--
The Count of Antwerp, labouring under a false accusation goes into exile. He
leaves his two children in different places in England, and takes service in
Ireland. Returning to England an unknown man, he finds his sons prosperous.
He serves as a groom in the army of the King of France; his innocence is
established and he is restored to his former honours.
--
The ladies heaved many sighs over the various fortunes of the fair lady: but
what prompted those sighs who shall say? With some, perchance, 'twas as much
envy as pity of one to whose lot fell so many nights of delight. But,
however this may be, when Pamfilo's story was ended, and the laughter which
greeted his last words had subsided, the queen turned to Elisa, and bade her
follow suit with one of her stories. So Elisa with a cheerful courage thus
began:--
Vast indeed is the field that lies before us, wherein to roam at large;
'twould readily afford each of us not one course but ten, so richly has
Fortune diversified it with episodes both strange and sombre; wherefore
selecting one such from this infinite store, I say:--That, after the
transference of the Roman Empire from the Franks to the Germans, the
greatest enmity prevailed between the two nations, with warfare perpetual
and relentless: wherefore, deeming that the offensive would be their best
defence, the King of France and his son mustered all the forces they could
raise from their own dominions and those of their kinsmen and allies, and
arrayed a grand army for the subjugation of their enemies. Before they took
the field, as they could not leave the realm without a governor, they chose
for that office Gautier, Count of Antwerp, a true knight and sage
counsellor, and their very loyal ally and vassal, choosing him the rather,
because, albeit he was a thorough master of the art of war, yet they deemed
him less apt to support its hardships than for the conduct of affairs of a
delicate nature. Him, therefore, they set in their place as their
vicar-general and regent of the whole realm of France, and having so done,
they took the field.
Count Gautier ordered his administration wisely and in a regular course,
discussing all matters with the queen and her daughter-in-law; whom, albeit
they were left under his charge and jurisdiction, he nevertheless treated as
his ladies paramount. The Count was about forty years of age, and the very
mould of manly beauty; in bearing as courteous and chivalrous as ever a
gentleman might be, and withal so debonair and dainty, so feat and trim of
person that he had not his peer, among the gallants of that day. His wife
was dead, leaving him two children and no more, to wit, a boy and a girl,
still quite young. Now the King and his son being thus away at the war, and
the Count frequenting the court of the two said ladies, and consulting with
them upon affairs of state, it so befell, that the Prince's lady regarded
him with no small favour, being very sensible alike of the advantages of his
person and the nobility of his bearing; whereby she conceived for him a
passion which was all the more ardent because it was secret. And, as he was
without a wife, and she was still in the freshness of her youth, she saw not
why she should not readily be gratified; but supposing that nothing stood in
the way but her own shamefastness, she resolved to be rid of that, and
disclose her mind to him without any reserve. So one day, when she was
alone, she seized her opportunity, and sent for him, as if she were desirous
to converse with him on indifferent topics. The Count, his mind entirely
aloof from the lady's purpose, presented himself forthwith, and at her
invitation sate down by her side on a settee. They were quite alone in the
room; but the Count had twice asked her the reason why she had so honoured
him, before, overcome by passion, she broke silence, and crimson from neck
with shame, half sobbing, trembling in every limb, and at every word, she
thus spoke:--"Dearest friend and sweet my lord, sagacity such as yours
cannot but be apt to perceive how great is the frailty of men and women, and
how, for divers reasons, it varies in different persons in such a degree
that no just judge would mete out the same measure to each indifferently,
though the fault were apparently the same. Who would not acknowledge that a
poor man or woman, fain to earn daily bread by the sweat of the brow, is far
more reprehensible in yielding to the solicitations of love, than a rich
lady, whose life is lapped in ease and unrestricted luxury? Not a soul, I am
persuaded, but would so acknowledge! Wherefore I deem that the possession of
these boons of fortune should go far indeed to acquit the possessor, if she,
perchance, indulge an errant love; and, for the rest, that, if she have
chosen a wise and worthy lover, she should be entirely exonerated. And as I
think I may fairly claim the benefit of both these pleas, and of others
beside, to wit, my youth and my husband's absence, which naturally incline
me to love, 'tis meet that I now urge them in your presence in defence of my
passion; and if they have the weight with you which they should have with
the wise, I pray you to afford me your help and counsel in the matter
wherein I shall demand it. I avow that in the absence of my husband I have
been unable to withstand the promptings of the flesh and the power of love,
forces of such potency that even the strongest men--not to speak of delicate
women--have not seldom been, nay daily are, overcome by them; and so, living
thus, as you see me, in ease and luxury, I have allowed the allurements of
love to draw me on until at last I find myself a prey to passion. Wherein
were I discovered, I were, I confess, dishonoured; but discovery being
avoided, I count the dishonour all but nought. Moreover, love has been so
gracious to me that not only has he spared to blind me in the choice of my
lover, but he has even lent me his most effective aid, pointing me to one
well worthy of the love of a lady such as I, even to yourself; whom, if I
misread not my mind, I deem the most handsome and courteous and debonair,
and therewithal the sagest cavalier that the realm of France may shew. And
as you are without a wife, so may I say that I find myself without a
husband. Wherefore in return for this great love I bear you, deny me not, I
pray you, yours; but have pity on my youth, which wastes away for you like
ice before the fire."
These words were followed by such a flood of tears, that, albeit she had
intended yet further to press her suit, speech failed her; her eyes drooped,
and, almost swooning with emotion, she let her head fall upon the Count's
breast. The Count, who was the most loyal of knights, began with all
severity to chide her mad passion and to thrust her from him--for she was
now making as if she would throw her arms around his neck--and to asseverate
with oaths that he would rather be hewn in pieces than either commit, or
abet another in committing such an offence against the honour of his lord;
when the lady, catching his drift, and forgetting all her love in a sudden
frenzy of rage, cried out:--"So! unknightly knight, is it thus you flout my
love? Now Heaven forbid, but, as you would be the death of me, I either do
you to death or drive you from the world!" So saying, she dishevelled and
tore her hair and rent her garments to shreds about her bosom. Which done,
she began shrieking at the top of her voice:--"Help! help! The Count of
Antwerp threatens to violate me!" Whereupon the Count, who knew that a clear
conscience was no protection against the envy of courtiers, and doubted that
his innocence would prove scarce a match for the cunning of the lady,
started to his feet, and hied him with all speed out of the room, out of the
palace, and back to his own house. Counsel of none he sought; but forthwith
set his children on horseback, and taking horse himself, departed post haste
for Calais. The lady's cries brought not a few to her aid, who, observing
her plight, not only gave entire credence to her story, but improved upon
it, alleging that the debonair and accomplished Count had long employed all
the arts of seduction to compass his end. So they rushed in hot haste to the
Count's house, with intent to arrest him, and not finding him, sacked it and
razed it to the ground. The news, as glosed and garbled, being carried to
the King and Prince in the field, they were mightily incensed, and offered a
great reward for the Count, dead or alive, and condemned him and his
posterity to perpetual banishment.
Meanwhile the Count, sorely troubled that by his flight his innocence shewed
as guilt, pursued his journey, and concealing his identity, and being
recognised by none, arrived with his two children at Calais. Thence he
forthwith crossed to England, and, meanly clad, fared on for London, taking
care as he went to school his children in all that belonged to their new way
of life, and especially in two main articles: to wit, that they should bear
with resignation the poverty to which, by no fault of theirs, but solely by
one of Fortune's caprices, they and he were reduced, and that they should be
most sedulously on their guard to betray to none, as they valued their
lives, whence they were, or who their father was. The son, Louis by name,
was perhaps nine, and the daughter, Violante, perhaps seven years of age.
For years so tender they proved apt pupils, and afterwards shewed by their
conduct that they had well learned their father's lesson. He deemed it
expedient to change their names, and accordingly called the boy Perrot and
the girl Jeannette. So, meanly clad, the Count and his two children arrived
at London, and there made shift to get a living by going about soliciting
alms in the guise of French mendicants.
Now, as for this purpose they waited one morning outside a church, it so
befell that a great lady, the wife of one of the marshals of the King of
England, observed them, as she left the church, asking alms, and demanded of
the Count whence he was, and whether the children were his. He answered that
he was from Picardy, that the children were his, and that he had been fain
to leave Picardy by reason of the misconduct of their reprobate elder
brother. The lady looked at the girl, who being fair, and of gentle and
winning mien and manners, found much favour in her eyes. So the kind-hearted
lady said to the Count:--"My good man, if thou art willing to leave thy
little daughter with me, I like her looks so well that I will gladly take
her; and if she grow up a good woman, I will see that she is suitably
married when the right time comes." The Count was much gratified by the
proposal, which he forthwith accepted, and parted with the girl, charging
the lady with tears to take every care of her.
Having thus placed the girl with one in whom he felt sure that he might
trust, he determined to tarry no longer in London; wherefore, taking Perrot
with him and begging as he went, he made his way to Wales, not without great
suffering, being unused to go afoot. Now in Wales another of the King's
marshals had his court, maintaining great state and a large number of
retainers; to which court, the Count and his son frequently repaired, there
to get food; and there Perrot, finding the marshal's son and other
gentlemen's sons vying with one another in boyish exercises, as running and
leaping, little by little joined their company, and shewed himself a match
or more for them all in all their contests. The marshal's attention being
thus drawn to him, he was well pleased with the boy's mien and bearing, and
asked who he was. He was told that he was the son of a poor man who
sometimes came there to solicit alms. Whereupon he asked the Count to let
him have the boy, and the Count, to whom God could have granted no greater
boon, readily consented, albeit he was very loath to part with Perrot.
Having thus provided for his son and daughter, the Count resolved to quit
the island; and did so, making his way as best he could to Stamford, in
Ireland, where he obtained a menial's place in the service of a knight,
retainer to one of the earls of that Country, and so abode there a long
while, doing all the irksome and wearisome drudgery of a lackey or groom.
Meanwhile under the care of the gentle lady at London Violante or Jeannette
increased, as in years and stature so also in beauty, and in such favour
with the lady and her husband and every other member of the household and
all who knew her that 'twas a wonder to see; nor was there any that,
observing her bearing and manners, would not have said that estate or
dignity there was none so high or honourable but she was worthy of it. So
the lady, who, since she had received her from her father, had been unable
to learn aught else about him than what he had himself told, was minded to
marry her honourably according to what she deemed to be her rank. But God,
who justly apportions reward according to merit, having regard to her noble
birth, her innocence, and the load of suffering which the sin of another had
laid upon her, ordered otherwise; and in His good providence, lest the young
gentlewoman should be mated with a churl, permitted, we must believe, events
to take the course they did.
The gentle lady with whom Jeannette lived had an only son, whom she and her
husband loved most dearly, as well because he was a son as for his rare and
noble qualities, for in truth there were few that could compare with him in
courtesy and courage and personal beauty. Now the young man marked the
extraordinary beauty and grace of Jeannette, who was about six years his
junior, and fell so desperately in love with her that he had no eyes for any
other maiden; but, deeming her to be of low degree, he not only hesitated to
ask her of his parents in marriage, but, fearing to incur reproof for
indulging a passion for an inferior, he did his utmost to conceal his love.
Whereby it gave him far more disquietude than if he had avowed it; insomuch
that--so extreme waxed his suffering--he fell ill, and that seriously.
Divers physicians were called in, but, for all their scrutiny of his
symptoms, they could not determine the nature of his malady, and one and all
gave him up for lost. Nothing could exceed the sorrow and dejection of his
father and mother, who again and again piteously implored him to discover to
them the cause of his malady, and received no other answer than sighs or
complaints that he seemed to be wasting away. Now it so happened that one
day, Jeannette, who from regard for his mother was sedulous in waiting upon
him, for some reason or another came into the room where he lay, while a
very young but very skilful physician sate by him and held his pulse. The
young man gave her not a word or other sign of recognition; but his passion
waxed, his heart smote him, and the acceleration of his pulse at once
betrayed his inward commotion to the physician, who, albeit surprised,
remained quietly attentive to see how long it would last, and observing that
it ceased when Jeannette left the room, conjectured that he was on the way
to explain the young man's malady. So, after a while, still holding the
young man's pulse, he sent for Jeannette, as if he had something to ask of
her. She returned forthwith; the young man's pulse mounted as soon as she
entered the room, and fell again as soon as she left it. Wherefore the
physician no longer hesitated, but rose, and taking the young man's father
and mother aside, said to them:--"The restoration of your son's health rests
not with medical skill, but solely with Jeannette, whom, as by unmistakable
signs I have discovered, he ardently loves, though, so far I can see, she is
not aware of it. So you know what you have to do, if you value his life."
The prospect thus afforded of their son's deliverance from death reassured
the gentleman and his lady, albeit they were troubled, misdoubting it must
be by his marriage with Jeannette. So, when the physician was gone, they
went to the sick lad, and the lady thus spoke:--"My son, never would I have
believed that thou wouldst have concealed from me any desire of thine, least
of all if such it were that privation should cause thee to languish; for
well assured thou shouldst have been and shouldst be, that I hold thee dear
as my very self, and that whatever may be for thy contentment, even though
it were scarce seemly, I would do it for thee; but, for all thou hast so
done, God has shewn Himself more merciful to theeward than thyself, and,
lest thou die of this malady, has given me to know its cause, which is
nothing else than the excessive love which thou bearest to a young woman, be
she who she may. Which love in good sooth thou needest not have been ashamed
to declare; for it is but natural at thy age; and hadst thou not loved, I
should have deemed thee of very little worth. So, my son, be not shy of me,
but frankly discover to me thy whole heart; and away with this gloom and
melancholy whereof thy sickness is engendered, and be comforted, and assure
thyself that there is nought that thou mayst require of me which I will not
do to give thee ease, so far as my powers may reach, seeing that thou art
dearer to me than my own life. Away with thy shamefastness and fears, and
tell me if there is aught wherein I may be helpful to thee in the matter of
thy love; and if I bestir not myself and bring it to pass, account me the
most harsh mother that ever bore son."
The young man was at first somewhat shamefast to hear his mother thus speak,
but, reflecting that none could do more for his happiness than she, he took
courage, and thus spoke:--"Madam, my sole reason for concealing my love from
you was that I have observed that old people for the most part forget that
they once were young; but, as I see that no such unreasonableness is to be
apprehended in you, I not only acknowledge the truth of what you say that
you have discerned, but I will also disclose to you the object of my
passion, on the understanding that your promise shall to the best of your
power be performed, as it must be, if I am to be restored to you in sound
health." Whereupon the lady, making too sure of that which was destined to
fall out otherwise than she expected, gave him every encouragement to
discover all his heart, and promised to lose no time and spare no pains in
endeavouring to compass his gratification. "Madam," said then the young man,
"the rare beauty and exquisite manners of our Jeannette, my powerlessness to
make her understand--I do not say commiserate--my love, and my reluctance to
disclose it to any, have brought me to the condition in which you see me;
and if your promise be not in one way or another performed, be sure that my
life will be brief." The lady, deeming that the occasion called rather for
comfort than for admonition, replied with a smile:--"Ah! my son, was this
then of all things the secret of thy suffering? Be of good cheer, and leave
me to arrange the affair, when you are recovered." So, animated by a
cheerful hope, the young man speedily gave sign of a most marked
improvement, which the lady observed with great satisfaction, and then began
to cast about how she might keep her promise. So one day she sent for
Jeannette, and in a tone of gentle raillery asked her if she had a lover.
Jeannette turned very red as she answered:--"Madam, 'twould scarce, nay,
'twould ill become a damsel such as I, poor, outcast from home, and in the
service of another, to occupy herself with thoughts of love." Whereto the
lady answered:--"So you have none, we will give you one, who will brighten
all your life and give you more joy of your beauty; for it is not right that
so fair a damsel as you remain without a lover." "Madam," rejoined
Jeannette, "you found me living in poverty with my father, you adopted me,
you have brought me up as your daughter; wherefore I should, if possible,
comply with your every wish; but in this matter I will render you no
compliance, nor do I doubt that I do well. So you will give me a husband, I
will love him, but no other will I love; for, as patrimony I now have none
save my honour, that I am minded to guard and preserve while my life shall
last." Serious though the obstacle was which these words opposed to the plan
by which the lady had intended to keep her promise to her son, her sound
judgment could not but secretly acknowledge that the spirit which they
evinced was much to be commended in the damsel. Wherefore she said:--"Nay
but, Jeannette; suppose that our Lord the King, who is a young knight as
thou art a most fair damsel, craved some indulgence of thy love, wouldst
thou deny him?" "The King," returned Jeannette without the least hesitation,
"might constrain me, but with my consent he should never have aught of me
that was not honourable." Whereto the lady made no answer, for she now
understood the girl's temper; but, being minded to put her to the proof, she
told her son that, as soon as he was recovered, she would arrange that he
should be closeted with her in the same room, and be thus able to use all
his arts to bring her to his will, saying that it ill became her to play the
part of procuress and urge her son's suit upon her own maid. But as the
young man, by no means approving this idea, suddenly grew worse, the lady at
length opened her mind to Jeannette, whom she found in the same frame as
before, and indeed even more resolute. Wherefore she told her husband all
that she had done; and as both preferred that their son should marry beneath
him, and live, than that he should remain single and die, they resolved,
albeit much disconcerted, to give Jeannette to him to wife; and so after
long debate they did. Whereat Jeannette was overjoyed, and with devout heart
gave thanks to God that He had not forgotten her; nevertheless she still
gave no other account of herself than that she was the daughter of a Picard.
So the young man recovered, and blithe at heart as ne'er another, was
married, and began to speed the time gaily with his bride.
Meanwhile Perrot, left in Wales with the marshal of the King of England, had
likewise with increase of years increase of favour with his master, and grew
up most shapely and well-favoured, and of such prowess that in all the
island at tourney or joust or any other passage of arms he had not his peer;
being everywhere known and renowned as Perrot the Picard. And as God had not
forgotten Jeannette, so likewise He made manifest by what follows that He
had not forgotten Perrot. Well-nigh half the population of those parts being
swept off by a sudden visitation of deadly pestilence, most of the survivors
fled therefrom in a panic, so that the country was, to all appearance,
entirely deserted. Among those that died of the pest were the marshal, his
lady, and his son, besides brothers and nephews and kinsfolk in great
number; whereby of his entire household there were left only one of his
daughters, now marriageable, and a few servants, among them Perrot. Now
Perrot being a man of such notable prowess, the damsel, soon after the
pestilence had spent itself, took him, with the approval and by the advice
of the few folk that survived, to be her husband, and made him lord of all
that fell to her by inheritance. Nor was it long before the King of England,
learning that the marshal was dead, made Perrot the Picard, to whose merit
he was no stranger, marshal in the dead man's room. Such, in brief, was the
history of the two innocent children, with whom the Count of Antwerp had
parted, never expecting to see them again.
'Twas now the eighteenth year since the Count of Antwerp had taken flight
from Paris, when, being still in Ireland, where he had led a very sorry and
suffering sort of life, and feeling that age was now come upon him, he felt
a longing to learn, if possible, what was become of his children. The
fashion of his outward man was now completely changed; for long hardship had
(as he well knew) given to his age a vigour which his youth, lapped in ease,
had lacked. So he hesitated not to take his leave of the knight with whom he
had so long resided, and poor and in sorry trim he crossed to England, and
made his way to the place where he had left Perrot--to find him a great lord
and marshal of the King, and in good health, and withal a hardy man and very
handsome. All which was very grateful to the old man; but yet he would not
make himself known to his son, until he had learned the fate of Jeannette.
So forth he fared again, nor did he halt until he was come to London, where,
cautiously questing about for news of the lady with whom he had left his
daughter, and how it fared with her, he learned that Jeannette was married
to the lady's son. Whereat, in the great gladness of his heart, he counted
all his past adversity but a light matter, since he had found his children
alive and prosperous. But sore he yearned to see Jeannette. Wherefore he
took to loitering, as poor folk are wont, in the neighbourhood of the house.
And so one day Jacques Lamiens--such was the name of Jeannette's husband--
saw him and had pity on him, observing that he was poor and aged, and bade
one of his servants take him indoors, and for God's sake give him something
to eat; and nothing loath the servant did so. Now Jeannette had borne
Jacques several children, the finest and the most winsome children in the
world, the eldest no more than eight years old; who gathered about the Count
as he ate, and, as if by instinct divining that he was their grandfather,
began to make friends with him. He, knowing them for his grandchildren,
could not conceal his love, and repaid them with caresses; insomuch that
they would not hearken to their governor when he called them, but remained
with the Count. Which being reported to Jeannette, she came out of her room,
crossed to where the Count was sitting with the children, and bade them do
as their master told them, or she would certainly have them whipped. The
children began to cry, and to say that they would rather stay with the
worthy man, whom they liked much better than their master; whereat both the
lady and the Count laughed in sympathy. The Count had risen, with no other
intention--for he was not minded to disclose his paternity--than to pay his
daughter the respect due from his poverty to her rank, and the sight of her
had thrilled his soul with a wondrous delight. By her he was and remained
unrecognised; utterly changed as he was from his former self; aged,
grey-haired, bearded, lean and tanned--in short to all appearance another
man than the Count.
However, seeing that the children were unwilling to leave him, but wept when
she made as if she would constrain them, she bade the master let them be for
a time. So the children remained with the worthy man, until by chance
Jacques' father came home, and learned from the master what had happened.
Whereupon, having a grudge against Jeannette, he said:--"Let them be; and
God give them the ill luck which He owes them: whence they sprang, thither
they must needs return; they descend from a vagabond on the mother's side,
and so 'tis no wonder that they consort readily with vagabonds." The Count
caught these words and was sorely pained, but, shrugging his shoulders, bore
the affront silently as he had borne many another. Jacques, who had noted
his children's fondness for the worthy man, to wit, the Count, was
displeased; but nevertheless, such was the love he bore them, that, rather
than see them weep, he gave order that, if the worthy man cared to stay
there in his service, he should be received. The Count answered that he
would gladly do so, but that he was fit for nothing except to look after
horses, to which he had been used all his life. So a horse was assigned him,
and when he had groomed him, he occupied himself in playing with the
children.
While Fortune thus shaped the destinies of the Count of Antwerp and his
children, it so befell that after a long series of truces made with the
Germans the King of France died, and his crown passed to his son, whose wife
had been the occasion of the Count's banishment. The new king, as soon as
the last truce with the Germans was run out, renewed hostilities with
extraordinary vigour, being aided by his brother of England with a large
army under the command of his marshal, Perrot, and his other marshal's son,
Jacques Lamiens. With them went the worthy man, that is to say, the Count,
who, unrecognised by any, served for a long while in the army in the
capacity of groom, and acquitted himself both in counsel and in arms with a
wisdom and valour unwonted in one of his supposed rank. The war was still
raging when the Queen of France fell seriously ill, and, as she felt her end
approach, made a humble and contrite confession of all her sins to the
Archbishop of Rouen, who was universally reputed a good and most holy man.
Among her other sins she confessed the great wrong that she had done to the
Count of Antwerp; nor was she satisfied to confide it to the Archbishop, but
recounted the whole affair, as it had passed, to not a few other worthy men,
whom she besought to use their influence with the King to procure the
restitution of the Count, if he were still alive, and if not, of his
children, to honour and estate. And so, dying shortly afterwards, she was
honourably buried. The Queen's confession wrung from the King a sigh or two
of compunction for a brave man cruelly wronged; after which he caused
proclamation to be made throughout the army and in many other parts, that
whoso should bring him tidings of the Count of Antwerp, or his children,
should receive from him such a guerdon for each of them as should justly be
matter of marvel; seeing that he held him acquitted, by confession of the
Queen, of the crime for which he had been banished, and was therefore now
minded to grant him not only restitution but increase of honour and estate.
Now the Count, being still with the army in his character of groom, heard
the proclamation, which he did not doubt was made in good faith. Wherefore
he hied him forthwith to Jacques, and begged a private interview with him
and Perrot, that he might discover to them that whereof the King was in
quest. So the meeting was had; and Perrot was on the point of declaring
himself, when the Count anticipated him:--"Perrot," he said, "Jacques here
has thy sister to wife, but never a dowry had he with her. Wherefore that
thy sister be not dowerless, 'tis my will that he, and no other, have this
great reward which the King offers for thee, son, as he shall certify, of
the Count of Antwerp, and for his wife and thy sister, Violante, and for me,
Count of Antwerp, thy father." So hearing, Perrot scanned the Count closely,
and forthwith recognising him, burst into tears, and throwing himself at his
feet embraced him, saying:--"My father, welcome, welcome indeed art thou."
Whereupon, between what he had heard from the Count and what he had
witnessed on the part of Perrot, Jacques was so overcome with wonder and
delight, that at first he was at a loss to know how to act. However, giving
entire credence to what he had heard, and recalling insulting language which
he had used towards the quondam groom, the Count, he was sore stricken with
shame, and wept, and fell at the Count's feet, and humbly craved his pardon
for all past offences; which the Count, raising him to his feet, most
graciously granted him. So with many a tear and many a hearty laugh the
three men compared their several fortunes; which done, Perrot and Jacques
would have arrayed the Count in manner befitting his rank, but he would by
no means suffer it, being minded that Jacques, so soon as he was well
assured that the guerdon was forthcoming, should present him to the King in
his garb of groom, that thereby the King might be the more shamed. So
Jacques, with the Count and Perrot, went presently to the King and offered
to present to him the Count and his children, provided the guerdon were
forthcoming according to the proclamation. Jacques wondered not a little as
forthwith at a word from the King a guerdon was produced ample for all
three, and he was bidden take it away with him, so only that he should in
very truth produce, as he had promised, the Count and his children in the
royal presence. Then, withdrawing a little and causing his quondam groom,
now Count, to come forward with Perrot, he said:--"Sire, father and son are
before you; the daughter, my wife, is not here, but, God willing, you shall
soon see her." So hearing, the King surveyed the Count, whom,
notwithstanding his greatly changed appearance, he at length recognised, and
well-nigh moved to tears, he raised him from his knees to his feet, and
kissed and embraced him. He also gave a kindly welcome to Perrot, and bade
forthwith furnish the Count with apparel, servants and horses, suited to his
rank; all which was no sooner said than done. Moreover the King shewed
Jacques no little honour, and particularly questioned him of all his past
adventures.
As Jacques was about to take the noble guerdons assigned him for the
discovery of the Count and his children, the Count said to him:--"Take these
tokens of the magnificence of our Lord the King, and forget not to tell thy
father that 'tis from no vagabond that thy children, his and my
grandchildren, descend on the mother's side." So Jacques took the guerdons,
and sent for his wife and mother to join him at Paris. Thither also came
Perrot's wife: and there with all magnificence they were entertained by the
Count, to whom the King had not only restored all his former estates and
honours, but added thereto others, whereby he was now become a greater man
than he had ever been before. Then with the Count's leave they all returned
to their several houses. The Count himself spent the rest of his days at
Paris in greater glory than ever.