmacco, who knew all about this, had told him more than once that he'd be better off spending the money on a good time with them rather than buying land — as if he needed to make mud bricks. But far from that, they hadn't even been able to get so much as a single dinner out of him.

One day, as the two friends were grumbling about this, a fellow painter named Nello showed up. The three of them put their heads together to figure out how they might feast at Calandrino's expense. Having quickly agreed on a plan, they watched for him to come out of his house the next morning. He hadn't gone far when Nello walked up to him and said, "Good morning, Calandrino."

Calandrino wished him a good morning and a good year besides. Nello paused and studied his face. "What are you staring at?" Calandrino asked.

"Did something happen to you last night?" said Nello. "You don't look like yourself this morning."

Calandrino immediately started to panic. "Oh no — what do you mean? What do you think is wrong with me?"

"Well, I couldn't say exactly," Nello replied, "but you look completely different to me. It's probably nothing." And with that, he let him go.

Calandrino walked on, worried now, even though he felt perfectly fine. But Buffalmacco, who wasn't far off, saw Nello walk away and headed straight for Calandrino. He greeted him and asked if anything was wrong.

"I don't know," said Calandrino. "Nello was just telling me I look all different. Do you think something could be wrong with me?"

"Could be," said Buffalmacco. "Something might be a little off. You do look half dead."

By this point, Calandrino was sure he had a fever. And right on cue, along came Bruno, who took one look at him and said, "Calandrino, what on earth is wrong with your face?"

Hearing all three of them say the same thing, Calandrino was now absolutely certain he was in bad shape. Terrified, he asked, "What should I do?"

"I think you should go home," said Bruno, "get into bed, cover yourself up nice and warm, and send a urine sample to Doctor Simone. He's a good friend of ours, as you know, and he'll tell you right away what's going on. We'll come with you, and if anything needs to be done, we'll take care of it."

So with Nello joining the group, they all walked Calandrino home. He dragged himself into the bedroom, utterly dejected, and said to his wife, "Come here and cover me up — I feel terrible." He got into bed and sent a little servant girl off to Doctor Simone with his urine sample. The doctor had his shop at that time in the Old Market, at the sign of the Pumpkin. Meanwhile Bruno told the others, "You stay here with him. I'll go see what the doctor says and bring him back if necessary."

"Oh please, yes, my friend!" cried Calandrino. "Go and find out what's happening, because I feel something awful going on inside me."

Bruno rushed off to Doctor Simone and got there ahead of the servant girl with the urine. He explained the whole setup. When the girl arrived and the doctor had examined the sample, he told her, "Go tell Calandrino to keep himself nice and warm. I'll be right over to tell him what's wrong with him and what he needs to do."

The girl reported this back, and it wasn't long before the doctor arrived with Bruno. The doctor sat down beside Calandrino, felt his pulse, and then — with the patient's wife right there in the room — delivered his diagnosis: "Look, Calandrino, speaking to you as a friend, there's nothing wrong with you except that you're pregnant."

When Calandrino heard this, he let out a howl of anguish. "Oh God! Tessa, this is your fault! You always have to be on top! I told you this would happen!"

His wife, who was a perfectly decent woman, turned scarlet with embarrassment. She hung her head and walked out of the room without a word. Calandrino, meanwhile, kept right on moaning: "Oh, poor me! What am I going to do? How am I supposed to deliver this baby? Where is it going to come out? I'm obviously a dead man, and it's all because of that insane wife of mine! May God make her as miserable as I wish I were happy! If I were feeling well right now — which I'm obviously not — I'd get up and beat her so badly I'd break every bone in her body. Although I suppose it serves me right for letting her get on top. But I'll tell you this much: if I survive, she can die of wanting before I ever let her do that again."

Bruno, Buffalmacco, and Nello were ready to explode with laughter at Calandrino's words, though they managed to hold it in. Doctor Simone, on the other hand, laughed so hard you could have pulled every tooth out of his head. Finally, Calandrino begged the doctor for help and advice.

"Calandrino, don't lose heart," the doctor said. "Thank God we caught this early enough that I can cure you in just a few days, with very little trouble. It will cost a bit, though."

"Oh, Doctor, please — for the love of God, do it!" cried Calandrino. "I've got two hundred coins right here that I was going to use to buy an estate. Take them all if you have to — just don't let me go into labor! I don't know what I'd do. I hear women make the most horrific screaming when they give birth, even though they're, you know, built for it. I think if I had to go through that kind of pain, I'd die before the baby even came out."

"Don't worry about that," said the doctor. "I'll have a special potion made for you — a distilled water, very effective and pleasant to drink. In three mornings it'll clear everything right up and leave you fit as a fiddle. But be more careful in the future and don't let yourself get into this mess again. Now, for this potion, I'll need three pairs of nice fat capons. And for the other ingredients, give one of your friends here five silver coins to go buy everything. Have it all sent to my shop, and tomorrow, God willing, I'll send you the potion. Just drink a big glass of it each time."

"Doctor, I'm in your hands," said Calandrino. He gave Bruno the five silver coins plus money for three pairs of capons and begged him to go to the trouble of buying it all.

The doctor went off and had a little batch of spiced wine prepared, which he sent over to Calandrino. Bruno, meanwhile, bought the capons and everything else needed for a magnificent feast, and he and his friends devoured the lot in the company of Doctor Simone.

Calandrino drank his spiced wine for three mornings. Then the doctor came to see him, along with his friends, felt his pulse, and announced, "Calandrino, you're completely cured. You can safely go about your business now — no need to stay in bed any longer."

Calandrino leapt out of bed, overjoyed, and went out into the world, singing the praises of Doctor Simone's miraculous cure to everyone he met — how the doctor had cured his pregnancy in three days, completely painless. Bruno, Buffalmacco, and Nello were quite pleased with themselves for having found such a clever way around Calandrino's stinginess — though Dame Tessa, who had seen through the whole scheme, gave her husband an earful about it.

Day 9, Story 4

Cecco Fortarrigo gambles away all his own money and his master Cecco Angiolieri's money at Buonconvento. He then chases after Angiolieri in his shirt, claiming to have been robbed, gets the local peasants to stop him, steals his clothes and horse, and rides off, leaving Angiolieri standing there in his underwear.

Everyone had laughed heartily at Calandrino's remarks about his wife. When Filostrato finished, Neifile began, as the queen wished:

"Noble ladies, if it weren't harder for people to show the world their good sense and their virtues than it is for them to display their foolishness and their vices, many a person would waste their breath trying to hold their tongue. Calandrino made this perfectly clear: he had no need, in trying to get cured of the ailment his gullibility made him believe in, to publicly broadcast his wife's bedroom habits. And this has reminded me of a story that runs in the opposite direction — how one man's cunning got the better of another man's good judgment, to the ruin and humiliation of the outwitted one. I'd like to tell it to you.

Not many years ago, there lived in Siena two grown men, each named Cecco. One was the son of Messer Angiolieri and the other the son of Messer Fortarrigo. Though they were poorly matched in most respects, they did agree on one thing: they were both detested by their fathers. And this shared misfortune made them friends, so they spent a good deal of time together.

After a while, Angiolieri — who was a handsome and well-mannered man — decided he couldn't keep living in Siena on the pittance his father gave him. He'd heard that a certain cardinal, a great patron of his, had come to the Marches of Ancona as the Pope's legate, so he resolved to go there and try to better his situation. He told his father his plan and arranged to receive six months' worth of his allowance all at once, so he could buy clothes and a horse and make a decent impression. While he was looking for a servant to bring along, word of his plans reached Fortarrigo.

Fortarrigo went straight to Angiolieri and begged him, as persuasively as he knew how, to take him along. He'd be his lackey, his valet, his everything — all he asked was to have his expenses covered, no wages needed. Angiolieri told him flatly he wouldn't take him. It wasn't that Fortarrigo couldn't do the work — he was perfectly capable — but because he was a gambler and sometimes a drunk to boot. Fortarrigo swore up and down he'd keep himself from both vices, piling on so many oaths and pleas that Angiolieri finally gave in and said he was willing.

So one morning they set out together and stopped for lunch at Buonconvento. After the meal, the heat being fierce, Angiolieri had a bed made up at the inn and, with Fortarrigo's help, undressed and went to sleep, telling Fortarrigo to wake him when the church bells struck three.

As soon as his master was asleep, Fortarrigo headed straight for the tavern. After drinking for a while, he started gambling with some men there, who cleaned him out of the little money he had — and then the very clothes off his back. Desperate to win it all back, he went to Angiolieri's room in nothing but his shirt. Seeing his master fast asleep, he took every coin from Angiolieri's purse, went back to the gaming table, and lost that money too.

Eventually Angiolieri woke up, got dressed, and asked for Fortarrigo. He was nowhere to be found. Angiolieri assumed he'd gotten drunk and passed out somewhere, as he sometimes did, and decided to leave him and find a new servant at Corsignano. But when he went to settle the bill for the inn, he discovered he didn't have a penny. That set off a tremendous uproar through the whole place. Angiolieri declared he'd been robbed at the inn and threatened to have the innkeeper and his entire household arrested and hauled off to Siena.

At that very moment, Fortarrigo showed up in his shirt, intending to steal Angiolieri's clothes just as he'd stolen his money. Seeing Angiolieri about to mount up, he said, "What's this, Angiolieri? Do we really have to leave already? Come on, wait a minute. There's a man coming any second now who has my doublet — he's holding it as security for thirty-eight shillings. I'm sure he'll give it back for thirty-five, cash in hand."

While he was talking, someone came up and confirmed to Angiolieri that Fortarrigo was the one who'd robbed him, by showing him the exact amount Fortarrigo had lost at the gaming table. Angiolieri was furious. He let loose a torrent of abuse at Fortarrigo and would have beaten him senseless if he hadn't feared the law more than he feared God. He threatened to have him hanged or banished from Siena, then mounted his horse.

Fortarrigo, acting as if Angiolieri were talking to someone else entirely, said, "Oh come on, Angiolieri, enough of this talk that gets us nowhere. Think about it: if we redeem the doublet right now, we can get it back for thirty-five shillings. But if we wait until tomorrow, he won't take less than the thirty-eight he loaned me on it. He's only doing me this favor because I bet on his recommendation. Why wouldn't we save ourselves three shillings?"

Angiolieri was ready to lose his mind — especially since the bystanders were all eyeing him suspiciously, clearly believing not that Fortarrigo had gambled away Angiolieri's money, but that Angiolieri still had some of Fortarrigo's. He said, "What do I care about your doublet? You can hang for all I care! You've robbed me, you've gambled away my money, you've held me up on my journey, and now you stand here mocking me!"

But Fortarrigo just kept going, as if the words bounced right off him. "Come on, why won't you save me these three shillings? Don't you think I could pay you back the favor sometime? Please, if you have any regard for me. What's the rush? We can still make it to Torrenieri by this evening. Go on, find the purse. You know, I could search all of Siena and not find a doublet that fits me this well. And to think I'd let that guy have it for thirty-eight shillings! It's worth forty or more — so you'd actually be cheating me twice over."

Angiolieri, now beyond exasperated at being robbed and then lectured about it, gave no answer. He turned his horse's head toward Torrenieri and spurred it on. But Fortarrigo, hatching a devious scheme, started trotting after him in his shirt. He kept it up for a good two miles, the whole time hollering about his doublet.

Then, as Angiolieri kicked his horse into a faster pace to put some distance between them, Fortarrigo spotted some farmers working in a field alongside the road, up ahead of Angiolieri. He shouted at them at the top of his lungs: "Stop him! Stop him!"

The farmers came running with their spades and mattocks and blocked the road in front of Angiolieri, figuring he must have robbed the half-naked man chasing after him and yelling. They grabbed him and held him. It did him no good to explain who he was and what had actually happened.

Then Fortarrigo caught up and, putting on a furious expression, snarled, "I don't know what's stopping me from killing you, you treacherous thief, running off with my things!" He turned to the farmers. "Just look, gentlemen, at the state he left me in at the inn — after gambling away everything he owned first! But I can certainly say that, with God's help and yours, I've recovered this much at least, and I'll always be grateful to you for it."

Angiolieri told his side of the story, but nobody listened. Fortarrigo, with the peasants' help, pulled him off the horse, stripped off his clothes, and put them on. Then he mounted the horse and rode back to Siena, telling everyone he met that he'd won the horse and clothes from Angiolieri in a bet.

And so Angiolieri, who had set out as a well-to-do man bound for the cardinal in the Marches, found himself at Buonconvento — penniless and standing there in his shirt. He was too embarrassed to go straight back to Siena, so he borrowed some clothes from someone, mounted the nag that Fortarrigo had been riding, and went to stay with relatives at Corsignano until his father sent him fresh supplies.

In this way, Fortarrigo's knavery trumped Angiolieri's good planning — though Angiolieri made sure to pay him back for it in due time and place.

Day 9, Story 5

Calandrino falls in love with a young woman, and Bruno writes him a magic love charm. When he touches her with it, she goes along with him — but his wife walks in on them, and things go very badly for Calandrino.

Neifile's short story was finished, and the group moved past it without much comment or laughter. The queen turned to Fiammetta and told her to go next. She cheerfully agreed and began:

"Dearest ladies, as I'm sure you already know, there's no subject, no matter how many times it's been discussed, that won't still entertain people — as long as the person telling the story knows how to pick the right time and place. Considering why we're all here — to have fun and enjoy ourselves, that's the whole point — I think anything that brings laughter and pleasure is fair game, any time. And even though we've talked about Calandrino's exploits a thousand times, they're always entertaining. So I'll be bold enough, as Filostrato said a little while ago, to tell you yet another story about him. If I'd wanted to stray from the facts, I could easily have disguised the story and told it with different names. But since departing from the truth of what actually happened takes a lot of the pleasure out of listening, I'll tell it to you just as it really was.

Niccolo Cornacchini was a fellow townsman of ours, and a wealthy one. Among his various properties, he had a fine estate at Camerata, where he'd had a magnificent villa built. He hired Bruno and Buffalmacco to paint the entire place, and since it was such a big job, they brought on Nello and Calandrino to help. Now, although hardly any of the family actually lived there — just a couple of furnished bedrooms and an old serving woman who acted as caretaker — Niccolo's son Filippo, who was young and unmarried, had a habit of bringing a girl or two out there for his entertainment, keeping her around for a day or two, and then sending her on her way.

It happened once that he brought along a girl named Niccolosa, who was kept by a lowlife named Mangione at a house in Camaldoli and rented out for a fee. She was a fine-looking woman, well dressed, and for someone in her line of work, reasonably well-mannered and well-spoken.

One day around noon, she came out of her room wearing a white slip, her hair twisted up on her head, and went to wash her hands and face at a well in the courtyard. It so happened that Calandrino came down to the well for water at the same moment and gave her a friendly hello. She returned the greeting and studied him — not because she found him attractive, but because he struck her as an odd specimen. Calandrino, for his part, started studying her right back. Deciding she was beautiful, he began finding excuses to linger in the courtyard instead of bringing the water back to his friends. He didn't know who she was and didn't dare say anything, but he couldn't stop looking. She'd noticed his staring and, to amuse herself, glanced at him from time to time with a little sigh thrown in. That was all it took. Calandrino fell head over heels in love with her on the spot. He wouldn't leave the courtyard until Filippo called her back into the bedroom.

Calandrino went back to work, but all he did was sigh. Bruno, who always kept one eye on Calandrino because his antics were endlessly entertaining, noticed right away.

"What the devil's the matter, Calandrino?" he said. "You're not doing anything but sighing."

"My friend," Calandrino answered, "if only I had someone to help me, things would go very well."

"How so?" asked Bruno.

"You mustn't tell a soul," said Calandrino, "but there's a girl down there — more beautiful than a fairy — and she's so madly in love with me, it would blow your mind. I noticed it just now when I went to get water."

"Damn!" said Bruno. "Just make sure she's not Filippo's wife."

"I think she might be," said Calandrino, "because he called her and she went to him in the bedroom. But so what? When it comes to things like this, I'd steal a woman from Christ himself, let alone Filippo. And to tell you the truth, friend, she pleases me more than I can possibly say."

"All right, friend," said Bruno. "I'll find out who she is for you. If she's Filippo's wife, I'll set the whole thing up in two words — she and I are great friends. But how are we going to keep this from Buffalmacco? I can never get a moment alone with her without him tagging along."

"I don't care about Buffalmacco," said Calandrino. "It's Nello we have to watch out for. He's Tessa's relative, and he'd ruin everything."

"That's true," Bruno agreed.

Now, Bruno knew perfectly well who the girl was — he'd seen her arrive, and Filippo had told him all about her. So when Calandrino stepped away from work for a moment to go catch another glimpse of her, Bruno told Nello and Buffalmacco everything, and the three of them secretly hatched a plan for how to have some fun with Calandrino's lovesickness.

When Calandrino came back, Bruno whispered, "Did you see her?"

"Oh God, yes," said Calandrino. "She's killing me."

"I'd better go check if she's who I think she is," said Bruno. "If she is, leave it to me." He went down to the courtyard, found Filippo and Niccolosa, and explained exactly what kind of man Calandrino was. The three of them agreed on what each would do and say to milk every last drop of entertainment from the lovesick fool. Then Bruno went back upstairs and told Calandrino, "It's definitely her. So this has to be handled very delicately. If Filippo gets wind of it, all the water in the Arno won't save us. But what do you want me to tell her, if I get the chance to speak to her?"

"Oh!" said Calandrino. "First, tell her I wish her a thousand barrels of the good stuff that gets a girl pregnant. Then tell her I'm her devoted servant, and if she wants anything — you know what I mean?"

"I do," said Bruno. "Leave it to me."

When suppertime came, the painters quit work and went down to the courtyard, where they found Filippo and Niccolosa. They lingered there a while for Calandrino's benefit. Calandrino began making eyes at Niccolosa and pulling the most bizarre faces imaginable — so many and so outrageous that a blind man would have noticed. She played her part beautifully, doing everything she could think of to fan the flames. Filippo, following Bruno's instructions, pretended to be deep in conversation with Buffalmacco and the others, paying no attention to any of this while secretly enjoying every minute of Calandrino's performance.

Eventually, much to Calandrino's dismay, they left. As they walked back toward Florence, Bruno said to him, "I'm telling you, you're making her melt like ice in the sun. I swear, if you brought your fiddle along and serenaded her with a few of those love songs of yours, she'd throw herself out the window to get to you."

"You really think so?" said Calandrino. "You think I should bring it?"

"Absolutely," said Bruno.

"You know, you didn't believe me this morning when I told you about her," said Calandrino. "But let me tell you, friend — I know better than any man alive how to get what I want. Who else could have made such a fine lady fall so hard, so fast? Not those swaggering young showoffs, that's for sure — the ones who strut around all day and couldn't scrape together three handfuls of cherry pits in a thousand years. Just wait until you see me with the fiddle — you'll love it. I want you to understand once and for all that I'm no old fool, the way you seem to think. And she's figured that out for herself, believe me. Oh, I'll make her feel it even more, once I get my claws into her! I swear to God, I'll lead her such a dance she'll chase after me like a madwoman after her baby."

"Oh, I'll bet," Bruno said. "I can just picture you with those teeth of yours — they look like piano keys — nibbling on that little red mouth of hers, and those cheeks like a pair of roses, and then just eating her alive."

Calandrino, hearing this, was already picturing the whole scene. He went along singing and skipping, so wildly happy he was practically jumping out of his skin. The next day, he brought the fiddle and, to everyone's enormous amusement, performed several love songs on it. And from then on, he was so obsessed with seeing Niccolosa that he couldn't do a lick of work. A thousand times a day he'd run to the window, or the door, or the courtyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. She, cleverly following Bruno's coaching, gave him plenty of opportunities.

Bruno, for his part, played go-between, carrying messages to Calandrino supposedly from her, and sometimes bringing him notes in return. When she wasn't there — which was most of the time — he brought him letters in which she said she was pining for him at her relatives' house, where he couldn't visit her yet, but she was full of hope that they'd soon be together. In this way, Bruno, with Buffalmacco's help, kept the game going and had the time of their lives with Calandrino's antics. Every so often they'd get him to hand over little gifts, supposedly at his beloved's request — an ivory comb one time, a purse the next, a little knife — and in exchange they'd bring him back cheap counterfeit rings worth absolutely nothing, which he treasured as if they were diamonds. On top of all that, he treated them to lavish snacks and other little perks so they'd stay diligent about his love affairs.

They kept this up for a good two months without making any actual progress. Then, as the painting job neared completion, Calandrino realized that if he didn't bring his romance to a conclusion before the work ended, he might never get another chance. He started pressuring Bruno relentlessly.

So the next time the girl came to the villa, Bruno — having arranged everything in advance with her and Filippo — said to Calandrino, "Listen, friend, this woman has promised me a good thousand times that she'll do what you want, and then she never actually does. I think she's been leading you on. So if you're game, let's make her do it whether she wants to or not."

"Yes!" said Calandrino. "For the love of God, let's do it now!"

"Will you have the nerve to touch her with a special charm I'm going to give you?" asked Bruno.

"Absolutely," said Calandrino.

"Then get me a piece of virgin parchment, a live bat, three grains of frankincense, and a blessed candle, and leave the rest to me."

Calandrino spent the entire next night rigging up traps to catch a bat. When he finally caught one, he brought it to Bruno along with everything else. Bruno withdrew to a back room and scribbled some ridiculous gibberish on the parchment in made-up symbols. Then he brought it to Calandrino and said, "Here's what you need to know: if you touch her with this charm, she'll immediately follow you and do whatever you want. So if Filippo goes somewhere today, find a way to get close to her and touch her with this. Then head straight to that barn over there — it's the perfect spot, since nobody ever goes there. You'll find she'll come right after you. And when she does, well — you know what to do."

Calandrino was the happiest man on earth. He took the charm and said, "Friend, just leave it to me."

Now Nello, whom Calandrino mistrusted the most, had been having just as much fun as the others and was fully in on the joke. So, as planned, he went down to Florence and found Calandrino's wife, Tessa.

"Tessa," he said, "you remember the beating Calandrino gave you for no reason that day he came home loaded down with rocks from the Mugnone? Well, I'm going to help you get your revenge. If you don't take this chance, don't ever call me your friend or your relative again. He's fallen in love with a woman out at the villa, and she's easy enough that she's been sneaking off with him all the time. Just a little while ago, they arranged to get together today. So I want you to come out there, catch him in the act, and give him what he deserves."

When Tessa heard this, it was no laughing matter to her. She jumped to her feet and burst out, "Oh, that common thief! So that's what he's been doing! By the Holy Cross, he's not getting away with this — I'm going to make him pay!" She grabbed her cloak, took a maid along for company, and marched off toward the villa at a furious pace, with Nello hurrying along beside her.

As soon as Bruno spotted Nello approaching from a distance, he said to Filippo, "Here comes our friend." Filippo went to where Calandrino and the others were working and announced, "Listen, I've got to run to Florence. Keep up the good work." Then he left — but instead of going far, he hid where he could see everything Calandrino did without being seen.

The moment Calandrino thought Filippo was gone, he went down to the courtyard and found Niccolosa there alone. He struck up a conversation. She knew exactly what she was supposed to do and treated him a bit more warmly than usual. Calandrino touched her with the charm, and as soon as he did, he turned without a word and headed for the barn. Niccolosa followed him in. The moment she was inside, she shut the door, threw her arms around him, and pushed him down onto the straw that covered the floor. Then she climbed on top of him, pinning his shoulders with her hands so he couldn't reach her face, and gazed down at him as if he were the object of her deepest desire.

"Oh, my sweet Calandrino!" she said. "Heart of my heart, my soul, my treasure, my darling! How long I've wanted to have you all to myself! You've pulled every thread out of my slip with your charm. You've tickled my heart with your fiddle. Can it really be true that I'm holding you?"

Calandrino, who could barely move, said, "Oh, my darling, please — let me kiss you!"

"Aren't you the eager one!" she replied. "Let me get my fill of looking at you first. Let me feast my eyes on that gorgeous face of yours."

Now Bruno and Buffalmacco had joined Filippo in his hiding spot, and all three of them could see and hear everything. Just as Calandrino was about to kiss Niccolosa by force, up came Nello with Dame Tessa. As soon as they arrived, Nello said, "I swear to God, they're in there together!"

Tessa, boiling with fury, marched up to the barn door and slammed it open with both hands, sending it flying. She burst in and saw Niccolosa sitting on top of Calandrino. Niccolosa leapt up immediately and ran to join Filippo in his hiding spot, while Tessa flew at Calandrino, who was still lying on his back. She dug her nails into his face and clawed him bloody. Then she grabbed him by the hair and dragged him back and forth across the floor.

"You filthy, rotten dog!" she screamed. "So this is how you treat me? You besotted old fool — damn all the love I've ever wasted on you! Don't you think you've got enough to keep you busy at home, that you have to go sniffing around other people's property? Some fine lover you are! Don't you know what you are, you worthless wretch? Don't you know what you are, you good-for-nothing? If someone squeezed you dry, there wouldn't be enough juice for a thimbleful of sauce. I can tell you right now, it certainly wasn't Tessa who was just about to get you pregnant! May God punish whatever tramp she is who'd lower herself to fancy a prize like you!"

Calandrino, seeing his wife arrive, had gone stiff — not quite dead, not quite alive — and didn't have the courage to lift a finger in his own defense. Scratched, flayed, and thoroughly humiliated, he picked up his cap, got to his feet, and began humbly begging her to stop screaming — unless she wanted him chopped to pieces — because the woman she'd found him with was the wife of the man who owned the house.

"Fine!" Tessa said. "God give her a terrible year!"

At this point, Bruno, Buffalmacco, Filippo, and Niccolosa all came strolling over, pretending the screaming had drawn them. After considerable effort, they managed to calm Tessa down. They advised Calandrino to get himself back to Florence and never come out here again, in case Filippo found out what had happened and decided to make him pay.

So Calandrino slunk back to Florence, crestfallen, scratched to ribbons, and utterly defeated. He never dared show his face at that villa again. And with his wife's reproaches ringing in his ears day and night, he finally gave up on his great love — having provided his friends, and Niccolosa, and Filippo, with enough entertainment to last a lifetime.

Day 9, Story 6

Two young men stay the night at an inn. One of them sneaks into bed with the host's daughter, while the host's wife accidentally ends up in bed with the other. Then the first young man, thinking he's talking to his friend, climbs into bed with the host and brags about the whole affair. The wife, realizing her mistake, slips into her daughter's bed and talks her way out of everything.

Calandrino had once again given the group plenty to laugh about, and when the ladies had finished commenting on his antics, the queen called on Panfilo to speak. He began: "Dear ladies, the name of Niccolosa — Calandrino's girlfriend — has reminded me of a story about a different Niccolosa, and I'd like to tell it to you, because it shows how a quick-thinking wife managed to defuse what could have been a spectacular scandal.

Not long ago, in the plain of Mugnone, there lived a man who ran a modest inn, serving food and drink to travelers for a fair price. He was poor and his house was small, so he didn't take in just anyone for the night — only certain friends and acquaintances, and only when he had to. He had a wife, a very attractive woman, and they had two children: one was a pretty, full-figured girl of about fifteen or sixteen who wasn't yet married, and the other was a baby boy, less than a year old, still nursing at his mother's breast.

Now, a young gentleman from our city — a lively, charming fellow who spent a good deal of time in those parts — had noticed the girl and fallen hard for her. She, for her part, was delighted to be courted by a young man of such quality, and while doing her best to keep him interested with flirtatious looks and sweet gestures, she fell just as deeply in love with him. More than once, by mutual agreement, this love of theirs would have found its natural conclusion — except that the young man, whose name was Pinuccio, was afraid of bringing shame on his sweetheart and on himself. But his desire grew stronger by the day until he couldn't hold back any longer. He hatched a plan to find a way to lodge overnight at her father's inn, knowing the layout of the house well enough to figure that he could spend the night with Niccolosa without anyone being the wiser. And the moment the idea came to him, he set about making it happen.

Late one evening, he and a trusted friend named Adriano — who knew all about his love affair — hired a couple of horses and loaded them up with two pairs of saddlebags, probably stuffed with straw. They set out from Florence, rode a long loop, and circled back around until they reached the plain of Mugnone well after dark. Then they doubled back as if they were returning from Romagna and rode up to the innkeeper's door and knocked. The host, who knew them both well, opened up right away.

"Listen," said Pinuccio, "you'll have to put us up tonight. We figured we'd make it back to Florence before dark, but we couldn't ride fast enough and here we are, as you can see, at this hour."

"Pinuccio," the host replied, "you know perfectly well I don't have much room for gentlemen like yourselves. But since night's caught up with you and there's no time to go anywhere else, I'll put you up as best I can."

So the two young men dismounted, came inside, saw to their horses, and then sat down to supper with their host — having taken care to bring their own provisions.

Now, the innkeeper had only one tiny bedroom, and in it were three cots arranged as best he could manage: two against one wall and the third across the room. Even so, there was barely enough space to squeeze between them. The host gave the two friends the least bad of the three beds and got them settled in. Then, after a while — with neither of the young men actually asleep, though both pretended to be — he sent his daughter off to one of the other two beds and lay down in the third with his wife, who set the baby's cradle right beside her.

Pinuccio had taken careful note of where everyone was. After enough time had passed that he was sure they were all asleep, he crept out of bed, tiptoed over to where his beloved lay, and slipped in beside her. She received him with joy, though not without some nervousness, and together they proceeded to enjoy what they'd both been longing for.

While Pinuccio was with Niccolosa, a cat knocked something over. The wife woke up at the crash, and fearing it might be something more serious, got out of bed in the pitch dark and went to investigate.

Meanwhile, Adriano — not for any scheming reason, but because nature was calling — got up to relieve himself. On his way, he bumped into the cradle, which the wife had left right by her bed. Unable to get past it without moving it, he picked it up and set it down next to his own bed. After finishing his business, he went back to bed without giving the cradle another thought.

The wife searched around, found that whatever had fallen was nothing to worry about, and didn't bother lighting a candle. She scolded the cat and groped her way back to the bedroom. She felt for the cradle — and it wasn't beside her husband's bed. "Good Lord," she said to herself, "look what I nearly did! I was about to walk straight into our guests' bed!" She moved a little farther, found the cradle, and climbed into the bed next to it, lying down beside Adriano in the firm belief that she was lying down beside her husband.

Adriano, who was still awake, welcomed her warmly. Without a word of preamble, he hoisted the mainsail and set a brisk course, much to the lady's satisfaction.

Meanwhile, Pinuccio — having thoroughly enjoyed himself and now afraid of falling asleep beside Niccolosa — got up to go back to his own bed. On the way, he bumped into the cradle. Thinking the bed next to it must be the innkeeper's, he went a bit farther and lay down in the next one over — which was, in fact, the innkeeper's bed. The host woke up.

Pinuccio, convinced he was lying next to Adriano, said, "I'm telling you, there's never been anything as sweet as Niccolosa. Good God, I've had the most incredible time any man has ever had with a woman. And I can tell you I went upstairs to paradise a good six times after I left you."

The innkeeper, hearing this and not exactly delighted by it, first thought to himself, "What the hell is this man doing?" Then, more angry than wise, he snapped, "Pinuccio, what you've done is a filthy piece of villainy, and I have no idea why you'd treat me this way. But by the body of God, I'm going to make you pay for it!"

Pinuccio, who wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, realized his mistake but instead of trying to smooth things over as best he could, blurted out, "Pay me how? What could you possibly do to me?"

At that moment, the wife — who thought she was in bed with her husband — said to Adriano, "Oh dear, listen to our guests! They're arguing about something."

Adriano laughed and said, "Let them be, bad luck to them. They drank too much last night."

The wife thought she recognized her husband's scolding voice, and then she heard Adriano's — and in that instant, she understood exactly where she was and who she'd been with. Being a sharp woman, she jumped out of bed without a word, grabbed the baby's cradle, and carried it through the total darkness — navigating by feel, since there wasn't a scrap of light in the room — over to the bed where her daughter slept, and lay down next to the girl.

Then, as if her husband's shouting had just woken her up, she called out to him: "What's going on? What are you and Pinuccio fighting about?"

"Don't you hear what he says he's done tonight with Niccolosa?" her husband shot back.

"He's lying through his teeth!" she said. "He was never in bed with Niccolosa. I've been lying right here next to her all night — and for the record, I haven't been able to sleep a wink. You're a fool to believe him. You men drink so much in the evening that you spend all night dreaming and sleepwalking, stumbling around without knowing what you're doing, imagining you've done God knows what. It's a wonder you don't break your necks! But what's Pinuccio doing over there? Why isn't he in his own bed?"

Adriano, seeing how deftly the wife was covering up both her own shame and her daughter's, chimed right in: "Pinuccio, I've told you a hundred times — stop wandering around in your sleep! This habit of yours, getting up at night and then swearing your dreams are real, is going to land you in serious trouble one of these days. Get back over here. God give you an awful night!"

Hearing what his wife and Adriano were both saying, the innkeeper began to truly believe that Pinuccio had been sleepwalking. So he grabbed him by the shoulders and started shaking him, calling out, "Pinuccio! Wake up! Get back to your own bed!"

Pinuccio, who had caught on to everything that had been said, began muttering random nonsense the way sleepwalkers do, which had the innkeeper cracking up. Finally, after being shaken enough, he pretended to wake up. "Adriano?" he said groggily. "Is it morning already? Why are you calling me?"

"Yes," Adriano said. "Come over here."

So Pinuccio, playing the part beautifully — rubbing his eyes, acting bewildered — got up from the innkeeper's bed and stumbled back over to Adriano's.

When morning came and everyone was up, the innkeeper couldn't stop laughing and teasing Pinuccio about his dreams. They went back and forth with the jokes while the two young men saddled their horses, strapped on their bags, had a drink with the host, and rode off to Florence — every bit as pleased with how they'd pulled it off as they were with the night's entertainment itself.

After that, Pinuccio found other ways to see Niccolosa, who continued to swear to her mother that he'd definitely been dreaming. And the wife, remembering Adriano's enthusiastic attentions, privately assured herself that she, at least, had most certainly been wide awake.

Day 9, Story 7

Talano di Molese dreams that a wolf tears up his wife's neck and face. He warns her to stay inside, but she ignores him — and it happens exactly as he dreamed.

When Panfilo's story was done and everyone had praised the wife's quick thinking, the queen called on Pampinea, who began: "Dear ladies, we've talked before about dreams that turned out to be prophetic — something many women tend to laugh off. But despite what's already been said on the subject, I won't hesitate to tell you, very briefly, what happened not long ago to a neighbor of mine who refused to believe a dream her husband had about her.

I don't know whether you were acquainted with Talano di Molese, a very respectable man who married a young woman named Margarita. She was beautiful beyond compare, but so temperamental, contrary, and stubborn that she wouldn't take anyone's advice about anything, and nothing anyone did could ever meet her standards. This was exhausting for Talano to live with, but since he couldn't change it, he put up with it.

One night, while they were staying at a country estate of his, Talano had a dream. He saw his wife walking through a beautiful stretch of woodland not far from their house. As she walked, a large, ferocious wolf burst out of the underbrush and leaped straight at her throat. It dragged her to the ground and tried to carry her off while she screamed for help. She managed to tear free from its jaws, but by then the wolf had mangled her entire throat and part of her face.

When Talano woke in the morning, he said to her, "Wife, your stubbornness has never let me have a single good day with you, but it would still grieve me if something terrible happened to you. So if you'll listen to my advice, don't leave the house today." When she asked why, he told her his dream in full detail.

She shook her head. "Whoever wishes you harm dreams you harm," she said. "You pretend to care so much about me, but you dream about me exactly what you'd like to see happen. Don't worry — I'll make sure to be careful, today and every day, not to give you the satisfaction of seeing any such misfortune befall me."

"I knew you'd say that," said Talano. "That's the thanks you get for combing a scabby head. Believe whatever you want. I'm telling you this for your own good, and I'll say it one more time: stay home today, or at least stay out of our woods."

"Fine, fine," she said. "I'll do that." But then she started muttering to herself: "Did you see how cleverly that man tried to scare me away from the woods today? He's obviously arranged to meet some little hussy out there, and he doesn't want me catching him. Oh, what a fine time he'd have, dining with the blind! I'd be a real fool if I couldn't see through his game. Well, he won't get away with it. I'll stay out there all day if I have to, until I find out what he's really up to."

So the moment her husband went out one door, she slipped out the other. She headed straight for the woods, as secretly as she could, and hid herself in the thickest part, standing alert and looking this way and that for any sign of someone approaching.

While she waited there like this, with no thought of danger, a huge, terrifying wolf came crashing out of a dense thicket right beside her. She barely had time to say "Lord, help me!" before it lunged at her throat and clamped down hard, then started dragging her off as if she were a lamb. She couldn't scream or defend herself in any way — the beast's jaws were clenched too tight around her throat. The wolf would surely have strangled her if it hadn't run into some shepherds, who shouted and drove it off, forcing it to drop her.

The shepherds recognized her and carried her home in a terrible state. After long treatment by doctors, she eventually healed — but not completely. Her throat and part of her face were so badly scarred that where she'd once been beautiful, she was now permanently disfigured and hideous to look at. After that, too ashamed to show herself anywhere she might be seen, she bitterly regretted her stubbornness many times over, and her pigheaded refusal to believe her husband's dream — which had cost her nothing to take seriously.

Day 9, Story 8

Biondello tricks Ciacco out of a dinner, and Ciacco gets his revenge by arranging for Biondello to receive a spectacular beating.

Everyone agreed that what Talano had seen in his sleep was no ordinary dream but a genuine vision, since every detail had come true without exception. When they'd all fallen silent, the queen told Lauretta to continue, and she said: "Dear ladies, just as nearly everyone who's spoken before me today was inspired to tell their story by something already said, the savage revenge the scholar took — which Pampinea told us about yesterday — has put me in mind of another act of revenge. It wasn't as brutal as that one, but it was painful enough for the man on the receiving end.

There was once a man in Florence whom everyone called Ciacco, one of the biggest gluttons who ever lived. His income couldn't begin to cover his appetite, but he was otherwise a very polished fellow, full of witty and amusing things to say. So he positioned himself as — not quite a jester, but let's say a professional dinner guest — making a point of keeping company with wealthy people who enjoyed good food. He was a regular fixture at their tables for lunch and dinner, even when he hadn't technically been invited.

Now, also in Florence at that time, there was a man named Biondello: a dapper little fellow, immaculate in his grooming, with his cap perched just so and his blond wig always arranged to perfection, not a hair out of place. He worked the same angle as Ciacco.

One morning during Lent, Biondello was at the fish market haggling over two gorgeous lampreys for Messer Vieri de' Cerchi when Ciacco spotted him and came over. "What's all this?" he asked.

"Well," said Biondello, "last night Messer Corso Donati received three lampreys even finer than these, plus a sturgeon. But since that's not enough for the dinner he's planning for some gentlemen, he sent me to buy these two as well. Are you coming?"

"You bet I am," said Ciacco.

So when the time seemed right, Ciacco headed over to Messer Corso's house. He found Corso and some of his neighbors about to sit down to eat. When Corso asked what brought him there, Ciacco said, "Sir, I've come to dine with you and your company."

"You're welcome," said Messer Corso. "And since it's time, let's eat."

They sat down and were served chickpeas and pickled tuna to start, then a plate of fried fish from the Arno — and that was it. Not a lamprey in sight. Ciacco realized Biondello had played him for a fool and was quietly furious. He made up his mind to pay him back.

A few days later, he ran into Biondello again, who by this time had already told half the city about his little joke and was getting a good laugh out of it. When Biondello saw Ciacco, he grinned and said, "So, Ciacco — how were Messer Corso's lampreys?"

"That," Ciacco replied coolly, "is something you'll know much better than I do before the week is out."

Without wasting another moment, Ciacco left Biondello and went straight to find a sharp-witted errand boy. He hired the man, brought him to the Cavicciuli Gallery, and pointed out a gentleman standing there named Messer Filippo Argenti — a huge, brawny, rawboned man, and quite possibly the most hot-tempered, thin-skinned, violently touchy human being alive.

Ciacco handed the errand boy a large glass flask and said, "Go up to that gentleman with this flask and say the following: 'Sir, Biondello sends me to you and kindly requests that you redden this flask for him with your excellent red wine, because he'd like to have a little fun with his pretty boys.' But make absolutely sure he doesn't get his hands on you — otherwise he'll kill you, and my plan is ruined."

"Is there anything else I need to say?" the man asked.

"No. Just say that and come back here with the flask. I'll pay you."

Off went the errand boy and delivered the message to Messer Filippo. Messer Filippo, hearing the words and being — as noted — extremely easy to set off, concluded that Biondello, whom he knew, was trying to make a fool of him. His face turned scarlet.

"What 'redden' is this? What 'pretty boys'?" he snarled. "God damn you and him both!" He lunged to grab the errand boy, but the man was ready for it and took off running. He looped around by another route back to Ciacco, who had watched the whole performance, and reported what Messer Filippo had said.

Ciacco was delighted. He paid the man and immediately went to find Biondello. "Hey," he said, "have you been by the Cavicciuli Gallery lately?"

"No," said Biondello. "Why do you ask?"

"Because Messer Filippo is looking for you. I don't know what he wants."

"Oh, perfect," said Biondello. "I'm heading that way anyhow. I'll have a word with him."

Biondello set off, and Ciacco followed at a distance to watch the show.

Meanwhile, Messer Filippo, having failed to catch the errand boy, was left in a state of absolute fury, practically boiling over with rage. He couldn't make heads or tails of the man's words except that Biondello, put up to it by God knows who, was trying to mock him. While he was still fuming, up walked Biondello.

The moment Messer Filippo spotted him, he charged straight at him and punched him square in the face.

"Ow! Sir!" cried Biondello. "What's this about?"

Messer Filippo grabbed him by the hair, ripped off his cap, threw his hat on the ground, and laid into him with both fists, shouting: "You miserable little worm — you'll find out what it's about soon enough! What's this business of sending someone to me with your 'redden this' and your 'pretty boys'? Do you think I'm a child you can make fun of?"

And with that, he pounded Biondello's entire face with fists like iron. He didn't leave a single hair on his head unruffled. He rolled him in the mud, tore every stitch of clothing off his back, and applied himself to the beating with such passion that Biondello couldn't manage to get a single word out, let alone ask what he'd done to deserve this. He'd heard something about "redden" and "pretty boys," but he had no idea what any of it meant.

Finally, after Messer Filippo had given him a thorough thrashing, bystanders — a sizable crowd had gathered by now — dragged Biondello out of his clutches with the greatest difficulty, bruised and battered from head to toe. They explained to him why the gentleman had done it, scolded him for the message he'd supposedly sent, and told him he really should have known Messer Filippo better — this was not a man to joke with.

Biondello, in tears, protested his innocence, swearing he'd never sent anyone to Messer Filippo for wine. But as soon as he'd recovered a little, he dragged himself home, sick and miserable, guessing that this had to be Ciacco's work.

Some days later, once the bruises had faded and he was finally able to go out again, he happened to run into Ciacco, who asked him with a grin: "So, Biondello — how was Messer Filippo's wine?"

"About the same as Messer Corso's lampreys," Biondello replied.

"Well then," said Ciacco, "now we're even. But remember: the next time you try to treat me to a dinner like that one, I'll treat you to a drink like this one."

Biondello, knowing perfectly well that it was easier to wish Ciacco harm than to actually do it, made his peace with God and was very careful never to cross him again.

Day 9, Story 9

Two young men seek the advice of Solomon: one wants to know how to be loved, the other how to deal with his impossible wife. Solomon tells the first to "love" and the second to "go to Goosebridge."

With no one left to tell a story except the queen herself — since Dioneo's privilege meant he'd go last — she began cheerfully, after the ladies had finished laughing at poor Biondello:

"Dear ladies, if we consider the natural order of things with a clear mind, it's easy enough to see that women, as a whole, are subject to men by nature, by custom, and by law, and that it's our duty to conduct ourselves according to men's judgment. Any woman who wants peace, comfort, and happiness with the men in her life ought to be humble, patient, and obedient — in addition to being virtuous, which is the highest and most essential quality of any wise woman.

Even if the laws — which always have the common good in view — and long-established custom, whose authority is both great and worthy of respect, didn't teach us this, nature herself makes it perfectly clear. She has made us women soft and delicate in body, timid and fearful in spirit, and has given us little physical strength but sweet voices and graceful movements — all of which testify that we need to be governed by others. And those who need to be helped and governed — all reason demands that they be obedient, submissive, and respectful toward their governors. And who are our governors and protectors, if not men? Therefore, we must submit to men, honoring them above all others. Any woman who departs from this, in my opinion, deserves not just a sharp rebuke but severe punishment.

I was led to these reflections — not for the first time — by the story Pampinea just told us about Talano's stubborn wife, on whom God sent the punishment her husband hadn't known how to deliver. And so, as I've said, all women who refuse to be loving, agreeable, and accommodating — as nature, custom, and law require — deserve, in my judgment, stern and serious correction.

It pleases me, therefore, to tell you about a piece of advice given by Solomon, which serves as a useful remedy for curing women of that particular affliction. And let no woman who doesn't deserve such treatment take it as meant for her — though men do have a saying that goes: 'Good horse, bad horse, both still need the spur; good woman, bad woman, both still need the stick.'

If you take those words as a joke, every woman will cheerfully agree they're true. But even considered seriously, I'd say the same point holds. Women are all naturally fickle and inclined to stray, and so the stick is needed — to correct those who go too far past the boundaries set for them, and to support the virtue of those who don't, by keeping them on guard. But enough preaching. Let me get to what I actually want to tell you.

You should know that the towering fame of Solomon's miraculous wisdom had spread across nearly the entire world, along with the generosity with which he shared that wisdom with anyone who came seeking it firsthand. People flocked to him from every corner of the earth for advice on their most pressing and desperate problems.

Among those who made the pilgrimage was a young man named Melisso, a nobleman of great wealth, who set out from his home city of Lajazzo. As he traveled toward Jerusalem, it happened that, leaving Antioch, he found himself riding alongside another young man named Giosefo, who was heading the same direction. As travelers do, they fell into conversation. Having learned who the other was and where he was from, Melisso asked him where he was going and why.

Giosefo explained that he was on his way to Solomon for advice about what to do with his wife — the most contrary, obstinate woman alive, whom he could not manage to straighten out with prayers, sweet talk, or any other method. Then he turned the question back on Melisso.

"I'm from Lajazzo," Melisso said, "and just as you have your problem, I have mine. I'm young and rich, and I spend my money freely hosting banquets and entertaining my fellow citizens. But the strange thing is, for all that, I can't seem to find a single person who actually likes me. So I'm going where you're going, to ask how I can make myself beloved."

They joined forces and traveled together until they reached Jerusalem, where, through the introduction of one of Solomon's courtiers, they were admitted into the king's presence. Melisso stepped forward and briefly explained his problem.

Solomon's answer was one word: "Love."

And with that, Melisso was immediately shown the door.

Then Giosefo came forward and told the king what he was there for. Solomon's only answer was: "Go to Goosebridge."

And with that, Giosefo was likewise hustled out of the king's presence without another word. He found Melisso waiting outside and told him what answer he'd received.

The two men pondered Solomon's words but couldn't extract any meaning or practical use from either response. Feeling like they'd been made fools of, they started the journey home.

After traveling for several days, they came to a river crossed by a fine bridge. A caravan of pack-mules and baggage horses was in the process of crossing, so they had to wait their turn. When almost all the animals had made it across, one of the mules balked — the way mules do — and absolutely refused to go forward. A muleteer grabbed a stick and started beating it, moderately at first, trying to get it moving. But the mule shied to one side, then the other, then tried to turn around entirely. It would not budge. The muleteer, now furious beyond all measure, began raining down the heaviest blows imaginable — on its head, on its flanks, on its hindquarters — but all to no avail.

Melisso and Giosefo stood watching this and kept calling out to the muleteer: "Easy, man! What are you doing? Are you trying to kill the animal? Why don't you try handling it gently? It'll go forward a lot faster than if you beat it like that."

The muleteer answered: "You know your horses. I know my mule. Let me handle this."

With that, he went right back to the cudgeling — and beat it so thoroughly, on one side and the other, that the mule finally gave in and crossed. The muleteer won.

As the two young men were about to ride on, Giosefo asked a poor man sitting at the bridgehead what the place was called.

"Sir," said the man, "this is called Goosebridge."

The instant Giosefo heard that name, Solomon's words came flooding back. He turned to Melisso and said, "Well, my friend, it looks like Solomon's advice might be good after all! I can see now, plain as day, that I had no idea how to beat my wife. But that muleteer just showed me what needs to be done."

They continued on and after some days reached Antioch, where Giosefo invited Melisso to stay and rest for a day or two. His wife received them sourly, as usual, and Giosefo told her to prepare supper according to Melisso's instructions. Melisso, seeing that his friend wanted him to play along, described the meal in a few simple words.

The wife, true to her established habit, did not follow Melisso's instructions but did more or less the exact opposite. Giosefo, seeing this, was annoyed. "Weren't you told how to prepare supper?" he asked.

The wife wheeled around haughtily. "What's this supposed to mean? Good grief, why don't you just eat, if you're going to eat? If I was told one thing, it seemed better to me to do it this way. If that suits you, fine. If not, leave it."

Melisso was amazed at the woman's answer and criticized her sharply. Giosefo, hearing this, said: "Wife, you're the same as you've always been. But trust me — I'm going to change your ways." Then he turned to Melisso. "Friend, we're about to see what Solomon's advice is really worth. But please don't let it bother you to watch, and think of it as entertainment. And so you won't try to stop me, just remember how the muleteer answered us when we felt sorry for his mule."

"I'm a guest in your house," said Melisso, "and I have no intention of interfering with whatever you see fit to do."

Giosefo found a stout round stick, cut from a young oak, and headed for the bedroom where his wife had retreated after leaving the table in a huff, grumbling the whole way. He grabbed her by the hair, threw her to the floor, and proceeded to give her a savage beating with the stick.

At first the wife screamed, then she started making threats. But seeing that Giosefo wasn't stopping, she began crying out for mercy, begging him for the love of God not to kill her and swearing she'd never go against his wishes again.

Still, he didn't let up. He kept beating her even harder — across the ribs, across the hips, across the shoulders — and didn't stop until he was too exhausted to continue. There wasn't a spot on the poor woman's back that wasn't black and blue.

When he was done, he went back to his friend and said, "Tomorrow we'll see how the advice to go to Goosebridge turned out." He rested a while, they washed their hands, ate supper, and went to bed at the proper hour.

Meanwhile, the wretched woman hauled herself off the floor in agony and collapsed onto the bed, where she rested as well as she could until morning. She rose early and sent a message to Giosefo asking what he'd like for dinner. He and Melisso had a good laugh about this together, and he gave her his instructions. When they returned at dinnertime, they found everything cooked to perfection and exactly as he'd ordered. They heartily praised the advice they'd been so slow to understand at first.

After a few days, Melisso took his leave of Giosefo and returned home. He told a man he knew — someone of real understanding — about the answer Solomon had given him.

"He couldn't have given you truer or better advice," the man said. "You know perfectly well that you don't actually love anyone. The hospitality you offer, the favors you do — you don't do them out of real affection for people, but out of vanity and the desire to show off. Love, then, as Solomon told you, and you'll be loved."

And so, on the one hand, the stubborn wife was corrected. And on the other, the young man learned to love and was loved in return.

Day 9, Story 10

Father Gianni, at the request of his friend Pietro, performs a magic spell to turn Pietro's wife into a mare. But when it comes time to attach the tail, Pietro ruins the whole enchantment by shouting that he doesn't want a tail.

The queen's story drew laughs from the young men and some murmuring from the ladies. Once they'd quieted down, Dioneo began:

"Lovely ladies, a black crow in a flock of white doves adds more beauty than a snow-white swan would, and in much the same way, a single fool among a group of sages doesn't just add luster to their wisdom — he provides entertainment and relief as well. Since all of you are models of discretion and good sense, I — who tend a bit toward the scatterbrained — should be all the more dear to you, because my shortcomings make your virtues shine that much brighter. You should therefore give me wider license to be myself, and put up with me more patiently than you would if I were wiser.

So I'm going to tell you a story — not a long one — that will show you how carefully you have to follow the instructions of anyone performing a magical spell, and how the smallest slip can ruin the whole thing.

A year or two back, there was a priest in Barletta named Father Gianni di Barolo. His parish was a poor one, so to make ends meet, he took to carting merchandise around with his mare to the various fairs in Apulia, buying and selling as he went. In the course of his travels, he struck up a close friendship with a man who called himself Pietro da Tresanti, who did the same kind of work with the help of a donkey. As a sign of their affection, Father Gianni always called him "Neighbor Pietro" in the Apulian style, and whenever Pietro came to Barletta, Father Gianni brought him home to the rectory and put him up as his guest, entertaining him as best he could.

Pietro, for his part, was very poor and had only a cramped little house in Tresanti that was barely big enough for himself, his young and attractive wife, and his donkey. But whenever Father Gianni came to Tresanti, Pietro brought him home and did his best to return the hospitality he'd received in Barletta. The problem was lodging: Pietro had only one miserable little bed, which he shared with his pretty wife. So when Father Gianni stayed over, his mare was stabled next to Pietro's donkey in a little shed, and the priest himself had to bed down on a pile of straw beside her.

Now, the wife knew how generously Father Gianni hosted her husband in Barletta, and more than once, when the priest visited, she'd offered to go sleep at the house of a neighbor woman named Zita Caraprese so that Father Gianni could share the bed with her husband. She'd suggested this to Father Gianni many times, but he would never hear of it.

"Neighbor Gemmata," he told her once, "don't worry about me. I'm perfectly comfortable. You see, whenever I feel like it, I turn this mare of mine into a beautiful young woman and sleep with her. Then when I'm done, I change her back into a mare. So I wouldn't dream of being separated from her."

The young woman was astonished but believed every word. She told her husband: "If he's really as close a friend as you say, why don't you have him teach you that spell? Then you could turn me into a mare and run your business with both the donkey and the mare. That way we'd earn double. And when we got home, you'd just turn me back into a woman."

Pietro, who was a bit thick, took this at face value. He thought it was an excellent idea and began pestering Father Gianni, as persistently as he knew how, to teach him the trick. Father Gianni did his best to talk sense into him, but when he saw it was hopeless, he said, "All right, fine — since you absolutely insist, we'll get up tomorrow morning before dawn, as usual, and I'll show you how it's done. To tell you the truth, the hardest part is putting on the tail, as you'll see."

When the time came — Pietro and Gemmata had barely slept all night, so eager were they — they got up just before daybreak and called Father Gianni. The priest rose in his nightshirt, came to Pietro's little bedroom, and said, "There's no one else in the world I'd do this for except you two. But since it's what you want, I'll do it — as long as you follow my instructions exactly, or the whole thing will fail."

They swore they'd do whatever he said. Father Gianni picked up the lamp, placed it in Pietro's hands, and told him: "Watch carefully what I do and memorize every word I say. Above all, no matter what you see or hear, do not say a single word — or you'll ruin everything. And pray to God that the tail sticks."

Pietro took the lamp and promised to obey. Father Gianni had Gemmata strip completely naked, then told her to get on all fours, like a mare. He instructed her, too, not to utter a word no matter what happened.

Then, running his hands over her face and head, he began the incantation: "Let this be a fine mare's head." Touching her hair, he said, "Let this be a fine mare's mane." Then he touched her arms: "Let these be fine mare's legs and hooves." Moving to her chest, he found it round and firm — and at that point, a certain something woke up that hadn't been invited, and stood right to attention. "Let this be a fine mare's chest," he said. He did the same with her back, her belly, her hindquarters, and her thighs and legs.

Finally, with nothing left to do but the tail, he hiked up his shirt, took hold of the tool he used for planting, thrust it briskly into the furrow that was made for it, and said: "And let this be a fine mare's tail."

Pietro, who had been watching every step of this with rapt attention, saw this last procedure and decided it was being done all wrong. "Wait!" he shouted. "Father Gianni, I don't want a tail there! I don't want a tail there!"

But the essential moisture, the kind that makes all plants take root, had already arrived. Father Gianni withdrew and said, "For God's sake, Neighbor Pietro — what have you done? Didn't I tell you not to say a word no matter what you saw? The mare was almost finished! But your talking has ruined everything, and now there's no way to do it over."

"Well, I didn't want that tail there!" said Pietro. "Why didn't you tell me to do it myself? Besides, you were putting it on too low."

"Because," Father Gianni replied, "you wouldn't have known how to attach it properly the first time — not as well as I can."

The young woman, hearing all this, stood up and said to her husband in complete sincerity, "You idiot! Why did you have to ruin everything for both of us? Have you ever seen a mare without a tail? So help me God, you're poor enough already, but you'd deserve to be even poorer."

Since Pietro's outburst had destroyed any possibility of turning the young woman into a mare, she got dressed again, thoroughly disappointed. And Pietro went back to plying his trade with just a donkey, the way he always had. He and Father Gianni headed off together to the Bitonto fair, and he never asked the priest for that particular favor again.

—-

How much the group laughed at this story — which the ladies understood rather better than Dioneo intended — you can well imagine. But with the day's stories now finished and the sun beginning to lose its heat, the queen recognized that her reign had reached its end. She stood, removed the crown from her head, and placed it on Panfilo's — the only one who had not yet been honored in this way — and said with a smile:

"My lord, a great responsibility falls to you, since you're the last, and it's up to you to make amends for any shortcomings of mine and of those who held this office before me. God grant you the grace to do it, just as He granted it to me when I made you king."

Panfilo accepted the honor gladly and replied, "Your own merits and those of my other subjects will ensure that I, like my predecessors, am judged worthy of praise." Then, having made the usual arrangements with the steward regarding everything that was needed, he turned to the waiting ladies and said:

"Dear ladies, it was the wish of Emilia, our queen today, to give you a rest by allowing you to speak on whatever pleased you most. Since you are now refreshed, I think it's time to return to our usual practice. I'd like each of you to prepare a story for tomorrow on this theme: people who have acted with generosity or magnificence, whether in matters of love or otherwise. The telling and hearing of such deeds will surely inspire your already noble spirits to act worthily. And so our lives, which can only be brief in this mortal body, will be made eternal through the glory of a good name — something that every person who doesn't merely serve their belly, as animals do, should not only desire but actively pursue."

The theme pleased the merry company, and with the new king's permission, they all rose and gave themselves over to their usual amusements, each pursuing whatever pastime appealed to them most. They carried on this way until suppertime, which they enjoyed in high spirits, served with care and elegance. After supper they got up for the customary dances, and when they'd sung a thousand little songs — more charming in their words than polished in their music — the king called on Neifile to sing one of her own. In a clear, bright voice, she cheerfully began without delay:

A young girl full of joy am I, > singing gladly in the blooming May, > all for love and sweet thoughts, light and free. > > Through the meadows wandering I go, > gazing at the crimson, gold, and white — > roses set with thorns and lilies bright — > and every flower I compare, just so, > unto the face of him whose love I know, > who took my heart and holds it still today, > with no desire but what his pleasure be. > > And when I find among them one that seems, > to my eye, most like his face, I seize > and kiss it, whisper to it all my dreams, > and lay my heart before it, all my pleas, > its joys and sorrows; then, with flowers like these, > I weave a wreath and bind it where it lay, > twined in my golden hair for all to see. > > The pleasure that the eye takes naturally > in gazing at a flower, that same delight > it gives me, as if I beheld the sight > of him whose gentle love has captured me. > What its sweet fragrance works in me, > no words could ever say — > but sighs bear honest witness, true and free. > > Those sighs, that from my breast both night and day > rise up, are never fierce or wild, > as other lovers' are, but warm and mild, > and straight they find their way > to my beloved, who, hearing, comes to stay > and give me joy; and when I'm like to say, > "Oh come, before I lose all hope" — comes he.

Neifile's song was warmly praised by the king and the other ladies alike. Then, since a good part of the night had already passed, the king ordered everyone to go and rest until morning.

Here ends the ninth day of the Decameron.

Day 10 — Introduction

On this last day of the Decameron, under the rule of Panfilo, the stories turn to those who have acted with extraordinary generosity or magnificence — in matters of love, or anything else.

A few clouds in the west still glowed red, while those in the east had already turned their edges to brilliant gold, when Panfilo rose and called for his companions and the ladies. Once everyone had gathered, he consulted with them about where they should go for the day's amusement, and then set out at an easy pace with Filomena and Fiammetta at his side, while all the others followed behind. They walked for a good while like this, chatting and laughing and making plans about their future life together. But when the sun began to grow uncomfortably hot, they made a long loop back to the palace. There they rinsed out their cups in the cool fountain and had a drink, then wandered through the pleasant shade of the garden until it was time to eat. After lunch and a nap — as was their custom — they gathered wherever the king pleased, and there he called on Neifile for the first story of the day. She cheerfully began.

Day 10, Story 1

A knight in the service of the King of Spain, believing himself poorly rewarded, is shown by the king — through a clever test — that his bad luck, not the king's ingratitude, is to blame. Afterward, the king rewards him magnificently.

"I can only consider it a great honor, dear ladies, that our king has chosen me to be the first to speak on the subject of magnificence — which is to the other virtues what the sun is to the rest of the sky: their light and their glory. So let me tell you a little story on the theme, one I find rather charming, and certainly worth remembering.

You should know that among all the fine gentlemen who have graced our city of Florence over the years, there was one — perhaps the finest of them all — named Messer Ruggieri de' Figiovanni. He was both rich and spirited, and seeing that the way of life in Tuscany offered little scope for a man of his talents, he resolved to go seek his fortune in the service of Alfonso, King of Spain, whose reputation for valor surpassed that of any other ruler of the age. So he set out for Spain, splendidly equipped with arms, horses, and attendants, and was graciously received by the king. He took up residence there, and between his lavish style of living and his remarkable feats of arms, he quickly made a name for himself as a man of real worth and courage.

But after he'd been there for some time, observing the king's habits closely, it seemed to him that Alfonso handed out castles, cities, and lordships with very little judgment — giving them to men who didn't deserve them. And since nothing at all had been given to him — a man who knew perfectly well what he was worth — he felt that his reputation would only suffer the longer he stayed. So he decided to leave and asked the king's permission to go.

The king granted his request and gave him one of the finest and best mules ever ridden, which was very welcome given the long journey ahead. But Alfonso also did something else: he quietly instructed a clever servant to find some way to ride alongside Messer Ruggieri without appearing to have been sent by the king, to take careful note of everything the knight said about him, and then the next morning to order him back to court.

The servant did as he was told. He waited for Ruggieri to leave the city, then fell in with him as if by chance, making pleasant conversation and letting on that he too was heading for Italy. So off they went, Ruggieri riding the king's mule, chatting about this and that with the servant, until around mid-morning, when he said, "I think we'd better let our animals relieve themselves." They stopped at a stable, and all the horses did their business — all except the mule. They rode on. The servant kept mental notes of everything the knight said. When they came to a river and were watering the animals, the mule finally decided to urinate — right there in the stream. Seeing this, Ruggieri said, "Damn you, you beast! You're just like the king who gave you to me!"

The servant filed that one away. But though he rode with the knight all that day, he heard nothing else about the king that wasn't the highest praise.

The next morning, when they'd mounted up and Ruggieri was about to ride on toward Tuscany, the servant delivered the king's command that he return to court. So back he went. When he arrived, the king — having already heard the report about the mule — summoned him with a cheerful expression and asked why he'd compared him to his mule, or rather, the mule to him.

"My lord," Ruggieri answered frankly, "I compared her to you because, just as you give where you shouldn't and don't give where you should, she likewise refused to go where she should have and went where she shouldn't."

"Messer Ruggieri," said the king, "if I haven't given to you as I've given to many others — men who are nothing compared to you — it wasn't because I failed to recognize you as a most valiant knight, worthy of every great reward. It's your fortune that has been at fault, not me. Your fortune wouldn't let me reward you as you deserved. And I'll prove it to you right now."

"My lord," replied Ruggieri, "I wasn't upset about not receiving gifts from you — I don't need to be any richer than I am. What bothered me was that you'd given no recognition at all to my service. Still, I accept your explanation as fair and honorable, and I'm ready to see whatever you'd like to show me, though I believe you without proof."

The king then led him into a great hall where, as he'd arranged in advance, two large locked chests had been placed. In front of all the assembled company, he said: "Messer Ruggieri, in one of these chests is my crown, the royal scepter, the orb, along with many fine belts, brooches, rings, and every precious jewel I own. The other is full of dirt. Choose one, and whichever you choose is yours. Then you'll see for yourself who has been ungrateful to your worth — me, or your bad luck."

Messer Ruggieri, seeing that this was the king's pleasure, chose one of the chests. When it was opened at Alfonso's command, it turned out to be the one full of dirt.

The king laughed. "Now you can see, Messer Ruggieri, that what I told you about your fortune is true. But your worth certainly deserves that I fight against its power. I know you have no desire to become a Spaniard, so I won't give you any castles or cities in this country. But the chest that fortune denied you — that one I will give you in spite of her, so you can carry it home to Tuscany and rightfully take pride in your worth before your countrymen, with my gifts as proof."

Messer Ruggieri took the chest, gave the king the kind of thanks that such a gift deserved, and joyfully carried it home to Tuscany."

Day 10, Story 2

Ghino di Tacco captures the Abbot of Cluny and cures him of his stomach complaint through an enforced simple diet, then lets him go. The abbot returns to Rome, reconciles Ghino with Pope Boniface, and has him made a prior of the Knights Hospitaller.

The magnificence shown by King Alfonso to the Florentine knight was duly praised by all, and the king, who had enjoyed the story greatly, called on Elisa to go next. She began at once:

"Lovely ladies, it's undeniable that for a king to be generous — and to show his generosity toward someone who served him well — is a great and praiseworthy thing. But what should we say when a churchman shows extraordinary magnanimity toward someone he could have treated as an enemy and no one would have blamed him for it? Surely we'd have to say that the king's generosity was a virtue, but the churchman's was practically a miracle — since the clergy are, as a rule, tighter with money than even women are, and sworn enemies of anything resembling liberality. What's more, while all people naturally hunger for revenge when they've been wronged, we see churchmen — for all their preaching about patience and the forgiveness of sins — pursuing vengeance more eagerly than anyone else. Well then, how a churchman showed true magnanimity — that you'll plainly see from my story.

Ghino di Tacco was a man famous for his savagery and his robberies. Having been exiled from Siena and being at war with the Counts of Santa Fiore, he seized the fortress of Radicofani in defiance of the Church of Rome and set up camp there, using his band of cutthroats to rob anyone who passed through the surrounding countryside.

Now, at this time Boniface the Eighth was pope in Rome, and the Abbot of Cluny came to visit the papal court. This abbot was reputed to be one of the richest prelates in the world, and while at court he ruined his stomach. His doctors advised him to go to the baths near Siena, assuring him he'd be cured without fail. So, having obtained the pope's permission, he set out in grand style — a great train of baggage, horses, and servants — paying no attention whatsoever to Ghino's reputation.

Ghino, hearing of his approach, spread his nets. Without letting a single servant boy escape, he surrounded the abbot and his entire household in a narrow pass. That done, he sent his most capable man, well attended, to the abbot with a very polite message: would His Lordship be pleased to come stay with Ghino at his castle?

The abbot answered furiously that he would do no such thing — he had no business with Ghino — and that he intended to ride on, and he'd like to see who would dare stop him.

The messenger replied humbly, "Sir, you've come into a part of the country where — God's power aside — there's nothing for us to fear, and where excommunications and interdicts have themselves been excommunicated. So, if you please, you'd really be better off cooperating with Ghino."

By this point the whole area had been surrounded by armed men. The abbot, seeing himself trapped along with all his people, grudgingly followed the messenger to the castle, furious every step of the way. His entire household and all his baggage came with him, and the horses and goods were secured without anything being touched. Ghino, following his own orders, had the abbot lodged alone in a tiny, dark, miserable room in one of the outbuildings, while everyone else was comfortably accommodated throughout the castle according to their rank.

Once this was arranged, Ghino went to the abbot and said, "Sir, Ghino — whose guest you are — sends his regards and asks where you were heading and for what reason."

The abbot, having by now swallowed his pride — like a wise man — told him where he was going and why.

Ghino heard him out, took his leave, and decided he'd cure the abbot's stomach himself, without any baths. He kept a big fire blazing in the little room and had it well guarded, and didn't return until the following morning. When he did, he brought two slices of toasted bread wrapped in a spotless white napkin and a large cup of his own Vernaccia wine from Corniglia, and said: "Sir, when Ghino was a young man, he studied medicine, and he says he learned that the best remedy for a stomach complaint is the one he's about to apply to you. These are the first step. Please eat and drink."

The abbot, whose hunger was by now greater than his desire to argue, ate the bread and drank the wine — though he did it with a very sour expression. Afterward, he made a number of haughty speeches, asked and demanded all sorts of things, and particularly insisted on seeing Ghino. Ghino let the bluster pass and politely answered what he could, assuring the abbot that Ghino would visit him at the earliest opportunity. Then he left.

He didn't return until the next day, when he brought the same thing: two slices of toast and a big glass of Vernaccia. He kept this up for several days, until he noticed that the abbot had eaten some dried beans that Ghino had deliberately and secretly left in the room. At that point, he asked the abbot, on Ghino's behalf, how his stomach was feeling.

"I'd feel fine," the abbot replied, "if I could just get out of his hands. And beyond that, all I want in the world is to eat — his remedies have cured me that well."

Ghino then had the abbot's own servants prepare a handsome room for him with his own furnishings, and arranged a magnificent banquet to which he invited the abbot's entire household along with many townspeople. The next morning, he went to the abbot and said, "Sir, since you're feeling well, it's time to leave the infirmary." He took him by the hand, led him to the fine room that had been prepared, and left him there in the company of his own people, while he went off to make sure the banquet would be truly splendid.

The abbot spent some time catching up with his men, telling them what his life had been like since his capture, while they in turn reported that Ghino had treated them wonderfully. When the hour came to eat, the abbot and all the rest were served excellent food and fine wines, course after course, in perfect order — though Ghino still didn't reveal himself to the abbot.

After the abbot had been living like this for several days, Ghino had all his baggage brought into one great hall and all his horses — down to the sorriest nag — assembled in a courtyard below the hall windows. Then he went to the abbot and asked how he was feeling and whether he thought he was strong enough to ride.

The abbot said he was plenty strong, his stomach was completely cured, and he'd be perfectly well once he was out of Ghino's hands.

Ghino then brought him into the hall where all his baggage was laid out, and led him to a window overlooking the courtyard where every one of his horses stood. "My lord Abbot," he said, "I want you to understand that it was being a gentleman — driven from his home, left poor, with many powerful enemies — and not any evil nature that made Ghino di Tacco (for I am he) a highway robber and an enemy of the Roman court. But because you seem to me a worthy man, I don't intend to treat you the way I'd treat anyone else who fell into my hands — taking whatever share of his goods I pleased. Instead, I want you, keeping my needs in mind, to decide for yourself what portion of your belongings you'd like to give me. Everything is here before you, and your horses are all in the courtyard below. Take part or take all of it — it's entirely up to you. And from this moment, you're free to go whenever you like."

The abbot was astonished to hear such generous words from a highway robber and was deeply pleased. His anger and resentment melted away on the spot — transformed, in fact, into genuine goodwill. He became Ghino's friend in his heart and ran to embrace him, saying: "I swear to God, to win the friendship of a man like you, I'd willingly endure a far worse ordeal than what I thought you'd put me through. Cursed be the fortune that forced you into such a wretched profession!"

Then, taking only a few necessities from his many possessions, and just a portion of his horses, the abbot left everything else to Ghino and returned to Rome.

The pope had heard about the abbot's capture and it had worried him greatly. When he saw the abbot, he asked him how the baths had done him.

"Holy Father," the abbot replied with a smile, "I found an excellent physician much closer than the baths, who cured me completely." And he told the whole story, which gave the pope a good laugh.

The abbot, continuing on — and moved by a generous spirit — asked the pope for a favor. The pope, expecting him to ask for something quite different, readily agreed to grant whatever he wished.

"Holy Father," said the abbot, "what I'm going to ask is that you restore your favor to Ghino di Tacco, my physician. Of all the capable and admirable men I've ever known, he is truly one of the most deserving. The wrong he does, I hold to be far more fortune's fault than his own. If you change his fortune by giving him the means to live according to his station, I have no doubt that in a very short time, you'll come to think of him as I do."

The pope, who was a man of large spirit and an admirer of worthy men, said he would gladly do it if Ghino was truly all the abbot claimed, and told him to bring the man to Rome with a guarantee of safe conduct.

So Ghino, at the abbot's invitation, came to the papal court under that assurance. He hadn't been around the pope long before Boniface recognized his worth, took him into favor, and bestowed on him a grand priory of the Knights Hospitaller, having first made him a knight of the order. Ghino held that office for the rest of his life, proving himself a loyal friend and servant of the Holy Church and the Abbot of Cluny."

Day 10, Story 3

Mitridanes, envious of Nathan's legendary hospitality and generosity, goes to kill him. He encounters Nathan himself without recognizing him, and Nathan — learning of the plan — tells him exactly how to carry it out. Mitridanes finds him in a grove as arranged, but upon recognizing him, is overcome with shame and becomes his friend.

Everyone agreed that what they'd just heard was nothing short of miraculous — a churchman acting with real magnanimity. But once the ladies had finished discussing it, the king called on Filostrato to continue, and he began at once:

"Noble ladies, the King of Spain's generosity was great, and the Abbot of Cluny's was perhaps something never heard of before. But I think you'll find it no less remarkable to hear about a man who, in order to do a kindness to someone who was literally thirsting for his blood — for his very life — quietly made up his mind to give it to him, and would have done it too, if the other had been willing to take it. Let me show you what I mean in a brief story.

It's well established — if we can trust the reports of various Genoese and other travelers who've been to those parts — that there once lived in the region of Cathay a man of noble birth and incomparable wealth named Nathan. His estate sat alongside a main road that everyone had to travel whether going from West to East or East to West, and he was a man of great and generous spirit who wanted his deeds to match his nature. So he assembled a huge workforce and, in an astonishingly short time, had built one of the finest, largest, and most magnificent palaces ever seen, furnished with everything you could possibly need for receiving and entertaining guests in style. With his large and excellent household staff, he welcomed and lavishly hosted everyone who came and went, and he kept up this admirable practice for so long that his fame spread not only throughout the East but across nearly the entire West as well.

He was already well along in years, though by no means tired of being hospitable, when his reputation happened to reach the ears of a young man named Mitridanes, who lived in a nearby country. Mitridanes knew himself to be every bit as wealthy as Nathan, and he grew envious of the old man's fame and virtues and resolved to eclipse them — or at least match them — through even greater liberality. He built a palace modeled on Nathan's and began showing the most extravagant courtesies imaginable to everyone who came or went in that region. In a short time, he too became very famous.

One day, while Mitridanes was sitting alone in the courtyard of his palace, a poor old woman came in through one of the gates and asked him for alms. He gave her some. She came back in through a second gate and got more. She kept this up twelve times in a row. When she came back a thirteenth time, Mitridanes said, "Good woman, you're certainly persistent in your begging" — but gave her something anyway.

The old woman, hearing these words, cried out: "Oh, the generosity of Nathan — how marvelous it is! I went into his palace through each of its thirty-two gates and asked him for alms every single time, and he never once showed any sign of recognizing me — he just gave and gave. But here, after only thirteen gates, I've been noticed and scolded!" And with that, she left and never came back.

Mitridanes, hearing the old woman's words, flew into a rage — because everything he heard about Nathan's fame felt like a diminishment of his own. "This is hopeless!" he said to himself. "When am I ever going to match Nathan's generosity in the big things, let alone surpass it, when I can't even come close to him in the smallest ones? I'm wearing myself out for nothing unless I remove him from the face of the earth. Old age isn't doing the job, so I'll have to do it with my own hands — and soon."

On this violent impulse, he mounted his horse with a small retinue, telling no one his real purpose, and after three days of riding arrived at Nathan's estate. He got there in the evening, and he told his companions to act as though they weren't with him and to find their own lodging until they heard from him further. Then he went on alone.

Not far from the magnificent palace, he came across Nathan himself, walking alone in the twilight, taking his evening stroll, dressed without any pomp at all. Not recognizing him, Mitridanes asked if perhaps he could tell him where Nathan lived.

"My son," Nathan answered warmly, "there's no one in these parts better able to show you than I am. I'll take you there whenever you like."

Mitridanes said he'd appreciate that very much, but added that, if possible, he'd rather not be seen or recognized by Nathan.

"I can arrange that too," Nathan said, "since it's what you want."

So Mitridanes dismounted and walked with Nathan to the splendid palace, where his host quickly drew him into delightful conversation. Nathan had one of his servants take the young man's horse, and, putting his lips close to the servant's ear, he ordered him to pass the word to everyone in the household: no one was to tell the visitor that he was Nathan. And so it was done. He put Mitridanes up in a beautiful room where no one visited him except the servants assigned to attend him, and had him treated with the highest honor, keeping him company himself.

After Mitridanes had stayed with him like this for a while, he asked his host — though he'd come to regard him with the respect one owes a father — who he was.

"I'm a lowly servant of Nathan's," the old man replied. "I've grown old with him since I was a boy, and he's never promoted me beyond what you see. So while everyone else sings his praises, I personally don't have much reason to thank him."

These words gave Mitridanes some hope that he might carry out his dark plan more safely and with more certainty. Nathan then courteously asked who he was and what brought him to these parts, offering whatever advice and help he could. Mitridanes hesitated for a while, but finally decided to trust him. After a long, roundabout conversation, he swore him to secrecy, then to assistance, and then revealed everything — who he was, why he'd come, and what had driven him to it.

Nathan, hearing this discourse and this cruel plan, was shaken to his core. But almost without hesitation, he answered with a steady mind and an unflinching expression: "Mitridanes, your father was a noble man, and you show yourself determined not to fall short of him by undertaking so lofty an enterprise — that is, to be generous to everyone. And I deeply admire the envy you bear toward Nathan's virtues, because if there were more like it, the world — miserable place that it is — would soon become a better one. I'll keep the plan you've shared with me an absolute secret. As for carrying it out, I can offer you useful advice rather than great practical help, and it's this: from here you can see a grove of trees, perhaps half a mile away. Nathan walks there alone nearly every morning, strolling for quite a long time. It will be easy enough for you to find him there and do what you will. But if you kill him, you should leave not by the way you came, but by the path that leads out of the grove to the left — it's a bit wilder, but it's closer to your country and safer for you."

Mitridanes took in this information, and after Nathan left him, he secretly sent word to his companions — who were also lodged at the palace — about where to meet him the next day.

When the new day came, Nathan — whose intentions were perfectly aligned with the advice he'd given Mitridanes, and who hadn't changed his mind one bit — went alone to the grove, to die.

Meanwhile, Mitridanes got up, took his bow and his sword (the only weapons he had), mounted his horse, and rode to the grove, where he spotted Nathan from a distance, walking alone. He decided that before he struck, he wanted to see the man up close and hear him speak. He rode toward him, grabbed him by the headband he wore, and said, "Old man — you're dead."

Nathan's only reply was: "Then I must have deserved it."

Mitridanes, hearing his voice and looking into his face, instantly recognized him as the man who had welcomed him so warmly, kept him such good company, and given him such faithful counsel. His fury collapsed at once, and his rage turned to shame. He flung away the sword he'd already drawn to strike, leapt from his horse, and threw himself weeping at Nathan's feet.

"Dearest father," he said, "now I see your generosity plainly — seeing the secrecy with which you came here to give me your life, a life I wanted to take for no good reason at all. But God, more concerned for my honor than I was myself, has opened the eyes of my understanding at the very moment I needed it most — eyes that vile envy had sealed shut. The more willing you were to give me what I asked for, the more I know I owe you penance for what I tried to do. Take whatever vengeance on me you think my crime deserves."

Nathan raised Mitridanes to his feet and embraced and kissed him tenderly. "My son," he said, "there's no need to ask for forgiveness, and none for me to grant it — whatever you choose to call your plan, whether wicked or otherwise. You didn't pursue it out of hatred, but because you wanted to be thought greater than I am. So live without any fear of me, and know that no man alive loves you more than I do, considering the nobility of your soul — a soul that has devoted itself not to hoarding money, the way misers do, but to spending what has already been earned. Don't be ashamed of having wanted to kill me so you could become famous, and don't imagine that I'm surprised by it. The greatest emperors and the most glorious kings have expanded their realms — and therefore their fame — by almost no art other than killing: not one man, as you would have done, but an infinite multitude, and by burning countries and demolishing cities besides. So if you wanted to kill just me to make yourself more famous, you weren't doing anything new or extraordinary — just something well established."

Mitridanes didn't try to excuse his terrible plan, but he did praise the honorable way Nathan had framed it. In the course of their conversation, he said he was amazed beyond words that Nathan had actually been willing to go to his death — and had even gone so far as to give him the means and the directions to make it happen.

"Mitridanes," Nathan replied, "I don't want you to wonder at my resolve or at the advice I gave you. Ever since I've been my own master and set out to do the same thing you've undertaken — to be generous to all — no one has ever come to my house without me satisfying their request, as far as it lay in my power. You came seeking my life. When I learned that was what you wanted, I immediately resolved to give it to you, so that you wouldn't be the only person ever to leave my house with your wish unfulfilled. And so that you could have what you desired, I gave you the advice I thought would best help you take my life without losing your own.

"I tell you again, and I beg you: if it pleases you, take it. Satisfy yourself with it. I don't know what better use I could make of it. I've spent eighty years on it, using it for my own pleasures and diversions, and I know that in the natural course of things — the way it goes for all men and all things — it can only be left to me a little while longer. So I think it's far better to give it away as a gift, the way I've always given and spent my other treasures, than to try to hold on to it until nature takes it from me against my will.

"Giving away a hundred years is no great thing. How much less, then, is it to give away the six or eight I have left? Take it, then, if you want it. I'm begging you — take it, if you have a mind to. Because in all the years I've lived here, I've never found anyone who wanted it, and I don't know when I'll find anyone who does, if you — the one person who's asked for it — don't take it. And even if someone else does come along eventually, I know that the longer I keep it, the less it will be worth. So before it gets any sorrier, take it — please."

Mitridanes was deeply ashamed. "God forbid," he said, "that I should take — let alone sever from you — something as precious as your life. I don't even want to desire it anymore, the way I did just now. Your life — far from wishing to shorten its years, I would gladly add my own to them."

Nathan answered at once: "And you'd really be willing to do that? You'd add your years to mine, and in doing so make me do something for you that I've never done for anyone — that is, take something of yours? I who have never taken anything from anyone?"

"Yes, I would," Mitridanes said quickly.

"Then," said Nathan, "here is what you must do. Stay here, young as you are, and live in my house and take the name of Nathan, while I go to your house and call myself Mitridanes from now on."

"If I knew how to do the job as well as you do and have always done," Mitridanes replied, "I'd accept your offer without a second thought. But I'm quite sure that anything I did would only diminish Nathan's fame, and since I have no intention of ruining in someone else what I don't know how to build in myself, I can't accept."

After many more courteous exchanges, they returned — at Nathan's urging — to his palace, where the old man entertained Mitridanes with the utmost honor for several days, encouraging his noble ambitions with all manner of wisdom and insight. When Mitridanes finally wished to go home with his companions, Nathan let him leave — having thoroughly convinced him that he would never be able to outdo Nathan in generosity."

Day 10, Story 4

Messer Gentile de' Carisendi, coming from Modena, opens the tomb of a woman he loves who has been buried alive. She is restored to life and gives birth to a son. Messer Gentile then returns both the woman and the child to her husband, Niccoluccio Caccianimico.

Everyone agreed that Nathan's generosity was truly extraordinary — surpassing that of the King of Spain and the Abbot of Cluny alike. But after enough had been said on the matter, the king looked toward Lauretta and signaled that he'd like her to tell the next story. She began at once:

"Young ladies, the things we've heard today have been magnificent and beautiful, and it seems to me there's hardly any territory left for the rest of us who still have to tell our stories — so thoroughly has the landscape of magnificence been covered — unless we turn to the affairs of love. And love always provides an abundance of material, no matter the subject. So, both for that reason and because a topic like this is especially suited to people our age, let me tell you about an act of magnanimity performed by a lover. All things considered, I think you'll find it no less remarkable than any of the others, if it's true that people will lavish treasures, forget their grudges, and risk their very lives — even their honor and reputation — for the sake of possessing the one they love.

In Bologna, that very noble city of Lombardy, there lived a gentleman of outstanding virtue and noble blood named Messer Gentile de' Carisendi. As a young man, he fell in love with a gentlewoman named Madonna Catalina, the wife of one Niccoluccio Caccianimico. His love was not returned, and so, when he was appointed governor of Modena, he went off to take up the post — practically in despair.

Meanwhile, Niccoluccio happened to be away from Bologna, and Madonna Catalina, who was pregnant, had gone to stay at a country estate about three miles outside the city. There she was suddenly struck by a terrible illness that overcame her so violently that every sign of life was extinguished. Several doctors pronounced her dead. Her closest relatives said they'd heard from her own lips that she hadn't been pregnant long enough for the baby to be fully formed, and so without worrying further about that, they buried her — with great lamentation — in a vault at a nearby church.

A friend of Messer Gentile's immediately sent him the news. Though the lady had never shown him the slightest favor, he grieved terribly. At last he said to himself: "So, Madonna Catalina — you're dead. While you were alive, I could never get so much as a single glance from you. But now that you can't defend yourself, I'm going to take a kiss or two, dead as you are."

Night came. He arranged everything secretly, mounted his horse with just one servant, and rode without stopping until he reached the place where she was buried. He opened the tomb, climbed in carefully, lay down beside her, put his face against hers, and kissed her again and again, weeping.

But then — as we know, men's desires never stay within any limit, and always reach for more, and a lover's desires most of all — having told himself he shouldn't linger, he thought: "Well, now that I'm here, why not touch her breast? I'll never touch her again, and I never have before." Overcome by this longing, he put his hand on her chest, and after holding it there a moment, he thought he felt her heart beating — faintly, ever so faintly. Pushing aside all fear, he searched more carefully and discovered that she was certainly not dead, though the life remaining in her seemed tenuous and weak. As gently as he possibly could, with his servant's help, he lifted her from the tomb, set her on his horse in front of him, and carried her secretly to his house in Bologna.

His mother lived there — a wise and worthy gentlewoman. After hearing the whole story from her son, she was moved to compassion and set about quietly reviving the lady with hot baths and the warmth of great fires. Madonna Catalina came to herself, heaved an enormous sigh, and said, "Oh God — where am I?"

"Don't worry," the good woman answered. "You're safe."

Catalina looked around, confused, unable to make sense of where she was. When she saw Messer Gentile standing before her, she was astonished and begged his mother to tell her how she'd gotten there. Messer Gentile told her everything, step by step. She was deeply upset, but after a moment she gave him whatever thanks she could. Then she begged him — by the love he had once borne her and by his sense of honor — not to subject her, in his house, to anything that would compromise her virtue or her husband's good name, and to let her go home as soon as daylight came.

"Madam," Messer Gentile replied, "whatever my feelings may have been in the past, from this moment forward — now and always — since God has granted me this grace of restoring you from death to life, and since it was my love for you that made it possible, I will never treat you, here or anywhere, as anything other than a dear sister. But this service I've done you tonight deserves some repayment. I'd ask you not to refuse me one favor."

The lady answered graciously that she was ready to grant it, provided it was in her power and it was honorable.

"Madam," he said, "your relatives and everyone in Bologna believes you are dead. No one is looking for you at home. So I'd like you, as a kindness to me, to stay here quietly with my mother until I return from Modena, which will be soon. My reason for asking is this: I intend to make a precious and solemn gift of you to your husband, in the presence of the most distinguished citizens of Bologna."

The lady felt deeply indebted to the gentleman and recognized that his request was an honorable one. So, much as she longed to let her family know she was alive, she made up her mind to do as he asked, and gave him her word.

She had barely finished speaking when she felt the pains of labor coming on. Not long after, tenderly cared for by Messer Gentile's mother, she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy — a joy that doubled both Messer Gentile's happiness and her own. He made sure she had everything she needed and was cared for as if she were his own wife, and then he returned quietly to Modena.

When his term as governor was nearly up and he was about to return to Bologna, he arranged for a great and splendid banquet to be held at his house on the morning of his arrival. He invited many gentlemen of the city, among them Niccoluccio Caccianimico. When he got home and dismounted, he found them all waiting for him. The lady, too, was there — more beautiful and healthy than ever — along with her little son, thriving. With indescribable joy, Messer Gentile seated his guests at the table and served them a magnificent meal of many courses.

As the feast was drawing to a close, having already told the lady what he planned to do and coordinated with her about how she should behave, he stood up and addressed the company:

"Gentlemen, I recall hearing that in Persia there is a custom — a rather lovely one, I think — that when a man wishes to pay the supreme honor to a friend, he invites him to his house and shows him the thing he holds most dear, whether it's his wife, his mistress, his daughter, or whatever else. He tells his friend that just as he shows him this treasure, so would he, if he could, even more willingly show him his very heart. I intend to observe this custom here in Bologna.

"You have honored my banquet with your presence, and I in turn wish to honor you, in the Persian fashion, by showing you the most precious thing I have, or ever will have, in the world. But before I do, I'd like your opinion on a little question I'm going to put to you. It's this:

"Suppose a man has a very loyal and good servant who falls gravely ill. The master, without waiting for the servant to die, has him carried out into the middle of the street and abandons him there — takes no more notice of him at all. Then a stranger comes along, is moved to pity, takes the sick man home, and through great care and expense nurses him back to health. Now — I want to know: if the stranger keeps this servant and puts him to work, can the original master fairly complain or blame the stranger for refusing to give him back?"

The gentlemen discussed it among themselves and, finding they all agreed, delegated the response to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, who was an eloquent and polished speaker. Niccoluccio first praised the Persian custom, then declared that he and all the rest were of the opinion that the first master had lost any right to his servant, since he had not merely abandoned him but actively thrown him away. Given the kindness the second man had shown, the servant had justly become his, and by keeping him he did the first master no injury, no violence, and no wrong whatsoever.

All the other guests — men of standing and good judgment — agreed unanimously with Niccoluccio's answer.

Messer Gentile, well pleased with this response, and especially pleased that Niccoluccio had been the one to give it, declared that he agreed as well. "And now," he said, "it's time for me to honor you as I promised."

He called two of his servants and sent them to the lady, whom he'd had magnificently dressed and adorned, with a message asking her to please come and grace the company with her presence. She took her beautiful little son in her arms and, attended by two servants, entered the banquet hall, where — at Messer Gentile's direction — she sat down beside one of the distinguished guests.

"Gentlemen," he said, "this is the thing I hold most dear in all the world, and always will. Look at her and tell me — do you think I have reason to feel that way?"

The guests showered her with compliments and warmly told Messer Gentile that he certainly should hold her dear. They studied her closely, and there were quite a few who would have sworn she was who she was — if they hadn't believed her to be dead.

But Niccoluccio stared at her harder than anyone. When Messer Gentile stepped away for a moment, Niccoluccio — burning to know — asked her whether she was a Bolognese lady or a foreigner. The lady heard herself being questioned by her own husband and could barely keep herself from answering. But to follow the plan, she said nothing. Someone else asked if the child was hers. Another asked if she was Messer Gentile's wife or related to him in some way. She answered none of them.

When Messer Gentile came back, one of the guests said, "Sir, this is a lovely creature of yours, but she seems to be mute. Is she?"

"Gentlemen," Messer Gentile replied, "the fact that she hasn't spoken yet is no small proof of her virtue."

"Well then," the man said, "tell us who she is."

"Gladly," said Messer Gentile, "but only if you'll all promise me that no one will move from his seat, no matter what I say, until I've finished my story."

Everyone promised. The tables were cleared, and Messer Gentile sat down beside the lady and said:

"Gentlemen, this lady is that loyal and faithful servant I asked you about a few minutes ago — the one who was held in little regard by her own people, who was tossed out into the street like something worthless and used up, and who was taken in by me. Through my care and by my own hand, I pulled her from the jaws of death. God, seeing my good intentions, allowed me to transform her from a terrifying corpse into the beautiful woman you see before you.

"But let me tell you more clearly how this happened." Then, starting from when he first fell in love with her, he laid out the whole story in detail, to the utter amazement of everyone listening. When he'd finished, he added: "And so, if you — and especially you, Niccoluccio — haven't changed your opinion since a few minutes ago, this lady is rightfully mine, and no one can demand her back with any just claim."

No one said a word. They all waited to hear what he would say next. Niccoluccio, the lady, and several others in the room wept with emotion.

Then Messer Gentile rose to his feet. He took the little child in his arms and the lady by the hand, and walked over to Niccoluccio.

"Stand up, my friend," he said. "I'm not returning your wife to you — the wife your relatives and hers threw away. But I do wish to make you a gift of this lady, my dear friend, along with her little son, who I'm certain was fathered by you, and whom I held at his baptism and named Gentile. I ask you not to love her any less for having lived in my house for nearly three months, because I swear to you — by the God who perhaps made me fall in love with her in the first place so that my love could be, as it has in fact been, the instrument of her salvation — she has never lived more chastely, whether with her father, her mother, or with you, than she has lived with my mother in my house."

Then he turned to the lady and said: "Madam, from this moment I release you from every promise you made me, and I leave you free to return to Niccoluccio."

With that, he placed the lady and the child in Niccoluccio's arms, and went back to his seat.

Niccoluccio received them with overwhelming joy — all the greater because he'd been so far from hoping for anything like this. He thanked Messer Gentile as best he could and knew how, while everyone else in the room — all of them weeping with emotion — praised Messer Gentile to the skies. And he was praised by everyone who heard the story afterward.

The lady was welcomed home with tremendous rejoicing and was long regarded with wonder by the people of Bologna, as one risen from the dead. And Messer Gentile remained a friend to Niccoluccio, and to his family, and to the lady's family, for the rest of his life.

So what do you say, dear ladies? Do you think a king giving away his scepter and his crown, or an abbot reconciling an outlaw with the pope at no cost to himself, or an old man offering his throat to his would-be murderer's knife — do any of those compare to what Messer Gentile did? He was young and passionate. He believed he had every right to what other people's carelessness had thrown away and his own good fortune had placed in his hands. And yet he not only mastered his desire with honor, but freely gave back the very thing he had spent all his thoughts coveting and scheming to win. No — none of the magnificences we've heard about today can match this one."

Day 10, Story 5

Madonna Dianora demands that Messer Ansaldo produce a garden in full bloom in January — an impossible task. He hires a magician who pulls it off, but when he learns that her husband generously sent her to keep her promise, Ansaldo releases her from it. Then the magician, not to be outdone, forgives Ansaldo's debt. A chain of noble renunciations.

Messer Gentile having been praised to the skies by the whole company, the king called on Emilia to continue. She began eagerly, as if she couldn't wait to speak: "Dear ladies, no one can reasonably deny that Messer Gentile acted magnificently. But if anyone claims his generosity can't be surpassed, I don't think it'll be hard to show that more is possible — as I intend to demonstrate in a little story of my own.

In Friuli — a cold country, but beautiful, with fine mountains and clear springs and rivers — there's a city called Udine. There once lived a lovely and noble lady called Madonna Dianora, wife of a wealthy gentleman named Gilberto, who was easy-going and good-natured. Dianora's beauty attracted the passionate attention of a great nobleman named Messer Ansaldo Gradense, a man of high standing and widely known for his courage and courtesy. He loved her desperately and did everything he could to win her love, bombarding her with messages. But he was wasting his time.

Eventually his persistence became so tiresome to the lady — who found that no matter how many times she turned him down, he still wouldn't stop — that she decided to get rid of him once and for all by making an outrageous demand, one she was certain was impossible.

She said to the woman who kept coming to her on Ansaldo's behalf: "Good woman, you've told me over and over that Messer Ansaldo loves me above all things, and you've offered me extraordinary gifts on his behalf. I'd rather he kept those to himself, because no amount of gifts will ever persuade me to love him or give him what he wants. But if I could be convinced that he truly loves me as much as you say, then I might bring myself to love him and do as he asks. So if he's willing to prove it by doing what I require, I'll be ready to obey his wishes."

"And what would that be, my lady?" asked the woman.

"Here's what I want," Dianora replied. "This coming January, I want a garden near this city — full of green grass, flowers, and trees in full leaf, exactly as if it were May. If he can't manage that, then he'd better never send you or anyone else to me again. Because if he keeps pestering me, I swear — as surely as I've kept his pursuit hidden from my husband and my family until now — I'll go to them and find another way to be rid of him."

When the gentleman heard his lady's demand and her offer, he knew perfectly well that it was a hard thing, practically impossible, and that she'd asked it only to destroy his hopes. But he made up his mind to try everything in his power. He sent inquiries all over the world looking for someone who could help him, and at last he found a man who offered — for a very substantial fee — to do the job through magic.

Ansaldo agreed on the price, paid handsomely, and waited for the appointed time. When it came — deep in the dead of winter, with everything buried under snow and ice — the magician went to work in a beautiful meadow just outside the city. On the night before the first of January, he used his arts so effectively that by morning (according to everyone who saw it) there stood one of the loveliest gardens anyone had ever laid eyes on, with green grass and trees and fruits of every kind.

Ansaldo was thrilled. He had the finest fruits and the most beautiful flowers picked and sent secretly to his lady, inviting her to come see the garden she had demanded — so she could judge for herself how much he loved her and, remembering her sworn promise, find a way as a woman of honor to keep it.

The lady, seeing the fruits and flowers and having already heard from many people about this miraculous garden, began to regret her promise. But curiosity got the better of her regret, and she went with several other ladies of the city to see the garden. After admiring it with no small astonishment, she returned home the most wretched woman alive, thinking about what she was now obligated to do.

Her misery was so obvious she couldn't hide it. Gilberto noticed and pressed her to tell him what was wrong. For a long time she said nothing, out of shame. But at last, forced to speak, she told him the whole story from beginning to end.

Gilberto was furious at first. But then, considering his wife's pure intentions and setting aside his anger for wiser counsel, he said: "Dianora, it isn't the part of a wise or virtuous woman to listen to that kind of proposition or to bargain away her honor under any conditions. Words that reach the heart through the ears are more powerful than people realize, and practically anything becomes possible to a man in love. So you were wrong — first to listen, and then to negotiate.

"But since I know the purity of your intentions, I'm going to do something to free you from this promise that probably no other husband would do. And I'm partly motivated by fear of the magician — if you cheat Ansaldo, the magician might make us pay for it. I want you to go to him and try to find a way to be released from your promise while preserving your honor. But if there's no other way — then for this once, you may give him your body, but not your soul."

His wife wept at this and refused the favor, but no matter how much she protested, Gilberto insisted.

So the next morning, at dawn, without bothering to dress up, Madonna Dianora set out for Messer Ansaldo's house with two servants walking ahead of her and a maid behind.

When Ansaldo heard that his lady had come to him, he was astonished. He sent for the magician and said, "Come see what a treasure your skills have won me." Then he went out to greet her and received her with courtesy and respect, without any sign of vulgar eagerness. They all went into a handsome room where a good fire was burning. He offered her a seat and said:

"My lady, I beg you — if the long love I've borne you deserves any reward at all — please tell me honestly what has brought you here at this hour and in such company."

The lady, her face flushed with shame and her eyes brimming with tears, answered: "Sir, it isn't love for you or any promise I made that brings me here, but the command of my husband. He cared more about satisfying your obsessive passion than about his own honor or mine. And by his order, I am prepared, this once, to do whatever you wish."

If Ansaldo had been amazed to see her arrive, he was far more amazed when he heard these words. Moved by Gilberto's generosity, his desire began to give way to compassion.

"God forbid," he said, "that if what you say is true, I should be the one to ruin the honor of a man who has shown such compassion for my love. As long as you wish to stay here, you'll be treated exactly as if you were my sister. And whenever you're ready to leave, you're free to go — provided you give your husband whatever thanks you think are fitting for courtesy as extraordinary as his, and that you think of me from now on as a brother and a friend."

The lady could hardly contain her joy. "Given the kind of man you are," she said, "nothing could have made me believe this visit would end any differently. And I will always be grateful to you for it." Then she took her leave and returned under honorable escort to Gilberto, and told him everything that had happened. From that day on, a deep and loyal friendship grew between Gilberto and Messer Ansaldo.

Now, the magician — to whom Ansaldo was about to pay the agreed-upon fee — had observed Gilberto's generosity toward his wife's admirer and Ansaldo's generosity toward the lady. He said: "God forbid, now that I've seen Gilberto so generous with his honor and you so generous with your love, that I shouldn't be equally generous with my fee. I can see you could use the money, so keep it."

The gentleman was embarrassed and tried his best to make the magician accept payment, or at least part of it. But it was no use. After three days, the magician made the garden vanish and went on his way. Ansaldo wished him well, and from that point on, having extinguished his lustful passion for the lady, he lived with nothing but honest, honorable affection for her.

So what do you say, dear ladies? Should we rank the other story's generosity — where the lady was practically dead and the love already cooled from exhaustion — above the generosity of Messer Ansaldo, whose love burned hotter than ever, who held the prize he'd pursued for so long right in his hands, and who gave it up anyway? It seems to me it would be foolish to pretend the two are even."

Day 10, Story 6

King Charles the Old, victorious conqueror, falls in love with two beautiful young girls but, ashamed of his foolish passion, honorably marries them both to noble husbands instead.

It would take far too long to recount all the debate among the ladies about who had shown the greatest generosity — Gilberto, Messer Ansaldo, or the magician — in the affair of Madonna Dianora. But after the king let them argue for a while, he looked at Fiammetta and told her to put an end to their dispute by telling a story. She didn't hesitate:

"Distinguished ladies, I've always believed that in gatherings like ours, we should talk freely enough that people don't get bogged down in narrow arguments about what's already been said — that sort of thing is better suited to scholars in their lecture halls than to us women, who have enough to worry about with our spindles and distaffs. So since you're all at cross-purposes over what's already been told, I'll set aside the story I had in mind — which might have fueled more debate — and tell you instead about a valiant king who acted nobly in a matter of love, without in the least compromising his honor.

Every one of you must have heard of King Charles the Old — or Charles the First — whose magnificent campaigns, and especially the glorious victory he won over King Manfred, drove the Ghibellines out of Florence and brought the Guelphs back. As a result, a certain gentleman named Messer Neri degli Uberti left the city with his entire household and a great deal of money, determined to take refuge nowhere except under King Charles's protection. He settled in Castellammare di Stabia and there, about a crossbow-shot away from the other houses, among the olive trees, walnuts, and chestnuts that the countryside is full of, he bought an estate and built a fine, comfortable house. Alongside it he laid out a beautiful garden, and in the center — having plenty of running water — he created a lovely, clear fishpond in the local style and stocked it with fish.

While he was busy making his garden more beautiful every day, it happened that King Charles came to Castellammare for some rest during the hot season. Hearing reports of the beauty of Messer Neri's garden, he wanted to see it. But when he learned who owned it — that the man belonged to the faction opposed to his own — he decided that the situation called for a gentler approach. He sent word that he'd like to come and have a quiet supper in the garden that evening, with just four companions.

Messer Neri was delighted. He made lavish preparations, briefed his household on what was expected, and received the king in his beautiful garden as warmly and graciously as he possibly could. The king surveyed the entire garden and the house, admired everything, washed his hands, and sat down at one of the tables set beside the fishpond. He had Count Guy de Montfort seated on one side of him and Messer Neri on the other, and told the remaining three companions to serve them according to the arrangement their host had planned. The food was exquisite, the wines were the finest and most expensive available, and the whole affair was elegant, orderly, and perfectly quiet — all of which the king warmly praised.

As he sat there enjoying his meal and the peaceful setting, two young girls entered the garden. They were about fifteen years old, with hair like spun gold, all in ringlets and hanging loose, crowned with delicate garlands of periwinkle blossoms. Their faces were so fine and lovely they looked more like angels than anything else. Each wore a dress of the sheerest white linen fitted close to the body, clinging from the waist up and falling in wide, tent-like folds to their feet. The one in front carried a pair of hand-nets on her left shoulder and a long pole in her right hand. The other had a frying pan on her left shoulder, with a bundle of firewood tucked under the same arm, and in her other hands she carried a trivet, a flask of oil, and a lit torch.

The king stared at them in wonder, waiting to see what this was all about. The girls came forward modestly, blushing, and curtsied to the king. Then they made their way to the fishpond. The one with the frying pan set it down along with the other things, and taking the pole from her companion, they both waded into the water, which came up to their chests. Meanwhile one of Messer Neri's servants briskly lit a fire under the trivet, set the pan on top, poured in oil, and waited for the girls to toss him some fish.

One of them probed with the pole in the spots where she knew the fish were hiding while the other stood ready with the net. In no time they were catching fish one after another, to the king's enormous pleasure — he watched them intently. They threw some of their catch to the servant, who put them in the pan practically still alive, and then, as they'd been coached, they began picking out the finest fish and tossing them right onto the table in front of the king and his companions. The fish flopped around on the table, which delighted the king to no end. He picked some up and sportingly tossed them back to the girls. They kept this game up for a while until the servant had finished cooking the fish that had been given to him, and these were then served to the king — more as a novelty than as any especially rare dish, since that was what Messer Neri had arranged.

When the girls saw the fish had been cooked and they'd caught enough, they waded out of the pond. Their thin white dresses clung to their skin, hiding almost nothing of their slender bodies. They passed shyly before the king and went back into the house.

The king, and the count, and the others who were serving had all studied the two girls closely, and every one of them privately judged them to be extraordinarily beautiful and graceful, with perfect manners to match. But they'd pleased the king above all. He had watched every part of their bodies so intently as they came out of the water that if someone had stuck him with a pin right then, he wouldn't have felt it. The more he thought about them — without knowing who they were — the more he felt a powerful desire stirring in his heart. He could tell he was in danger of falling seriously in love if he didn't get a hold of himself. He couldn't even decide which one attracted him more, since they were so perfectly alike.

After brooding on this for a while, he turned to Messer Neri and asked who the two girls were.

"My lord," the gentleman replied, "they are my twin daughters. One is called Ginevra the Fair and the other Isotta the Blonde."

The king showered them with praise and urged him to see them married, though Messer Neri begged off, saying he no longer had the means.

By this point, nothing was left of the supper but the fruit course, and the two girls returned in beautiful gowns of silk, carrying two great silver platters heaped with the season's fruits, which they placed on the table before the king. Then they stepped back a little and began to sing a song that opened:

Where I have come, O Love, > it could not be told at length, and so forth...

They sang with such sweetness and such delight that to the king, who watched and listened in rapture, it seemed as if every angel in heaven had descended to sing. When the song was finished, they knelt and respectfully asked the king's leave to go. Though it pained him to let them, he put on a cheerful face and gave his permission.

Supper over, the king mounted his horse with his companions and left Messer Neri's, returning to the royal lodging while making conversation about one thing and another. But he kept his obsession to himself. No matter what important affairs came up, he couldn't forget the beauty and grace of Ginevra the Fair — and for love of her, he loved her sister too, since the two were identical. He became so entangled in the snares of love that he could think of almost nothing else. He invented excuses to maintain a close relationship with Messer Neri and visited that beautiful garden again and again, just to see Ginevra.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, and not knowing what else to do, he made up his mind to take not one but both of the girls from their father. He revealed both his passion and his plan to Count Guy, who was an honorable man.

"My lord," the count said, "I'm astonished at what you're telling me — more so than anyone else would be, because it seems to me I've known your character better than anyone from your childhood to now. I can't recall you ever having such a passion in your youth, when Love's talons might have gripped you more easily. And now, when you're getting on in years, this infatuation strikes me as nothing short of miraculous. If it were my place to reprimand you, I know exactly what I'd say — considering that you're still wearing your armor in a newly conquered kingdom, among a people you don't know yet, a people full of tricks and treachery, and you're completely occupied with the gravest cares and the most important affairs of state. You haven't even secured your position yet, and amidst all this, you've made room for the temptations of love?

"This isn't the behavior of a great king. It's the behavior of a lovesick boy.

"And what's worse — far worse — you say you've decided to take both daughters from a gentleman who entertained you in his own home beyond his means, and who, to do you even greater honor, showed you these girls practically naked. That should tell you how much faith he has in you — how firmly he believes you to be a king and not a wolf.

"Have you so quickly forgotten that it was Manfred's violence against women that opened the door of this kingdom to you? What treason could ever deserve eternal punishment more than this would — taking from a man who honors you as his guest his pride, his hope, and his comfort? What would people say if you did it?

"Maybe you think it would be excuse enough to say, 'I did it because he's a Ghibelline.' Is this the justice of kings — that those who come to them in good faith should be treated this way, whoever they are?

"Let me tell you, Your Majesty: it was a very great glory to have conquered Manfred. But it is a far greater glory to conquer yourself. You who must correct others — master your own appetites, and don't let this stain ruin everything you've so gloriously achieved."

These words cut the king to the quick, and they stung all the more because he knew they were true. After heaving several deep sighs, he said: "Count, I believe that for a well-trained soldier, every enemy, however powerful, is weak and easy to defeat compared with his own desires. But great as the struggle is, and incredible as the strength it demands — your words have stirred me so deeply that before many days have passed, I will prove to you by my actions that just as I know how to conquer others, I also know how to conquer myself."

Not many days after this conversation, the king returned to Naples. Determined both to deny himself any opportunity to act dishonorably and to repay Messer Neri for his hospitality, he resolved — painful as it was to make other men the owners of what he desired more than anything in the world — to marry the two girls off. And not as Messer Neri's daughters, but as if they were his own.

With Messer Neri's consent, he provided magnificent dowries and gave Ginevra the Fair in marriage to Messer Maffeo da Palizzi, and Isotta the Blonde to Messer Guglielmo della Magna — both noble cavaliers and great barons. Then, with inexpressible heartache, he turned them over and withdrew to Apulia, where through relentless, grueling activity he wore down the fire of his desire until at last he had burst and broken the chains of love and was free of that passion for the rest of his life.

Some people might say it was a small thing for a king to have married off two girls, and I'd grant that. But I call it a great thing — a very great thing — when you consider that it was a king in love who did this, who married the woman he loved to another man, without ever having picked a single leaf or flower or fruit from the garden of his love. That's how this great-hearted king acted: magnificently rewarding a noble gentleman, honorably providing for the young women he loved, and bravely conquering himself."

Day 10, Story 7

King Pedro of Aragon discovers that a young girl named Lisa has fallen desperately in love with him and is wasting away. He comforts her, arranges her marriage to a noble young man, kisses her on the forehead, and declares himself her knight for life.

Fiammetta finished her story, and King Charles's noble self-mastery was warmly praised by all — though there was one lady present who, being a Ghibelline, was reluctant to give him any credit. Then, at the king's command, Pampinea began:

"No sensible person, dear ladies, would disagree with what you've said about good King Charles — unless she has some other reason to hold a grudge against him. But since a story has come to my mind about something equally admirable, done by one of his enemies for a Florentine girl, I'd like to tell it to you.

At the time of the French expulsion from Sicily, there was a Florentine apothecary living in Palermo — a very wealthy man named Bernardo Puccini. By his wife he had an only daughter, a very beautiful girl who was already old enough to marry. Her name was Lisa.

Now, when King Pedro of Aragon became lord of the island, he held a grand celebration with all his barons in Palermo, jousting in the Catalan fashion. It happened that Bernardo's daughter Lisa was watching from a window with some other ladies when she saw the king running at the ring. He was so magnificent that after watching him once, twice, and then again, she fell passionately in love with him.

When the festival was over and she was back in her father's house, she could think of nothing else but this exalted, impossibly out-of-reach love. What tormented her most was the awareness of her own humble station, which left her almost no ground for hope. Yet she couldn't bring herself to stop loving the king, though she didn't dare reveal her feelings to anyone for fear of making things even worse.

The king, meanwhile, had neither noticed nor given her a thought, which caused her pain beyond anything that can be imagined. And so it went: love kept growing, melancholy piled on top of melancholy, and the beautiful girl, unable to endure it any longer, fell sick. Day by day she wasted visibly away, like snow in the sun.

Her father and mother, distraught at what was happening, did everything they could to encourage her and help her, bringing in doctors, trying every medicine. But nothing worked. She had given up on her love, and she had decided she didn't want to live any longer.

One day, when her father offered to do anything in the world that might please her, she hit upon an idea. If she could manage it properly, she would make the king aware of her love and her decision before she died. So she asked her father to send for Minuccio d'Arezzo.

This Minuccio was considered one of the finest and most polished singers and musicians of the day, and the king enjoyed his company. Bernardo assumed Lisa just wanted to hear some music to lift her spirits, so he sent for the man. Minuccio, who was warm-hearted and obliging, came to her right away. After cheering her up a bit with some kind words, he played a few tunes softly on his viol and then sang her several songs — which, far from soothing her, only poured fuel on the fire of her passion.

Then she told him she needed to speak with him alone. When everyone else had left the room, she said:

"Minuccio, I've chosen you to be the faithful keeper of a secret of mine. First, I need you to promise never to reveal it to anyone except the person I'm about to name. And second, I need you to help me in whatever way you can. Please, I beg you.

"Here's the truth, Minuccio. On the day our lord King Pedro held the great celebration to honor his accession to the throne, I happened to see him jousting at just the right moment — and a fire was kindled in my heart that has brought me to the state you see me in now. I know how absurd it is for someone like me to be in love with a king, and yet I can't drive this feeling away, or even lessen it. The pain has become more than I can bear, and I've chosen to die — which I will.

"But it's true that I would die in terrible anguish if the king didn't know about it first. I can't think of anyone better than you to make my feelings known to him. So I'm entrusting this to you, and I beg you not to refuse. And when you've done it, please come tell me, so that I can die in some peace and be free of this suffering."

She said this through her tears, then fell silent.

Minuccio marveled at the girl's greatness of spirit — and at the grim resolve that went with it. He felt deeply for her. Then it occurred to him how he might help her honorably.

"Lisa," he said, "I give you my word — you can trust it absolutely — that you'll never find yourself betrayed by me. And I admire you for setting your heart on so great a king. I offer you my help, and I'm confident that if you'll just take courage, I can do something within three days that will bring you news you'll be very glad to hear. And I don't want to waste any time."

Lisa pleaded with him again, promised to take heart, and wished him godspeed.

Minuccio went straight to a man named Mico da Siena, who was an excellent poet in those days, and got him to compose the following song:

Bestir yourself, O Love, and go to my lord, > And tell him all the torments that I bear; > Tell him that I shall die, > Concealing my desire out of fear.

Love, with clasped hands I beg your mercy, so > That you might go to where my lord resides. > Tell him I love and long for him, for see, > My heart he has so fiercely set alight; > Yes, for the fire that burns through all of me, > I fear that death will come, I know not when > I'll be released from pain so sharp and cruel > As what I suffer, longing, for his sake, > In shame and fear — ah me, > For God's sake, let him know what I endure.

Since first I fell in love with him, O Love, > You never gave me courage enough to dare > Even once to show my lord > My love and longing openly; > My lord, who makes me grieve so bitterly. > To die like this would be so hard to bear. > Perhaps — for he is generous and kind — > It would not anger him to learn what pain > I feel, if only you would deign > To grant me boldness to reveal my fire.

Yet since it was not your will to give, > O Love, such confidence that I might show > By look or sign or letter what is in my heart > To my lord, for my deliverance, > I beg you, sweet my master, by your art, > Go to him and remind him of that day > I saw him bear his shield and lance > Among the other knights, and looking on, > Fell so desperately in love > My heart now perishes and fades away.

Minuccio immediately set these words to a soft, plaintive melody, exactly the kind the subject called for. On the third day he went to court, where King Pedro was still at dinner, and the king asked him to sing something to his viol. He launched into the song with such sweetness that everyone in the royal hall seemed struck dumb — they all stood perfectly still, the king perhaps more rapt than anyone.

When Minuccio finished, the king asked where the song had come from. He didn't think he'd ever heard it before.

"My lord," the musician replied, "the words and the music were composed less than three days ago."

The king asked who it had been written for.

"I can only tell that to you alone," Minuccio said.

The king, eager to hear, had the tables cleared and then called Minuccio into his private chamber. There the musician told him the whole story, exactly as he'd heard it from Lisa.

King Pedro was deeply moved. He praised the girl warmly and declared that so worthy a young woman deserved his compassion. He told Minuccio to go comfort her on his behalf and assure her that the king himself would come to visit her that evening, around vespers.

Minuccio, overjoyed to be carrying such wonderful news, hurried straight to the girl with his viol and, speaking to her privately, told her everything that had happened. Then he sang her the song. Lisa was so happy, so relieved, that she immediately began showing signs of real improvement. She waited in a fever of anticipation for vespers and the king's visit, while no one else in the household had any idea what was going on.

Meanwhile, King Pedro — who was a kind and generous prince — had been thinking over everything Minuccio had told him. He knew the girl and remembered her beauty, and his heart went out to her even more. Toward vespers, he mounted his horse, pretending he was just going out for a ride, and made his way to the apothecary's house. He asked to see a very fine garden that Bernardo owned, and once inside, he asked what had become of the apothecary's daughter and whether she'd been married yet.

"My lord," Bernardo replied, "she isn't married. In fact, she's been very ill — though I must say, since this afternoon she's made a remarkable recovery."

The king understood at once what that recovery meant. "It would truly be a shame," he said, "for such a beautiful creature to be taken from the world so young. Let us go and visit her."

A little while later, with just two companions and Bernardo, he went up to her room. He walked over to the bed where the girl was propped up, waiting for him with barely contained impatience. He took her by the hand and said:

"What's the meaning of this, my dear? You're young — you should be the one cheering up other women, not lying here sick. We'd be grateful if you'd do us the favor of getting well, for our sake."

Feeling the touch of the hands of the man she loved above everything in the world, the girl was a little embarrassed but felt such joy in her heart that she might as well have been in Paradise. She answered him as best she could:

"My lord, it was my attempt to force my small strength to bear far too heavy a burden that brought on this illness. But thanks to your kindness, you'll soon see me free of it."

Only the king understood the hidden meaning in her words, and he thought more highly of her with every moment. More than once he silently cursed fortune for making her the daughter of an apothecary. He stayed with her for a while, comforted her further, and then took his leave.

The king's humanity was widely praised and considered a great honor for both the apothecary and his daughter. And Lisa, as content as any woman ever was with her beloved, sustained by new hope, recovered in a matter of days and became more beautiful than ever.

Once she was well again, the king consulted with the queen about what reward they should give the girl for such devoted love. One day he rode out with many of his barons to the apothecary's house, entered the garden, and sent for Bernardo and his daughter. Then the queen arrived with a large company of ladies, and they welcomed Lisa into their midst and began celebrating.

After a while, the king and queen called Lisa over to them, and the king said:

"Noble girl, the great love you've shown us has won you a great honor — one we hope you'll be pleased with, for our sake. Since you're old enough to marry, we'd like you to take as your husband the man we choose for you. And in spite of this, we intend to call ourselves your knight forever — asking nothing more of so great a love than a single kiss."

The girl's face turned scarlet with embarrassment, but making the king's wishes her own, she replied in a soft voice:

"My lord, I'm quite sure that if it were known I had fallen in love with you, most people would think I'd lost my mind — that I'd forgotten who I am and had no idea of the distance between us. But God, who alone sees into the hearts of mortals, knows that in the very first hour you pleased me, I knew full well you were a king and I was the daughter of Bernardo the apothecary, and that it was utterly wrong for me to aim so high with the fire in my soul.

"But as you know far better than I, no one in this world falls in love by rational choice. We fall according to appetite and impulse, and against that law I fought with all my might, again and again, until I could fight no more. I loved you, I love you, and I will always love you.

"But from the very first moment I gave in to this love, I resolved to make your will mine. So not only will I gladly accept the husband you choose for me, and hold him dear — since that will be my honor and my fortune — but if you told me to walk through fire, I would do it happily, if I thought it would please you.

"To have a king for my knight — you know how far beyond my station that is, so I'll say no more about it. And the kiss you ask — the only thing you want from all my love — will not be given without the permission of my lady the queen. But for the extraordinary kindness you and the queen have shown me, may God repay you both with thanks and blessings, since I have nothing else to give."

She fell silent. Her answer delighted the queen enormously, and she thought Lisa every bit as wise as the king had said.

King Pedro then called for the girl's father and mother, and finding them entirely happy with what he proposed, he summoned a young man of noble birth but modest means named Perdicone. He placed rings in the young man's hand and married him — without any reluctance on Perdicone's part — to Lisa. Then and there, in addition to the many precious jewels already given to the bride by the king and queen, he bestowed on Perdicone the rich and beautiful fiefs of Cefalu and Calatabellotta.

"These," he said, "are the lady's dowry. What we intend to do for you personally, you will see in time."

Then he turned to the girl and said, "Now we will take the one fruit that is owed us from your love." He took her head gently in both hands and kissed her on the forehead.

Perdicone, and Lisa's father and mother, and Lisa herself were all overjoyed. They celebrated with a grand and joyous wedding. And as many people attest, the king kept his promise faithfully to the girl for the rest of her life. He always called himself her knight, and whenever he rode into any contest of arms, he wore no favor but the one she sent him.

It's by doing things like this that a ruler wins the hearts of his subjects, inspires others to do good, and earns a name that never dies. But that's a target few rulers bother to aim at these days, most of them having become nothing but cruel tyrants."

Day 10, Story 8

Sophronia, believing she is marrying Gisippus, becomes the wife of his best friend Titus Quintius Fulvus and goes with him to Rome. Years later, Gisippus arrives in Rome destitute and, thinking Titus has rejected him, falsely confesses to a murder so that he might die. Titus recognizes him, claims the crime as his own to save his friend, and the actual killer, moved by their devotion, comes forward. Octavianus frees them all, and Titus gives Gisippus his sister in marriage and shares everything he owns with him.

After Pampinea finished and everyone had praised King Pedro — especially the Ghibelline lady, who praised him loudest of all — Fiammetta began, at the king's command:

"Dear ladies, who doesn't know that kings, when they choose to be, can do great things? And that they are, above all people, expected to be generous? Anyone with that kind of power who does what's expected of him does well enough — but we shouldn't be so amazed by it or heap such extravagant praise on him. We ought to save that kind of admiration for someone with fewer resources, from whom less is expected, who does the same or more. So if you're lavishing such praise on the actions of kings and finding them so wonderful, I have no doubt that actions by our own peers — when they're as great or greater than what kings do — will please you even more and earn even higher praise. And so I'd like to tell you a story about the noble and magnificent dealings of two ordinary citizens who were friends.

Now then: at the time when Octavianus Caesar — not yet called Augustus — ruled the Roman Empire as part of the Triumvirate, there lived in Rome a gentleman named Publius Quintius Fulvus. He had a son of extraordinary intellect named Titus Quintius Fulvus, and he sent the young man to Athens to study philosophy. He commended Titus as warmly as he could to a nobleman there named Chremes, a very old friend, who took the boy into his own household. There Titus lived alongside Chremes's son Gisippus, and the two young men studied together under the guidance of a philosopher named Aristippus.

Spending so much time together, they found each other's habits and temperaments so compatible that a bond grew between them — a brotherhood, a friendship so powerful that nothing but death would ever break it. Neither of them felt truly happy or at peace except when they were together. They threw themselves into their studies, and since both were gifted with brilliant minds, they advanced side by side and with equal distinction to the highest peaks of philosophy. They continued this way of life for a good three years, to the great delight of Chremes, who by now considered one of them no more his son than the other. But at the end of those three years, as happens to all things, Chremes — now an old man — departed this life. Both young men mourned him equally, as though they had lost a shared father, and his friends and family couldn't tell which of the two was more in need of consolation.

Some months later, the friends and relatives of Gisippus came to him and, together with Titus, urged him to take a wife. He agreed, and they found him a young Athenian woman of astonishing beauty and very noble birth. Her name was Sophronia, and she was about fifteen years old.

As the wedding day approached, Gisippus asked Titus one day to come with him to visit her, since he hadn't seen her yet. They went to her house, and with Sophronia sitting between them, Titus began to study her with the closest attention — as though appraising the beauty of his friend's bride. Every feature pleased him beyond measure. The more he silently admired her, the more deeply and desperately he fell in love with her, though he showed no outward sign of it.

After spending some time with her, they said their goodbyes and went home. Back in his room, alone, Titus started thinking about the beautiful girl. The more he dwelled on her, the hotter the fire burned. Realizing what was happening to him, he began to argue with himself, sighing heavily:

"What a miserable wreck you are, Titus. Where are you setting your heart, your love, your hope? Don't you realize that, out of gratitude for the kindness Chremes and his family showed you, and out of respect for the deep friendship between you and Gisippus — whose bride she is — you should regard this girl as a sister? Who is it you're in love with? Where are you letting yourself be dragged by this deceptive passion, this false hope? Open the eyes of your mind and get a grip on yourself, you fool. Give way to reason. Rein in your appetites. Redirect your unholy desires toward something else. Fight this lust while it's still in its earliest stages and conquer yourself while there's still time. What you want is wrong — no, it's dishonorable. And even if you were sure of getting what you're after — which you're not — you should run from it, if you care at all about what true friendship demands and what you owe. So what are you going to do, Titus? You're going to give up this shameful love, if you know what's right."

But then, thinking of Sophronia again, he reversed course completely and tore apart everything he'd just said:

"The laws of love are more powerful than any other laws. They override even divine law, let alone the laws of friendship. How many times in the past has a father loved his daughter, a brother his sister, a stepmother her stepson? Those are far more monstrous than one friend loving another's wife — and it's happened a thousand times before. Besides, I'm young, and youth is entirely subject to the laws of Love. Whatever pleases Love must please me too. Honorable restraint is for older men. I can want nothing except what Love wills. That girl's beauty deserves to be loved by everyone, and if I, being young, love her — who could fairly blame me for it? I don't love her because she belongs to Gisippus. I love her because I would love her no matter whose she was. It's fortune that sinned by awarding her to my friend rather than to someone else. And if she must be loved — and she must, deservedly, because of her beauty — then Gisippus, if he found out, should be happier that I love her than that some stranger does."

Then from that reasoning he swung back again to the other side, berating himself — and then back again. He wasted not just that day and the following night swinging back and forth like this, but many days and many nights, until he lost his appetite and couldn't sleep. Worn down by it all, he was forced to take to his bed.

Gisippus had noticed him sunk in melancholy for days, and now, seeing him actually sick, he was deeply worried. With every kind of skill and care he tried to comfort his friend, never leaving his side, repeatedly and urgently asking him what was causing his sadness and illness. Titus put him off once or twice with excuses that Gisippus saw right through. Finally, feeling cornered, Titus answered him with tears and sighs:

"Gisippus, if the gods had willed it, death would be far more welcome to me than going on like this — because fortune has put me in a position where my character was put to the test, and to my unbearable shame, I was found wanting. But I fully expect to receive the punishment I deserve soon enough: death. And that will be more welcome to me than living with the memory of my weakness. Since I cannot and should not hide anything from you, I'll tell you what it is — though it makes me burn with shame."

Starting from the beginning, he laid out the cause of his misery: the war raging inside him between his two selves. He confessed which side had won. He told Gisippus he was dying of love for Sophronia. He declared that, knowing how wrong this was, he had resolved to die as his punishment — and he trusted that death would come soon.

Gisippus heard this and saw his friend's tears, and for a moment he was torn. He himself, though more moderately, was attracted to the beautiful girl. But he quickly decided that his friend's life should matter more to him than Sophronia. Moved to tears by his friend's tears, he answered:

"Titus, if you weren't in such desperate need of comfort, I would scold you — scold you to yourself — for betraying our friendship by hiding such an agonizing passion from me for so long. Even if you thought it wasn't honorable, dishonorable things should no more be hidden from a friend than honorable ones. A true friend doesn't just share in your moments of glory — he also works to lift the shameful burdens from your heart. But I'll set that aside for now and turn to what seems more urgent.

"That you love Sophronia, my betrothed, doesn't surprise me in the slightest. In fact, I'd be surprised if you didn't, given her beauty and the sensitivity of your nature — the nobler the soul, the more vulnerable it is to what is excellent. And the more reason you have to love Sophronia, the more unjust your complaint against fortune is — though you haven't put it quite that way — for awarding her to me, as though your love for her would have been acceptable if she belonged to anyone else. But tell me, if you're thinking as clearly as you usually do: to whom could fortune have given her that would give you more cause for gratitude than giving her to me? Anyone else who had her — however honorable your love might have been — would have wanted her for himself rather than for you. But that's not something you should fear from me — not if you consider me the kind of friend I am to you — because in all the time we've been friends, I've never had anything that wasn't as much yours as mine.

"Now, if the matter had gone too far to change, I would do as I've done with everything else I own. But things are still at a point where I can make her yours alone — and I will. Because what good would our friendship be if, in a matter that can be done honorably, I couldn't take what I want and make it yours instead?

"It's true that Sophronia is my promised bride, and that I loved her very much, and that I was looking forward to our wedding with great joy. But since you, with your deeper sensibility, feel a far more ardent desire for so precious a person — rest assured, she will enter my bedchamber not as my wife, but as yours. So stop torturing yourself. Cast off this melancholy. Call back your health, your strength, your happiness. From this moment on, look forward with joy to the reward of your love — a love far worthier than mine ever was."

When Titus heard Gisippus say this, the more the generous offer pleased him, the more his own sense of honor shamed him. He saw plainly that the greater Gisippus's generosity, the more unworthy it would be for him to take advantage of it. Still weeping, he managed to reply:

"Gisippus, your true and generous friendship shows me clearly enough what mine requires of me in return. God forbid that I should take from you the woman He has bestowed on you as the more deserving man. If He had judged her right for me, neither you nor anyone else can believe He would ever have given her to you. So use and enjoy your choice, your wise judgment, and His gift. Leave me to the tears He has prepared for me as someone unworthy of such a treasure. Either I'll overcome them — and that will make you happy — or they'll overcome me, and I'll be out of pain."

"Titus," Gisippus replied, "if our friendship gives me any right to insist that you follow a wish of mine — and if anything can persuade you — this is where I mean to use that right to the fullest. If you won't give in willingly to my prayers, I will use whatever force is necessary for the good of my friend to make Sophronia yours. I know how powerful love is. I know it has driven lovers to miserable deaths, not once but many times. And I can see you're so close to that point yourself that you can't turn back or master your grief. If you keep on like this, you'll waste away and die — and then, without any doubt, I would quickly follow you. So even if I loved you for no other reason, your life would still be precious to me, because my own depends on it.

"Sophronia, then, will be yours. You'd have a hard time finding another woman who'd please you this much, and I can easily turn my affections to someone else. That way, we'll both be happy. I might not be so generous about this if wives were as rare and as hard to find as friends. But since I can easily find another wife and not another friend, I'd rather — I won't say lose her, because by giving her to you I don't lose her but transfer her to another and better self — I'd rather transfer her than lose you. So if my prayers mean anything to you, I beg you: shake off this misery. Comfort yourself and me at the same time. Take heart, and prepare yourself with hope and joy to seize the happiness your burning love craves."

Titus was still ashamed to consent — ashamed that Sophronia should become his wife — and he held out a while longer. But love pulled him from one side and Gisippus's urging pushed from the other, and at last he said:

"Look, Gisippus — I don't know whether to say I'm doing my pleasure or yours in agreeing to what you're begging me to do and telling me will make you so happy. But since your generosity is great enough to overcome my rightful shame, I'll do it. But know this: I do it as a man fully aware that he is receiving from you not only the woman he loves, but his very life along with her. May the gods grant, if it's possible, that I can someday show you — for your honor and your well-being — how grateful I am for what you, with more compassion for me than I have for myself, are doing."

After Titus said this, Gisippus replied: "Here's what we need to do if this is actually going to work. As you know, after long negotiations between my family and hers, Sophronia has become my official fiancee. If I were to go and announce now that I don't want to marry her, it would cause a terrible scandal and enrage both families. Ordinarily I wouldn't care about that, if it meant she'd end up with you. But I'm afraid that if I back out at this point, her family will just give her to someone else — and that someone probably won't be you. Then you'll have lost what I didn't gain. So it seems to me that the best plan — if you're agreeable — is for me to carry on with what I've started: bring her home as my wife, hold the wedding feast, and then you'll secretly sleep with her as your wife. Afterward, at the right time and place, we'll reveal the truth. If they're happy about it, fine. If they're not, it will already be done, and they'll have no choice but to accept it."

Titus liked the plan. So Gisippus received the lady into his home as if she were his own wife. Titus had by now recovered his health and spirits. A grand celebration was held, and when night came, the women escorted the new bride to her husband's bed and withdrew.

Now, Titus's bedroom was right next to Gisippus's, and you could pass from one to the other. When Gisippus was in his room with all the lights extinguished, he crept over to his friend and told him to go lie with his bride. Titus was seized with a fresh wave of shame and wanted to back out and refuse. But Gisippus, whose heart was as committed to his friend's happiness as his words had been, pushed him forward after a long struggle.

When Titus climbed into the bed, he took the girl in his arms and whispered softly, as though playing, "Will you be my wife?" She, thinking he was Gisippus, answered, "Yes." He slipped a fine, rich ring on her finger and said, "And I will be your husband." Then the marriage was consummated, and he took long and passionate pleasure with her — without Sophronia or anyone else ever suspecting that the man in her bed was not Gisippus.

This was the state of things between Sophronia and Titus when Publius, Titus's father, died. Word came that Titus needed to return to Rome immediately to settle his affairs. He and Gisippus agreed that he would go and take Sophronia with him — but that couldn't properly be done without first telling her the truth.

So one day they called her into the room and explained the whole thing thoroughly. Titus confirmed every detail by recounting specific things that had passed between the two of them in private. Sophronia looked from one to the other with a kind of angry disbelief, then burst into bitter tears, accusing Gisippus of deceiving her. Rather than say another word about it in his house, she went straight to her father's home and told him and her mother about the trick Gisippus had played on them all, insisting that she was the wife of Titus, not Gisippus, as they believed.

Sophronia's father was furious. He lodged long and bitter complaints with her relatives and with Gisippus's family. The uproar and recriminations went on and on. Gisippus was despised by his own kin and by Sophronia's alike. Everyone declared he deserved not just blame but serious punishment. He, on the other hand, maintained he had done an honorable thing — something Sophronia's family should be thanking him for, since he had married her to a better man than himself.

Titus, for his part, heard all of this and suffered through it with considerable aggravation. He knew it was the Greek way to bluster and shout and make threats until they found someone who would push back — at which point they would collapse into meekness, if not outright groveling. He decided their noise had gone unanswered long enough. With a Roman soul and an Athenian education, he cleverly arranged for Gisippus's relatives and Sophronia's to be assembled together in a temple. He walked in with only Gisippus at his side and addressed the crowd:

"Many philosophers believe that the actions of mortals are determined and foreordained by the immortal gods. Some hold that everything that is done or will ever be done happens by necessity, while others apply that necessity only to what has already occurred. If you consider either of these views carefully, you'll see that blaming something that cannot be undone is really just trying to prove yourself wiser than the gods — the gods who, we must believe, govern us and our affairs with perfect wisdom and without error. So you can easily see what a foolish, arrogant thing it is to presume to criticize their work — and how severely those who let their boldness carry them that far deserve to be punished. In my view, that includes every one of you, if what I've heard is true — that you've been carrying on endlessly about Sophronia becoming my wife when you had given her to Gisippus. You never stopped to consider that it was ordained from all eternity that she should become mine, not his — as the outcome now proves.

"But since talking about the secret plans and intentions of the gods strikes many people as difficult and hard to grasp, I'm willing to set that aside and limit myself entirely to human reasoning. And in doing that, I'll have to do two things that are both very much against my nature: praise myself a little, and criticize or belittle others a little. But since the truth requires it, and so does the matter at hand, I'll do it.

"Your complaints, driven more by rage than reason, have been attacking, insulting, and condemning Gisippus with constant grumbling — or rather, shouting — because he gave me as a wife the woman you gave him. But I say he deserves the highest praise for doing it, and for two reasons: first, because he did what a true friend should do; and second, because he acted more wisely than you did.

"I don't intend right now to explain everything the sacred laws of friendship require one friend to do for another. I'll simply remind you of this much: the bonds of friendship are far more binding than those of blood or family, since we choose our friends for ourselves, while our relatives are given to us by fortune. So if Gisippus valued my life above your goodwill — I being his friend, as I consider myself — no one should be surprised.

"But let me turn to the second point, which requires me to demonstrate more fully that he was wiser than you were — since it seems you know nothing about the designs of the gods and even less about the nature of friendship. Listen: it was your judgment, your counsel, your deliberation that gave Sophronia to Gisippus, a young man and a philosopher. And it was Gisippus's judgment that gave her to a young man and a philosopher. Your judgment gave her to an Athenian; Gisippus's gave her to a Roman. Your judgment gave her to a man of noble birth; his gave her to one of even nobler birth. Yours gave her to a rich young man; his to a very rich one. Yours gave her to a young man who not only didn't love her, but barely knew her. His gave her to one who loved her more than his own happiness, more than his own life.

"And to prove that what I say is true — that what Gisippus did is more praiseworthy than what you did — let's go through it point by point. That I, like Gisippus, am a young man and a philosopher — well, my face and my studies speak for themselves, so we needn't belabor it. We're the same age, and we've advanced through our studies step by step together. True, he is an Athenian citizen and I am a Roman. But if we're going to debate the glory of our native cities, let me point out that mine is a free city and his is a tributary one. Mine is mistress of the entire world; his is subject to mine. Mine is renowned in arms, in empire, and in letters, while his can boast only of letters.

"Furthermore, though you see me here looking like a humble student, I wasn't born from the dregs of the Roman populace. My family's homes and the public squares of Rome are filled with ancient statues of my ancestors, and the Roman annals record triumph after triumph led by the Quintii up to the Capitol. The glory of our name hasn't faded with age — if anything, it shines more brightly than ever. I won't speak of my wealth, out of modesty, keeping in mind that honorable poverty has always been the ancient and truest patrimony of Rome's noble citizens. But if the common crowd dismisses that idea and values treasure instead, then let me say I'm very well provided for — not because I'm greedy, but because fortune has been generous to me.

"I know perfectly well that it was and should have been important to you to have Gisippus as a kinsman here in Athens. But there's no reason I should be any less valuable to you in Rome, where you would have in me an excellent host, a useful and dedicated and powerful patron — in public affairs as much as in private ones.

"So who, setting aside stubbornness and judging with reason, would say your decision was wiser than my friend Gisippus's? No one, certainly. Sophronia is well and properly married to Titus Quintius Fulvus — a noble, wealthy, ancient-blooded citizen of Rome and a friend of Gisippus. Anyone who complains or moans about this is not doing what he should, and doesn't know what he's talking about.

"Some of you might say you're not complaining that Sophronia is the wife of Titus, but about the way it happened — in secret, by stealth, without any friend or family member knowing. But that's nothing new, and certainly no miracle. I'll leave aside all the women throughout history who've taken husbands against their parents' wishes, or run off with their lovers, or been mistresses before they were wives, or announced their marriages through pregnancy and childbirth rather than with words — and yet their families eventually came around, because necessity demanded it. None of that happened with Sophronia. She was given to Titus by Gisippus in an orderly, proper, and honorable way.

"Others will say he had no right to give her away. But that's a foolish, womanish complaint, born of carelessness. This isn't the first time fortune has used unexpected means and unlikely instruments to bring about destined outcomes. Why should I care whether a cobbler or a philosopher, acting according to his own judgment, handled a piece of my business — whether in secret or openly — as long as the result is good? If the cobbler was indiscreet, all I need to do is make sure he never handles my affairs again and thank him for what's done. If Gisippus married Sophronia well, it's pointless folly to go complaining about the method or the man. If you don't trust his judgment, make sure he has no more of your daughters to marry off — and thank him for this one.

"But I want you to know that I didn't try, through cunning or fraud, to stain the honor and distinction of your blood through Sophronia. Though I married her in secret, I didn't come as a thief to steal her virginity, and I didn't try, like an enemy, to have her dishonorably while avoiding your alliance. No — I was burning with love for her beauty and her worth, and I knew that if I had gone about it through the formal channels you'll say I should have used, I would never have gotten her, because you love her too much and would have been afraid I'd take her away to Rome. So I used the hidden means that have now been revealed to you, and I had Gisippus consent, in my name, to what he himself was not prepared to do.

"And however passionately I loved her, I sought her not as a lover but as a husband. As she herself can truthfully confirm, I didn't touch her until I had first spoken the proper words and placed the ring on her finger, asking her if she would have me as her husband — to which she said yes. If she feels deceived, the blame doesn't lie with me. It lies with her, for not asking who I was.

"So this is the great crime, the terrible offense, the grievous wrong committed by Gisippus as a friend and by me as a lover: that Sophronia has secretly become the wife of Titus Quintius Fulvus. And for this you defame him, threaten him, and plot against him. What more would you do if he'd given her to a peasant, a scoundrel, or a slave? What chains, what prisons, what gallows would be enough?

"But let that be for now. The time has come — sooner than I expected — for something else: my father has died, and I must return to Rome. Since I intend to take Sophronia with me, I've told you what I might otherwise have kept hidden a good while longer. If you're wise, you'll accept it gracefully — because if I'd wanted to cheat or humiliate you, I could have left her with you, used and dishonored. But God forbid such baseness should ever find a home in a Roman heart.

"She, then — Sophronia — by the will of the gods, by the operation of human law, by the brilliant design of my dear Gisippus, and by my own loving cleverness, is mine. And yet it seems that you, imagining yourselves wiser than the gods and the rest of mankind, stupidly condemn this, showing your displeasure in two ways that are both extremely offensive to me: first, by holding on to Sophronia, over whom you have no claim except what I choose to allow; and second, by treating Gisippus, to whom you should be grateful, like an enemy.

"I don't intend to explain any further how foolish you're being on both counts. I'll just advise you, as a friend: let go of your grudges. Drop every last one of your resentments and grievances. Return Sophronia to me so I can leave as your kinsman and live as your friend. Because here's what you can be sure of, whether what's been done pleases you or not: if you try to do otherwise, I will take Gisippus away from you, and when I get back to Rome, I will — however much you resent it — recover the woman who is rightfully mine. And from that point forward, I will show myself your enemy for life, and teach you by experience exactly what the wrath of a Roman is capable of."

When Titus finished speaking, he rose to his feet, his face twisted with anger. He took Gisippus by the hand and walked out of the temple, shaking his head with menacing intent and making it clear he couldn't care less about everyone in the building.

The people left behind, partly persuaded by his arguments in favor of the alliance and partly terrified by his closing threats, unanimously decided it was better to have Titus as a kinsman — since Gisippus hadn't wanted the role — than to have lost Gisippus as a kinsman and gained Titus as an enemy. They sought Titus out and told him they were happy for Sophronia to be his and to have him as a dear kinsman and Gisippus as a dear friend. After exchanging the kind of courtesies and honors that befit kinsmen and friends, they went their separate ways and sent Sophronia back to him. Like the wise woman she was, she made a virtue of necessity and readily transferred to Titus the affection she'd felt for Gisippus. She went with him to Rome, where she was received with great honor.

Meanwhile, Gisippus stayed behind in Athens, held in low esteem by almost everyone. Not long after, through some internal political upheaval, he and his entire household were expelled from the city — condemned to permanent exile, in poverty and misery. Finding himself in this wretched state, having gone from poor to outright destitute, he made his way to Rome as best he could, hoping to find out whether Titus still remembered him. He learned that Titus was alive and held in high favor among the Romans. He found out where he lived and stationed himself in front of the door, waiting for Titus to come out. When Titus appeared, Gisippus didn't dare say a word — he was too ashamed of the state he was in. Instead, he simply tried to make himself visible, hoping Titus would recognize him and call him over.

But Titus walked right past him without a glance. Gisippus, convinced that Titus had seen him and deliberately ignored him, remembered everything he had once done for this man. Bitter and despairing, he turned and walked away.

By now it was nightfall. He had no money and hadn't eaten. He wandered on with no idea where he was going, wanting death more than anything else. Eventually he stumbled upon a desolate, abandoned part of the city, where he found a large cave. He went inside, planning to spend the night there, and soon, exhausted from weeping, he fell asleep on the bare ground in his miserable state.

Toward morning, two men who had gone out robbing together that night came to the cave with their loot. They got into an argument over how to divide it, and the stronger one killed the other and left. Gisippus had seen and heard the whole thing, and it seemed to him that he'd found a path to the death he so desperately wanted — without having to kill himself. So he stayed where he was and didn't move.

Before long, the officers of the watch, who had already gotten wind of the crime, arrived. They seized Gisippus and dragged him off as a prisoner. Under questioning, he confessed that he had murdered the man and had been unable to leave the cave afterward. The praetor — a man named Marcus Varro — ordered him crucified, as was the custom in those days.

But by sheer chance, Titus happened to come to the courthouse at that very moment. Looking into the face of the condemned wretch and hearing the charges against him, he instantly recognized Gisippus. He was stunned by his friend's terrible fortune and bewildered at how he'd come to be in Rome. Desperate to save him and seeing no other way than to take the blame himself, he rushed forward and cried out:

"Marcus Varro, call back the poor man you've condemned — he's innocent! I have offended the gods enough with one crime, killing the man your officers found dead this morning. Don't let me compound my guilt with the death of another innocent person."

Varro was astonished. It pained him that the entire courthouse had heard this declaration. But since he couldn't, for his own honor's sake, ignore what the law required, he had Gisippus brought back. In the presence of Titus, he said to him:

"How could you have been so insane as to confess, without even being tortured, to something you didn't do — when it's a capital crime? You declared that you were the one who killed that man last night, and now this man comes forward and says it wasn't you but him."

Gisippus looked up and saw that it was Titus. He understood perfectly well that Titus was doing this to save him, out of gratitude for the service he had once done him. Weeping with pity, he said:

"Varro, it was indeed I who killed him. Titus's concern for my safety has come too late."

But Titus said: "Praetor, as you can see, this man is a foreigner. He was found unarmed beside the dead body. You can see that his wretchedness has given him every reason to want to die. Release him and punish me — I'm the one who deserves it."

Varro marveled at the stubbornness of both men. He was beginning to suspect that neither of them could actually be guilty, and he was racking his brain for a way to acquit them both, when suddenly a young man stepped forward. His name was Publius Ambustus — a notorious criminal, known throughout Rome as a thoroughgoing scoundrel. He was the one who had actually committed the murder.

Knowing that neither of the two men was guilty of what each was claiming, he felt such overwhelming pity for the innocence of these two friends that his heart couldn't take it. Moved by the deepest compassion, he came before Varro and said:

"Praetor, fate itself compels me to resolve this dispute between these two men. Some god within me is driving me, urging me to confess my crime. Know this: neither of them is guilty of what he accuses himself of. I am truly the one who killed that man this morning, just before dawn. I saw this poor fellow asleep in the cave while I was dividing the spoils I'd taken with the man I killed. There's no need to defend Titus — his reputation is known everywhere, and everyone knows he's not the kind of man who would do such a thing. Release them both, and give me the punishment the law demands."

By this time, Octavianus had gotten word of the affair. He had all three men brought before him and asked to hear what had moved each of them to seek to be the condemned man. Each told his own story. Octavianus released the two friends, since they were innocent, and pardoned the third for love of them.

Titus took Gisippus home. First he scolded him severely for his faintheartedness and his lack of faith. Then he embraced him with overwhelming joy and brought him into his house, where Sophronia received him with tears of compassion, as though he were a brother. After giving him time to rest and recover, after clothing him properly and restoring him to the dignified appearance his worth and quality deserved, Titus first put all his wealth and property into common ownership between them. Then he gave Gisippus a young sister of his named Fulvia as his wife, and said:

"Gisippus, from now on, the choice is yours: whether to stay here with me or to go back to Greece with everything I've given you."

Gisippus, torn between his banishment from his homeland on one side and the love he rightly bore for the cherished friendship of Titus on the other, chose to become a Roman. He settled in the city, where he and his Fulvia, and Titus and his Sophronia, lived long and happily together, sharing a single household and growing closer as friends with every passing day — if it were even possible to be closer than they already were.

Friendship, then, is a most sacred thing, and worthy not just of deep respect but of everlasting praise. It is the wisest mother of generosity and honor, the sister of gratitude and charity, the enemy of hatred and greed — always ready, without waiting to be asked, to do for others what it would want done for itself. Yet today its divine power is rarely seen between any two people. The fault lies with the miserable greed of the modern world, which, caring only about its own profit, has banished friendship to permanent exile beyond the farthest edges of the earth.

What love, what riches, what family ties — what force, except friendship — could have made Gisippus feel in his own heart the burning desire, the tears, and the sighs of Titus so powerfully that he gave up his beautiful, gentle, beloved bride to his friend? What laws, what threats, what fears could have kept the young arms of Gisippus from reaching for the lovely girl in lonely places, in the dark, even in his own bed — with her perhaps inviting him — if friendship had not done it? What honors, what rewards, what advantages could have made Gisippus not care about losing his own family and Sophronia's, not care about the crude uproar of the crowd, not care about mockery and insults — all so that he could make his friend happy? And on the other hand, what besides friendship could have moved Titus — when he could so easily have pretended not to see — to rush without hesitation toward his own death, so that he could save Gisippus from the cross to which Gisippus had willingly brought himself? What else could have made Titus, without the slightest reluctance, so generous in sharing his vast fortune with Gisippus, whom fate had stripped of everything? What else could have made him so eager to give his own sister to his friend, even seeing him reduced to utter poverty and misery?

Let men, then, go on amassing crowds of associates, troops of brothers, hordes of children, and using their money to multiply their servants — never stopping to consider that every one of these people, whoever he may be, is more afraid of the smallest danger to himself than he is concerned with lifting the greatest burden from his father, or brother, or master. But a true friend does exactly the opposite."

Day 10, Story 9

Saladin, disguised as a merchant, receives such magnificent hospitality from Messer Torello d'Istria that when the two meet again during the Crusades, Saladin repays him with extraordinary generosity — and a magic carpet ride home just in time to stop his wife's second wedding.

Filomena finished her story, and after everyone had praised the magnificent gratitude of Titus, the king — saving the last spot for Dioneo — began to speak. "There's no question, dear ladies, that Filomena spoke the truth about friendship, and she was right to lament how little value people place on it these days. If we were here to correct the faults of our age, or even just to criticize them, I could follow her words with a whole speech on the subject. But since we have a different purpose, it occurs to me to tell you a story — a long one, maybe, but thoroughly enjoyable — about one of the great acts of generosity performed by Saladin. My hope is that even if our own failings prevent us from winning true friendships, the things you'll hear in my story might at least inspire you to take pleasure in doing good for others, trusting that someday, somehow, you'll be rewarded for it.

The story goes, then, that during the reign of Emperor Frederick the First, the Christians launched a great Crusade to retake the Holy Land. Saladin — a truly noble and valiant prince who was then Sultan of Egypt — got wind of this well in advance and decided to go see the Christians' preparations for himself, in person, so he could better plan his own defense. He settled all his affairs in Egypt, made a show of going on a pilgrimage, and set out in disguise as a merchant, accompanied by just two of his wisest and most trusted advisors and three servants.

After visiting many Christian countries, it happened that as they were riding through Lombardy, heading toward the mountain passes, they encountered — around the time of evening prayers — a gentleman on the road between Milan and Pavia. His name was Messer Torello d'Istria, and he was on his way with his servants, dogs, and falcons to spend some time at a fine country estate he owned on the Ticino River. The moment he laid eyes on Saladin and his companions, he recognized them as foreign gentlemen of quality.

Now, Saladin was just asking one of his servants how far it was to Pavia and whether they could get there before the gates closed for the night, when Messer Torello — not letting the servant answer — spoke up himself: "Gentlemen, you won't make it to Pavia in time."

"Then perhaps," said Saladin, "you could direct us to the best place nearby to spend the night, since we're strangers here."

"I'd be happy to," said Messer Torello. "I was just about to send one of my men here on an errand near Pavia. I'll have him go with you instead, and he'll take you to a place where you can lodge very comfortably." Then he quietly pulled aside his sharpest servant, gave him private instructions, and sent him off with the travelers. Meanwhile, Torello himself rode ahead to his country house and ordered the best supper he could manage on short notice, with tables set up in the garden. That done, he stationed himself at the door to wait for his guests.

The servant, chatting with the strangers about this and that, led them by various roundabout roads and brought them — without their realizing it — straight to his master's estate. When Messer Torello saw them arrive, he came out to greet them on foot, smiling. "Gentlemen, welcome! I'm delighted to have you."

Saladin was sharp enough to see exactly what had happened: the gentleman had suspected they wouldn't accept a direct invitation when he first met them on the road, so he'd had them tricked into coming to his house, leaving them no way to refuse a night's stay. He returned the greeting and said, "Sir, if one could complain about men of courtesy, we'd have a grievance against you. Setting aside the fact that you've taken us somewhat out of our way, you've more or less forced us to accept your noble hospitality — and we've done nothing to earn your goodwill beyond a simple hello."

"Gentlemen," replied Messer Torello, who was as eloquent as he was kind, "what you'll get from us is a modest hospitality at best, compared to what men of your quality deserve — as far as I can judge from your bearing. But truly, there was nowhere outside of Pavia where you could have found a decent place to stay. So please don't mind the slight detour — think of it as a small price for a more comfortable night." Meanwhile, his servants came bustling around the travelers, helping them dismount and seeing to their horses.

Messer Torello led the three strangers to the rooms he'd prepared for them, had their boots pulled off, and refreshed them with cool wines while engaging them in pleasant conversation until suppertime. Saladin and his companions and servants all knew Latin, so they understood perfectly and were understood in turn. And every one of them concluded that this gentleman was the most charming, well-mannered, and well-spoken man they'd ever met.

For his part, Messer Torello was starting to think these were men of far greater importance than he'd first supposed — magnificent in their bearing and clearly people of real consequence. It privately frustrated him that he couldn't honor them properly that evening with a larger company and a grander feast. But he resolved to make it up to them the next morning. So he briefed one of his servants on what he wanted done and sent him off to Pavia — which was nearby, and whose gates were never locked — to deliver a message to his wife, who was a woman of exceptional intelligence and generous spirit.

Then he brought the gentlemen into the garden and politely asked who they were. Saladin answered, "We're merchants from Cyprus, on our way to Paris on business."

"I only wish," said Messer Torello, "that our country produced gentlemen as fine as the merchants Cyprus apparently produces!" They talked of this and that until supper was served. He let them take the seats of honor, and for a meal thrown together on short notice, the food was remarkably good and beautifully presented. After the table was cleared, they talked a while longer, but when Messer Torello judged they must be tired, he showed them to excellent beds, and not much later retired himself.

Meanwhile, the servant he'd sent to Pavia delivered his message. His wife — showing not a woman's spirit but a queen's — immediately summoned a large number of Messer Torello's friends and servants, ordered everything needed for a magnificent banquet, had the noblest citizens of Pavia invited by torchlight, and brought out fine clothes and silks and furs, arranging everything her husband had requested down to the last detail.

When dawn arrived, Saladin and his companions got up, and Messer Torello took them out riding with his falcons to a nearby ford, showing off how the birds flew. When Saladin asked to be directed to Pavia and the best inn, Messer Torello said, "I'll take you there myself — I have business in the city."

They believed him and were happy for the company. They set out together and reached the city around mid-morning. Thinking they were headed for the finest inn, they found themselves instead at Messer Torello's own house, where a good fifty of Pavia's most distinguished citizens were already waiting to receive them, swarming around them to take their bridles and stirrups.

Saladin and his companions saw exactly what was happening. "Messer Torello," they said, "this isn't what we asked for. You already did more than enough for us last night — far more than we deserved. You could have simply let us go on our way."

"Gentlemen," replied Messer Torello, "for last night's hospitality, I owe thanks more to Fortune than to you — Fortune placed you on the road at an hour when you had no choice but to come to my humble house. But for this morning's visit, I'll be indebted to you. And so will all these gentlemen who surround you. If you think it would be courteous to refuse their invitation to dine, well — that's your call."

Outmaneuvered once again, Saladin and his companions dismounted. The assembled company received them with delight and escorted them to chambers that had been sumptuously decorated. There they changed out of their traveling clothes, freshened up, and made their way to the great hall, where the banquet was laid out in splendor. Water was brought for washing hands, and they were seated at table with the most elegant ceremony. Course after magnificent course was served — so lavishly that if the Emperor himself had come to visit, it would have been impossible to do him greater honor. And although Saladin and his companions were powerful lords who were used to the grandest spectacles, they were thoroughly amazed by all this. It seemed to them extraordinary, especially considering that their host was only a private citizen, not a ruling lord.

After dinner and the clearing of tables, they talked for a while of various things. Then, since the heat was considerable, Messer Torello suggested the Pavian gentlemen go rest, and they all retired. He stayed behind alone with his three guests and brought them to a private chamber. There — determined that no precious thing of his should go unseen by them — he sent for his wife. She was a tall, beautiful woman, and she came in dressed in rich clothes, flanked by her two little sons, who looked like a pair of angels, and greeted the guests warmly.

The visitors rose to their feet when they saw her, received her with great respect, and had her sit among them, making a fuss over her beautiful children. She struck up a lively conversation with them, and when Messer Torello stepped out for a moment, she asked them in a friendly way where they were from and where they were headed. They gave her the same answer they'd given her husband — that they were merchants from Cyprus, bound for Paris.

"Then I see that my womanly intuition will come in useful," she said with a bright smile. "So I beg you, as a special favor, don't refuse or look down on a small gift I'm going to give you. Please accept it graciously, keeping in mind that women, with their smaller means, give smaller gifts — and judge by the goodwill of the giver rather than the value of the present."

With that, she had two gowns brought out for each of them — one lined with silk and the other with fur — not the kind of thing any ordinary citizen or merchant would wear, but garments fit for lords. She also gave them three doublets of fine silk with matching linen underclothes. "Take these," she said. "I've dressed my husband in gowns of the same kind. As for the other things, they're small enough, but they may be welcome to you, considering how far you are from your wives, and how long the road has been, and how much farther you still have to go. And merchants, I know, are particular about looking sharp."

The visitors marveled. It was becoming abundantly clear that Messer Torello was determined to show them every form of hospitality imaginable. Looking at the magnificence of the gowns — definitely not merchant-grade — they couldn't help wondering if he'd somehow seen through their disguise. Still, one of them answered the lady: "Madam, these are extraordinary gifts, the kind that shouldn't be accepted lightly. But your gracious insistence makes it impossible to refuse."

This done, and Messer Torello having returned, the lady took her leave of them, commended them to God, and saw to it that their servants received equally fine gifts appropriate to their station. Messer Torello begged them with great persistence to stay the rest of the day, so after they'd rested a while, they put on their new gowns and rode around the city with him. When suppertime came, they dined magnificently in fine company, and at the proper hour went to bed. The next morning, they woke to find that their worn-out horses had been replaced with three stout, fresh palfreys, and their servants had been given strong new horses too.

When Saladin saw this, he turned to his companions and said, "I swear to God, there has never been a more accomplished, courteous, and perceptive gentleman than this man. If the Christian kings are kings the way this man is a gentleman, the Sultan of Egypt can't hope to stand against even one of them, let alone the whole army that's preparing to march against him." Knowing it would be useless to refuse, they thanked Torello warmly and mounted up.

Messer Torello rode with them and a large company of friends for a long distance outside the city. Eventually, though the parting pained Saladin deeply — he'd become thoroughly devoted to the man — necessity compelled him to press on, and he asked Messer Torello to turn back.

Loath as he was to leave them, Torello said, "I will, gentlemen, since you wish it. But let me say one thing: I don't know who you are, and I won't ask to know more than you care to tell me. But whoever you are, you'll never make me believe you're merchants. And with that, I commend you to God."

Saladin, having already taken leave of Torello's companions, replied, "Sir, the day may come when we can show you some of our merchandise and convince you of what we are. In the meantime, God be with you." And with that, he rode away.

He was absolutely determined — if fate allowed it and the coming war didn't destroy him — to repay Messer Torello's hospitality in full measure. He talked at length with his companions about the man, about his wife, about every detail of his generosity and his character, praising everything more highly each time. Then, after visiting the rest of the West with considerable effort, he took ship and returned to Alexandria, where, now fully informed about the Christian preparations, he set about organizing his defenses.

As for Messer Torello, he went back to Pavia and spent a long time puzzling over who those three strangers really were. But he never hit upon the truth — not even close.

When the time for the Crusade arrived and great preparations were being made everywhere, Messer Torello resolved to go, despite his wife's tears and desperate pleas. He made all his arrangements, and when the time came to ride out, he said to the wife he loved more than anything in the world: "As you can see, my love, I'm going on this Crusade, for the honor of my name and the salvation of my soul. I leave our affairs and our reputation in your hands. And since I can be certain of going but not of returning — a thousand things could happen — I ask you to do me this one favor. Whatever may become of me, if you don't receive definite news that I'm alive, wait for me one year, one month, and one day before you marry again. Start counting from today, the day I leave."

His wife, weeping bitterly, answered, "Messer Torello, I don't know how I'll bear the grief of your absence. But if my life proves stronger than my sorrow, and if anything should happen to you, you may live and die assured that I will live and die as the wife of Messer Torello, faithful to his memory."

"My love," Torello replied, "I'm absolutely sure that you'll do everything in your power to keep that promise. But you're a young woman, and beautiful, from a distinguished family, and your virtues are widely known. I have no doubt that if even the slightest rumor of my death gets out, many great and noble men will come asking your brothers and relatives for your hand. However much you might want to resist, you won't be able to hold out against their pressure forever. That's why I'm asking for this specific deadline — not a longer one."

"I'll do my very best to keep my word," the lady said, "and if I must do otherwise, I will certainly obey you in this. But I pray God brings neither of us to such a pass." She embraced him, weeping, and drew a ring from her finger and gave it to him. "If I die before I see you again, remember me when you look at this."

He took the ring, mounted his horse, said farewell to everyone, and set out. He reached Genoa with his company, boarded a galley, and in due course arrived at Acre, where he joined the main Christian army. Almost immediately, a terrible epidemic and mass casualties broke out among the troops. During this time — whether through Saladin's military skill or his good fortune — nearly all the surviving Christians were captured without a fight, divided up, and imprisoned in various cities.

Messer Torello was among the prisoners. He was taken to Alexandria, where — unknown and afraid to reveal his identity — he was forced by necessity to put his skill with hawks to use. He was a master falconer, and his talent came to Saladin's attention. The Sultan had him brought from prison and kept him on as his personal falconer. Saladin knew him only as "the Christian," and neither man recognized the other. Torello's thoughts were always in Pavia. He'd tried to escape more than once, but without success.

Then a group of Genoese ambassadors arrived in Alexandria to negotiate the ransom of several prisoners. Before they left, Torello decided to write to his wife, letting her know he was alive and would return as soon as he could, asking her to wait for him. He wrote the letter and urgently begged one of the ambassadors — a man he recognized — to get it into the hands of the Abbot of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro in Pavia, who was his uncle.

This was how things stood when, one day, while Saladin was talking with Torello about his hawks, Torello happened to smile, and his mouth made a particular expression that Saladin distinctly remembered from his visit to Pavia. The memory of Messer Torello flashed into his mind. He studied the man's face intently, and the more he looked, the more certain he became. Setting aside the subject of hawks, he said, "Tell me, Christian — what country are you from in the West?"

"My lord, I'm a Lombard, from a city called Pavia. A poor man of humble station."

Saladin, hearing this, was now almost certain. He said to himself, with a rush of joy, "God has given me the chance to show this man how deeply his generosity moved me." Without another word, he had all his robes laid out in a room, brought Torello there, and said, "Look at these, Christian — do you recognize any of them?"

Torello looked, and he saw the gowns his wife had given Saladin. But he couldn't imagine they could possibly be the same ones, so he said, "My lord, I don't recognize any of them. Though I must say, those two there do remind me of certain gowns I once wore myself, and that I also gave to three merchants who came to my house."

At that, Saladin could hold back no longer. He embraced Torello tenderly and said, "You are Messer Torello d'Istria, and I am one of the three merchants your wife gave these gowns to. And now the time has come to show you what kind of merchandise I deal in — just as I told you, at our parting, might one day happen."

Messer Torello was overwhelmed — overjoyed, but also a little embarrassed, because it struck him that he'd hosted this man rather modestly after all. "My lord," he began, but Saladin cut him off.

"Messer Torello, since God has sent you to me, consider that from now on, it's not I but you who is master here." And after they'd celebrated their reunion with enormous joy, Saladin dressed him in royal robes, led him into the presence of all his chief nobles, spoke at length in praise of Torello's character, and commanded that every man among them who valued the Sultan's friendship should honor Torello as they honored Saladin himself. And from that day forward, everyone did — especially the two lords who had accompanied Saladin on his journey through Lombardy.

This sudden elevation to glory pushed Torello's Lombard worries somewhat out of mind, particularly since he had good reason to believe that his letters had reached his uncle by now. But here's what had happened: on the day the Christians were captured, a Provençal knight of no great distinction, named Messer Torello de Dignes, had died and been buried in the camp. Since Messer Torello d'Istria was widely known throughout the army for his magnificence, everyone who heard "Messer Torello is dead" assumed it meant the one from Pavia, not the one from Dignes. The chaos of the capture that followed kept anyone from being set straight. So a number of Italians returned home carrying this news, and some of them went so far as to claim they'd seen the body and been present at the burial.

When the report reached his wife and family, it caused unspeakable grief — not just to them, but to everyone who'd known him. It would take too long to describe the depth of his lady's sorrow. But after months of continual mourning, when her grief began to ease somewhat, and the most prominent men in Lombardy started seeking her hand, her brothers and other relatives began pressuring her to remarry. She refused again and again, with many tears, but in the end she was forced to give in — on the condition that she could wait out the full term she'd promised Messer Torello before going to a new husband.

With the lady's situation at Pavia being what it was, and maybe eight days left before the deadline for her remarriage, Messer Torello happened to spot in Alexandria a man he'd seen boarding the Genoese ambassadors' ship when it left for home. He called the man over and asked what kind of voyage they'd had and when they'd reached Genoa.

"Sir," the man replied, "the ship had a terrible voyage. I heard about it in Crete, where I'd stayed behind. Near Sicily, a fierce north wind drove the ship onto the quicksands of the Barbary coast, and not a soul survived. Two of my own brothers went down with it."

Messer Torello believed him — the report was in fact completely true — and when he calculated that the deadline he'd set for his wife expired in just a few days, he realized that no word of his survival could possibly have reached Pavia. He was certain she must be remarrying. He fell into such despair that he lost all appetite and all will to live. He took to his bed, determined to die.

When Saladin, who loved him dearly, heard about this, he came to him in person. After much pleading and persistent questioning, he learned the cause of Torello's grief and illness. He scolded him sharply for not having spoken up sooner, then begged him to take heart, promising that if he'd pull himself together, Saladin would arrange to have him in Pavia before the deadline. And he explained how.

Messer Torello trusted Saladin's word. He'd heard many times that such things were possible and had even been done before. He began to recover his spirits and pressed Saladin to act quickly. The Sultan sent for a sorcerer whose powers he'd tested in the past and asked him to find a way to transport Messer Torello on a bed to Pavia in a single night. The magician said it could be done, but that for the gentleman's own safety, he'd need to put him to sleep first.

Saladin went back to Messer Torello, who was now fully committed to being in Pavia by the deadline, even if it killed him. "Messer Torello," Saladin said, "God knows I can't blame you — not one bit — for loving your wife so deeply and for fearing she might be given to another man. Of all the women I've ever seen, she is the one whose character, whose grace, whose bearing — leaving aside her beauty, which fades — strikes me as most worthy of love and admiration. Nothing would have made me happier, since Fortune brought you here, than for the two of us to have spent the rest of our lives as equal rulers of this kingdom. But since God willed otherwise, and you've made up your mind that you must either be in Pavia by the deadline or die, I only wish I'd known sooner, so I could have sent you home with all the honor and magnificence and ceremony your worth deserves. But since even that wasn't granted, and you need to be there immediately, I'll send you the only way I can — the way I've described to you."

"My lord," replied Messer Torello, "your actions, even without your words, have given me more than enough proof of your good will — far beyond anything I've ever deserved. I will live and die in absolute certainty of it. But since I've made my decision, I beg you: let it be done quickly. Tomorrow is the last day my wife is supposed to wait for me."

Saladin promised it would be done without fail. The next day — since Torello was to depart that very night — he had his servants prepare, in a great hall of the palace, the most magnificent bed imaginable: mattresses covered in velvet and cloth of gold (as was the custom in those lands), a coverlet embroidered with intricate patterns and studded with enormous pearls and priceless jewels (a treasure that was later valued as beyond price when it reached Italy), and two pillows to match all this splendor. Then he had Messer Torello dressed in a robe in the Saracen fashion, the richest and most beautiful thing anyone had ever seen, and wrapped one of his longest turbans around his head.

As the hour grew late, Saladin went with many of his nobles to the chamber where Messer Torello waited. He sat down beside him, nearly in tears, and said: "Messer Torello, the hour is coming that will separate us, and since I can't travel with you or send anyone to escort you — the nature of this journey doesn't allow it — I must say my farewell here in this room. Before I commend you to God, I beg you, by the love and friendship between us: remember me. And if it's at all possible, before our time on this earth runs out, come back to see me at least once, so that I can take joy in your company again. Until that day comes, don't let it be too much trouble to write to me, and ask me for anything you wish. There's no man alive for whom I'd do more gladly than for you."

Messer Torello couldn't hold back his tears. He managed only a few choked words, saying it was impossible that Saladin's generosity and nobility should ever leave his memory, and that he would do everything Saladin asked, whenever the chance arose.

Saladin embraced him tenderly, kissed him, and said through his tears, "God go with you." Then he left the chamber. The other nobles came in to say their farewells, and then followed the Sultan to the great hall where the bed had been prepared.

It was getting late. The sorcerer was waiting and pressing to proceed. A physician came to Messer Torello with a potion, telling him it would strengthen him for the journey, and had him drink it. Before long, he fell fast asleep. In that state, on Saladin's orders, he was carried to the great hall and laid upon the magnificent bed.

Then Saladin placed a great and splendid crown on the bed, inscribing it in a way that would later make clear it was his gift to Messer Torello's wife. He slipped onto Torello's finger a ring set with a carbuncle so brilliant it blazed like a torch — its value almost impossible to calculate. He buckled on him a sword whose fittings alone were beyond price. He pinned to his chest a brooch studded with pearls the likes of which no one had ever seen, along with other jewels past counting. On either side of him he placed two great golden basins full of gold coins, and scattered around him he laid ropes of pearls, rings, belts, and other treasures that would take too long to catalog.

When all this was done, he kissed Torello one last time and told the sorcerer to proceed. In his presence, the bed — Messer Torello and all — vanished from sight in an instant. And Saladin stayed behind in that hall, talking about his friend with his nobles long into the night.

Meanwhile, Messer Torello had been set down — exactly as he'd requested — in the church of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro in Pavia, with every jewel and treasure still around him, and still fast asleep. When the bell rang for matins, the sacristan entered the church carrying a lamp. He caught a sudden glimpse of the incredible bed, and not only was he amazed — he was so terrified that he turned and ran. The abbot and the monks, seeing him come fleeing out, demanded to know what had happened. He told them.

"For heaven's sake," said the abbot, "you're not a child, and this isn't your first day in this church. Don't be so easily frightened. Let's go see who's been playing tricks on you."

So they lit several more lamps, and the abbot and all his monks entered the church. There they saw the astounding, magnificent bed, and the gentleman asleep on it. While they were standing there, awestruck and fearful, staring at the spectacular jewels without daring to go near, the potion wore off. Messer Torello woke up and let out a deep sigh.

When the monks heard this and saw him move, they all turned tail and fled — abbot included — shrieking, "Lord, help us!"

Messer Torello opened his eyes, looked around, and clearly realized he was exactly where he'd asked Saladin to send him. He was deeply satisfied. He sat up and took a careful inventory of everything around him, and even though he'd already known Saladin's generosity was extraordinary, it seemed to him now even greater. He understood it more fully. But without moving from the bed, hearing the monks still fleeing, he called out the abbot's name, asking him not to be afraid — it was only Torello, his nephew.

The abbot, hearing this, became even more frightened, since he'd believed for months that Torello was dead. But after a moment, reassured by solid evidence and still hearing his name called, he crossed himself and went over to the bed.

"What are you so afraid of, Father?" said Messer Torello. "I'm alive, thank God, and I've come back from across the sea."

The abbot — despite the great beard and the Saracen clothes — soon recognized him and was completely reassured. He took him by the hand. "My son, welcome home! You mustn't wonder at our fright. There isn't a soul in these parts who doesn't firmly believe you're dead. So much so that I have to tell you: your wife, Lady Adalieta, overwhelmed by the threats and pleading of her relatives and against her own will, has been given to a new husband. She's going to him this very morning. The wedding feast and everything for the celebration is all prepared."

Messer Torello rose from the magnificent bed and greeted the abbot and all the monks with tremendous joy. Then he begged every one of them to say nothing about his return to anyone until he'd taken care of a certain piece of business. After that, he had the priceless jewels locked away safely and told his uncle the whole story of everything that had happened to him. The abbot rejoiced in his good fortune, and they gave thanks to God together.

Then Messer Torello asked who his wife's new husband was. The abbot told him. "Before anyone knows I'm back," said Torello, "I want to see how my wife looks at this wedding. I know it's not usual for men of your cloth to attend events like this, but for my sake, could you arrange for the two of us to be there?"

The abbot said he'd be glad to. At first light, he sent word to the bridegroom that he'd like to come to the wedding feast with a friend, and the gentleman replied that he'd be delighted to have them.

When the hour came, Messer Torello went to the bridegroom's house still dressed as he was, in his Saracen robes, with his uncle. Everyone who saw him stared in amazement, but no one recognized him. The abbot told everyone he was a Saracen ambassador, sent by the Sultan to the King of France.

So Messer Torello was seated at a table directly facing his wife. He gazed at her with the deepest pleasure, and it seemed to him that she looked troubled by these new wedding celebrations. She glanced his way from time to time, but there was no recognition in her eyes — his thick beard, his foreign clothes, and her firm belief that he was dead all kept her from seeing the truth.

When he judged the moment was right to test whether she remembered him, Torello took the ring she'd given him at their parting, and calling over a young man who was serving her, he said, "Tell the bride, on my behalf, that it's the custom in my country, when a foreign guest like me attends a new bride's wedding feast, for the bride to show she welcomes him at her table by sending him her own cup, filled with wine. After the guest drinks as much as he likes, the cup is covered again, and the bride drinks the rest."

The page delivered the message. The lady, being as well-mannered and gracious as she was, believed this guest to be some great lord. To show him she was glad of his presence, she ordered the large gilded cup that stood before her to be washed, filled with wine, and brought to the gentleman. It was done.

Messer Torello took the ring in his mouth, and as he drank, he let it drop unnoticed into the cup. He left only a little wine, covered the cup again, and sent it back to the lady.

Lady Adalieta took the cup and lifted the lid to complete the custom. She raised it to her lips, saw the ring, and froze. She studied it in silence for a moment, then recognized it as the ring she'd given Messer Torello when he left. She picked it up, stared hard at the man she'd taken for a stranger, and suddenly — she knew him.

As if she'd gone mad, she shoved the table in front of her aside with a crash and screamed, "It's my husband! It is Messer Torello!" She flew to the place where he sat and flung herself as far forward as she could, clutching him in a fierce embrace. Nothing anyone said or did could pry her from his neck, until Messer Torello himself gently told her to compose herself a little — there would be plenty of time for embracing.

She stood up. The wedding was, of course, thrown into total confusion — though in many ways it was more joyous than ever, thanks to the return of such a man. At Messer Torello's request, everyone grew quiet, and he told them the entire story of everything that had happened to him from the day he'd left to that very moment. He concluded by saying that the gentleman who, believing him dead, had married his wife surely couldn't be offended if he, being alive, took her back.

The bridegroom, though understandably a little chagrined, answered freely and generously that it was Messer Torello's right to do whatever he pleased with what was his.

The lady took off the ring and the crown she'd received from her new groom, and put on the ring she'd found in the cup and the crown Saladin had sent. They left that house, and with the entire wedding party in tow, made their way back to Messer Torello's home. There, his grief-stricken friends and family and all the townspeople — who regarded his return as practically a miracle — were cheered by a long and joyous celebration.

As for Messer Torello, he shared his precious jewels generously: some to the man who'd borne the expense of the interrupted wedding, some to the abbot, and some to many others. He sent more than one message to Saladin, reporting his happy homecoming and declaring himself, as always, Saladin's devoted friend and servant. And for many years afterward, he lived with his noble wife, treating every guest with even greater hospitality and courtesy than before.

So that's how the story of Messer Torello and his beloved wife ended, and how their generous, open-hearted hospitality was rewarded. Plenty of people go through the motions of generosity, but they make their guests pay for it so dearly before they're done that the hospitality costs more than it's worth. If no reward ever comes back to people like that, they have no one to blame but themselves.

Day 10, Story 10

The Marquis of Saluzzo, pressured by his subjects to marry, chooses a peasant girl for his wife and proceeds to test her obedience through a series of increasingly cruel trials — taking away her children, pretending to divorce her, and humiliating her in every way he can devise. She endures it all. Whether this makes her a saint or him a monster is a question the story leaves entirely open.

The king's long story came to an end, and everyone seemed to have enjoyed it greatly. Then Dioneo said with a laugh, "That fellow who was looking forward to bringing down the ghost's raised tail that night wouldn't have given two cents for all the praise you've been heaping on Messer Torello." Then, knowing he was the only one left to tell a story, he began:

"My gentle ladies, it seems to me that this entire day has been given over to kings and sultans and people of that sort. So, not to stray too far from the rest of you, I'd like to tell you about a marquis — not an act of magnificence, but a monstrous piece of folly. Even though things worked out well for him in the end, I wouldn't advise anyone to follow his example. It was a thousand pities he got away with it.

A long time ago, the head of the house among the Marquises of Saluzzo was a young man named Gualtieri. He had neither wife nor children and spent his time doing nothing but hunting and hawking. He had no thought of marrying or having children — which, by the way, should have been considered very wise.

His vassals, however, didn't like this one bit. They begged him repeatedly to take a wife, so that he wouldn't die without an heir and they wouldn't be left without a lord. They even offered to find him a bride from the right kind of family — someone he could have high hopes for and be happy with.

Gualtieri answered them: 'My friends, you're trying to force me into something I was absolutely determined never to do. Think about how hard it is to find a woman whose temperament truly suits your own, and how many of the wrong kind there are, and how miserable life becomes when a man ends up with someone who doesn't fit him. And when you say you can judge the daughters by studying their parents, and that's how you'll find me a wife I'll like — that's nonsense. I don't know how you'd ever truly know the fathers, let alone the secrets of the mothers. And even if you did, daughters are often nothing like their parents.

'But since it makes you happy to see me in chains, fine — I'll do as you wish. But so that I'll have no one to blame but myself if things go badly, I intend to find my own wife. And I'm telling you now: whoever she may be, if you don't honor her as your lady and mistress, you'll learn the hard way how much I resent having taken a wife against my will, just to please you.'

The good men agreed to his terms, as long as he actually married.

Now, for some time, Gualtieri had been taken with the bearing of a poor girl from a village near his estate. She seemed pretty enough, and he figured he could live a perfectly comfortable life with her. So without looking any further, he decided to marry her. He sent for her father — an extremely poor man — and arranged with him to take her as his wife.

That done, he gathered all his friends from the surrounding countryside and said to them: 'My friends, you wanted me to marry, and I've agreed to it — more to please you than from any desire of my own. You remember what you promised me: that you'd accept whoever I chose and honor her as your lady and mistress. Well, the time has come for me to keep my promise to you, and for you to keep yours to me. I've found a young woman after my own heart, and in a few days I intend to marry her and bring her home. So start thinking about how to make the wedding celebration a fine one, and how to receive her with honor — so that I can be satisfied with your promise, just as you'll have reason to be satisfied with mine.'

The good folk all answered cheerfully that they were delighted, and that whoever she was, they'd accept her as their lady and honor her in every way. Then they all set about preparing a grand and joyful festival. Gualtieri did the same: he arranged an enormous, magnificent wedding and invited many friends, relatives, and great gentlemen of the region. He also had a quantity of fine, rich clothes made, cut to the measurements of a girl who seemed to him about the same build as the young woman he planned to marry. And he prepared rings, belts, a beautiful crown, and everything a bride could need.

On the day he'd set for the wedding, Gualtieri mounted his horse around mid-morning, along with everyone who'd come to celebrate. When everything was ready, he said, "Gentlemen, it's time to go fetch the bride." Then he rode with his whole company to the village and went straight to the girl's father's house. They found her hurrying back from the spring with a jug of water, rushing so she could go with the other women to watch the arrival of Gualtieri's bride.

When the marquis saw her, he called her by name — Griselda — and asked where her father was. "My lord, he's inside," she answered shyly.

Gualtieri dismounted and told everyone to wait. He went into the poor house alone, found her father — whose name was Giannucolo — and said, "I've come to marry Griselda. But first I want to ask her a few things, in your presence."

He asked her whether, if he took her as his wife, she would always try to please him; whether she would never take offense at anything he might say or do; whether she would be obedient in all things — and many other questions of the same kind. To every one, she answered yes.

Gualtieri took her by the hand and led her outside. There, in front of his entire company and everyone else present, he had her stripped naked. Then he sent for the clothes he'd had made and had her dressed and shod on the spot. He had the crown placed on her hair, tangled as it was. Everyone stared in astonishment. "Gentlemen," he said, "this is the woman I intend to make my wife — if she'll have me." Then he turned to her, standing there flushed and bewildered, and said, "Griselda, will you have me as your husband?"

"Yes, my lord," she answered.

"And I will have you as my wife," he said, and married her right there, in front of them all. He had her mounted on a palfrey and led her, with a splendid escort, to his mansion, where the wedding was celebrated with as much joy and magnificence as if he'd married the daughter of the King of France.

The young bride seemed to have changed not just her clothes but her entire nature. She was, as we've already said, beautiful in face and figure, and she now became as gracious, as charming, and as refined as she was lovely. She seemed not the daughter of Giannucolo the shepherd but the child of some great nobleman. Everyone who'd known her before was amazed. She was so obedient to her husband and so devoted in his service that he considered himself the happiest man alive. She was so kind and generous to his subjects that there wasn't one of them who didn't love and honor her wholeheartedly, praying for her health and happiness and success. Where people had once said Gualtieri had been foolish to marry her, they now declared with one voice that he was the wisest and most perceptive man in the world — because no one else could have seen the nobility hidden beneath those poor clothes and that country life.

In short, it wasn't long before she'd earned such a reputation — not just in her husband's territory but everywhere — for her virtues and her good works that she completely reversed whatever anyone had said against Gualtieri for marrying her.

She hadn't been with Gualtieri long before she became pregnant, and in due time gave birth to a baby girl. Gualtieri was overjoyed. But soon after, a strange new idea took hold of him: he wanted to test her patience through long suffering and unbearable treatment. First he needled her with words, pretending to be upset and telling her that his subjects were furious about her low birth, especially now that she was bearing children. They were doing nothing but grumble, he said, bitterly resentful about the birth of her daughter.

The lady heard all this without the slightest change in her expression. "My lord," she said, "do with me whatever you believe will be best for your honor and your peace of mind. I'll be content with anything, because I know I'm worth less than any of them, and that I was never worthy of the position you so generously raised me to."

This answer pleased Gualtieri very much. He could see she hadn't been puffed up with pride by any of the honors he or others had shown her. But a little while later, having told her in general terms that his subjects couldn't tolerate the daughter she'd borne, he sent a servant to her — a man he'd carefully coached. The servant came to her with a grief-stricken expression and said, "Madam, if I don't want to die, I have to do what my lord commands. He's ordered me to take your daughter and—" He said no more.

The lady, hearing this and seeing the servant's face and remembering what her husband had said, understood that the man had been ordered to kill the child. Without the slightest change in her expression — though her heart was being torn apart — she took the baby from the cradle, kissed her, blessed her, and placed her in the servant's arms. "Here," she said. "Do exactly what your lord has ordered. But don't leave her body to be eaten by animals and birds — unless he's told you to do that too."

The servant took the child and reported what the lady had said to Gualtieri. Marveling at her composure, he sent the child with his servant to a kinswoman of his in Bologna, asking her to raise and educate the girl carefully, without ever revealing whose daughter she was.

In time, the lady became pregnant again and gave birth to a boy, which made Gualtieri very happy. But what he'd already done wasn't enough. He probed even deeper, striking an even crueler blow. One day he told her, with a troubled look, "Wife, ever since you bore this son, I haven't been able to live in peace with my people. They're furious that a grandson of Giannucolo might one day become their lord. I'm afraid that if I don't want to be driven from my own lands, I'll have to do what I did before — and eventually, I'll have to leave you and take another wife."

The lady listened patiently. Her only answer was: "My lord, think only of your own satisfaction. Do what makes you happy, and don't worry about me. Nothing matters to me except what pleases you."

Not many days later, Gualtieri sent for the boy in the same way he'd sent for the girl, and making the same show of having him killed, dispatched him to Bologna to be raised alongside his sister. The lady said nothing different and showed no different face than she had with the girl. Gualtieri was astonished and told himself that no other woman could have endured what she endured. If he hadn't seen with his own eyes how tenderly she cared for the children when it pleased him to let her, he might have thought she simply didn't love them. But he knew better. He knew she did it out of sheer strength of will.

His subjects, believing he'd had the children killed, condemned him harshly, calling him a cruel and heartless man. They felt the deepest pity for his wife. But when the women who came to console her over the death of her children offered their sympathy, she said only this: "Whatever pleases the man who fathered them pleases me too."

At last, several years after the girl's birth, Gualtieri decided the time had come for the final, supreme test of her endurance. He announced publicly that he could no longer stand being married to Griselda, that he realized he'd been young and foolish when he married her, and that he intended to petition the Pope for an annulment so he could take a new wife.

Many worthy men rebuked him for this, but he answered them with nothing more than: it must be so.

The lady heard all of it. It seemed to her she should prepare herself to go back to her father's house and tend sheep again, as she'd done before, while she watched another woman enjoy the man to whom she'd given all her love. It tore at her. But just as she'd borne every other blow of hostile fortune, she steeled herself to bear this one too, keeping her face composed.

Before long, Gualtieri had forged letters from Rome, made to look like a papal dispensation allowing him to leave Griselda and remarry. He summoned her before a crowd of people and said: "Wife, the Pope has granted me a dispensation to take a new wife and put you aside. Because my ancestors were great lords of this region, while yours have always been peasants, I've decided you will no longer be my wife. You'll return to Giannucolo's house with the dowry you brought me, and I'll bring home another woman — one better suited to my station."

The lady, hearing this, fought back her tears — defying the very nature of women — though not without terrible pain. "My lord," she said, "I always knew that my humble birth was no match for your nobility. The life I've had with you, I've always understood was owed to you and to God, not to me. I never treated it as something given to me — I always thought of it as something lent. It pleases you now to take it back. It must, and does, please me to return it.

"Here is the ring you married me with. Take it. You tell me to carry off the dowry I brought here. To do that, you'll need no treasurer, and I'll need no purse or packhorse — because I haven't forgotten that you took me naked. If you think it proper that this body, which has carried children you fathered, should be paraded before everyone, then naked I'll go. But I beg you, in exchange for the virginity I brought here and don't take away with me — let me at least carry off one single shift, over and above my dowry."

Gualtieri, who wanted to weep more than anything, kept a stony face. "Take a shift, then," he said.

Everyone around him begged him to give her at least a dress, so that the woman who'd been his wife for thirteen years wouldn't be seen leaving his house in nothing but a shift — such a mean and shameful departure. But their pleas were useless.

So the lady, having commended them all to God, walked out of his house in her shift, barefoot, with nothing on her head. She made her way back to her father, followed by the tears and lamentations of everyone who saw her. Giannucolo — who had never been able to believe that Gualtieri would really keep his daughter as his wife and had lived in daily expectation of exactly this — had saved the clothes she'd taken off on her wedding morning. He brought them to her now. She put them on and went back to the small chores of her father's house, enduring the savage assault of hostile fortune with a steady heart.

Having done all this, Gualtieri announced to his people that he'd chosen a bride from the family of the Counts of Panago, and he made great preparations for the wedding. Then he sent for Griselda and said to her: "I'm about to bring home this new wife of mine, and I want to receive her in proper style when she first arrives. You know I have no women in my household who know how to prepare the rooms or handle all the things a celebration like this requires. No one understands these domestic matters better than you. So I want you to arrange everything. Invite whatever ladies you think best, and receive them as if you were still the lady of this house. Then, when the wedding is over, you can go back home."

Every word was a knife in Griselda's heart — she'd been unable to give up her love for him as easily as she'd given up her good fortune. "My lord," she answered, "I am ready and willing."

And so, in her rough homespun clothes, she went back into the house she'd left in nothing but a shift, and began sweeping and tidying the rooms, hanging tapestries, setting out coverings, overseeing the preparation of food — putting her hand to everything as if she were some lowly kitchen maid. She didn't stop until every room was decorated and everything was arranged exactly as it should be. Then she sent out invitations in Gualtieri's name to all the ladies of the region and waited for the day of the feast.

When the day came, dressed in her poor clothes but carrying herself with the grace and dignity of a noblewoman, she welcomed every lady who arrived with a cheerful face.

Meanwhile, Gualtieri had arranged for his two children to be brought from Bologna by his kinswoman, who had married into the family of the Counts of Panago. The girl was now twelve years old and as beautiful as anyone had ever seen. The boy was six. Gualtieri had sent word to his kinsman in Bologna asking him to come to Saluzzo with the boy and the girl, to bring a fine and honorable company with him, and to tell everyone that he was bringing the young lady to be Gualtieri's new wife — without revealing who she really was to anyone.

The gentleman did as the marquis asked. He set out with the girl, the boy, and a splendid retinue, and after several days' journey arrived at Saluzzo around dinnertime. They found all the local people and many others from the surrounding area waiting to see Gualtieri's new bride.

The girl was received by the ladies and brought into the hall where the tables were set. Griselda came forward to meet her, dressed in her homespun, and greeted her warmly: "Welcome, my lady, and a most heartfelt welcome to you."

The other ladies — who had begged Gualtieri, urgently but in vain, to let Griselda stay in a back room, or at least lend her one of her old dresses so she wouldn't have to appear like this before his guests — took their seats at the table, and the meal was served. Everyone was watching the girl, and the general verdict was that Gualtieri had made a good trade. Among all the admirers, Griselda herself was the most generous with her praise, commending both the girl and her young brother.

Gualtieri had now observed that the strangeness of his behavior hadn't shaken her in the least. He was certain that this wasn't because she was too slow to understand — he knew perfectly well how sharp she was. He decided the time had finally come to pull her out of the bitterness that he had no doubt she was hiding behind that constant, steady face.

He called her over and said to her, smiling, in front of everyone: "So, what do you think of our bride?"

"My lord," she answered, "I think very well of her. If she's as wise as she is beautiful — and I believe she is — I have no doubt you'll live as the happiest man in the world. But I beg you, with all my heart, don't inflict on her the same wounds you once inflicted on the woman who used to be yours. I don't think she could survive them. She's younger, and she's been raised in comfort, whereas the other one had known nothing but hard work since she was a child."

Gualtieri, seeing that she truly believed the girl was to be his new wife and still spoke nothing but good of her, had her sit down beside him. "Griselda," he said, "the time has come for you to reap the reward of your long patience — and for those who've called me cruel and unjust and monstrous to understand that everything I did, I did with a purpose. I wanted to teach you how to be a wife. I wanted to show these people how to choose one and how to treat one. And I wanted to secure for myself a life of lasting peace for as long as I had to live with you.

"When I first decided to marry, I was terrified that peace would elude me. And so, to test you, I tried you and tormented you in every way you know. And because I've never once found that you departed from my wishes, in word or in deed, I now have from you the happiness I wanted. So now I mean to give you back, in a single moment, everything I took from you over all those years, and to heal with one supreme joy all the pain I caused you.

"Take this girl, whom you believe to be my bride, and her brother, and know them for your children and mine. These are the ones everyone believed for so long that I'd had barbarously murdered. And I am your husband, who loves you above all things, and who believes he can say, without boasting, that no man alive has more reason to be happy with his wife than I do."

With that, he embraced her and kissed her. Then he rose and went with Griselda — who was weeping with joy — to where their daughter sat, stunned by what she was hearing. He embraced her tenderly, and then the boy, and the truth broke over them and over everyone else in the room.

The ladies sprang up from the table, overjoyed, and led Griselda to a chamber where, with far happier purpose, they stripped off her rough clothes and dressed her again in one of her own magnificent gowns. They brought her back to the hall looking every inch the noblewoman — which, in truth, she had looked even in rags.

There she was reunited with her children in a scene of indescribable joy. Everyone was overcome with happiness. The feasting and celebration went on for days. People agreed that Gualtieri was a wise man, though they all felt the tests he'd put his wife through were excessively harsh — no, intolerable. But above all, everyone agreed that Griselda was the wisest of them all.

The Count of Panago returned to Bologna after a few days. Gualtieri took Giannucolo away from his labors and established him in a position that befitted the father-in-law of a marquis, so that he lived out his remaining days in honor and comfort. Gualtieri then made a fine marriage for his daughter and lived long and happily with Griselda, honoring her in every way he could.

What more can be said? Even in poor cottages, divine spirits rain down from heaven — just as there are those in royal palaces who'd be better off tending pigs than ruling over men. Who besides Griselda could have endured the savage, unheard-of trials that Gualtieri put her through — not just dry-eyed, but with a cheerful face? Though perhaps it would have served him right if he'd married someone who, when he threw her out of the house in her shift, had gone and found some other man to shake her coat with, and gotten a nice new dress out of the deal."

Dioneo's story was finished, and the ladies talked about it at great length — some taking one side, some the other, some criticizing one aspect and others praising something else. Then the king, looking up at the sky and seeing that the sun was already low and the hour of vespers close at hand, began to speak without rising from his seat:

"Lovely ladies, I think you all know as well as I do that the wisdom of mortals doesn't consist only in remembering the past and observing the present. The truly wise — or so all thinking people agree — are those who can use both past and present to foresee what's coming.

"Tomorrow, as you know, it will be fifteen days since we left Florence, seeking some diversion to preserve our health and our lives — escaping the grief and suffering and misery that have filled our city ever since this plague began. This, I believe, we've done well and honorably. Because even though we've told merry stories — some of them the kind that might tempt weaker minds toward less than virtuous behavior — and we've eaten and drunk well, and danced and sung and made music, all things that could encourage people of little backbone, I have not seen a single act, heard a single word, found a single thing to criticize — not on your side, and not on ours. I've seen nothing here but perfect propriety, unbroken harmony, and a constant spirit of familial affection. This makes me deeply proud, for your honor and for mine.

"But I'm worried that if we stay much longer, all this pleasant routine might turn tedious. And people could start talking about us lingering here too long. Besides, each of us has had our turn to wear the crown. So I think it's time — if you agree — for us to go back where we came from. Not to mention that if you think about it, other people in the neighborhood already know about our group, and if we stay, the numbers could swell in a way that would ruin everything.

"If you approve, I'll keep the crown until our departure, which I propose for tomorrow morning. If you decide otherwise, I already know who should wear it for the next day."

The ladies and the young men debated this for a while, but in the end they all agreed the king's plan was both sensible and right, and they decided to follow it. The king called the steward, discussed the arrangements for the next morning, and then dismissed the group until suppertime. He stood up, and the ladies and young men rose after him, each going off to their usual amusements.

When suppertime came, they sat down to eat with great pleasure. Afterward, they fell to singing and playing music and dancing. When Lauretta had led one round of dancing, the king called on Fiammetta to sing a song. She happily began:

If love could come without jealousy, > I know no woman born > Who'd be as glad as me. > > If joyful youth and beauty > Could content a woman's heart, > Or courage, worth, and wit, > Sweet words, and perfect manners played with art — > Then I'm the one, for all of it > Lives in the man I love; I see it fit > Together there, love-worn, > All gathered up in him, my hope, for me. > > But since I know too well > That other women are as wise as I, > I tremble and I fear, > And in my dread I spell > In other eyes that same desire — and why > He steals my heart is clear > To all; so what should be my joy most dear > Leaves me instead forlorn, > Sighing my way through love's own misery. > > If I could trust his faith > As much as I can see his worth, then I > Would never jealous be; > But men give lovers wraith — > So many temptresses catch every eye, > However true they'd be, > That I despair and half would gladly die, > By every doubt now torn, > Lest someone steal him right away from me. > > So let each lady hear > My prayer to God: don't set your sights on him > Or do me any wrong; > For if I find one near > Who works with words or looks or any whim > To snare the love I long > For — let my beauty vanish — I'll be strong > Enough, though beauty-shorn, > To make her rue it very bitterly.

As soon as Fiammetta finished her song, Dioneo, who was sitting beside her, said with a laugh, "Madam, you'd do everyone a great favor if you'd tell us who he is, so they don't steal him from you out of sheer ignorance — since you'd take it so badly!"

After this, several more songs were sung. The night was now nearly half gone, and at the king's command, they all went to bed. When the new day dawned, they rose, and the steward — having already sent all their belongings on ahead — followed their wise king back to Florence. The three young men parted from the seven ladies at Santa Maria Novella, where they'd first met, and went their separate ways to attend to their own affairs. The ladies, when they felt the time was right, returned to their homes.

Here ends the tenth and final day of the Decameron.

Conclusion of the Author

Most noble ladies, for whose comfort I set out on this long labor — I believe I have now, with the help of God (granted, I trust, by your kind prayers rather than any merit of my own), fully accomplished what I promised at the beginning of this book. And so, having given thanks first to God and then to you, the time has come to let my pen and my tired hand rest.

But before I do, I want to briefly address a few objections that some of you, or perhaps others, might raise — even if only in your thoughts. Because I'm quite certain these stories enjoy no special immunity from criticism. In fact, I made that point myself at the beginning of the Fourth Day.

There will be some among you, perhaps, who'll say I took too many liberties in writing these stories — that I had ladies say things, and far too often listen to things, that decent women shouldn't say or hear. I deny this. There is nothing so indecent that it can't be told, as long as you use the right words to tell it — and I believe I've done exactly that.

But let's suppose for a moment that it's true (I have no intention of arguing with you — you'd win). I can offer plenty of reasons for why I did what I did.

First: if anything in these stories crosses a line, the nature of the stories themselves demanded it. Anyone with a reasonable eye and a working brain can see that I couldn't have told them any other way without mangling them beyond recognition. And if maybe there's a little word here or there that's a bit freer than your prim, self-righteous prudes would like — the kind of people who weigh words instead of deeds, and care more about looking good than being good — then I say this: it should be no more forbidden for me to write such words than it is for men and women everywhere to say, all day long, "hole" and "peg" and "mortar" and "pestle" and "sausage" and "salami" and a hundred other things just like them.

And beyond that, my pen deserves no less freedom than the painter's brush. No one criticizes the painter — or at least, no one with any sense — when he paints not just Saint Michael striking the serpent with a sword, or Saint George slaying the dragon with a lance, but Adam as a man and Eve as a woman, and nails the feet of Christ Himself — who chose to die on the cross for the salvation of the human race — sometimes with one nail and sometimes with two. If they can paint all that, surely I can write a few lively words.

What's more, it should be perfectly obvious that these stories were not told in a church, where matters of faith require the purest language and the purest thoughts — even though, if you look through the church's own scriptures, you'll find plenty of stories racier than anything I've written. Nor were they told in a school of philosophy, where standards of decency are just as high. They were told in gardens, in a place of pleasure and recreation, among young men and women who were nonetheless mature in judgment and not the sort to be led astray by a story. And they were told at a time when even the most virtuous people were wandering around with their pants on their heads, if it meant staying alive.

Besides, these stories — like everything else in the world — can help you or harm you, depending on who's listening. Who doesn't know that wine is a wonderful thing for healthy people, according to Cinciglione and Scolajo and plenty of others, but terrible for someone with a fever? Should we say wine is worthless just because it hurts the sick? Who doesn't know that fire is one of the most useful — no, most essential — things in human life? Should we say fire is evil because it burns down houses and villages and cities? Weapons, likewise, protect the lives of those who want to live in peace, and yet they also kill people — not through any fault of their own, but because of the wickedness of those who misuse them.

A corrupt mind never understood a word in a healthy way. And just as decent language does nothing for a depraved mind, language that's a little rough around the edges can't contaminate a mind that's sound — any more than mud can dim the rays of the sun, or earthly filth can stain the beauty of the sky.

What books, what words, what writings are holier, worthier, more sacred than the Holy Scriptures themselves? And yet there have been plenty of people who, by twisting them to perverse ends, have dragged themselves and others straight to hell. Everything is good for something, and misused, can be harmful in a thousand ways. The same goes for my stories. If anyone is determined to draw wicked lessons or wicked inspiration from them, the stories won't stop him — not if the wickedness is already in there, or if he's willing to twist and distort them until it is. And if someone wants to find profit and pleasure in them, the stories won't refuse him that either. They will always be called useful and proper, so long as they are read at the right times and by the right people — the times and the people they were written for.

If some lady needs to go say her rosary, or bake pies and cakes for her confessor, she can leave these stories alone. They won't chase anyone down and force themselves to be read. Though I should mention — your saintly ladies do say and even do some pretty remarkable things themselves, from time to time.

There will also be ladies who say that some of these stories would have been better left out. Fair enough. But I could only write the stories that were actually told. If the storytellers had told better ones, I'd have written better ones. But even if people insist on pretending that I both invented and wrote them (which I did not), I wouldn't be ashamed that they weren't all equally good. There is no craftsman alive — except God — who does everything perfectly. Look at Charlemagne: he was the first to create the Paladins, but he couldn't make enough of them to fill an army. When you've got a multitude of things, you're bound to find them in all different qualities. No field was ever so well tended that you couldn't find nettles, thistles, or a few brambles mixed in with the good crops.

And let's be honest: since I was writing for simple young ladies — which is what most of you are — it would have been foolish to go killing myself searching for the most exquisite, refined material, or to tie myself in knots trying to speak with extreme precision. In any case, whoever goes browsing through these stories can skip the ones that offend and read the ones that entertain. Every story carries a label on its forehead telling you what it holds inside, so no one will be led into error.

I'm sure there will also be people who say some of the stories are too long. To them I say: if you have better things to do, it's foolish to read these stories at all, even if they were short. A long time has passed between when I started writing and this moment, when I've finally reached the end of my labors. But I haven't forgotten that I offered this work to women with time on their hands, not to anyone else. And for someone reading to pass the time, nothing is too long, as long as it does the job.

Short things are much better suited to students, who study not to kill time but to use it wisely. But you, ladies — you have all the hours in the day that you don't spend on the pleasures of love. And since none of you goes off to study in Athens or Bologna or Paris, things need to be spelled out for you at somewhat greater length than for people who've had their wits sharpened by education.

And I have no doubt there are those among you who'll say these stories are full of jokes and wisecracks and clever nonsense, and that a man of substance and gravity shouldn't have written such things. To you I'm obliged to give thanks — and I do — for being so zealously protective of my reputation. But here's my answer: I confess to being a man of weight, and to having been weighed many times in my life. So, speaking to those ladies who haven't weighed me personally, let me assure you: I am not heavy. In fact, I'm so light I float like a cork in water. And considering that the sermons friars deliver these days to scold people for their sins are absolutely stuffed with jokes and wisecracks and ridicule, I figured the same wouldn't be out of place in my stories, which were written to cheer women out of their melancholy. Still, if anyone laughs too much because of them, the Lamentations of Jeremiah, the Passion of our Savior, and the Penitence of Mary Magdalene should cure that easily enough.

And who can doubt that some people will accuse me of having a mean and poisonous tongue, because in certain places I wrote the truth about friars? Those who say so must be forgiven, since it's impossible to believe they're motivated by anything other than righteous indignation. After all, friars are wonderful people. They avoid hardship for the love of God. They grind their grain when the water's running high. And they never kiss and tell. If it weren't for the fact that they all smell a bit like goats, their company would be perfectly delightful.

Still, I'll admit that the things of this world have no permanence and are constantly changing, and the same may be true of my tongue. Not trusting my own judgment — which I avoid as much as I can in matters concerning myself — a neighbor of mine told me not long ago that my tongue was the finest and sweetest in the world. And honestly, if that were true, there wouldn't have been many of the stories above left to write. But since those who level such accusations speak out of spite, let what I've said be enough of an answer.

And so, leaving each of you to say and believe whatever you like, it's time for me to stop talking. I humbly thank the One who, after such a long labor, has brought us safely, with His help, to the end we hoped for.

And you, lovely ladies — go in peace, and may His grace be with you. Remember me, if any of you found any pleasure or profit in reading these stories.

Here ends the book called Decameron, also known as Prince Galahalt.