other music than his cries, which sounded in her ears as angels'
whispers. You may be sure that she was always fondling him, had a
desire to kiss him at dawn of day, kissed him in the evening, would
rise in the night to eat him up with kisses, made herself a child as
he was a child, educated him in the perfect religion of maternity;
finally, behaved as the best and happiest mother that ever lived,
without disparagement to our Lady the Virgin, who could have had
little trouble in bringing up our Saviour, since he was God.

This employment and the little taste which Bertha had for the blisses
of matrimony much delighted the old man, since he would have been
unable to return the affection of a too amorous wife, and desired to
practice economy, to have the wherewithal for a second child.

After six years had passed away, the mother was compelled to give her
son into the hands of the grooms and other persons to whom Messire de
Bastarnay committed the task to mould him properly, in order that his
heir should have an heritage of the virtues, qualities and courage of
the house, as well as the domains and the name. Then did Bertha shed
many tears, her happiness being gone. For the great heart of this
mother it was nothing to have this well-beloved son after others, and
during only certain short fleeting hours. Therefore she became sad and
melancholy. Noticing her grief, the good man wished to bestow upon her
another child and could not, and the poor lady was displeased thereat,
because she declared that the making of a child wearied her much and
cost her dear. And this is true, or no doctrine is true, and you must
burn the Gospels as a pack of stories if you have not faith in this
innocent remark.

This, nevertheless, to certain ladies (I did not mention men, since
they have a smattering of the science), will still seem an untruth.
The writer has taken care here to give the mute reasons for this
strange antipathy; I mean the distastes of Bertha, because I love the
ladies above all things, knowing that for want of the pleasure of
love, my face would grow old and my heart torment me. Did you ever
meet a scribe so complacent and so fond of the ladies as I am? No; of
course not. Therefore, do I love them devotedly, but not so often as I
could wish, since I have oftener in my hands my goose-quill than I
have the barbs with which one tickles their lips to make them laugh
and be merry in all innocence. I understand them, and in this