ly dressed to the torments of vain
longing, she was not damning her own soul too with one of them. In a
word, they were well ready to stake Madame Violante's virtue on the toss
of a coin, cross or pile,--which is greatly to the honour of that fair
lady.

The truth is her Confessor, Brother Jean Turelure, was for ever
upbraiding her.

"Think you, madame," he would ask her, "that the blessed St. Catherine
won heaven by leading such a life as yours, baring her bosom and sending
to Genoa for lace ruffles?"

But he was a great preacher, very severe on human weaknesses, who could
condone naught and thought he had done everything when he had inspired
terror. He threatened her with hell fire for having washed her face with
ass's milk.

As a fact, no one could say if she had given her old husband a meet and
proper head-dress, and Messire Philippe de Coetquis used to warn the
honest dame in a merry vein:

"See to it, I say! He is bald, he will catch his death of cold!"

Messire Philippe de Coetquis was a knight of gallant bearing, as
handsome as the knave of hearts in the noble game of cards. He had first
encountered Madame Violante one evening at a ball, and after dancing
with her far into the night, had carried her home on his crupper, while
the Advocate splashed his way through the mud and mire of the kennels
by the dancing light of the torches his four tipsy lackeys bore. In the
course of these merry doings, a-foot and on horseback, Messire Philippe
de Coetquis had formed a shrewd notion that Madame Violante had a limber
waist and a full, firm bosom of her own, and there and then had been
smit by her charms.

He was a frank and guileless wight and made bold to tell her outright
what he would have of her,--to wit, to hold her naked in his two arms.

To which she would make answer:

"Messire Philippe, you know not what you say. I am a virtuous wife,"--

Or another time:

"Messire Philippe, come back again tomorrow,--"

And when he came next day she would ask innocently:

"Nay, where is the hurry?"

These never-ending postponements caused the Chevalier no little distress
and chagrin. He was ready to believe, with Master Tribouillard, that
Madame Violante was indeed a Lucretia, so true is it that all men are
alike in fatuous self-conceit! And we are bound to say she had not so
much as suffered him to kiss her mouth,--only a pretty diversion after
all and a bit of wanton playfulness.

Things were in this case w