Marsilio, therefore, spent his days in assiduously haunting the house where Thia lived, and he would gaze at her so long and so intently that at last she could not fail to be aware that he was enamoured of her. But, for certain reasons best known to herself, she forbore to look favourably upon him, or show that she was in any way inclined to return his passion, and although she was in her secret mind quite willing to meet his wishes, she feigned to be indifferent to him, and turned her back upon him.
One day it chanced that Thia was sitting all alone on a wooden bench placed near the outer door of the house, and holding under her arm the distaff on which some flax was wound—she was, indeed, busy doing some spinning for her landlady—when Marsilio, who had taken a little heart of grace, came forward and said to her: ‘God be with you, my friend Thia!’ And Thia answered: ‘Welcome, young gentleman!’ ‘How is it that you do not know,’ said Marsilio, ‘that I am consumed of love for you, and am like to die, and you on your part make no account of it, and care not in the least about my cruel sufferings?’ To this Thia answered: ‘How should I know whether you love me or not?’ Said Marsilio: ‘If you never knew it before, I will now let you know that such is my case, for I am consumed with all the grief and passion that a man can feel.’ And Thia answered him: ‘Well, of a surety you have let me know it now.’ Then Marsilio said, ‘And you? Ah, tell me the truth, by the faith you have! Do you love me too?’ Thia, with a smile, answered, ‘Perhaps I love you a little.’ Then said Marsilio, ‘Heaven help you, tell me how much?’ ‘I love you very much,’ answered Thia. Then Marsilio cried, ‘Alas, Thia! if you really loved me as much as you say, you would show it to me by some sign, but I cannot believe that you love me at all.’ Thia answered, ‘Well, and what sign would you have me give you?’ ‘Oh, Thia!’ said Marsilio, ‘you know very well what is in my mind without my telling you.’ ‘No, I cannot possibly know it unless you tell me,’ said Thia. Then Marsilio replied, ‘I will tell you if you will listen to me, and not be angered.’ Thia then answered, ‘Say on, sir, for I promise you on my soul that, if it is a good thing and not against my honour, I will not be angered with you.’ Then Marsilio said, ‘Then, my love, when will you give me the chance of holding you in my arms in lover’s fashion?’ ‘I now see clearly enough,’ said Thia, ‘that you are only deceiving me, and making a mock of me. How can I be fitted for you, who are a gentleman and a citizen of Padua, whilst I am a peasant of the village? You are rich, and I am poor; you are a signor, and I am a working woman; you can have fine ladies to your taste, and I am of low condition. You are wont to walk gaily with your embroidered surcoat, and your bright-coloured hose, all worked with wool and silk, and I, as you see, have nought but a dimity petticoat, old, torn, and mended. I have nothing better when I go to dances than this old garment and this linen head-cloth. You eat wheaten loaves, and I rye-bread and beans and polenta, and even then I have often not enough to satisfy my hunger. I have no pelisse for the cold winter, poor wretch that I am! nor do I know which way to turn to get one, for I have neither money nor goods to sell that will enable me to buy the few necessaries that I want. We have not enough corn to eat to keep us alive till Easter, and I know not what we shall do during the great dearth. And besides all this, there are the forced dues that we have to pay to Padua every day. Oh, we poor peasants! what pleasure have we in life? We toil hard to till the earth and to sow our wheat, which you fine folk consume, whilst we poor people have to make the best shift we can with rye-bread. We tend the vines and make the wine, of which you drink the best, and we have to be satisfied with wine lees or water.’
In answer to Thia’s speech Marsilio said: ‘Do not distress yourself on account of this, for if you will grant me the favour I desire I will see that you want for nothing that can give you delight.’ Thia replied: ‘Ah! this is what you cavaliers always say until we have done your pleasure; then you go away and we never see any more of you, and, fools as we are, are left in the lurch, deceived and duped and shamed in the world’s esteem. You, meantime, go your ways, bragging of your good fortune and washing out your mouths, as far as concerns us and all that belongs to us,[[49]] treating us as if we were carrion only fit to be cast out on the dunghill. I know full well the tricks you worthy citizens of Padua can play.’ Then said Marsilio: ‘Enough, now let us have done with words for good and all. I ask you once more whether you will grant me the favour I desire?’ ‘Go away, for the love of God, I pray you,’ cried Thia, ‘before my husband comes back, for nightfall is drawing near and he will certainly be here in a few minutes. Come back some time to-morrow, and we will talk as long as you will, for in sooth I love you well.’ But Marsilio, who was indeed passionately in love with her, was loath to leave off this pleasant conversation, and still remained by her side; so she said once more, ‘Go away immediately, I beg you, and do not stay here any longer.’ When Marsilio saw that Thia was thus strongly moved, he cried out, ‘God be with you, Thia, my sweet soul! I recommend my heart to you, for it is surely in your keeping.’ ‘May God go with you, dearest hope of my life!’ said Thia, ‘I commend you to His care.’ ‘By His good help,’ said Marsilio, ‘we will meet again to-morrow.’ ‘Very well, let it be so,’ said Thia; and with these words Marsilio took his leave.
When the morrow had come Marsilio, to whom the time until he should once more repair to Thia’s house seemed a thousand years, went thither forthwith and found her busy in the garden digging and mulching round about certain vines which grew therein, and as soon as they saw one another they exchanged greetings and began to talk lovingly together. And when this conversation had gone on for some time Thia said to Marsilio: ‘Dear heart of mine, to-morrow morning early Cechato my husband will have occasion to go to the mill, and he will not return hither until the next day; wherefore, if it should be your pleasure, you may come here late in the evening. I will be on the watch for you; only be sure that you come without fail, and do not deceive me.’ When Marsilio heard this good news, there was no man in all the world so happy as he was; he jumped and danced about for very gladness, and took leave of Thia, half out of his wits for joy.
As soon as Cechato had come home, the crafty Thia went up to him and said, ‘Cechato, my good man, you must needs go to the mill straightway, for we have nothing more in the house to eat.’ ‘Very well, very well, I will see about it,’ answered Cechato. ‘I tell you that you must go to-morrow, whatever happens,’ said Thia. ‘Very well, then,’ replied Cechato, ‘to-morrow morning before I go I will borrow a cart with two oxen from the people for whom I work, then I will come back to load it, and go off to the mill at once.’
In the meantime Thia went to prepare the corn and to put it into sacks, so that on the morrow Cechato should have nothing to do but to load his cart therewith, and to go on his way singing. On the following morning Cechato took the corn which his wife had put into sacks the night before, and loaded it on the cart and went on his way towards the mill. And seeing that it was now the season of short days and long nights, and that the roads were broken up and in bad condition, and that the weather was foul with rain and ice and intense cold, poor Cechato found himself obliged to remain that night at the mill, and this in sooth fell in most opportunely with the plans that Thia and Marsilio had devised for their own satisfaction.
As soon as the dark night had fallen, Marsilio, according to the agreement he had made with Thia, took a pair of fine well-cooked capons and some white bread and wine unspoilt by any drop of water therein, all of which he had carefully prepared before he left his home, and stole secretly across the fields to Thia’s house. Then, having opened the door, he found her sitting by the fireside winding thread. After greeting one another they spread the table and both sat down to eat, and after they had made an excellent meal off Marsilio’s good cheer, they went to lie down in the bed; thus, whilst that poor fool of a Cechato was having his corn ground at the mill, in his bed at home Marsilio was sifting flour.
When the time of sunrise was near, and the day was beginning to break, the two lovers awoke and rose from their bed, fearing lest Cechato might return and find them there together; but while they were still amorously talking, Cechato drew near to the house, whistling aloud the while, and calling upon Thia, saying: ‘Oh, my Thia! make up a good fire, I pray you, for I am more than half dead with cold.’ Thia, who was a clever, artful minx, was somewhat frightened when she heard her husband’s voice, and feared amain lest some evil should befall Marsilio, and injury and shame be put upon herself; so she quickly opened the door, managing the while to allow Marsilio to hide himself behind it; then with a merry face she ran to meet her husband, and began to embrace him. And after Cechato had come into the courtyard, he cried out once more to his wife: ‘Make a fire at once, good Thia, for I am wellnigh frozen to death. By the blood of St. Quintin, I was almost starved to death by cold last night up at that mill; so cold was it, indeed, that I was not able to sleep a wink or even to close an eye.’ Whereupon Thia went without delay to the wood-house, and having taken therefrom a good armful of billets she lighted a fire whereat Cechato might warm himself, herself occupying craftily that spot by the hearth from whence Marsilio might perchance be seen by Cechato.
Then Thia, chatting with her husband of this and of that, said: ‘Ah! Cechato, my good man, I have a fine bit of news to give you.’ ‘What has happened?’ inquired Cechato. To this Thia replied, ‘Whilst you were away at the mill a poor old man came to the house begging alms of me for the love of God, and as a recompense for some bread I gave him to eat and a small cup of wine, he taught me an incantation wherewith to throw a spell over that greedy kite which often comes hereabouts, and never in my life have I heard anything more beautiful than his words, which I have learnt well by heart.’ ‘What is this thing you are telling me?’ said Cechato; ‘is it really the truth?’ Thia replied, ‘It is true, by my faith, and I can tell you that I set great store by it.’ ‘Then tell it to me at once,’ said Cechato, ‘and do not hold me longer in suspense.’ Whereupon Thia said to her husband, ‘You must lie down flat on the ground stretched out your full length, just as if you were dead (which thing may God avert!), and having done this you must turn your head and your shoulders towards the door, and your knees and feet towards the stove, and then I must spread a white cloth over your face, and put our corn measure over your head.’
‘But I am quite sure,’ said Cechato, ‘that my head will never go into our corn measure.’ ‘I am sure it will,’ replied Thia; ‘just look here!’ And with these words she took the measure, which happened to be close at hand, and put it over his head, saying, ‘Nothing in God’s world could be a better fit than this. And now you must keep yourself quite still, neither moving a limb nor saying a word, otherwise we shall be able to do nothing. Then I will take our tamis sieve in my hand, and will begin to jump and dance around you, and whilst I am thus dancing I will speak the incantation which the old man taught me. And in this fashion the spell may be well and truly worked. But again I tell you that you must on no account stir a finger until I shall have repeated the incantation thrice, for it must be said three times over you in order that it may have any effect. After this we shall see whether the kite gives us any more trouble, or comes to steal our chicken.’ To this Cechato replied: ‘Would to God that what you say might be true, so that we might have a little rest and breathing space. You know well enough how hard we find it to bring up any chicken at all, on account of that fiend of a kite which devours every one we hatch. Never have we been able to rear enough chicken to sell, and with the money gained thereby to pay our landlord and the tax-gatherer, and to buy oil and salt and any other stores we may want for housekeeping.’