Chapter 2.II.—Of the nativity of the most dread and redoubted Pantagruel.

Gargantua at the age of four hundred fourscore forty and four years begat his son Pantagruel, upon
his wife named Badebec, daughter to the king of the Amaurots in Utopia, who died in childbirth;
for he was so wonderfully great and lumpish that he could not possibly come forth into the light of
the world without thus suffocating his mother. But that we may fully understand the cause and
reason of the name of Pantagruel which at his baptism was given him, you are to remark that in
that year there was so great drought over all the country of Africa that there passed thirty and six
months, three weeks, four days, thirteen hours and a little more without rain, but with a heat so
vehement that the whole earth was parched and withered by it.

Chapter 2.III.—Of the grief wherewith Gargantua was moved at the decease of his wife Badebec.
When Pantagruel was born, there was none more astonished and perplexed than was his father
Gargantua; for of the one side seeing his wife Badebec dead, and on the other side his son
Pantagruel born, so fair and so great, he knew not what to say nor what to do. And the doubt that
troubled his brain was to know whether he should cry for the death of his wife or laugh for the joy
of his son. He was hinc inde choked with sophistical arguments, for he framed them very well in
modo et figura, but he could not resolve them, remaining pestered and entangled by this means,
like a mouse caught in a trap or kite snared in a gin. Shall I weep? said he. Yes, for why? My so
good wife is dead, who was the most this, the most that, that ever was in the world. Never shall I
see her, never shall I recover such another; it is unto me an inestimable loss! O my good God,
what had I done that thou shouldest thus punish me? Why didst thou not take me away before her,
seeing for me to live without her is but to languish? Ah, Badebec, Badebec, my minion, my dear
heart, my sugar, my sweeting, my honey, my little c— (yet it had in circumference full six acres,
three rods, five poles, four yards, two foot, one inch and a half of good woodland measure), my
tender peggy, my codpiece darling, my bob and hit, my slipshoe-lovey, never shall I see thee! Ah,
poor Pantagruel, thou hast lost thy good mother, thy sweet nurse, thy well-beloved lady! O false
death, how injurious and despiteful hast thou been to me! How malicious and outrageous have I
found thee in taking her from me, my well-beloved wife, to whom immortality did of right belong!
With these words he did cry like a cow, but on a sudden fell a-laughing like a calf, when
Pantagruel came into his mind. Ha, my little son, said he, my childilolly, fedlifondy, dandlichucky,
my ballocky, my pretty rogue! O how jolly thou art, and how much am I bound to my gracious
God, that hath been pleased to bestow on me a son so fair, so spriteful, so lively, so smiling, so
pleasant, and so gentle! Ho, ho, ho, ho, how glad I am! Let us drink, ho, and put away
melancholy! Bring of the best, rinse the glasses, lay the cloth, drive out these dogs, blow this fire,
light candles, shut that door there, cut this bread in sippets for brewis, send away these poor folks
in giving them what they ask, hold my gown. I will strip myself into my doublet (en cuerpo), to
make the gossips merry, and keep them company.
As he spake this, he heard the litanies and the mementos of the priests that carried his wife to be
buried, upon which he left the good purpose he was in, and was suddenly ravished another way,
saying, Lord God! must I again contrist myself? This grieves me. I am no longer young, I grow
old, the weather is dangerous; I may perhaps take an ague, then shall I be foiled, if not quite
undone. By the faith of a gentleman, it were better to cry less, and drink more. My wife is dead,
well, by G—! (da jurandi) I shall not raise her again by my crying: she is well, she is in paradise at
least, if she be no higher: she prayeth to God for us, she is happy, she is above the sense of our
miseries, nor can our calamities reach her. What though she be dead, must not we also die? The
same debt which she hath paid hangs over our heads; nature will require it of us, and we must all
of us some day taste of the same sauce. Let her pass then, and the Lord preserve the survivors; for
I must now cast about how to get another wife. But I will tell you what you shall do, said he to the
midwives, in France called wise women (where be they, good folks? I cannot see them): Go you to
my wife's interment, and I will the while rock my son; for I find myself somewhat altered and
distempered, and should otherwise be in danger of falling sick; but drink one good draught first,
you will be the better for it. And believe me, upon mine honour, they at his request went to her
burial and funeral obsequies. In the meanwhile, poor Gargantua staying at home, and willing to
have somewhat in remembrance of her to be engraven upon her tomb, made this epitaph in the
manner as followeth.

Dead is the noble Badebec,

Who had a face like a rebeck;

A Spanish body, and a belly

Of Switzerland; she died, I tell ye,

In childbirth. Pray to God, that her

He pardon wherein she did err.

Here lies her body, which did live

Free from all vice, as I believe,

And did decease at my bedside,

The year and day in which she died.