it. Fie! fie on you, messire! You must not do it. Oh!
sweetheart... oh! my love... my life! You are killing me!"

Anon, when she had done sighing and dying, she said sweetly:

"Messire Philippe, never flatter yourself you have mastered me by force
or guile. You have had of me what you craved, but 't was of mine own
free will, and I only resisted so much as was needful that I might yield
me as I liked best. Sweetheart, I am yours. If, for all your handsome
face, which I loved from the first, and despite the tenderness of
your wooing, I did not before grant you what you have just won with my
consent, 't was because I had no true understanding of things. I had
no thought of the flight of time and the shortness of life and love;
plunged in a soft languor of indolence, I reaped no harvest of my youth
and beauty. However, the good Brother Jean Turelure hath given me a
profitable lesson. He hath taught me the preciousness of the hours. But
now he showed me a death's-head, saying: 'Suchlike you will be soon.'
This taught me we must be quick to enjoy the pleasures of love and make
the most of the little space of time reserved to us for that end."

These words and the caresses wherewith Madame Violante seconded them
persuaded Messire Philippe to turn the time to good account, to set to
work afresh to his own honour and profit and the pleasure and glory
of his mistress, and to multiply the sure proofs of prowess which it
behoves every good and loyal servant to give on suchlike an occasion.

After which, she was ready to cry quits. Taking him by the hand, she
guided him back to the door, kissed him daintily on the eyes, and asked:

"Sweetheart Philippe, is it not well done to follow the precepts of the
good Brother Jean Turelure?"

SATAN'S TONGUE-PIE

[Illustration: 112]

SATAN lay in his bed with the flaming curtains. The physicians and
apothecaries of Hell, finding their patient had a white tongue, inferred
he was suffering from a weakness of the stomach and prescribed a diet at
once light and nourishing.

Satan swore he had no appetite for aught but a certain earthly
dish, which women excel in making when they meet in company, to wit,
tongue-pie.

The doctors agreed there was nothing could better suit His Majesty's
stomach.

In an hour's time the dish was set before the King; but he found it
insipid and tasteless.

He sent for his Head Cook and asked him where the pie came from.

"From Paris, sire. It is q