ry, not that I hold all the "fur caps" to
be good and upright men; but because there was not a little, but a large
measure of duplicity about this particular one, which is a strange and
peculiar thing as every one knows.

(*) The councillors of Parliament wore a cap of fur,
bordered with ermine.

To come to my story, this fur hat,--that is to say this councillor of
Parliament,--fell in love with the wife of a cobbler of Paris,--a good,
and pretty woman, and ready-witted. The fur hat managed, by means of
money and other ways, to get an interview with the cobbler's fair wife
on the quiet and alone, and if he had been enamoured of her before he
enjoyed her, he was still more so afterwards, which she perceived and
was on her guard, and resolved to stand off till she obtained her price.

His love for her was at such fever heat, that by commands, prayers,
promises, and gifts, he tried to make her come to him, but she would
not, in order to aggravate and increase his malady. He sent ambassadors
of all sorts to his mistress, but it was no good--she would rather die
than come.

Finally--to shorten the story--in order to make her come to him as she
used formerly to do, he promised her in the presence of three or four
witnesses, that he would take her to wife if her husband died.

As soon as she obtained this promise, she consented to visit him
at various times when she could get away, and he continued to be as
love-sick as ever. She, knowing her husband to be old, and having the
aforesaid promise, already looked upon herself as the Councillor's wife.

But a short time afterwards, the much-desired death of the cobbler was
known and published, and his fair widow at once went with a bound to
the abode of the fur cap, who received her gladly, and again promised to
make her his wife.

These two good people--the fur cap, and his mistress, the cobbler's
widow--were now together; But it often happens that what can be got
without trouble is not worth the trouble of getting, and so it was in
this case, for our fur cap soon began to weary of the cobbler's widow,
and his love for her grew cold. She often pressed him to perform the
marriage he had promised, but he said;

"By my word, my dear, I can never marry, for I am a churchman, and hold
such and such benefices, as you know. The promise I formerly made you is
null and void, and was caused by the great love I bear you, to win you
to me the more easily."

She, believing