there have been lords who have slain their wives.
“Alas! you will not kill me?” said she.
“No,” replied the old man, “I love thee too much, little one; why, thou art the flower of my old age, the joy of my soul. Thou art my well-beloved daughter; the sight of thee does good to mine eyes, and from thee I could endure anything, be it a sorrow or a joy, provided that thou does not curse too much the poor Bruyn who has made thee a great lady, rich and honoured. Wilt thou not be a lovely widow? And thy happiness will soften the pangs of death.”
And he found in his dried-up eyes still one tear which trickled quite warm down his fir-cone coloured face, and fell upon the hand of Blanche, who, grieved to behold this great love of her old spouse who would put himself under the ground to please her, said laughingly—
“There! there! don’t cry, I will wait.”
Thereupon the seneschal kissed her hands and regaled her with little endearments, saying with a voice quivering with emotion—
“If you knew, Blanche my darling, how I devour thee in thy sleep with caresses, now here, now there!” And the old ape patted her with his two hands, which were nothing but bones. And he continued, “I dared not waken the cat that would have strangled my happiness, since at this occupation of love I only embraced with my heart.”
“Ah!” replied she, “you can fondle me thus even when my eyes are open; that has not the least effect upon me.”
At these words the poor seneschal, taking the little dagger which was on the table by the bed, gave it to her, saying with passion—
“My darling, kill me, or let me believe that you love me a little!”
“Yes, yes,” said she, quite frightened, “I will try to love you much.”
Behold how this young maidenhood made itself master of this old man and subdued him, for in the name of the sweet face of Venus, Blanche, endowed with the natural artfulness of women, made her old Bruyn come and go like a miller’s mule.
“My good Bruyn, I want this!
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