m
glance from the lady interrupted in her pleasure. This was all his
substance, pittance and enjoyment during a whole month, since on the
brink of his joy always came the said husband, and he always arrived
wisely between a point-blank refusal and those little sweet caresses
with which women always season their refusals--little things which
reanimate love and render it all the stronger. And when the sculptor,
out of patience, commenced, immediately upon his arrival, the skirmish
of the skirt, in order that victory might arrive before the husband,
to whom, no doubt, these disturbances were not without profit, his
fine lady, seeing desire written in the eyes of her sculptor,
commenced endless quarrels and altercations; at first she pretended to
be jealous in order to rail against love; then appeased the anger of
the little one with the moisture of a kiss, then kept the conversation
to herself, and kept on saying that her lover should be good, obedient
to her will, otherwise she would not yield to him her life and soul;
that a desire was a small thing to offer a mistress; that she was more
courageous, because loving more she sacrificed more, and to his
propositions she would exclaim, "Silence, sir!" with the air of a
queen, and at times she would put on an angry look, to reply to the
reproachs of Cappara: "If you are not as I wish you to be, I will no
longer love you."

The poor Italian saw, when it was too late, that this was not a noble
love, one of those which does not mete out joy as a miser his crowns;
and that this lady took delight in letting him jump about outside the
hedge and be master of everything, provided he touched not the garden
of love. At this business Cappara became a savage enough to kill
anyone, and took with him trusty companions, his friends, to whom he
gave the task of attacking the husband while walking home to bed after
his game of tennis with the king. He came to his lady at the
accustomed hour when the sweet sports of love were in full swing,
which sports were long, lasting kisses, hair twisted and untwisted,
hand bitten with passion, ears as well; indeed, the whole business,
with the exception of that especial thing which good authors rightly
find abominable. The Florentine exclaims between two hearty kisses--

"Sweet one, do you love me more than anything?"

"Yes," said she, because words never cost anything.

"Well then," replied the lover, "be mine in deed as in word."

"But," said she