Droll Stories Read online

  First published 1928.

  First Skyhorse Publishing edition published in 2015.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Qualcom

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-511-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0049-9

  Table of Contents

  Volume I

  THE FIRST TEN TALES

  PROLOGUE

  THE FAIR IMPERIA

  THE VENIAL SIN

  How the goodman Bruyn took a wife

  How the Seneschal struggled with his wife’s modesty

  That which is only a venial sin

  How and by whom the said child was procured

  How the said love-sin was repented of and led to great mourning

  THE KING’S SWEETHEART

  THE DEVIL’S HEIR

  THE MERRY JESTS OF KING LOUIS THE ELEVENTH

  THE HIGH CONSTABLE’S WIFE

  THE MAID OF THILOUSE

  THE BROTHER-IN-ARMS

  THE VICAR OF AZAY-LE-RIDEAU

  THE REPROACH

  EPILOGUE

  THE SECOND TEN TALES

  PROLOGUE

  THE THREE CLERKS OF ST. NICHOLAS

  THE CONTINENCE OF KING FRANCIS THE FIRST

  THE MERRY TATTLE OF THE NUNS OF POISSY

  HOW THE CHATEAU D’AZAY CAME TO BE BUILT

  THE FALSE COURTESAN

  THE DANGER OF BEING TOO INNOCENT

  THE DEAR NIGHT OF LOVE

  Table of Contents

  Volume II

  THE SERMON OF THE MERRY VICAR OF MEUDON

  THE SUCCUBUS

  Prologue

  I.

  What the Succubus was

  II.

  The proceedings taken relative to this female vampire

  III.

  What the Succubus did to suck out the soul of the old Judge, and what came of the diabolical delectation

  IV.

  How the Moorish woman of the Rue Chaude twisted about so briskly, that with great difficulty was she burned and cooked alive, to the great loss of the infernal regions

  DESPAIR IN LOVE

  EPILOGUE

  THE THIRD TEN TALES

  PROLOGUE

  PERSEVERANCE IN LOVE

  CONCERNING A PROVOST WHO DID NOT RECOGNISE THINGS

  ABOUT THE MONK AMADOR, WHO WAS A GLORIOUS ABBOT OF TURPENAY

  BERTHA THE PENITENT

  I.

  How Bertha remained a Maiden in the Married State

  II.

  How Bertha behaved, knowing the Business of Love

  III.

  Horrible chastisement of Bertha and expiation of the same, who died pardoned

  How THE PRETTY MAID OF PORTILLON CONVINCED HER JUDGE

  IN WHICH IT IS DEMONSTRATED THAT FORTUNE IS ALWAYS FEMININE

  CONCERNING A POOR MAN WHO WAS CALLED LE VIEUX PAR-CHEMINS

  ODD SAYINGS OF THREE PILGRIMS

  INNOCENCE

  THE FAIR IMPERIA MARRIED

  I.

  How Madame Imperia was caught in the very net she was accustomed to spread for her love-birds

  II.

  How this Marriage ended

  EPILOGUE

  THE FIRST TEN TALES

  PROLOGUE

  THIS is a book of the richest flavour, full of right hearty merriment, spiced to the palate of the illustrious and very precious tosspots and drinkers, to whom our worthy compatriot, François Rabelais, the eternal honour of Touraine, addressed himself. Be it nevertheless understood, the author has no other desire than to be a good Tourainian, and joyfully to chronicle the merry doings of the famous people of this sweet and productive land, more fertile in cuckolds, dandies, and witty wags than any other, and which has furnished a good share of men of renown to France, as witness the departed Courier of piquant memory; Verville, author of the Moyen de parvenir, and others equally well known, among whom we will specially mention the Sieur Descartes, because he was a melancholy genius, and devoted himself more to brown studies than to drinks and dainties, a man of whom all the cooks and confectioners of Tours have a wise horror, whom they despise, and will not hear spoken of, and say, “Where does he live?” if his name is mentioned. Now this work is the product of the joyous leisure of the good old monks, of whom there are many vestiges scattered about the country, at Grenadière-les-Saint-Cyr, in the village of Sacché-Jes-Azay-le-Rideau, at Marmoutiers, Veretz, Roche-Corbon, and in certain storehouses of good stories, which are old canons and wise dames, who remember the good old days when you could enjoy a hearty laugh without being afraid to shake your belly, not like the young women of the present day, who wish to take their pleasure gravely—a custom which suits our gay France as much as a water-jug would the head of a queen. Since laughter is a privilege granted to man alone, and he has sufficient causes for tears within his reach, without adding to them by books, I have considered it a thing most patriotic to publish a drachm of merriment for these times, when weariness falls like a fine rain, wetting us, soaking into us, and dissolving those ancient customs which make the people to reap public amusement from the Republic. But of those old pantagruelists who allowed God and the king to conduct their own affairs without putting of their finger in the pie oftener than they could help, being content to look on and laugh, there are very few left. They are dying out day by day in such manner that I fear greatly to see these illustrious fragments of the ancient breviary spat upon, staled upon, set at naught, dishonoured, and blamed, the which I should be loth to see, since I have and bear great respect for the refuse of our Gallic antiquities.

  Bear in mind also, ye wild critics, ye scrapers-up of words, harpies who mangle the intentions and inventions of every one, that as children only do we laugh, and as we travel onward laughter sinks down and dies out, like the light of the oil-lit lamp. This signifies, that to laugh you must be innocent, and pure of heart, lacking which qualities you purse your lips, drop your jaws, and knit your brow, after the manner of men hiding vices and impurities. Take, then, this work as you would a group or statue, certain features of which an artist cannot omit, and he would be the biggest of all big fools if he put leaves upon them, seeing that these said works are not, any more than is this book, intended for nunneries. Nevertheless, I have taken care, much to my vexation, to weed from the manuscripts the old words, which, in spite of their age, were still strong, and which would have shocked the ears, astonished the eyes, reddened the cheeks, and sullied the lips of maidenly young men, and Madame Virtue with three lovers; for certain things must be done to suit the vices of the age, and a periphrase is much more agreeable than the word. Indeed, we are old, and find long trifles better than the short follies of our youth, because at that time our taste was better. Then spare me your slanders, and read this rather at night than in the daytime, and give it not to young maidens, if there be any, because this book is inflammable. I will now rid you of myself. But I fear nothing for this book, since it is extracted from a high and spl
endid source, from which all that has issued has had a great success, as is amply proved by the royal orders of the Golden Fleece, of the Holy Ghost, of the Garter, of the Bath, and by many notable things which have been taken therefrom, under shelter of which I place myself.

  Now make ye merry, my hearties, and gaily read with ease of body and rest of reins, and may a cancer carry you off if you disown me after having read me. These words are those of our good Master Rabelais, before whom we must all stand, hat in hand, in token of reverence and honour to him, prince of all wisdom, and king of comedy.

  THE FAIR IMPERIA

  THE Archbishop of Bordeaux had added to his suite when going to the Council at Constance quite a good-looking little priest of Touraine whose ways and manner of speech were so charming that he passed for a son of La Soldée and the Governor. The Archbishop of Tours had willingly given him to his confrère for his journey to that town, because it was usual for archbishops to make each other presents, they well knowing how sharp are the itchings of theological palms. Thus this young priest came to the Council and was lodged in the establishment of his prelate, a man of good morals and great science.

  Philippe de Mala, as he was called, resolved to behave well and worthily to serve his protector, but he saw in this mysterious Council many men leading a dissolute life and yet not making less, nay—gaining more indulgences, gold crowns and benefices than all the other virtuous and well-behaved ones. Now during one night—dangerous to his virtue—the devil whispered into his ear that he should live more luxuriously, since every one sucked the breasts of our Holy Mother Church and yet they were not drained, a miracle which proved beyond doubt the existence of God. And the little priest of Touraine did not disappoint the devil. He promised to feast himself, to eat his bellyful of roast meats and other German delicacies, when he could do so without paying for them, as he was poor. As he remained quite continent (in which he followed the example of the poor old archbishop, who sinned no longer because he was unable to, and passed for a saint), he had to suffer from intolerable desires followed by fits of melancholy, since there were so many sweet courtezans, well developed, but cold to the poor people, who inhabited Constance, to enlighten the understanding of the Fathers of the Council. He was savage that he did not know how to make up to these gallant sirens, who snubbed cardinals, abbots, councilors, legates, bishops, princes, and margraves, just as if they had been penniless clerks. And in the evening, after prayers, he would practice speaking to them, teaching himself the breviary of love. He taught himself to answer all possible questions, but on the morrow if by chance he met one of the aforesaid princesses dressed out, seated in a litter and escorted by her proud and well-armed pages, he remained open-mouthed, like a dog in the act of catching flies, at the sight of the sweet countenance that so much inflamed him. The secretary of Monseigneur, a gentleman of Perigord, having clearly explained to him that the Fathers, procureurs, and auditors of the Rota bought by certain presents, not relics or indulgences, but jewels and gold, the favour of being familiar with the best of these pampered cats who lived under the protection of the lords of the Council; the poor Tourainian, all simpleton and innocent as he was, treasured up under his mattress the money given him by the good archbishop for writings and copying—hoping one day to have enough just to see a cardinal’s lady-love, and trusting in God for the rest. He was hairless from top to toe and resembled a man about as much as a goat with a night-dress on resembles a young lady, but prompted by his desires he wandered in the evenings through the streets of Constance, careless of his life, and, at the risk of having his body halberded by the soldiers, he peeped at the cardinals entering the houses of their sweethearts. Then he saw the wax-candles lighted in the houses and suddenly the doors and the windows closed. Then he heard the blessed abbots or others jumping about, drinking, enjoying themselves, love-making, singing the secret Alleluia and applauding the music with which they were being regaled. The kitchen performed miracles, the Offices said were fine rich pots-full, the Matins sweet little hams, the Vespers luscious mouthfuls, and the Laudes delicate sweetmeats, and after their little carouses, these brave priests were silent, their pages diced upon the stairs, their mules stamped restively in the streets; everything went well—but faith and religion were there. That is how it came to pass the good man Huss was burned. And the reason? He put his finger in the pie without being asked. Then why was he a Huguenot before the others?

  To return, however, to our sweet little Philippe, not unfrequently did he receive many a thump and hard blow, but the devil sustained him, inciting him to believe that sooner or later it would come to his turn to play the cardinal to some lovely dame. This ardent desire gave him the boldness of a stag in autumn, so much so that one evening he quietly tripped up the steps and into one of the first houses in Constance where often he had seen officers, seneschals, valets, and pages waiting with torches for their masters, dukes, kings, cardinals, and archbishops.

  “Ah!” said he, “she must be very beautiful and amiable, this one.”

  A soldier well armed allowed him to pass, believing him to belong to the suite of the Elector of Bavaria, who had just left, and that he was going to deliver a message on behalf of the above-mentioned nobleman. Philippe de Mala mounted the stairs as lightly as a greyhound in love, and was guided by a delectable odour of perfume to a certain chamber where, surrounded by her handmaidens, the lady of the house was divesting herself of her attire. He stood quite dumbfounded like a thief surprised by sergeants. The lady was without petticoat or head-dress. The chamber-maids and the servants, busy taking off her stockings and undressing her, so quickly and dexterously had her stripped, that the priest, overcome, gave vent to a long Ah! which had a flavour of love about it.

  “What want you, little one?” said the lady to him.

  “To yield my soul to you,” said he, flashing his eyes upon her.

  “You can come again to-morrow,” said she, in order to be rid of him.

  To which Philippe replied, blushing, “I will not fail.”

  Then she burst out laughing. Philippe, struck motionless, stood quite at his ease, letting wander over her his eyes that glowed and sparkled with the flame of love. What lovely thick hair hung over her ivory white back, showing sweet white places, fair and shining between the many tresses! She had upon her snow-white brow a ruby circlet, less fertile in rays of fire than her black eyes, still moist with tears from her hearty laugh. She even threw her slipper at a statue gilded like a shrine, twisting herself about from very ribaldry, and allowed her bare foot, smaller than a swan’s bill, to be seen. This evening she was in a good humour, otherwise she would have had the little shaven-crown put out by the window without more ado than her first bishop.

  “He has fine eyes, Madame,” said one of the handmaids.

  “Where does he come from?” asked another.

  “Poor child!” cried Madame, “his mother must be looking for him. Show him his way home.”

  The Tourainian, still sensible, gave a movement of delight at the sight of the brocaded bed where the sweet form was about to repose. This glance, full of amorous intelligence, awoke the lady’s fantasy, who, half laughing and half smitten, repeated “To-morrow,” and dismissed him with a gesture which the pope Jehan himself would have obeyed, especially as he was like a snail without a shell, since the Council had just deprived him of the holy keys.

  “Ah! Madame, there is another vow of chastity changed into an amorous desire,” said one of her women; and the chuckles commenced again thick as hail.

  Philippe went his way, bumping his head against the wall like a hooded rook as he was. So giddy had he become at the sight of this creature, even more enticing than a siren rising from the water. He noticed the animals carved over the door and returned to the house of the archbishop with his head full of diabolical longings and his entrails sophisticated. Once in his little room he counted his coins all night long, but could make no more than four of them: and as that was all his treasure, he counted upon sa
tisfying the fair one by giving her all he had in the world.

  “What is it ails you?” said the good archbishop, uneasy at the groans and “oh! oh’s!” of his clerk.

  “Ah! my lord,” answered the poor priest, “I am wondering how it is that so light and sweet a woman can weigh so heavily upon my heart.”

  “Which one?” said the archbishop, putting down his breviary which he was reading for others—the good man.

  “Oh! Mother of God! you will scold me, I know, my good master, my protector, because I have seen the lady of a cardinal at the least, and I am weeping because I lack more than one little crown to enable me to convert her.”

  The archbishop, knitting the circumflex accent that he had about his nose, said not a word. Then the very humble priest trembled in his skin to have confessed so much to his superior. But the holy man directly said to him, “She must be very dear then——”

  “Ah!” said he, “she has swallowed many a mitre and stolen many a cross.”

  “Well, Philippe, if thou wilt renounce her, I will present thee with thirty crowns from the poor-box.”

  “Ah! my lord, I should be losing too much,” replied the lad, emboldened by the treat he promised himself.

  “Ah! Philippe,” said the good prelate, “thou wilt then go to the devil and displease God, like all our cardinals,” and the master, with sorrow, began to pray St. Gatien, the patron saint of Innocents, to save his servant. He made him kneel down beside him, telling him to recommend himself also to St. Philippe, but the wretched priest implored the saint beneath his breath to prevent him from failing if on the morrow the lady should receive him kindly and mercifully; and the good archbishop, observing the fervour of his servant, cried out to him, “Courage, little one, and Heaven will exorcise thee.”

  On the morrow, while Monsieur was declaiming at the Council against the shameless behaviour of the apostles of Christianity, Philippe de Mala spent his crowns—acquired with so much labour—in perfumes, baths, fomentations, and other fooleries. He played the fop so well, one would have thought him the fancy cavalier of a gay lady. He wandered about the town in order to find the residence of his heart’s queen; and when he asked the passers-by to whom belonged the aforesaid house, they laughed in his face, saying—