At Saint Omer, not long ago, there happened an amusing incident, which is as true as the Gospel, and is known to many notable people worthy of faith and belief. In short, the story is as follows.
A noble knight of Picardy, who was lively and lusty, and a man of great authority and high position, came to an inn where the quartermaster of Duke Philip of Burgundy had appointed him to lodge. (*)
(*) The fourrier—which, for want of a better word, I have
translated as “quartermaster,”—was an officer of the
household of a prince or great lord. One of his duties was
to provide lodgings for all the retinue whenever his master
was travelling.
As soon as he had jumped off his horse, and put foot to the ground, his hostess—as is the custom in that part of the country—came forward smiling most affably, and received him most honourably, and, as he was the most kind and courteous of men, he embraced her and kissed her gently, for she was pretty and nice, healthy-looking and nattily dressed—in fact very tempting to kiss and cuddle—and at first sight each took a strong liking to the other.
The knight wondered by what means he could manage to enjoy the person of his hostess, and confided in one of his servants, who in a very short time so managed the affair that the two were brought together.
When the noble knight saw his hostess ready to listen to whatever he had to say, you may fancy that he was joyful beyond measure; and in his great haste and ardent desire to discuss the question he wanted to argue with her, forgot to shut the door of the room, which his servant, when he departed after bringing the woman in, had left half open.
The knight, without troubling about preludes, began an oration in dumb-show; and the hostess, who was not sorry to hear him, replied to his arguments in such a manner that they soon agreed well together, and never was music sweeter, or instruments in better tune, than it was for those two, by God’s mercy.
But it happened, by I know not what chance, that the host of the inn, the husband of the woman, was seeking his wife to tell her something, and passing by chance by the chamber where his wife and the knight were playing the cymbals, heard the sound. He turned towards the spot where this pleasant pastime was going on, and pushing open the door, saw the knight and his wife harnessed together, at which he was by far the most astonished of the three, and drew back quickly, fearing to prevent and disturb the said work which they were performing. But all that he did by way of menace or remonstrance was to call out from behind the door; “Morbleu! you are not only wicked but thoughtless. Have you not the sense, when you want to do anything of that sort, to shut the door behind you? Just fancy what it would have been if anyone else had found you! By God, you would have been ruined and dishonoured, and your misdeeds discovered and known to all the town! In the devil’s name, be more careful another time!” and without another word, he closed the door and went away; and the honest couple re-tuned their bagpipes, and finished the tune they had begun.
And when this was finished, each went his or her own way as unconcernedly as though nothing had happened; and the circumstance would I believe have never been known—or at least not so publicly as to come to your ears, and the ears of so many other people,—had it not been that the husband vexed himself so little about the matter that he thought less of being cuckolded than he did of finding the door unbolted.