
"But," said she, "my husband will be here directly."

"Is that the only reason?" said he.

"Yes."

"I have friends who will cross him, and will not let him go unless I
show a torch at this window. If he complain to the king, my friends
will say, they thought they were playing a joke on one of their own
set."

"Ah, my dear," said she, "let me see if everyone in the house is gone
to bed."

She rose, and held the light to the window. Seeing which Cappara blew
out the candle, seized his sword, and placing himself in front of the
woman, whose scorn and evil mind he recognised.

"I will not kill you, madame," said he, "but I will mark your face in
such a manner you will never again coquette with young lovers whose
lives you waste. You have deceived me shamefully, and are not a
respectable woman. You must know that a kiss will never sustain life
in a true lover, and that a kissed mouth needs the rest. Your have
made my life forever dull and wretched; now I will make you remember
forever my death, which you have caused. You shall never again behold
yourself in a glass without seeing there my face also." Then he raised
his arm, and held the sword ready to cut off a good slice of the fresh
fair cheek, where still all the traces of his kiss remained. And the
lady exclaimed, "You wretch!"

"Hold your tongue," said he; "you told me that you loved me better
than anything. Now you say otherwise; each evening have you raised me
a little nearer to heaven; with one blow you cast me into hell, and
you think that your petticoat can save you from a lover's wrath--No!"

"Ah, my Angelo! I am thine," said she, marvelling at this man glaring
with rage.

But he, stepping three paces back, replied, "Ah, woman of the court
and wicked heart, thou lovest, then, thy face better than thy lover."

She turned pale, and humbly held up her face, for she understood that
at this moment her past perfidy wronged her present love. With a
single blow Angelo slashed her face, then left her house, and quitted
the country. The husband not having been stopped by reason of that
light which was seen by the Florentines, found his wife minus her left
cheek. But she spoke not a word in spite of her agony; she loved her
Cappara more than life itself. Nevertheless, the husband wished to
know whence preceded this wound. No one having been there except the
Florentine, he complained to the king, who had his workman hastily
pursued, and ordered him to be hanged at Blois. On the day of
execution a noble lady was seized with a desire to save this
courageous man, whom she believed to be a lover of the right sort. She
begged the king to give him to her, which he did willingly. But
Cappara declaring that he belonged entirely to his lady, the memory of
whom he could not banish entirely, entered the Church, became a
cardinal and a great savant, and used to say in his old age that he
had existed upon the remembrance of the joys tasted in those poor
hours of anguish; in which he was, at the same time, both very well
and very badly treated by his lady. There are authors saying
afterwards he succeeded better with his old sweetheart, whose cheek
healed; but I cannot believe this, because he was a man of heart, who
had a high opinion of the holy joys of love.

This teaches us nothing worth knowing, unless it be that there are
unlucky meetings in life, since this tale is in every way true. If in
other places the author has overshot the truth, this one will gain for
him the indulgence of the conclave or lovers.



EPILOGUE

This second series comes in the merry month of June, when all is green
and gay, because the poor muse, whose slave the author is, has been
more capricious then the love of a queen, and has mysteriously wished
to bring forth her fruit in the time of flowers. No one can boast
himself master of this fay. At times, when grave thoughts occupy the
mind and grieve the brain, comes the jade whispering her merry tales
in the author's ear, tickling her lips with her feathers, dancing
sarabands, and making the house echo with her laughter. If by chance
the writer, abandoning science for pleasure, says to her, "Wait a
moment, little one, till I come," and runs in great haste to play with
the madcap, she has disappeared. She has gone into her hole, hides
herself there, rolls herself up, and retires. Take the poker, take a
staff, a cudgel, a cane, raise them, strike the wench, and rave at
her, she moans; strap her, she moans; caress her, fondle her, she
moans; kiss her, say to her, "Here, little one," she moans. Now she's
cold, now she is going to die; adieu to love, adieu to laughter, adieu
to merriment, adieu to good stories. Wear mourning for her, weep and
fancy her dead, groan. Then she raises her head, her merry laugh rings
out again; she spreads her white wings, flies one knows not wither,
turns in the air, capers, shows her impish tail, her woman's breasts,
her strong loins, and her angelic face, shakes her perfumed tresses,
gambols in the rays of the sun, shines forth in all her beauty,
changes her colours like the breast of a dove, laughs until she cries,
cast the tears of her eyes into the sea, where the fishermen find them
transmuted into pretty pearls, which are gathered to adorn the
foreheads of queens. She twists about like a colt broken loose,
exposing her virgin charms, and a thousand things so fair that a pope
would peril his salvation for her at the mere sight of them. During
these wild pranks of the ungovernable beast you meet fools and
friends, who say to the poor poet, "Where are your tales? Where are
your new volumes? You are a pagan prognosticator. Oh yes, you are
known. You go to fetes and feasts, and do nothing between your meals.
Where's your work?"

Although I am by nature partial to kindness, I should like to see one
of these people impaled in the Turkish fashion, and thus equipped,
sent on the Love Chase. Here endeth the second series; make the devil
give it a lift with his horns, and it will be well received by a
smiling Christendom.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Droll Stories [V. 2], by de Balzac

