In the land of Dauphiné there lived a gentleman named the Lord of Riant;
he belonged to the household of King Francis the First, and was as
handsome and worshipful a gentleman as it was possible to see. He
had long been the lover of a widow lady, whom he loved and revered so
exceedingly that, for fear of losing her favour, he durst not solicit
of her that which he most desired. Now, since he knew himself to be
a handsome man and one worthy to be loved, he fully believed what she
often swore to him--namely, that she loved him more than any living man,
and that if she were led to do aught for any gentleman, it would be for
him alone, who was the most perfect she had ever known. She at the same
time begged him to rest satisfied with this virtuous love and to seek
nothing further, and assured him that if she found him unreasonably
aiming at more, he would lose her altogether. The poor gentleman was not
only satisfied, but he deemed himself very fortunate in having gained
the heart of a lady who appeared to him so full of virtue.

It would take too long to tell you his love-speeches, his lengthened
visits to her, and the journeys he took in order to see her; it is
enough to say that this poor martyr, consumed by so pleasing a fire that
the more one burns the more one wishes to burn, continually sought for
the means of increasing his martyrdom.

One day the fancy took him to go post-haste to see the lady whom he
loved better than himself, and whom he prized beyond every other woman
in the world. On reaching her house, he inquired where she was, and was
told that she had just come from vespers, and was gone into the warren
to finish her devotions there. He dismounted from his horse and went
straight to the warren where she was to be found, and here he met with
some of her women, who told him that she had gone to walk alone in a