of Castile, there was at Salamanca, a noble and ancient city of that
kingdom, a grey friar, called Maestro Diego of Revolo, who, being
no less famous in the _Thomist_ than the _Scotist_ doctrines, was
deservedly chosen, with no mean salary, to be a lecturer at the schools
of the famous university of the above-mentioned city. This man obtained
the greatest fame throughout the whole kingdom, and sometimes gave the
most pious and useful sermons. Being young, handsome, and rather of a
warm and inflammable constitution, it happened one day, that whilst
he was in the pulpit he cast his eyes on a beautiful young lady, named
Catherine, the wife of one of the principal cavaliers in the town, whose
name was Roderigo Dangiagia. At first sight of this lady our hero was
vanquished, for Cupid had shot a keen dart in his already contaminated
heart. Descending from the pulpit, he dismissed all theological
reasonings and sophistical arguments, and gave his whole soul to the
thought of that divine object, and although he knew the high rank of the
lady, whose wife she was, and what a mad undertaking it would be, and
tried to persuade himself not to venture, yet he sometimes thought,
where love asserts its empire it cares not for rank, for if that was the
case princes would not so often course on our lands, therefore love
must have that same privilege with us. “No one foresees the wounds love
inflicts, they come suddenly and unexpectedly; therefore, if Cupid,
whose arrows are resistless, has found me unarmed and incapable of
resistance, it must be that I am fairly conquered, and as his vassal
I will enter the lists, and if I am to die, I shall be freed from this
torture, and in the next world my spirit will proudly glory in having
placed its affections on so high an object.” Thus saying, without
recurring to former nugatory arguments, he, with burning tears, took
pen, ink, and paper, and wrote an elegant epistle to his beloved; first
extolling her as more than divine, and speaking of her immortal charms;
then telling her she had so captivated him that he must either obtain
her favours or die; and, lastly, as he knew he could not presume,
from her high rank, to be admitted in her house, yet he most earnestly
entreated that she would condescend to appoint a time and place, when
he might secretly visit her, or at least permit him to be her devoted
servant, as he had chosen her for the only mistress of his life, adding
numberless tender expressions; he, lastly, kissed the letter over and
over, sealed it, and gave it to a little friar of his, telling him whom
to carry it to, and at the same time giving him his directions. Away
went the friar according to order, and when arrived at the house, he
found the lady surrounded by her women. Making a profound obeisance,
he said, “My master, Madam, sends his most dutiful respects to you, and
entreats you to give him a little of your finest flour to make hosts
with, as you will find better explained in that little letter.” The
lady, who was sagacious enough, on seeing the letter, pretty nearly
guessed at the purport of it. Upon reading it, although very virtuous
and honest, yet she could not help being a little pleased at his falling
in love with her, and knowing herself to be so very great a beauty, she
delighted in perusing it, and hearing her charms so praised, being one
of those who strongly feel that innate passion of females--the love of
praise--and who place their whole fame, honour, and glory in being
loved and exalted for their beauty, and who would rather be considered
handsome, though wanting in chastity, than ugly, though with the highest
reputation. The lady, however, having an extraordinary dislike to friars
(and not without reason), determined, not only not to condescend to his
wishes, but not even to favour him with an answer. She likewise made up
her mind, for this time, not to mention it to her husband, and turning
to the little friar, without seeming in the least agitation, “tell thy
master,” said she, “that the master of my flour will have it entirely to
himself, and therefore he must get some elsewhere, and as to the letter,
it requires no answer, but that should he wish for one, he must let me
know, because when my husband comes home I will direct him to answer it
as it ought,” The friar, though he received so severe an answer, was not
discouraged; on the contrary, his love and ardent desire were the more
increased, and instead of withdrawing himself from this undertaking, as
his convent was close to her house, he so pursued her every where, that
she could not go to her window without meeting his eyes; to church, or
out of the house, but he was ever at her heels; insomuch, that not only
the neighbours, but the very town took notice of it: upon which she then
reflected it was no longer proper to conceal it from her husband, who,
if he should hear of it from another quarter, would conceive a very bad
opinion of her virtue, and more serious consequences might ensue. Thus
determined, she one night related the whole transaction to her husband.
He, who was not less courageous than honourable, was so dreadfully
enraged that he had nearly gone and set the whole convent in a blaze,
and thus destroyed the whole brotherhood; yet growing a little cooler,
after praising the conduct of his wife, he desired her to let the
gallant know, he might come the following night, and introduce him in
the best manner she could in the house, at a particular hour, in order
that he might revenge his honour, without exposing his wife to any
rudeness, and leave the rest to him. The lady felt rather embarrassed,
considering the consequences that might follow, yet to obey the will of
her lord, she engaged to do so, and as the little friar was continually
coming on the same errand, she said to him one day, “commend me to your
master and tell him that the tender affection he professes to me,
and the burning tears which he writes me word he constantly sheds in
thinking of me, have at last softened my heart towards him, and made me
sensible of his love, and that as fortune would have it, Messer Roderigo
being gone this morning into the country, and being likely to remain
till next day, that he must come as soon as the clock struck three, as
secretly as possible; that I will admit him, but that I particularly
desire he would bring no one with him, not even his most intimate
friend.” The little monk, happy beyond measure, brought this good news
to his master, who thought himself the happiest fellow in the world, and
every moment of the intermediate time appeared to him whole ages. The
hour coming at last, dressing and perfuming himself in order that he
might not smell of the friar, and providing himself with a large store
of sweetmeats, &c. he went to the lady’s house; there finding the
door open, went in, and was led in the dark by a little girl to the
dining-room where he expected the lady would kindly receive him, instead
of which he found the husband and a faithful servant of his; they having
seized him, very coolly strangled him. Master Diego being dead, the
cavalier repented that he had so disgraced himself, by killing a
contemptible friar; but seeing that repentance was unavailing, and being
in fear of the king’s displeasure, he determined to get the corpse out
of the house, and carry him to his convent. The servant taking him on
his shoulders, they went towards the garden of the convent, and having
got in, they soon carried him to the privy, where there being but one
seat left, the rest being totally destroyed, as it often happens in
convents, where every place is more like a cavern or den of thieves,
than the habitation of the servants to the Deity, they placed the body
on it and there left him, and went home. As Messer Diego sat there in
that natural attitude, a young and stout friar having occasion, in the
middle of the night, to go to the privy, he lighted a taper and ran to
the place where the defunct Diego sat; being recognised by the young
friar, and not suspecting he was dead, he withdrew, waiting till he
would have come away. Now there had been a monastical jealousy, envy,
and hatred between these two, so that being much pressed, and seeing he
did not move, he said to himself, “This fellow certainly sits there to
spite me, and shews, even in this mean act, his contempt for me; but I
declare I will wait as long as I can, and though I might go somewhere
else, if he does not quit the place I’ll make him.” Diego, who long
since had crossed the Styx, of course never moved. “By heavens,” said
the young friar at last, unable to wait any longer, “I will not bear
with this insult,” so saying, he picked up a large stone, threw it at the
deceased’s breast, and tumbled him backwards without his moving a limb.
The friar perceiving the strength of the blow, and seeing him fall,
suspected he had killed him; after waiting in hopes of seeing him rise,
between fear and hope, he got closer to him: looking at him with the
taper, he perceived he was really dead, and conceiving that their former
enmity being known, he would be suspected to have killed him, he was on
the point of hanging himself, yet, thinking better of it, he resolved
to carry him out of the convent, and lay him down in the street to avoid
any suspicion falling upon him. While he was deliberating upon this, the
public and scandalous courtship of the master to Donna Catarina occurred
to his mind; upon which he said to himself, “where can I carry him
more easily, and with less suspicion attached to me than before Messer
Roderigo’s door; besides, its being nearer at hand, it will certainly be
believed that the fellow going to court his wife, he had got some one to
kill him?” Having fixed on this course, he, with some difficulty, at last
brought him to the very door, from whence, but a few hours before, he
had entered alive and in high spirits. This being done without any one
seeing him, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him to the convent;
he thought he was pretty safe from suspicion, but yet considered it
would be better to absent himself for a few days; he therefore went
immediately to the prior and said, “Reverend Father, the other day, for
want of mules, I left the greater part of our gatherings at Medina,
at the house of one of our fraternity; I therefore, with your holy
permission, would like to take the mare of the convent, and, with God’s
help, I hope to return the day after to-morrow.” The prior not only gave
him permission, but greatly praised his forecast. The young friar having
obtained leave, prepared his little travelling materials, and having the
mare, was anxiously waiting for the dawn to set off. Messer Roderigo,
who had scarcely closed his eyes all night thinking upon the events that
had occurred, and still a little afraid of the consequences, got up, and
sent his servant to inquire about the convent, and find out whether the
friars had discovered the deceased Diego; the servant, on going out,
found Diego right before the door, looking as if holding an argument,
the which caused him no small fright, as such things generally do;
he ran up to call his master, and scarcely having the power of
articulation, shewed him the dead body of Messer Diego. The cavalier
stared with astonishment and fear, yet comforting himself in the idea of
the justness of his case, he determined quietly to wait the issue, and,
turning round to the dead man, he said, “thou art then determined, dead
or alive, to haunt my house, but to spite me; whoever brought thee here,
thou shalt not have the power of returning again except on a beast, as
thou wert once thyself in the world,” so saying, he ordered his servant
to get from a neighbouring stable a stallion which he kept for breeding.
The servant went immediately and brought the stallion, with saddle and
bridle, and, as the cavalier had intended, put good Master Diego on his
back; sticking him upright, and binding him tight, they put a lance
in his hand on the rest, as if they were sending him to the tilt; thus
equipped, they led him to the church gates, tied the horse there and
went home. Scarcely had this been done than the young friar, thinking
it was time to begin his journey, unlocking the gates, then mounting
his mare, was stalking out, when, to his great terror, he beheld Master
Diego equipped as before mentioned, and who with his lance seemed to
threaten him with instant death. He was near falling dead with affright,
from thinking that his spirit had returned into its terrestrial abode,
and was perhaps intending thus to pursue him every where. While he was
thus fixed to the spot, the stallion, whose instinct told him he had a
female beside him, began to move, and, neighing, tried to get at her,
which added to the poor friar’s alarm; however, wishing to drive the
mare on her way, as she turned her rump towards the stallion, she fell
a kicking. The friar, who was not one of the best riders, was nearly
thrown, and unwilling to meet with another shock like the first, he
pressed and spurred the flanks of his mare, holding fast the pummel of
the saddle, and letting loose the bridle, he suffered the mare to go
where and as she pleased. The stallion, seeing his prey gallop off,
struggling and foaming, broke the slight rope that bound him, and
stoutly pursued her; the poor quaking friar, hearing his enemy close
behind, turned his head and saw him with his lance fixed like a fierce
justler; seized with deadly fright he began crying out, “Help, help!”
At this outcry, and the stamping of those furious horses, the people
all came looking out at the doors and windows, for it was now broad
day-light. Every one was ready to die with laughing, seeing the chase of
the two friars thus mounted, who both looked more dead than alive; the
mare leaped from one side of the road to the other, and the enraged
stallion after her, and of course the poor friar was often in danger of
being wounded, as may well be imagined.
[Illustration: 092]
The crowds followed close, holloing and hooting; some threw stones,
others sticks at the stallion; every one endeavoured to part them, not
indeed through pity for the friars, but from curiosity to know who they
were, for their race was so swift that they could not recognise them;
they, however, luckily ran towards one of the city gates, where they
were stopped, and the quick and the dead were both taken and recognised,
to the great astonishment of all the multitude. They were both brought
on horseback to the convent, and received with great grief by the
friars; they buried the dead, and the living ordered for torture. The
poor fellow, when bound, rather than suffer torture, confessed he
had killed him on account of what has been previously related;
they, however, could not account for his being mounted as he was. In
consequence of his confession the young friar was not put to the rack,
but was to be confined in a dark dungeon until he could be sent to the
minister of state, that he might be stripped of his orders by the bishop
of the place, and to the lord chief justice to condemn him, and execute
him as a murderer according to law. King Fernando did perchance arrive
at Salamanca at that time; the story having been related to him,
although a very chaste prince, and much distressed at the sequel, and
the loss of so great a man, he could not refrain from laughing heartily,
when with his barons, at the very ludicrous adventure. Near the time
when the friar was to be executed, Messer Roderigo, who felt some
compunction at what had happened, and still more for the fate of the
innocent friar, and that his silence on the subject certainly would
occasion his death, being a favourite with the king, determined on
divulging the whole truth, even at the peril of his own life; therefore,
presenting himself before the king and his barons, he said, “My liege,
the unjust and rigid sentence pronounced against the innocent friar,
induces me to explain the circumstances of the accident, and if it
please your majesty to pardon him who has most justly killed Messer
Diego, I will bring him forth instantly, and he will truly relate
what has happened.” The king, who by nature was inclined to mercy, and
anxious to know the truth, most generously promised a pardon, upon which
the cavalier minutely related every circumstance, produced the letter
of Diego, and the king having previously heard the friar’s story, and
perceiving it to agree with Don Roderigo’s, he summoned the judge and
friar before him, and after relating every thing before the barons
and the people, immediately ordered the poor friar to be released and
forgiven, being cleared from the crime and all imputation of guilt. The
happy friar went merrily back to his convent, thanking his stars.
THE SKILFUL PHYSICIAN
Some few years ago, being in company with a large party of noble ladies
and cavaliers, the novel of Gismonda, daughter of Tancredi, Prince of
Salerno, was read by one of them, and the catastrophe having damped the
spirits of most of the guests, a gentleman present, in order to enliven
the company, began his tale in the following terms:--
It has always seemed to me, noble lady, that the ancient Greeks have
surpassed our Italians in nobleness of heart and humanity, and having
heard in the last _Novella_ of the cruelty of Tancredi, Prince of
Salerno, who had bereft himself of every sort of happiness, and
condemned his daughter to death, a story of a Greek nobleman occurs to
my mind, who was much more humane and wise than Tancredi. You must
know, that among the successors of Alexander the Great, there was a very
powerful baron, called Seleucus, who was afterwards king of Syria. When
young, he took to his wife a daughter of Ptolomæus, king of Egypt, by
name Cleopatra, by whom a short time after he had a son named Antiochus,
and several daughters, whom I will not now mention. When Antiochus was
about fourteen, it happened that Cleopatra, his mother, fell ill and
died, consequently his father Seleucus remained a widower. Being advised
and stimulated by his friends, he took another lady, the daughter of
Antipater, king of Macedonia, called Stratonica, whom after the usual
festivities on those great occasions, he brought home to his court, and
lived most happily with her. Stratonica’s person was beautiful, and
her conversation, surpassed every thing one can conceive. Being very
accessible in her court, she often was in company with the young
Antiochus, sometimes sporting, riding, and sharing other amusements with
him, and without being conscious of it, or having even a thought about
it, she excited an ardent passion in the youth, which daily increased.
Antiochus, then about eighteen, but of a very reserved character, and of
a noble-minded disposition, knowing that his love was not allowable
on account of his father, kept his passion so secret, that no one ever
suspected it. In proportion as the flame was kept under, the more it
consumed him and increased; so that in a very few months he grew quite
pale, and his person, which formerly was stout and vigorous, became
weak and emaciated, in so much that he was often asked by his father and
friends, what could be the matter with him? whether he was ill? to which
the youth answered first one thing, then another, ever misleading them
as to the true cause. At length he got some one to beg his father to send
him to the army, saying, that bearing arms, and the toil of a military
life, would be a cure for his illness; that too much ease and idleness
had brought it on. This and other arguments induced his father to send
him to the army, attended by old men, veterans in arms. The remedy might
have proved efficacious, had the youth been able to bear his heart with
him; but that being fixed in its attachment to the divine features of
the beautiful lady, it may truly be said, his body followed the army,
but his soul dwelt at home; nor could he bestow a thought on arms, but
only thought of her, and sleeping, even, he thought he was with her, and
often wept at his folly in having left her. In the course of two months,
such was his afflicted state, that he was taken dangerously ill, became
unable to quit his bed, and was obliged to be carried home in a litter,
to the no small grief of all his father’s subjects, who had great hopes
in the virtues of the youth, expecting, at his father’s death, to have
a worthy successor to the throne. A consultation of the medical men was
held upon his complaint, and although they were men of the first rate
talents, and used every means in their power, they were unable to do him
any good, because the root of the evil was perfectly unknown to them,
nor could they heal the secret wound which love had made, but merely
aimed at the cure of the body. At last, weary with useless medical
assistance, they found they could not remove this unknown cause of
disease. Among them was a very learned and judicious physician, by name
Philip, he was the king’s doctor, and a citizen of the place. As he was
zealously endeavouring to find out the youth’s complaint, it occurred to
his mind, and this suspicion grew upon him, that it might be the passion
of love, which the others called consumption.
Philip, full of this thought, and extremely anxious, used to remain long
in the sick chamber, noticing with particular attention every movement
of the patient. He then said to the king, that in order to divert the
youth, it was necessary that the queen, and some other ladies of the
court, should go at least once a day to see him, and afford him some
little amusement. Upon which the king ordered that it should be attended
to. The doctor, seated by the patient’s bed, held his left arm, applying
his fingers to his pulse, in order to notice any sudden change that
might take place. By this prudent and wise conduct, he discovered the
disease of the youth; for although, when many beautiful ladies came in
to pay him a visit, the doctor never observed the least variation in the
feeble pulse of his patient; yet, when the queen entered the room, he
felt an extraordinary and strong palpitation, and struggle of nature;
and when the queen had sat down near the youth, and soothed him by her
kind conversations, the pulse seemed to grow still and regular; but when
she arose and left the room, the pulsation grew so violent, that the
doctor began to fear some dreadful consequences. The physician, looking
in the face of his patient, found melancholy seated in that countenance,
where but a moment before happiness had seemed peaceably to dwell; upon
which the doctor became more convinced that the disease was seated in
the heart, but he would not determine, till he had tried three or four
times the same experiment. When he found it produced the very same
effects, he determined to speak to the youth, and acquaint him with what
he had discovered. Having taken a proper opportunity, and sent every
body out of the room, he thus addressed him:--“I thought, Antiochus,
that you had so much reliance in me, that not only you would confide in
me in a medical capacity, where your very existence depended, but even
in any other affair, private or public, and that you would not disguise
any occurrence that should concern you; but now I find I have been
egregiously mistaken, and that my faithful services have not merited
this proof of esteem, the which I cannot help complaining of,
considering that in other respects, though you might have kept me in
the dark, yet, in my profession, and in what concerned your immediate
health, you ought not to have deceived me thus. Know, that the root of
thy disease, which from false shame thou hast concealed, is perfectly
evident to me; what it is, and by whom caused, is well known to me, nor
am I so unfeeling not to be aware that youth is subject to the frailties
of love, and often deprived of the object of its affection; but take
comfort, and you will find to a certainty that my medicine will prove an
effectual cure to your disease: not by means of pills or draughts, but
by inducing your father to yield his wife to you, rather than lose his
son.”
Whilst the doctor spoke, the youth burst into a flood of tears, and
sobbing violently, entreated the doctor to let him die quietly, and thus
end his sorrows; for which the doctor strongly reproved him, pointing
out to him the grief his death would cause to his afflicted father, and
the regret that the people, indeed the whole kingdom, would feel at
the loss of him--they who had conceived such hopes of him, and of his
virtues. The prudent doctor pointed out to him, that this was not a
circumstance that ought to make him wish for death, particularly as
there was an easy remedy; that he was convinced of it, and bade him be
comforted, and rely on him. In such a manner did the doctor afford every
consolation he could to his patient; and after making him take such
nourishing food as he thought necessary in his debilitated state,
he went forth to the king. The moment the doctor entered, the king
anxiously inquired how his son was, and whether he had hopes of him. The
doctor humbly begged to speak in private to his majesty, and having both
retired to the king’s closet, the doctor thus addressed him:--“My liege,
I have discovered the disease of your son, which we all have sought in
vain; yet I certainly Wish I had not, since it has no cure.”
“How!” said the king; “is it such as admits of no remedy?”
“Thus it is, my liege, and there are no means to cure it.” The king
insisting on knowing the case, the doctor replied, “the passion of love
it is, and she whom he loves is my wife, and I will keep her to myself,
and would suffer every torture rather than resign her; therefore, there
are no hopes, although I am certain that possessing her would save his
life.” Upon which the king, weeping bitterly, said, “Oh, Philip! wilt
thou be so hardhearted as to suffer me to lose such a son for the sake
of thy wife? Dost thou think, that in parting with her thou wilt not be
able to meet with another equally handsome, nobly born, and as pleasing
to thee as she? Thou knowest that a divorce may take place under various
causes and circumstances, nor could there be, perhaps, a better reason
for dissolving your marriage than the present. I therefore pray thee,
by the trust I repose in thee, by the honours and benefits thou hast
received at my hands, the which I mean greatly to increase to thy
full satisfaction, that thou wilt make up thy mind to consent to the
restoring of this son of mine, my only hope, and that of my kingdom; for
thou must be aware what my fate would be should he die, and how I must
hereafter feel towards thee; how look upon thee! With what face wilt
thou be able to approach me, when thou recollectest that for the sake
of a woman, where thousands might be found to charm thee, thou wilt have
been the cause of such a son’s death, and my everlasting misery.” In
proportion as the king’s reasons and entreaties were irresistible, the
greater was the delight of the doctor; as the very pressing reasons he
urged would avail the more against himself. Therefore, as soon as the
king had ceased to speak, still looking towards the doctor, in hopes he
had persuaded him, the doctor said, “My liege, your reasons are such and
so conclusive, that had I ten wives, however dear to me, I would part
with them to preserve your son’s life; but I must needs use the same
powerful and convincing arguments with you, my sovereign, and inform you
of the real and true state of the case, which is, that your son has no
other disease but that of a violent and unconquerable passion, and the
object of which is Stratonica, your wife. Now, if I, who am not his
father, ought to give up my wife and seek another, ought you not, my
lord, who are his father, doubly to feel you should yield yours to save
your own son’s life?”
The king, upon hearing this, was struck with amazement, and desired the
doctor to tell him how he had come to the knowledge of these things, and
being assured that the queen knew nothing of the fact, and the youth,
through shame and reverence for his father, had resolved rather to die
than reveal his unlawful passion, moved by pity, and being unable to
refute his own arguments, he determined, for the sake of his son, to
part with his wife. In consequence, the separation having taken place,
he most kindly and generously bestowed the lady on his son. The youth,
who at first was in the utmost despair, as soon as he heard the kind
intentions of his father, and saw the pleasure he seemed to feel at the
happiness he blessed him with, soon began to cheer up, and in a few
days was restored to health and spirits; and having received the hand of
Stratonica, lived with her in the greatest happiness, and soon had a son
and other children. The father, beholding his son saved from threatening
danger, and himself surrounded by his grand-children, which secured
the succession of his race, lived perfectly happy, daily thankful to
Providence for the resolute step he had taken, and particularly grateful
to the doctor who had been the means, by his judgment and prudence,
to effect so great a purpose. Thus the humanity and tenderness of the
Grecian king, who saved the life of his son, and secured happiness to
himself, presents a striking contrast with the conduct of Tancredi.
THE POMEGRANATE SEED
At a time when Languedoc was not as yet under the power of the
_fleur-de-lis_, there was at Toulouse a certain count, by name Benato,
who, besides being endowed by nature with numberless advantages, was
blessed with the most beautiful children that any prince could boast of;
besides two sons, he had a daughter younger than either, who according
to every body’s opinion was the most handsome, modest, and agreeable
lady that was ever known. In one thing alone heaven seemed unpropitious
to him, for while he was living most happily with his wife, a sister of
the count of Provence, she died before she had attained her thirty-fifth
year, to his very great grief, and that of the country around. Being on
the point of death, she called the count, her husband, and after humbly
requesting his forgiveness of such neglect, or omissions, she might have
been guilty of towards him, she recommended earnestly, with tears in her
eyes, her dear children to him; but above all, her daughter, whose name
was Bianca, adding, that as a last favor which he would grant her in
this world, she begged he would make her a solemn promise, and with full
determination never to violate it; which was, not to marry her daughter
to any one, although it were even the king of France himself, unless
after seeing him, and becoming acquainted with him, she should like him;
adding, that to a young woman there was no blessing equal to the full
liberty of selecting him who is to be her companion through life, and to
whom she is to be true until death. The count having heard the kind and
motherly entreaties of his beloved wife, considering these were the
last words she would probably utter, and the last favor he could bestow,
after many sorrowful tears, promised her solemnly that her wishes should
be fulfilled, and that all should be as she desired. He then tried to
soothe her last moments, though he himself was, perhaps, in greater need
of consolation; he received her expiring breath, and with due honors had
her interred in the cathedral of Toulouse, as may be yet proved by the
tombstone.
In those times, when Catalonia had not yet fallen into the hands of
the king of Arragon and Castile, one Don Fernando, who was count of
Barcelona, from the proximity of the states, and their rivalship in
glory, had long waged war against the count of Toulouse, with mutual
injury to one another; the one being aided by the king of Spain, and
the other by the king of France; nevertheless, as we very often see
it happen, that wars entered upon by princes, from vain and ambitious
views, come to an end, either from weariness, or poverty of the parties;
they at last, though late, having considered that their warfare was
nothing more than ruining themselves to enrich their neighbours, and
affording satisfaction to their enemies, came to the determination to
make such a peace as would be most honourable and least injurious to the
mediators; and in order the better to cement the peace entered upon, it
was said, that it would be highly desirable that the families so long
divided, and now at peace, should be more closely united by an alliance,
seeing that the count of Toulouse had but one daughter among his
three children, and the count of Barcelona only one son among his. It
therefore did not become necessary to argue long on the subject of this
marriage, Salse and Perpignan, as some say, being the dowry, and, as
others say, plenty of gold, the which was lent him, upon a mortgage of
some possessions near Arli and Terrascone, by the count of Provence, who
greatly had enriched his estates by the excellent government of Romeo.
These things concluded, there remained nothing more to do, than for the
Count of Toulouse, remembering the solemn promise made to his wife, to
say all should be done, provided the manners of the young count should
meet with his daughter’s approbation, in favour of whom he had pledged
himself never to marry her without her full approbation. This appeared
to all a very trifling circumstance, and by no means likely to thwart
their hopes, inasmuch as this youth, besides ample possessions, noble
birth, and equality of rank, possessed an elegant form, great talents,
and gentlemanly manners. It was scarcely to be credited that he should
have been born at Barcelona; but it was so, and is still considered as a
wonder, for the like was never seen there since, or ever will be.
The young count was then sent by his father to the said nuptials, so
earnestly wished for by both countries, in great pomp, and attended by a
suitable retinue to Toulouse, where he was received with that cordiality
and honour which was due to the favourite son of so great a lord,
blended with French politeness and Spanish dignity, which from their
proximity to each other, they were well acquainted with. These first
ceremonies having been attended to, the beautiful daughter of the count,
elegantly dressed, was presented to him. The lady, who had spared no
pains to adorn her natural charms in every possible way, received him in
so courteous and fascinating a manner, that the young count was amazed,
enraptured, and totally subdued by love and admiration; and, if at first
by reports he was ambitious of possessing her, he now was inflamed, and
scarcely able to command his feelings. The lady, previously informed of
every thing by her father, now eyed him with scrutiny from top to toe,
narrowly watched all his movements, as well as he did those of the lady,
only she with that timidity and modesty befitting a female, while he
gazed at her with all the ease and freedom of an enamoured prince. After
this introduction, the dinner room was thrown open, where a table was
spread, covered with all the delicacies that the season and country
could afford.