The Heptameron of Margaret, Queen of Navarre by Marguerite de Navarre (d'Angoulême) Duchesse d'Alençon (1492-1549). London: Published for the trade, n. d. Translated by Walter K. Kelly, from L'Heptameron des Nouvelles de très haute et très illustre Princesse Marguerite D'Angoulême, Reine de Navarre Nouvelle edition, publiée sur les manuscrits par la Société des Bibliophiles Français. A Paris, 1853. 3 vols.
OF
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR
BY
LONDON
PUBLISHED FOR THE TRADE
The history of the Heptameron is singular. It is the best known and the most popular of all the old collections of tales in the French language. It has been the delight of the unlearned, scholars have warmly commended it, and men of talent and genius have borrowed from its pages. Brantôme speaks of it with enthusiasm, and quotes it repeatedly; Lafontaine, the conteur par excellence, acknowledges his obligations to it; Montaigne calls it un gentil livre pour son etoffe–"a nice book for its matter;" and Bayle says it is, "after the manner of Boccace's novels," and "has beauties in that kind which are surprising." The book, too, has had its enemies as well as its admirers, for it abounds with reflections on religious topics which accord with the author's known leaning to the cause of the Reformers; and through the whole work the monks, especially the Cordeliers, are treated with much severity, and are represented as committing, and sometimes with impunity even when discovered, the most cruel, deceitful, and immoral actions. From all this, would it not seem reasonable to presume that the world had long possessed a tolerably correct text of this celebrated book–one at least which has not been seriously falsified both by omissions and interpolations? But such is not the fact. The genuine Heptameron, after remaining in manuscript for more than three hundred years from the Queen of Navarre's death, was only published two years ago by the Société des Bibliophiles Français.
Margaret died in 1549. In 1558, Pierre Boaistuau published the first edition of her novels under the title of Histoire des Amans Fortunés, which he dedicated to Margaret of Bourbon, the deceased queen's niece. He took strange liberties with the original, inverting the order of the stories, and suppressing several of them, as well as many names of real personages, numerous passages that seemed to him too bold, and nearly the whole series of conversations by which one tale is followed and the next introduced. Now these conversations occupy almost one-half of the work, and comprise some of its most characteristic matter: no wonder, therefore, that Joan d'Albret was dissatisfied with Boaistuau's editorial labors. In 1559, Claude Gruget replaced the novels in their original order, restored most of the suppressed prologues and epilogues, and gave to the whole the title of Heptameron, instead of Decameron, which Margaret had intended to call it, for she had modeled it upon the Decameron of Boccaccio, but died before she had completed more than two novels of the eighth day. So far the second editor's work was a great improvement on that of his predecessor; but Gruget did not venture to restore the proper names, or the passages which Boaistuau had suppressed as objectionable; while, on the other hand, he foisted into the work tales and dialogues of his own composition, without a word of warning to the reader, and left them to pass as the genuine productions of the Queen of Navarre.
All this was bad enough, but worse followed. The Heptameron having grown very scarce, the booksellers of Amsterdam reprinted it in 1698. "They published two editions of it," says Bayle, "one from that of Claude Gruget, the other metamorphosed into new French: the latter will please foreigners who only understand the modern language, and many ignorant and lazy Frenchmen, who care not to be at the pains of informing themselves how they spoke in the reign of Francis I. The other edition is the only one which will be used by Frenchmen of good taste and judgment." The majority of readers, however, not being persons of that description, the modernized edition quickly supplanted the antique one; and for the last hundred and fifty years the Heptameron has scarcely been known in any other form than that given to it by the literary cobbler by whom it was mis en beau language, et accommodé au goût de ce temps –"put into fair language, and accommodated to the taste of the age." It is no exaggeration of his demerits to say, that he neither understood old French rightly, nor could write modern French passably. His "beau language" is mere slipslop; he mistakes the meaning of his original a thousand times; and by way, no doubt, of "accommodating it to the taste of the age," he patches it with paltry scraps from the common repertory of the "fast school" of his day.
Mal sur mal n'est pas santé, says a French proverb. The work which survived this accumulated ill-usage must have possessed no ordinary stock of vitality. It has at last been reproduced in its original form from MSS., of which there are twelve in the Bibliothèque Nationale of Paris, all belonging to the second half of the sixteenth century. From this edition (L'Heptameron des Nouvelles de très haute et très illustre Princesse Marguerite D'Angoulême, Reine de Navarre. Nouvelle edition, publiée sur les manuscrits par la Société des Bibliophiles Français. A Paris, 1853. 3 vols.) the present translation has been made.
W. K. K.
TWO children were born of the marriage of Charles of Orleans, Count of Angoulême, a prince of the blood royal of France, and Louise, the daughter of Philip Duke of Savoy, and Margaret of Bourbon. The elder of the two was Margaret, the principal subject of this memoir, born on the 11th of April, 1492; the younger, born on the 12th of September, 1494, was the prince who succeeded Louis XII. on the throne of France, February, 1515, under the name of Francis I.
Married when she was little more than eleven years old, Louise of Savoy was left a widow before she had completed her eighteenth year, and thenceforth devoted herself with exemplary assiduity to the care of her children, who repaid her solicitude by the warm affection they always felt for their mother and for each other. She was a woman of remarkable beauty and capacity, and her character and conduct were deserving, in many respects, of the eulogies which her daughter never wearied of lavishing upon them; but less partial writers have convicted her of criminal acts, which brought disasters upon her son and her country. In the first year of his reign, Francis I. committed the regency of the kingdom to his mother, and set out on his expedition to Italy. He was absent but a few months; nevertheless, this first regency enabled Louise of Savoy to fill the most important offices with men entirely devoted to her interests, and even to her caprices and to gratify by any and every means the insatiable thirst for money with which she was cursed.
In the beginning of the year 1522, Lautrec, one of the king's favorites, who commanded his forces in Italy, lost in a few days all the advantages which Francis had gained by the victory of Marignano. He returned to Paris with only two attendants, and sought an audience of the king, who refused at first to receive him. Finally, at the intercession of the Constable of Bourbon, Francis allowed Lautrec to appear before him, and after loading him with reproaches, demanded what excuse he could offer for himself. Lautrec calmly replied, "The troops I commanded not having been paid, refused to follow me, and I was left alone."–"What!" said the king, " I sent you four hundred thousand crowns to Genoa, and Semblançay, the superintendent of finance, forwarded you three hundred thousand."–"Sire, I have received nothing." Semblançay being summoned to the presence, "Father," said the king, (who addressed him in that way on accouut of his great age), "come hither and tell us if you have not, in pursuance of my order, sent M. de Lautrec the sum of three hundred thousand crowns?"–"Sire," replied the superintendent, "I am prepared to prove that I delivered that sum to the duchess your mother, that she might employ it as you say."–"Very well," said the king, and went into his mother's room to question her. Louise of Savoy threw the whole blame on Semblançay, who was immediately confronted with her. He persisted in his first statement, and the duchess was forced to confess that she had received the greater part of the sum in question, but she alleged that the money was due to her by the superintendent, and she did not see why her private income should be applied to the Italian expedition. Francis most bitterly upbraided his mother for thus embezzling the money of the state, but his wrath fell more heavily on the minister, whom he found to have been guilty of culpable complaisance towards her. The unfortunate Semblançay was arrested; commissioners were appointed to examine his accounts, and being condemned by their report, he was hung on the gibbet at Montfaucon on the 9th of August, 1527.
Louise of Savoy was deeply implicated in a still fouler transaction, which was attended with the most terrible consequences: this was the iniquitous lawsuit brought against the Constable of Bourbon, which was followed by his desertion and treason. According to all historians, the insensate love of the Duchess of Angoulême, then aged forty-four, for the constable, who was but thirty-two, was the sole cause of this suit; but her cupidity, and the secret jealousy with which Francis I. regarded one of the handsomest, wealthiest, and bravest men in his kingdom, also contributed to that result. The object of the suit was to wrest from the constable the lordships bequeathed to him by Suzanne de Beaujeu, one of the richest heiresses in Europe, and to which Louise of Savoy laid claim as next of kin to the deceased. She did so at the instigation of the Chancellor Duprat, whose reasonings on the subject we are enabled to give in his own words, as follows:
"The marriage of M. Charles de Bourbon with Madame Suzanne was nothing else than a mere shift to stop the action at law which the said lord was ready to move against Madame de Bourbon and her daughter, on account of the estates of appanage and others entailed on the marriage of Jean de Bourbon and Maria of Berry. The mere apprehension of this contest made the said Madame de Bourbon condescend thereto, and to that end she dissolved the contract passed between M. d'Alençon and Madame Suzanne. Hence there is a likelihood that a similar apprehension of a suit to be promoted for the whole inheritance of the house by two stronger parties than was then the said Lord of Bourbon, who was neither old enough nor strong enough to prosecute it, as the king and his mother will be, may cause some overtures to be made on the one side or the other to compromise and allay this difference.
"M. de Bourbon is now but thirty-two, and Madame, the king's mother, cannot be more than forty at most, which is not too disproportioned an age for so great a lady, handsome, rich, and so highly qualified. Should the said Lord of Bourbon agree to this marriage, why there she is at the point she desires, Duchess of Bourbonnais and Auvergne, and lady of that great heritage. If, on the contrary, he refuses, it will be necessary to bring this action, prosecute it vigorously, employ in it the authority of the king and my lady his mother, and spare nought to further it. This will make him bethink himself, however intractable he may be, and he will be very glad to return into favor by this means. If not, as he is a courageous prince, when he finds himself threatened with the loss of all his possessions, titles, and dignities, he will do something extraordinary, and will choose rather to abandon his country (as M. du Bellay says) than to live in it in a necessitous condition. He will withdraw out of the realm; and by so doing he will confiscate all. So that he cannot fail to do what is desired, be it how it may." *
The Constable of Bourbon having rejected, and even it is said with disdain, the offer of marriage made to him, the suit was brought before the parliament, and was decided in favor of the Duchess of Angoulême. But the pleasure brought her by this triumph over her haughty adversary was not of long duration. A few months after he was despoiled of all his estates, Charles of Bourbon quitted France, and entered the service of Charles V. In the following year, 1524, he drove the French out of Italy, and on the 24th of February, 1525, he defeated them in the famous battle of Pavia, in which Francis I. was taken prisoner, after receiving five wounds. The Duchess of Angoulême, as Regent of France, displayed great courage and ability under this heavy calamity. She soon received from her captive son the letter containing that memorable phrase: De toutes choses ne m'est demeuré que l'honneur, et la vie que est sauve –"I have lost all but honor and life." This letter was a great joy to her. Margaret wrote respecting it to her brother, "Your letter has had such an effect on Madame, and of all those who love you, that it has been to us a Holy Ghost after the sorrow of the Passion . . . Madame has felt her strength so greatly redoubled, that all day and evening not a minute is lost for your affairs, so that you need not have any pain or care about your realm and your children."
After taking all necessary measures for the internal defence of the kingdom, the regent and her daughter took up their residence at Lyon, for the purpose of the more readily receiving news from Italy. There they learned that Charles V. had removed his prisoner to Madrid, and that he was becoming more and more exacting in the conditions for his release. Francis I. wrote to his mother that he was very ill, and begged her to come to him; but, in spite of her love for her son, she felt that she could not comply with his request, for it would have been risking the fate of the monarchy to put the regent along with the King of France into the Emperor's hands. Sacrificing, therefore, her feelings as a mother to the requirements of the state, she sent her daughter Margaret instead of herself to Madrid.
After she had done her part to the utmost for her son's release, and in the negotiations for the treaty of peace which was concluded to Cambrai on the 5th of August, 1529, the Duchess of Angoulême took no further share in the government of the realm. She had repaired, as far as it was possible for her, the misfortunes earned by her conduct with regard to the constable. Her labors as regent, during her son's captivity, had completely ruined her health, which had begun to fail before that event. In September, 1531, she was at Fontainebleau with her daughter and all the other ladies of her court; the plague was raging in the neighborhood, and Louise, who had a great dread of death, was incessantly occupied with medicine and new receipts against disorders of all kinds. Her spirits were very low, and her countenance so changed as scarcely to be recognized by her daughter. "If you would like to know her pastime," Margaret writes to her brother, "it is that, after dinner, when she has given audience, instead of doing her customary works, she sends for all those who have any malady, whether in the legs, arms, or breasts, and with her own hands she dresses them, by way of trying an ointment she has, which is very singular." This horror at the thought of death was common to both mother and daughter. Brantôme says of the former, "She was in her time, as I have heard many say who have seen and known her, a very fine lady, but very worldly withal, and was the same in her declining age, and hated to hear discourse of death, even from preachers in their sermons: as if, said she, we did not know well enough that we must all die some time or other; and these preachers, when they have nothing else to say in their sermons, like ignorant persons fall to talking of death. The late Queen of Navarre, her daughter, liked no more than her mother these repetitions and preachings concerning death." *
A few days after the date of the letter quoted in the last paragraph, Louise of Savoy quitted Fontainebleau for change of air, but was obliged to stop at Grès, a little village of the Gâtinais, where she died on the 22d of September, 1531. We now turn to her daughter's history.
Charles of Austria, Count of Flanders, afterwards the Emperor Charles V., was residing at the court of Louis XII. when Margaret of Angoulême appeared there, accompanying her brother on his entrance into public life. The Count of Flanders was much struck by her appearance and her accomplishments, and eagerly sought her in marriage. But Louis XII. refused to bestow upon him the sister of the heir presumptive of the throne of France, and chose rather to marry her in the following year, December 1509, to Charles, Duke of Alençon, a prince of the royal family.
Historians have treated the memory of Margaret's first husband with excessive severity. He had the misfortune to escape unwounded from the fatal battle of Pavia, while endeavoring to save the remains of the routed army; and it has been alleged that, on his arrival at Lyon, where he found his wife and mother-in-law, he was received by them both with the most contumelious reproaches, and that, unable to endure his shame and remorse, he died a few days after. That is not true. The battle Pavia was fought on the 24th of February, 1525, and the Duke of Alençon did not die until the 11th of April, that is to say, more than a month after his arrival in Lyon. It appears from the testimony of an eye-witness, brought to light by the last editors of the Heptameron, that he was carried off by a pleurisy in five days, that he was comforted on his deathbed by his wife and her mother, that he spoke with profound regret of the king's misfortune, but that nothing escaped his own lips or those of the two ladies to indicate the faintest idea on either side that he had not done his duty at Pavia.
The first five years of Margaret's wedded life were passed in privacy in her duchy of Alençon, but from the date of her brother's accession to the throne, in January, 1515, her talents were employed with advantage in affairs of state. "Such was her discourse," says Brantôme, "that the ambassadors who addressed her were extremely taken with it, and gave a high character of it to their countrymen on their return, and by this she became a good assistant to the king her brother; for they always waited on her after their principal audience, and frequently, when he had affairs of importance, he referred them entirely to her determination, she so well knowing how to engage and entertain them with her fine speeches, and being very artful and dexterous in pumping out their secrets: these qualifications the king would often say made her of great use to him in facilitating his affairs. So that I have heard there was an emulation between the two sisters, who should serve her brother best; the one–the Queen of Hungary–her brother the emperor, the other, her brother King Francis; but the former by war and force, the latter by the activity of her fine wit and complaisance." . . . "During the imprisonment of the king her brother, she was of great assistance to the regent her mother in governing the kingdom, keeping the princes and grandees quiet, and gaining upon the nobility; for she was of a very easy access, and won the hearts of all people by the fine accomplishments she was mistress of." *
The death of her husband, without children, six weeks after the battle of Pavia, left Margaret free to act as became her intense affection for her mother and her brother, who both had the most urgent need of her help. With the emperor's permission she embarked at Aigues Mortes for Spain, in spite of contrary winds, on the 27th of August, 1525; hastened to Madrid, "and found her brother in so wretched a condition, that had she not come he had died; because she understood his temper and constitution better than all his physicians could do, and caused him to be treated accordingly, which entirely recovered him: so that the king would often say that without her he must have died; and that he was so much obliged to her for it that he should forever acknowledge it, and love her (as he did) to his dying day." †
The task which Margaret had to accomplish at Madrid was one of great difficulty. In spite of the apparent cordiality with which she was universally treated at the imperial court, and the very favorable disposition Charles V. always evinced in words, she soon perceived the hollowness of his friendly protestations. "Every one tells me that he likes the king," she says in one of her letters, "but the experience thereof is small. If I had to do with good men, who understood what honor is, I should not care; but it is the reverse." Fortunately, she was not one to give way before the first difficulties. She tried in the beginning to win over some great personages of the imperial court, but afterwards perceiving that the men always avoided talking with her upon any serious topic, she took care to address herself to their mothers, wives, or daughters. In a letter to Marshal de Montmorency she says of the Duke de Infantado, who had invited her to his castle of Guadalaxara, "You will tell the king that the duke has been warned from the court that as he desires to please the emperor, neither he nor his son is to speak to me; but the ladies are not forbidden me, and I shall speak to them doubly."
As for Margaret's behavior towards Charles V., let us again have recourse to Brantôme, whom we shall quote as often as we can: "She spoke so bravely and so handsomely to the emperor concerning his bad treatment of the king her brother, that he was quite astonished, setting before him his ingratitude and felony wherewith he, the vassal, dealt towards his lord on account of Flanders; then she reproached him with the hardness of his heart for being so devoid of pity with regard to so great and so good a king; and said that acting in that manner was not the way to win a heart so noble and royal and so sovereign as that of the king her brother; and that should he die in consequence of his rigorous treatment, his death would not remain unpunished, for he had children who would be grown up some day, and would take signal vengeance. These words, pronounced so bravely, and with so much passion, made the emperor bethink himself, so that he moderated his behavior, and visited the king, and promised him many fine things, which he did not, however, perform for that time. But if this queen spoke so well to the emperor, she did still more so to those of his council, where she had audience, and where she triumphed with her fine speaking and graceful manner, of which she had no lack."
Margaret took great pains to hasten the conclusion of the marriage between Francis I. and Eleonore of Austria, widow of the King of Portugal, rightly regarding that alliance as the surest means of prompt deliverance. Though the royal widow had been promised to the Constable of Bourbon, the emperor did not hesitate to sacrifice his engagement with the illustrious deserter to the interests of his policy. He himself, fascinated by Margaret's talent and graces, entertained for a moment the idea of a union with her, and sent a letter to the regent containing a distinct proposal to that effect. In the same letter the emperor said, with reference to the Constable of Bourbon, that "there were good marriages in France, and quite enough for him; naming Madame Renée, with whom he might content himself." These words have been understood to imply that there had been some question of a marriage between the Duchess of Alençon and the constable, but there is no evidence to warrant such a conjecture. There is no mention of anything of the sort in any of the diplomatic pieces exchanged between France and Spain on the subject of the king's liberation. They stipulate that the constable shall be restored to all his possessions, and even that a wife shall be procured for him in France; but Margaret's name nowhere appears in them, nor does she herself ever speak of the constable in any of her numerous letters. The story of an amour between these two persons, which is told by Varillas in his Histoire de Francois I., and which forms the main subject of a fictitious Histoire de Marguerite, published in 1696, is totally without foundation.
After three months and a half of negotiations, Margaret and her brother saw the necessity of providing for the safety of the crown and government of France in case the king's captivity should be perpetual, and Francis signed an edict, in 1525, by which he ordained that the young dauphin should be immediately crowned, that the regency should remain in his mother's hands, but that in case of her being disabled by sickness or other impediment, or by death, from exercising it, then it should devolve upon his "most dear and most beloved only sister, Margaret of France, Duchess of Alençon and Berry."
It has been erroneously asserted that Margaret carried with her this act of abdication when she quitted Spain, and that because the emperor was aware of this fact he gave orders that she should be arrested the very moment her safe-conduct expired. It was Marshal de Montmorency who carried the act of abdication to France, and in designing to seize the person of the princess, Charles V. had no other object in view than to secure to himself a fresh hostage in case the treaty should not be executed. At her brother's instance Margaret applied to the imperial court for permission to quit Spain; it was granted her, but in such a manner as plainly showed her there was more wish to retard her journey than to speed her upon it. She left Madrid in the beginning of December, and traveled at first by easy stages, until world was sent her by her brother that she should hasten, for the emperor, hoping that on the 25th of the month, on which day her safe-conduct was to expire, she would be still in Spain, had given orders for her arrest. There upon she quitted her litter, got on horseback, and making as much way in one day as she had previously done in four, she arrived at Salses, where some French lords awaited her, one hour before the expiry of her safe-conduct.
In return for all Margaret's pains to hasten his deliverance, Francis I. could not do less than procure for her a fit husband. Negotiations were opened upon the subject with Henry VIII. of England, but happily they came to nothing. There was at the court of France a young king–one, indeed, who was without a kingdom, but not without eminent advantages both of mind and person. This was Henri d'Albret, Count of Béarn, legitimate sovereign of Navarre, which was withheld from him by Charles V., contrary to treaty. Henri had been taken prisoner at the battle of Pavia, and had made his escape after a captivity of about two months, by letting himself down from the window by means of a rope. Having lived some time at the court of France, he was well known to Margaret, and there is every reason to believe that the marriage was one of inclination, on her side at least. It was celebrated, therefore, notwithstanding, a considerable disparity of age, at Saint Germain en Laye, in January, 1527.
Henri d'Albret received as his wife's portion the duchies of Alençon and Berry, and the counties of Armagnac and Perche, which Francis entailed on his sister's issue, whether male or female. He also pledged himself in the marriage contract to force the emperor immediately to restore Navarre to his brother-in-law. Margaret repeatedly urged him to fulfil this promise, and she speaks of it in many of her letters; but political exigencies always prevailed against her, and there was even a clause inserted in a protocol relative to the deliverance of the children of France, which ran thus: "Item, the same king promises not to assist or favor the King of Navarre to reconquer his kingdom, albeit he has married his most beloved and only sister."
The indifference of Francis I. with regard to the political fortunes of his brother-in-law, notwithstanding the numerous and signal services the latter had rendered him, disgusted the young price, and he resolved to quit the court, where Montmorency, Brion, and several other persons, his declared enemies, were in the ascendant. He put his design into execution in 1529, after the conclusion of the treaty of Cambrai, and Margaret retired with him to Béarn, where she diligently applied herself, in conjunction with her husband, to all measures capable of raising their dominions to a more flourishing condition, as we learn from Hilarion de la Coste. "This country," he says, "naturally good and fruitful, but lying in a bad state, uncultivated and barren, through the negligence of its inhabitants, quickly changed its face by their management. They invited husbandmen out of all the provinces of France, who occupied, improved, and fertilized the lands; they caused the towns to be adorned and fortified; houses and castles to be built, that of Pau among others, with the finest gardens which were then in Europe. After having fitted up a handsome place of residence, they gave orders about laws and good government; they established, for the differences of their subjects, a court to determine them without appeal; and they reformed the common law of Oléron, which was used in that country, and which, since its last reformation in 1288, had been greatly corrupted. By their conversation and court they greatly civilized the people. And to guard themselves against a new usurpation from Spain, they covered themselves with Navarrins, a town upon one of the Gaves, which they fortified with strong ramparts, bastions, and half-moons, according to the art then in use." "This," says Bayle, "is one of the finest encomiums that could be bestowed on the Queen of Navarre."
After the death of her first husband, Margaret retained full possession of the duchy of Alençon, not only as regarded its revenues, but also its civil and political administration. She always watched over that principality with great solicitude. As she never could reside in it except for very brief intervals, she was careful to commit its government to able men, whose conduct fully justified her choice.
It was chiefly during her frequent and long residences in her principality of Béarn that the Queen of Navarre had opportunities of conferring with the advocates of the Reformation, and there many of them, including Andrew Melanchthon, Gérard Roussel, Lefèvre d'Etaple, Pierre Calvi, Charles de Sainte Marthe, and Calvin himself, found a refuge with her from persecution. The question whether or not Margaret ever seriously entertained the thought of abjuring the Church of Rome has been much debated by historians, but that she very much inclined to the opinions of the Reformers is not disputed either by Protestant or Catholic writers; both sides confess the fact. Florimond de Remond says, in his History of the Birth and Progress of Heresy, "It is particularly observed by all the historians of both parties that this princess was the sole cause, without designing any ill, of the preservation of the French Lutherans, and that the Church, which afterwards took the name of Reformed, was not stifled in its cradle; for besides that she lent an ear to their discourses, which at first were specious, and not so bold as afterwards, she with a good intention maintained a great many of them in schools at her own expense, not only in France but also in Germany. She took a wonderful care to preserve and secure those that were in danger for the Protestant religion, and to succor the refugees at Strasburg and Geneva. Thither she sent to the learned at one time a benefaction of four thousand livres. . . . . In short, this good-natured princess had nothing more at heart for those nine or ten years than to procure the escape of such as the king exposed to the rigor of justice. She frequently talked to him of it, and by little touches endeavored to impress on his soul some pity for the Lutherans."
Margaret's influence would perhaps have induced Francis to favor the Reformation if the extravagance of some hotheaded people, who posted up certain placards in the year 1534, had not exasperated him to such a degree as to make him become afterwards a violent persecutor of Lutheranism–the name then given in France to what has since been called Calvinism. She was obliged, from that time, to act with great caution, and to conduct herself in such a manner as the Calvinists have highly condemned, and which gave occasion to the Papists to say that she perfectly renounced her errors. Brantôme, after saying that this queen was suspected of Lutheranism, adds, that "out of respect and love to her brother, who loved her entirely, and always called her his darling, she never made any profession or appearance of it; and if she believed it, she always kept it to herself with very great secrecy, because the king violently hated it, declaring that this and every new sect tended more to the destruction of kingdoms, monarchies, and dominions, than to the edification of souls." Others believe that it was not possible for Francis I. to be ignorant that the Queen of Navarre was a Lutheran in her heart; her attachments to the party, and the protection she gave the fugitives for this cause, were not such things as could be concealed from the King of France; he only affected not to know them. "The Constable de Montmorency, discoursing . . . one day with the king, made no difficulty or scruple to tell him, that if he would quite exterminate the heretics of this kingdom he must begin with his court and with his nearest relations, naming the queen his sister. To this the king answered, 'Let us not speak of that; she loves me too much; she will never believe but what I believe, or take up a religion to the prejudice of my state.'" *
Catholic writers assert that some years before her death the Queen of Navarre acknowledged her religious errors; and De Remond even goes so far as to imply that she denied on her death-bed having ever swerved from the standard of Roman orthodoxy. Bayle comments on the remarks of this writer in a singularly earnest and noble passage.
"I do not examine," he says, "whether Florimond de Remond has it from good authority that she protested at her death that what she had done for the followers of the new opinions proceeded rather from compassion than from any ill-will to the ancient religion of her fathers. But granting her protestation to be sincere, I maintain that there was something more heroic in her compassion and generosity than there would have been had she been persuaded that the fugitives she protected were orthodox. For a princess or any other woman to do good to those whom she takes to be of the household of the faith, is no extraordinary thing, but the common effect of a moderate piety. But for a queen to grant her protection to people persecuted for opinions which she believes to be false; to open a sanctuary to them; to preserve them from the flames prepared for them; to furnish them with a subsistence; liberally to relieve the troubles and inconveniences of their exile, is an heroic magnanimity which has hardly any precedent; it is the effect of a superiority of reason and genius which very few can reach to; it is the knowing how to pity the misfortune of those who err, and admire at the same time their constancy to the dictates of their conscience; it is the knowing how to do justice to their good intentions, and to the zeal they express for truth in general; it is the knowing that they are mistaken in the hypothesis, but that in the thesis they conform to the immutable and eternal laws of order, which require us to love the truth, and to sacrifice to that the temporal conveniences and pleasures of life; it is, in a word, the knowing how to distinguish in one and the same person his opposition to particular truths which he does not know, and his love for truth in general; a love which he evidences by his great zeal for the doctrines he believes to be true. Such was the judicious distinction the Queen of Navarre was able to make. It is difficult for all sorts of persons to arrive at this science; but more especially difficult for a princess like her, who had been educated in the communion of Rome, where nothing had been talked of for many ages but fagots and gibbets for those who err. Family prejudices strongly fortified all the obstacles which education had laid in the way of this princess; for she entirely loved the king her brother, an implacable persecutor of those they called heretics, a people whom he caused to be burned without mercy wherever the indefatigable vigilance of informers discovered them. I cannot conceive by what method this Queen of Navarre raised herself to so high a pitch of equity, reason, and good sense: it was not through an indifference as to religion, since it is certain she had a great degree of piety, and studied the Scriptures with singular application. It must therefore have been the excellence of her genius, and the greatness of her soul, that discovered a path to her which scarcely any one knows. It will be said, perhaps, that she needed only to consult the primitive and general ideas of order, which most clearly show that involuntary errors hinder not a man who entirely loves God, as he has been able to discover him after all possible inquiries, from being reckoned a servant of the true God, and that we ought to respect in him the rights of the true God. But I might immediately answer, that this maxim is of itself subject to great disputes; so far is it from being clear and evident; besides, that these primitive ideas hardly ever appear to our understanding without limitations and modifications which obscure them a hundred ways, according to the different prejudices contracted by education. The spirit of party, attachment to a sect, and even zeal for orthodoxy, produce a kind of ferment in the humors of our body; and hence the medium through which reason ought to behold those primitive ideas is clouded and obscured. These are infirmities which will attend our reason as long as it shall depend on the ministry of organs. It is the same thing to it as the low and middle region of the air, the seat of vapors and meteors. There are but very few persons who can rise above these clouds, and place themselves in a true serenity. If any one could do it, we must say of him what Virgil said of Daphnis:
Candidus insuetum miratur lumen Olympi,
Sub pedibusque videt nubes et sidera Daphnis."
We have seen how the Constable de Montmorency endeavored to poison the mind of Francis I. against his sister. Margaret heard of this, and resented it the more strongly, as she had always behaved to Montmorency as a friend, and especially she had espoused his interests in opposition to those of his rival, Admiral Brion. The sequel of this affair, as related by Brantôme, is curious: "She never afterwards liked the constable, and she helped greatly towards his disgrace and banishment from court: insomuch that the day on which Madam the Princess of Navarre" (Margaret's only daughter) "was married to the Duke of Cleves at Chasteleraud, as she was to be led to church, being so heavily laden with jewels, and cloth of gold and silver, that by reason of the weakness of her body she could not walk" (she was but twelve years old) "the king commanded the constable to take his little niece in his arms and carry her to the church; at which the whole court was very much surprised, as being an office not suitable or honorable enough in such a ceremony for the constable, and which might have been given to some other; wherewith the Queen of Navarre seemed not at all displeased, and said 'There is a man who would ruin me with the king my brother, and who serves at present to carry my daughter to church.' I have this story from the person I have mentioned, and also that the constable was much displeased with this office, and greatly mortified to be made such a spectacle to all the company, and said, 'There is an end of all my favor; farewell, host.' And so it happened; for after the entertainment and the wedding dinner, he was dismissed, and departed immediately."
Judging from several original portraits of Margaret which are preserved in the libraries of France, her last editors infer that her beauty, so much celebrated by the poets of her time, consisted chiefly in the dignity of her deportment, and the sweet and cheerful expression of her countenance. Her eyes, nose, and mouth were large. She retained no marks of the smallpox with which she was attacked before middle age, and she preserved the freshness of her complexion to a late period. Like her brother, to whom she bore a strong likeness, she was tall and stately; but her imposing air was tempered by extreme affability and a merry humor. Her enthusiastic panegyrist, Sainte Marthe, says of her, "Seeing her humanely receive everybody, refuse none, and patiently listen to each, thou wouldst have promised thyself an easy access to her;
but if she cast her eyes on thee, there was in her face I know not what divinity, that would have so confounded thee, that thou wouldst have been unable, I do not say to walk one step, but even to stir one foot to approach her." Though conforming on special occasions to her brother's sumptuous tastes, Margaret's personal habits were remarkably simple. She dressed plainly, and after the loss of her infant son, almost always in black. Brantôme, speaking of the extravagant pomp displayed by Cæsar Borgia when he visited France, remarks, that the great Queen of Navarre never had more than "three sumpter mules and six for her litters, though she had three or four chariots for her ladies." Her biographers have generally asserted that this frugality was imposed on Margaret by the precarious state of her fortune; but it is rather to be attributed to her somber character and her munificent charity. The supposition that her means were inadequate to her rank is manifestly erroneous; for at the very time when they are said to have been lowest, we find her declining to receive from Henry II. payment of a considerable sum lent five-and-twenty years before to his predecessor in a moment of financial difficulty, and desiring that the amount should be given to the sisters of her first husband, the Duke d'Alençon.
Distinguished as Margaret was by her mental powers and graces, she was still more admirable for the warmth and tenderness of her affections. These, it is to be feared, were but inadequately requited, and would have been a source of unhappiness to her, were it not for that precious prerogative which loving natures enjoy, to find pleasure in self-sacrifice and suffering. There was little community of feeling between her and the Duke d'Alençon, and their marriage was childless. The husband of her choice, Henry of Navarre, was a handsome, brave cavalier, of respectable capacity, and passably good-humored; but he had little sympathy with his wife's literary and theological tastes, and the difference in their ages was not favorable to connubial concord. It is even said that he treated her at times with a roughness unworthy of a preux chevalier. Hilarion de la Coste says that Henry "having been informed that there was used in his wife's chamber some form of prayer and instruction contrary to that of his fathers, entered it, with a resolution to punish the minister, but finding they had contrived his escape, the weight of his anger fell upon the queen, to whom he gave a box on the ear, saying to her, 'Madam, you want to be too knowing;' and immediately gave advice of it to King Francis." Brantôme, having given some instances of matrimonial discord between princes, adds this: "And lately King Henry d'Albret, with Queen Margaret of Valois, as I have it from good hands, who treated her very ill, and would have done still worse had it not been for King Francis, her brother, who spoke home and roughly to him, and charged him with threats to honor the queen his sister in regard to the rank she bore." The whimsical behavior of this King of Navarre on the occasion of the birth of his grandson, afterwards Henry IV. of France, may enable us to guess how far he was capable of tenderness and delicacy of feeling in his conduct to his wife. On hearing that his daughter was pregnant, he recalled her from Picardy, where she was residing with her husband. The princess arrived in Pau on the 4th of December, after a journey of twenty days, and nine days afterward her child was born. Her father had promised that he would put his will into her hands as soon as she should be delivered, but on condition that in her labor she should sing a song; "to the end," said he, "that you may not bring me a crying and ill-humored child." The princess promised that she would, and had so much courage and resolution, that , in spite of the pains of labor, sang as she heard him enter her chamber a Béarnish ditty, the burden of which was, Noste donne deou cap dea pon, adjouda mi en aqueste houre; that is, "Our Lady of the bridge-end, help me at this hour." As soon as the child was born, his grandfather took him out of the midwife's hands, carried him into his cabinet, and there plentifully rubbed his lips and gums with garlic, by which horrible treatment the poor infant very narrowly escaped suffocation.
The intense affection which Margaret bestowed on her brother he returned as fully as it was in his nature to do. His conduct towards her was marked by that imperious egotism of which he gave so many unfortunate proofs in the most important circumstances of his life. He always called her ma mignonne, but he exacted unsparingly from "his darling" the surrender of her opinions, inclinations and feelings to the claims of his policy or his caprice. He even took from her her only surviving child when it was but two years old, and had it brought into the château of Plessis les Tours, where the poor mother saw it only at long intervals during her unfrequent journeys in France. But Margaret was never weary of making sacrifices for the brother she idolized; and it is remarkable, not less as a characteristic of the age than of herself, that notwithstanding the propriety of her personal conduct and her ardent piety, she was more than tolerant of the illicit amours to which her splendid brother openly addicted himself. She composed the devices for the jewels which Francis I. presented to Madame de Chateaubriant; she maintained a most friendly intercourse with Madame d'Etampes, and to her she presented her poem of Le Coche, or the Debat d'Amour, in which she pronounced a most pompous eulogy on the beauty and the virtues of that royal mistress.
The death in April, 1547, of that brother whom she had loved so much, and to whose glory and welfare she had devoted her existence, was a heavy blow to Margaret. * She survived him but two years, and that brief remnant of her life was spent chiefly in seclusion and religious abstraction from the concerns of the world. Nevetheless, it is not correctly stated by a recent English writer, † that during that period "no solicitations could induce the queen to emerge from her seclusion, or interest herself as formerly in literature or politics." In the very next paragraph the same writer contradicts this loose assertion, by saying that Margaret "often solaced her grief by composing elegies and plaintive songs on her misfortune." Besides this , it is certain that the Queen of Navarre was occupied but a few months before her death in the composition of her book of tales; for the 66th novel of her Heptameron recounts a ludicrous adventure which befell her daughter, Joanne d'Albret, and the Duke de Vendôme, shortly after their marriage in October, 1548. Margaret's health began to decline in the summer of the following year, and she expired at the château of Audos, in Bigorre, on the 21st of December, 1549, in her fifty-seventh year.
Amidst the multifarious occupations of her well-filled life, the Queen of Navarre found leisure to compose a great number of literary works, besides carrying on a voluminous correspondence with her brother, his ministers, and many other persons. Her productions in verse, the greater part of which have been printed, consist of eight long poems on sacred, amorous, or historical subjects; eight dramatic pieces, including four mysteries, two moralities, and two farces; poetical epistles to her brother, her mother, and the King of Navarre; and roundeaux, dixains, songs and other small pieces. According to the last editors of the Heptameron, some of Margaret's fugitive pieces, published by them for the first time, are superior as literary works to her more serious compositions, and in them alone are to be found the gaiety and grace for which she has been so much celebrated by her contemporaries. There is one among them of a graver character, which appears to us so remarkable for its impassioned force and its full and flowing rhythm, that we gladly lay it before the reader:
Souvieigne vous des lermes respandues,
Qui par regret très grand furent rendues
Sur vostre tant amyable visaige;
Souvieigne vous du dangereux oultraige
Que vous cuida faire mon povre coeur
Pressé par trop d'une extreme douleur,
Quand il força la voix de satisfaire
Au très grand mal où ne sçavois que faire,
Tant qu'à peu près la pleur fut entendu;
Souvieigne vous du sens qui fut perdu
Tant que raison, parolle & contenance
N'eurent pouvoir, ny force, ny puissance,
De desclairer ma double passion,
Ny aussi peu ma grand affection;
Souvieigne vous du coeur qui bondissoit
Pour la tristesse en quoy il perissoit;
Souvieigne vous des souspirs très ardens
Qui à la foule en despict de mes dentz
Sortoient dehors, pour mieulx me soulaiger
Souvieigne vous du peril & danger
Où nous estions, dont nous ne tenions compte,
Car vraye amour ne congnoist paour ny honte
Souvieigne vous de nostre amour honneste,
Dont ne devons pour nul baisser la teste,
Car nous sçavons tous deux certainement
Qu'honneur & Dieu en sont le fondement;
Souvieigne vous du très chaste embrasser
Dont vous ne moy ne nous pouvions laisser;
Souvieigne vous de vostre foy promise
Par vostre main dedans la mienne mise;
Souvieigne vous de mes doubtes passées,
Que vous avez en une heure effassées,
Prenant en vous si grande seureté,
Que je m'asseure en vostre fermeté;
Souvieigne vous que vous avez remis
Du plus parfaict de voz meilleurs amys
Le coeur, l'esprit & le corps en repos,
Par vostre honneste & vertueux propos,
Auquel je veulx adjouster telle foy,
Que plus n'aura doubte pouvoir sus moy;
Souvieigne vous que je n'ay plus de paine,
Que ceste là que avecques moy je maine:
C'est le regret de perdre vostre veue,
Par qui souvent tant de joye ay receue;
Souvieigne vous du regard de vostre oeil,
Dont l'esloingner me faict mourir de dueil;
Souvieigne vous du lieu très mal paré
Où fust de moy trop de bien separé;
Souvieigne vous des heures qui sonnoyent,
Et du regret qu'en sonnant me donnoient,
Voyant le temps & l'heure s'advancer
Du despartir où ne fays que penser;
Souvieigne vous de l'adieu redoublé
A chascun pas, de l'esperit troublé,
Du coeur trancy & du corps affoibly,
Et ne mectez le triste oeil en oubly;
Souvieigne vous de la parfaicte amour,
Qui durera sans cesser nucyt & jour,
Qui a dens moy si bien painct vostre ymaige,
Que je n'ay riens sinon vostre visaige,
Vostre parler, vostre regard tant doulx
Devant mes yeulx; bref, je n'y ay que vous;
Vous suppliant, o amye estimée,
Plus que nulle aultre & de moy tant aymée,
Souvieigne vous d'immortel souvenir
De vostre amy, & le vueillés tenir
Dens vostre coeur seul amy & parfaict,
Ainsi que vous dedens le sien il faict."
On the whole, the Queen of Navarre has been far more successful in the poetical treatment of secular than of sacred subjects, and for obvious reasons. We cannot speak from personal knowledge of her efforts in the latter field, but we are very well disposed to accept the judgment pronounced upon them by the Bibliophiles Français, that they are barren of poetry and brimful of tediousness, consisting as they do of long paraphrases of Scripture, theological dissertations, and metaphysico-devotional rhapsodies. One of them, however, deserves more special mention, as marking the author's dissent from the religion of Rome. "The mirror of the sinful soul" (Miroir de l'ame pecheresse ) "was composed in a strain very unusual in the Church of Rome, there being no mention made in it either of male or female saints, or of merits, or of any other purgatory than the blood of Jesus Christ." * The work was consequently assailed with fierce denunciations from the orthodox pulpits; a comedy was acted by the students of the College of Navarre, in which the queen was represented as a Fury of Hell, and the Sorbonne decreed at least, if it did not promulgate, a censure upon her heretical production. Margaret complained to her brother, and the result was that Nicholas Cop, rector of the Sorbonne, expressly disowned the censure pronounced by the body over which he presided; the student-comedians, and the most intemperate of the preachers, were committed to prison; and Noël Beda, syndic of the faculty of theology, who had been the most ardent promoter of the attacks on the king's sister, died in confinement at Mont Saint Michel.
The Heptameron is, of all Margaret's works, the one on which her literary reputation has mainly rested since her death. We have sketched its bibliographical history in our preface, and it now remains for us to speak of its composition. Dunlop, who may be considered as expressing the general opinion of literary historians, says that "few of the tales composed in it are original; for, except about half a dozen which are historically true, and are mentioned as having fallen under the knowledge and observation of the Queen of Navarre, they may all be traced to the Fabliaux, the Italian Novels, and the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles." On the contrary, the last editors of the Heptameron allege that "its distinctive character is, that it reproduces, under a tolerably transparent veil, real events which happened at the court of France, especially in the reigns of Louis XI., Charles VIII., Louis XII., and Francis I. Of the seventy-two tales which compose the Heptameron, we know but five or six which are evidently borrowed from the French conteurs of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. This character of truth, which has not even been suspected by the majority of those who have spoken of this collection, may be demonstrated in the most evident manner." This opinion very nearly agrees with the Queen of Navarre's own statement in her prologue, that all the tales she was about to relate were founded in fact, and it is corroborated by many evidences, direct and indirect. Brantôme, for instance, tells us that "his mother knew some of the secrets of the novels, and that she was one of the confabulators" (une des devisantes ) . He analyses many of the tales in the Heptameron, certifies the authenticity of some of them, and makes known to us the real names of certain persons whom Margaret has introduced into them. From him we learn, that under the title of a Princess of Flanders the Queen has portrayed herself, and related the audacious attempt made upon her chastity by Admiral de Bonnivet. Another notable verification of the Heptameron is supplied by the Bibliophiles Français. The first novel relates a murder committed by a proctor at Alençon, and mentions that the murderer obtained letters of pardon from the King of France at the intercession of the King of England. The Bibliophiles have discovered these very letters in the French archives, and found them to agree perfectly with the Queen of Navarre's narrative.
The more closely to imitate her Florentine model, she introduces her tales by describing a remarkable accident of nature, by which the supposed narrators are thrown together for a season, and driven to seek for some device to while away the time. Certainly there is no comparison between the fine description of the plague at Florence which opens the Decameron, and that multiplicity of little events which the Queen has accumulated in her prologue; nevertheless, the contrivance of the latter is sufficiently ingenious, and bears a considerable resemblance to the frame of the Canterbury Tales. Ten French ladies and gentlemen, intercepted by a perilous inundation on their return from the baths of Cauterets, take shelter in a monastery of the Pyrenees, where they are forced to remain till a bridge should be thrown over an impassable stream, and amuse themselves meanwhile by relating stories in a beautiful meadow on the banks of the Gave. As to the persons into whose mouths Margaret has put her stories, it is natural enough to suppose that she chose them from her own family, and from among the lords and ladies who were usually about her. Madame Oisille, for instance, appears to be Margaret's mother, that name being almost an anagram of Louise. She is represented as an aged widow of great experience, who is as a mother to the other ladies. The rest of the company call each other simply by their respective names, but in addressing Oisille they always say Madame. Many of the novels which turn on the debauchery and wickedness of the Franciscans or Cordeliers are related by Oisille. The tone in which she speaks of them accords with the concluding passage of the journal of Louise of Savoy: "In the year 1522, in December, my son and I, by the grace of the Holy Ghost, began to know the hypocrites white, black, gray, smoky, and of all colors, from whom God in His infinite mercy and goodness preserve and defend us, for if Jesus Christ is not a liar, there is not among all mankind a more dangerous generation."
Hircan, another of the ten interlocutors, may very probably represent one of Margaret's two husbands, but which of the two we are not prepared to say. The Bibliophiles infer that it is the Duke d'Alençon, from the deference with which he is treated by the rest of the gentlemen; but surely this would apply quite as well to the King of Navarre. In the prologue, Hircan says to Simontault, "Since you have been the first to speak, it is right that you should take the lead, for in sport we are all equal." Hircan's wife, Parlamente, who was never idle or melancholy, is no doubt Margaret herself; and if Hircan is the Duke d'Alençon, then Simontault is probably the King of Navarre, or vice versâ. With respect to the other six persons, the Bibliophiles Français offer no conjectures, or only such as seem to us of little weight.
The conversations in the Heptameron on the characters and incidents of the last related tale, and which generally introduce the subject of the new one, are much longer than in the Italian novels, and indeed occupy nearly one-half the work. Some of the remarks are quaint and comical, others are remarkable for their naïveté, while a few breathe the conceits of the Italian sonneteers; for example, "It is said that jealousy is love, but I deny it; for though jealousy be produced by love as ashes are by fire, yet jealousy extinguishes love, as ashes smother the flame." These epilogues are well worthy of attention, as embodying the author's personal views on sundry important topics, such as friendship, love, and conjugal fidelity; and also as a curious model of conversation among persons of quality in the first half of the sixteenth century. Especially curious is it to observe in them how stories and comments of a very ticklish character are mingled with reflections imbued with the most exalted piety; how the company prepare themselves by devotional exercises for telling tales which are often anything but edifying; and how, when the day's work is done, they duly praise the Lord for giving them the grace to spend their time so pleasantly. Margaret's contemporaries were by no means shocked at these incongruities, as our more skeptical age would be. The causes of this difference would be an interesting subject of inquiry, but here we can only note the fact. To give another instance of it: When Clement Marot published his poetical versions of some of the Psalms, they quickly superseded all other songs throughout the country. The press could not throw off copies fast enough to supply the demand. Each of the princes and courtiers appropriated a psalm, and sang it to such a tune as he thought fit. Henry II. chose the psalm, Ainsi qu'on oyt le cerf braire, and made a hunting song of it. His mistress, Diane de Poitiers, jigged out Du fond de ma pensée to the popular dance tune, Le branle de Poitou; and Catherine de Medici, in allusion to her husband's infidelities, profanely appropriated Ne veuillez pas, ô Sire, set to the air, Des bouffons.
We have alluded to the questionable morality of the Heptameron, and certainly we will not endorse the argument of its new editors, who combat the common opinion that it should be classed among licentious books, upon the plea that "the Queen of Navarre excels in winding up a tale of extreme gallantry with moral reflections of the most rigorous kind." The best apology for the book is that its author has not exceeded the allowed license of good society in her own age, and that she is not to be judged by the standard of ours. Free as her language must often appear to us, it will be found, upon closer scrutiny, to be always controlled by certain conventional rules of propriety. Some grossly obscene passages, for which she has incurred unmerited censure, prove now to have been the work of those manifold offenders, her first editors.
* Histoire de Bourbon, p. 226 ro. Des desseins des professions nobles et publiques, &c., &c. Par Ant. de Laval. Paris, 1605.
* Dames Galantes.
* Brantôme. Dames Illustres.
† Ibid.
* Brantôme, Dames Illustres.
* "In his last sickness," says Brantôme, "I have heard that she spoke to this purpose: 'Should the courier who brings me news of the king my brother's recovery, be he ever so tired, harassed, mud-spattered and dirty, I would embrace and kiss him as the finest prince and gentleman of France; and should he want a bed and not be able to find one to repose himself, I would give him mine, and gladly lie on the ground for sake of the good news he brought.'"
† The Life of Marguerite d'Angoulême, Queen of Navarre, &c. By Martha Walker Freer. 2 vols. London, 1854.
* Beza, Hist. Ecclesiast. book i. p. 5.
ON the 1st of September, when the baths of the Pyrenees begin to have efficacy, several persons from France, Spain and other countries were assembled at those of Cauterets, some to drink the waters, some to bathe in them, and others to be treated with mud; remedies so marvelous, that patients given over by physicians go home cured from Cauterets. My intention is not to speak to you either of the situation or the virtue of the baths; but only to recount what is pertinent to the matter I am about to write. The patients remained at these baths until they found themselves sufficiently improved in health; but then, as they were preparing to return home, there fell such excessive and extraordinary rains, that it seemed as though God had forgotten his promise to Noah that he would never again destroy the world with water. The houses of Cauterets were so flooded that it was impossible to abide in them. Those who had come from Spain returned over the mountains the best way they could, such of them as knew the roads coming best off. But the French lords and ladies, thinking to return to Tarbes as easily as they had come from it, found the rivulets so swollen as to be scarcely fordable; and when they came to the Béarnese Gave, which was not two feet deep when they crossed it on their way to the baths, they found it so enlarged and so impetuous that they were forced to turn out of their direct course and look for bridges. These, however, being only of wood, had been carried away by the violence of the current. Some attempted to break its force by crossing it several together in one body; but they were swept away with such rapidity that the rest had no mind to follow them. They separated, therefore, either to look for another route, or because they were not of the same way of thinking. Some crossed the mountains, and passing through Aragon, arrived in the county of Roussillion, and thence in Narbonne. Others went straight to Barcelona, and crossed over by sea to Marseilles or to Aigues-mortes.
But a widow of long experience, named Oisille, resolved to banish from her mind the fear of bad roads, and repair to Notre Dame de Serrance; not that she was so superstitious as to suppose that the glorious Virgin would quit her place at her son's right hand to come and dwell in a desert land, but only because she wished to see the holy place of which she had heard so much; and also because she was assured that if there were any means of escaping from a danger, the monks were sure to find it out. She met with no end of difficulties; but at last she arrived, after having passed through places almost impracticable, and so difficult to climb and descend, that notwithstanding her age and her weight, she was compelled to perform the greater part of the journey on foot. But the most piteous thing was that most of her servants and horses died on the way, and that she arrived with one man and one woman only at Serrance, where she was charitably received by the monks.
There were also among the French two gentlemen who had gone to the baths rather to accompany the ladies they loved than for any need they themselves had to use the waters. These gentlemen, seeing that the company was breaking up, and that the husbands of their mistresses were taking them away, thought proper to follow them at a distance, without acquainting any one with their purpose. The two married gentlemen and their wives arrived one evening at the house of a man who was more a bandit than a peasant. The two young gentlemen lodged at a cottage hard by, and hearing a great noise about midnight they rose with their varlets, and inquired of their host what was all that tumult. The poor man, who was in a great fright, told them it was some bad lads * who were come to share the booty that was in the house of their comrade the bandit. The gentlemen instantly seized their arms and hastened with their varlets to the aid of the ladies, holding it a far happier fate to die with them than to live without them. On reaching the bandit's house they found the first gate broken open and the two gentlemen and their servants defending themselves valorously; but as they were outnumbered by the bandits, and the married gentlemen were much wounded, they were beginning to give way, having already lost a great number of their servants. The two gentlemen, looking in at the windows, saw the two ladies weeping and crying so hard, that their hearts swelled with pity and love, and falling on the bandits like two enraged bears from the mountains, they laid about them with such fury, that a great number of the bandits fell, and the rest fled for safety to a place well known to them. The gentlemen having defeated these villains, the owner of the house being among the slain, and having learned that the wife was still worse than himself, despatched her after him with a sword-thrust. They then entered a room on the basement, where they found one of the married gentlemen breathing his last. The other had not been hurt, only his clothes had been pierced and his sword broken; and seeing the aid which the two had rendered him, he embraced and thanked them, and begged they would continue to stand by him, to which they assented with great good-will. After having seen the deceased buried, and consoled the wife as well as they could, they departed under the guidance of Providence, not knowing whither they were going.
If you would know the names of the three gentlemen, that of the married one was Hircan, and his wife's Parlamente. The widow's name was Longarine. One of the young gentlemen was called Dagoucin, and the other Saffredent. They were in the saddle all day, and towards evening they descried a belfry, to which they made the best of their way, not without toil and trouble, and were humanely welcomed by the abbot and the monks. The abbey is called St. Savin's. The abbot, who was of a very good house, lodged them honorably, and on the way to their lodgings begged them to acquaint him with their adventures. After they had recounted them, he told them they were not the only persons who had been unfortunate, for there were in another room two ladies who had escaped as great a danger, or worse, inasmuch as they had encountered not men but beasts; for these poor ladies met a bear from the mountain half a league this side of Peyrchite, and fled from it with such speed that their horses dropped dead under them as they entered the abbey gates; and two of their women, who arrived long after them, reported that the bear had killed all their men-servants. The two ladies and the three gentlemen then went into the ladies' chamber, where they found them in tears, and saw they were Nomerfide and Ennasuite. They all embraced, and after mutually recounting their adventures, they began to be comforted through the sage exhortations of the abbot, counting it a great consolation to have so happily met again; and next day they heard mass with much devotion, and gave thanks to God for that he had delivered them out of such perils.
Whilst they were all at mass, a man came running into the church in his shirt, and shouting for help, as if some one was close at his heels. Hircan and the other gentlemen hastened to him to see what was the matter, and saw two men pursuing him sword in hand. The latter would have fled upon seeing so many people, but Hircan and his party were too swift for them, and they lost their lives. On his return, Hircan discovered that the man in the shirt was one of their companions named Geburon. His story was, that being at a cottage near Peyrchite, he had been surprised in his bed by three men. Springing out in his shirt he had seized his sword, and mortally wounded one of them; and whilst the two others were busy succoring their comrade, Geburon, seeing that the odds were two to one against him, and that he was naked whilst they wore armor, thought his safest course was to take to his heels, especially as his clothes would not impede his running. He too praised God for his deliverance, and he thanked those who had revenged him.
After the company had heard mass and dined they sent to see if it were possible to pass the Gave river, and were in consternation at hearing that the thing was impracticable, though the abbot entreated them many times to remain with him until the waters had abated. This they agreed to for that day, and in the evening, when they were about to go to bed, there arrived an old monk who used to come regularly every September to Our Lady of Serrance. Being asked news of his journey, he stated that, in consequence of the flood, he had come by the mountains, and traveled over the worst roads he had ever seen in his life. He had beheld a very sad spectacle. A gentleman named Simontault, tired of waiting till the river should subside, had resolved to attempt the passage, relying on the goodness of his horse, and had made his domestics place themselves round him to break the force of the current; but when they reached the middle of the stream the worst mounted were swept away and were seen no more. Thereupon the gentleman made again for the bank he had quitted. His horse, good as it was, failed him at his need; but by God's will this happened so near the bank, that the gentleman was able at last to scramble on all fours to the hard, not without having drunk a good deal of water, and so exhausted that he could hardly sustain himself. Happily for him a shepherd, leading back his sheep to the fields in the evening, found him seated on the stones, dripping wet, and not less sad for the loss of his people who had perished before his eyes. The shepherd, who understood his need both from his appearance and his words, took him by the hand and led him to his cabin, where he made a little fire and dried him as well as he could. That same evening Providence conducted to the cabin the old monk, who told him the way to Our Lady of Serrance, and assured him that he would be better lodged there than elsewhere, and that he would find there an aged widow named Oisille, who had met with an adventure as distressing as his own.
The company testified extreme joy at hearing the names of the good dame Oisille and the gentle knight Simontault; and every one praised God for having saved the master and mistress after the loss of the servants. Parlamente especially gave hearty thanks to God, for she had long had a most affectionate servant in Simontault. They inquired carefully about the road to Serrance, and though the good old man represented it to them as very difficult, nothing could stop them from setting out on that very day, so well provided with all things necessary that nothing was left for them to wish for. The abbot supplied them with the best horses in Lavedan, good Bearnese cloaks, wine, and plenty of victuals, and a good escort to conduct them in safety across the mountains. They traversed them more on foot than on horseback, and arrived at last, after many toils, at Our Lady of Serrance. Though the abbot was churlish enough, he durst not refuse to lodge them, for fear of disobliging the lord of Bearn, by whom he knew they were held in consideration; but like a true hypocrite as he was, he showed them the best possible countenance, and took them to see the lady Oisille and the gentleman Simontault. All were equally delighted to finding themselves so miraculously reassembled, and the night was spent in praising God for the grace he had vouchsafed them. After taking a little rest, towards morning they went to hear mass, and receive the holy sacrament of union, by means of which all Christians are united as one, and to beg of God, who had reassembled them through his goodness, the grace to complete their journey for his glory.
After dinner they sent to know if the waters were fallen, but finding, on the contrary, that they were still higher, and that it would be a long time before they could pass safely, they resolved to have a bridge made, abutting on two rocks very near each other, and on which there still are planks used by people on foot, who coming from Oleron wish to pass the Gave. The abbot, very well pleased at their incurring an expense which would increase the number of pilgrims, furnished them with workmen; but he was so miserly that he would not contribute a farthing of his own. The workmen, however, having declared that it would take at least ten or twelve days to construct the bridge, the company began to grow tired. Parlamente, the wife of Hircan, always active and never melancholy, having asked her husband's permission to speak, said to old dame Oisille, "I am surprised, madam, that you, who have so much experience that you fill the place of a mother to the rest of us women, do not devise some amusement to mitigate the annoyance we shall suffer from so long a delay; for unless we have something agreeable and virtuous to occupy us, we are in danger of falling sick."
"What is still worse," said Longarine, the young widow, "we shall grow cross, which is an incurable malady; the more so as there is not one of us but has cause to be extremely sad, considering our several losses."
"Every one has not lost her husband like you," said Ennasuite, laughing. "To have lost servants is not a matter to break one's heart about, since they can easily be replaced. However, I am decidedly of opinion that we should pass the time away as agreeably as we can."
Nomerfide, her companion, said it was a very good idea, and that if she passed one day without amusement, she should be dead the next. The gentlemen all warmly approved of the proposal, and begged dame Oisille to direct what was to be done.
"You ask a thing of me, my children," replied the old lady, "which I find very difficult. You want me to invent an amusement which shall dissipate your ennui. I have been in search of such a remedy all my life long, and I have never found but one, which is the reading of Holy Writ. It is in such reading that the mind finds its true and perfect joy, whence proceed the repose and the health of the body. If you ask me what I do to be so cheerful and so healthy at so advanced an age, it is, that as soon as I rise I read the Holy Scriptures. I see and contemplate the will of God, who sent his Son on earth to announce to us that holy word and that good news which promises the pardon of all sins, and the payment of all debts, by the gift he has made us of his love, passion, and merits. This idea affords me such joy, that I take my psalter, and sing with my heart and pronounce with my lips, as humbly as I can, the beautiful canticles with which the Holy Spirit inspired David and other sacred authors. The pleasure I derive from them is so ravishing, that I regard as blessings the evils which befal me every day, because I have in my heart through faith Him who has suffered all these evils for me. Before supper I retire in like manner to feed my soul with reading. In the evening I review all I have done in the day; I ask pardon for my faults; I thank God for his graces, and lie down in his love, fear, and peace, assured against all evils. This, my children, is what has long been my amusement, after having searched well, and found none more solid and more satisfying. It seems to me, then, that if you will give yourselves every morning for an hour to reading, and say your prayers devoutly during mass, you will find in this solitude all the charms which cities could afford. In fact, he who knows God finds all things fair in him, and without him everything ugly and disagreeable. Take my advice, therefore, I entreat you, if you wish to find happiness in life."
"Those who have read the Holy Scriptures," said Hircan, "as I believe we have done, will confess, madam, that what you have said is true. But you must also consider that we are not yet so mortified but that we have need of some amusement and corporeal pastime. When we are at home we have the chase and hawking, which make us forget a thousand bad thoughts; the ladies have their household affairs, their needlework, and sometimes dancing, wherein they find laudable exercise. I propose then, on the part of the men, that you, as the eldest lady, read to us in the morning the history of the life of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of the great and wondrous things he has done for us. After dinner until vespers we must choose some pastime which may be agreeable to the body and not prejudicial to the soul. By this means we shall pass the day cheerfully."
Dame Oisille replied, that she had so much difficulty in forgetting vanities, that she was afraid she should succeed ill in the choice of such a pastime; also, that the matter should be referred to the majority of voices. "And you, monsieur," she said to Hircan, "shall give your opinion first."
"If I thought," replied Hircan, "that the diversion I should like to propose would be as agreeable to a certain lady in this company as to myself, my choice would be soon announced; but as I am afraid this would not be the case, I have nothing to say, but will submit to the decision of the rest."
His wife Parlamente colored up at these words, believing they were meant for her. "Perhaps, Hircan," she said, a little angrily and half laughing, "that the lady you think hardest to please could find means to content herself if she had a mind. But let us say no more of the pastime in which only two can take part, and think of one in which everybody can share."
"Since my wife has so well comprehended my views," observed Hircan to the other ladies, "and a private diversion is not to her taste, I believe she is the best person to invent an amusement which will give satisfaction to us all. I declare, therefore, beforehand, that I assent to her proposal."
The whole company spoke to the same effect, and Parlamente, seeing that she was appointed mistress of the sports, thus addressed the company: "Were I conscious of possessing as much capacity as the ancients who invented the arts, I would contrive an amusement which should fulfil the obligation you lay upon me; but as I know myself, and am aware that I find it difficult even to recollect the ingenious inventions of others, I shall think myself lucky if I can closely follow those who have already done what you desire. I believe there is not one of you but has read the novels of Boccaccio recently translated into French, and which the most Christian King, Francis I. of that name, Monseigneur le Dauphin, Madame la Dauphine, and Madame Marguerite, prized so highly, that if Boccaccio could hear them, the praises bestowed on him by those illustrious persons would surely raise him from the dead. I can certify that the two ladies I have named, and several other personages of the court, resolved to imitate Boccaccio, except in one thingónamely, in writing nothing but what was true. Monseigneur and the two ladies arranged at first that they would each write ten tales, and that they would assemble a party of ten persons, selecting for it those whom they thought most capable of telling a story with grace, and expressly excluding men of letters; for Monseigneur did not wish that there should be any intrusion of art into the matter, and was afraid lest the flowers of rhetoric should be in some manner prejudicial to the truth of history. But the great affairs in which the king afterwards became involved, the peace concluded between the sovereign and the King of England, the accouchement of Madame la Dauphine, and several other affairs of a nature to occupy the whole court, caused this project to be forgotten; but as we have time to spare we will put it into execution whilst waiting for the completion of our bridge. If you think proper, we will go from noon till four o'clock into that fine meadow along the Gave river, where the trees form so thick a screen that the sun cannot pierce it, or incommode us with its heat. There, seated at our ease, we will each relate what we have seen or been told by persons worthy of belief. Ten days will suffice to make up the hundred. If it please God that our work prove worthy of being seen by the lords and ladies I have named, we will present it to them on our return, in lieu of images and paternosters, and I am convinced that such an offering will not be displeasing to them. At the same time, if any one can suggest something more agreeable, I am ready to fall in with his ideas."
The whole company declared they could not imagine anything better, and everyone looked forward with impatience for the morrow. As soon as the morning broke they all went to the chamber of Madame Oisille, whom they found already at prayers. She read to them for a good hour, after which they heard mass, and at ten o'clock they went to dinner. Every one then retired to his own chamber, and attended to what he had to do. At noon all were punctually assembled in the meadow, which was so beautiful and agreeable, that it would need a Boccaccio to depict all its charms: enough for us to say that there never was its like.
The company being seated on the green turf, so soft and delicate that no one had need of floor or carpet, "Which of us," said Simontault, "shall have the command over the rest?"
"Since you have been the first to speak," said Hircan, "it is right you should have the command; for in sport all are equals."
"God knows," replied Simontault, "I could desire nothing better in the world than to command such a company."
Parlamente, who knew very well what that meant, began to cough, so that Hircan did not perceive she had changed color, and told Simontault to begin his tale, for all were ready to hear him. The same request being urged by the whole company, Simontault said: "I have been so ill-requited for my long services, ladies, that to revenge myself on love and on the fair one who treats me with so much cruelty, I am about to make a collection of misdeeds done by women to men, in the whole of which I will relate nothing but the simple truth."
* Mauvays garsons, the name given to a gang of masked robbers, who ravaged Paris, even by day, in the reign of Francis I.
A Woman of Alençon having two Lovers, one for her Pleasure and the other for her Profit, caused that one of the two to be Slain who was the first to Discover her Gallantries.–She obtained her Pardon and that of her Husband, who had fled the Country, and who afterwards, in order to save some Money, applied to a Necromancer.–The Matter was found out and Punished.
IN the lifetime of the last Duke Charles, there was at Alençon a proctor named St. Aignan, who had married a gentlewoman of that country more handsome than virtuous, who, for her beauty and her levity, was much courted by the Bishop of Sées. In order to accomplish his ends, this prelate took care to amuse the husband so well, that not only he took no notice of the doings of either of the pair, but even forgot the attachment he had always felt towards his masters. He passed suddenly from fidelity to perfidy, and finally went the length of practising sorceries to cause the death of the duchess. The prelate maintained a long correspondence with this unlucky woman, who intrigued with him rather from motives of interest than of love; whereto she was also solicited by her husband. But she entertained such a passion for the son of the Lieutenant-General of Alençon, named Du Mesnil, that it half crazed her; and she often made the prelate give her husband some commission or another, that she might see the lieutenant-general's son at her ease. This affair lasted a long while, the prelate being entertained for her purse, and the other for her pleasure. She vowed to Du Mesnil that if she received the bishop well, it was only that she might be the more free to continue her caresses to himself; and that whatever she did, the bishop got nothing but words, and he might be assured that nobody but himself should ever have anything else of her.
One day when her husband had to wait upon the bishop, she asked leave of him to go to the country, alleging that the air of the city did not agree with her. No sooner had she arrived at his farm, than she wrote to the lieutenant's son, bidding him not fail to visit her about ten o'clock at night. The poor young man did so, but on his arrival the servant woman who usually let him in, met him and said, "Go elsewhere, my friend; for your place is filled." Du Mesnil supposing that the husband had returned, asked the servant how all was going on. Seeing before her a handsome, well-bred young man, the girl could not help pitying him to think how much he loved, and how little he was loved. With this feeling , she resolved to acquaint him with her mistress' behavior, believing that it would cure him of loving her so much. She told him that the Bishop of Sées had but just entered the house, and was in bed with her mistress, who had not expected him till the following day; but having detained the husband at his own residence, he had stolen away by night to visit her. The lieutenant's son was thunderstruck at this disclosure, and could hardly bring himself to believe it. To clear up his doubts, he secreted himself in a neighboring house, where he remained on sentry till three o'clock in the morning, when he saw the bishop come out, and recognized him but too well, in spite of his disguise.
The young man returned in despair to Alençon where his wicked mistress arrived soon after. Never doubting but that she should dupe him as usual, she lost no time in coming to see him. But he told her that since she had touched sacred things, she was too holy to talk to a sinner like him, but a sinner so repentant, that he hoped his sin would soon be forgiven. When she found she was detected, and that excuses and promises never to offend in that way again were of no avail, she went off and complained to her bishop. After long pondering over the matter, she told her husband that she could no longer reside in Alençon, because the lieutenant's son, whom he thought so much his friend, was incessantly importuning her; and she begged that in order to prevent all suspicion, he would take a house at Argentan. The husband, who let himself be led by her, easily consented.
They had been but a few days settled in Argentan, when this wretched woman sent word to the lieutenant's son that he was the most wicked of men, and that she was not ignorant that he publicly maligned her and the prelate; but that she would yet find means to make him repent of this. The young man, who had never spoken to any one but herself, and who was afraid of involving himself in a quarrel with the prelate, mounted his horse and rode to Argentan, attended by two of his servants. He found the lady at the Jacobins, where she was hearing vespers. "I am come, madam," he said, "to protest to you before God, that I have never complained of you to any but yourself. You have behaved so vilely to me, that what I have said to you is not half what you deserve. But if any one says that I have publicly spoken ill of you, I am here to give that person the lie in your presence."
The proctor's wife, seeing that there were many people in the church, and that he was accompanied by two stout men, put constraint upon herself, and spoke to him as civilly as she could. She told him she did not doubt the truth of what he said; that she believed him too upright to speak ill of anybody, and still less of her, who always loved him; but as something had come to her husband's ears, she begged he would say before him that he had never spoken as had been said, and that he did not believe a word of such tales. To this he readily consented, and took her by the arm to conduct her home; but she begged him not to do so, lest her husband should suppose that she had schooled him as to what he should say. Then taking one of his servants by the sleeve, she said, "Let this man come with me, and when it is time he shall come and fetch you. Meanwhile you may remain quietly in your lodging." He, never dreaming of a conspiracy against him, made no objection to what she proposed.
She gave the servant she took home with her his supper, and when the man frequently asked her when would it be time to go for his master, she always replied that he would come soon enough.
At night she privily sent off one of her own domestics to fetch Du Mesnil, who, having no suspicion, accompanied the man to St. Aignan's house, having with him only one of his servants, the other being with the mistress of the house. As he entered the door his guide told him his mistress would be glad to say a few words to him before he spoke to her husband; that she was waiting for him in a room with only one of his servants, and that he had better send away the other by the front door. This he accordingly did; and as he was going up a narrow and very dark flight of stairs, the proctor, who had set men in ambush, hearing a voice, called out to know what it was. Some one replied it was a man who was making his way secretly into the house. Upon this one Thomas Guerin, an assassin by profession, and hired by the proctor for the occasion, fell upon the poor young man, and gave him so many sword-wounds that at last he fell dead. Meanwhile his servant who was with the lady said to her, "I hear my master's voice on the stairs. I will go to him." But she stopped him, saying, "Don't trouble yourself, he will come soon enough." Soon afterwards, hearing his master cry out, "I am a dead man! my God have mercy on me!" he wanted to go to his aid, but again she stopped him. "Be quiet," she said; "my husband is chastising him for his pranks. Let's go see." Leaning over the stairhead, she called out to her husband, "Is it done?" "Come and see," replied the husband; "you are avenged on him who put you to such shame." And so saying, he struck his dagger ten or twelve times into the dead body of a man whom when living he durst not have looked askance upon.
After the deed was done, and the two servants of the murdered man had fled with the news to his poor father, St. Aignan began to consider what steps he should next take. The servants of the murdered man could not be admitted to give evidence, and no one else had seen the deed besides the murderers, an old woman-servant, and a girl of fifteen. He endeavored to secure the old woman, but she found means of escape, and took refuge in the Jacobins. Her testimony was the best that was had respecting this crime. The young chambermaid remained some days in St. Aignan's house; but contriving to have her suborned by one of the assassins, he had her taken to Paris, and placed in a house of ill-fame, in order to hinder her from being believed as a witness. That nothing else might remain to prove his guilt, he burned the body; and the bones which the fire could not consume he had mixed with mortar, for he was then building. All this being done, he sent to the courts, to sue for his pardon, and set forth that having ascertained that the deceased was endeavoring to dishonor his wife, he had often forbid him his house; that he had come notwithstanding by night, under suspicious circumstances, to speak with her, and that having found him at the door of his wife's chamber, he had killed him more in the heat of anger than deliberately. But in spite of his haste, before he had dispatched his letter, the duke and duchess learned the whole truth, which they had from the father of the unfortunate young man, and made it known to the chancellor in order to hinder St. Aignan from obtaining his pardon. Upon this the wretch fled to England with his wife and several of her relations. Before his departure, he told the assassin he had employed that he had express orders from the king to arrest him and have him put to death; but that, in consideration of the service he had rendered him, he would save his life. He gave him ten crowns to quit the realm, and the man has never been heard of since. The murder, however, was so well authenticated by the servants of the deceased, by the old woman who had fled to the Jacobins, and by the bones which were found in the mortar, that the criminal process was completed in the absence of St. Aignan and his wife, who were condemned to death as contumacious, to pay their victim's father fifteen hundred crowns for the costs of the process, and to have the rest of their property confiscated to the sovereign.
St. Aignan being in England, and finding himself condemned to death in France, so managed by his services to gain the good-will of several great lords, and set his wife's relations to work to such purpose, that the King of England entreated the King of France to pardon him and to restore him to his possessions and his honors. The king having been informed of the atrocity of this affair, sent the details of the process to the King of England, and begged him to consider if the crime was one which could be pardoned; adding, that throughout his realm none but the Duke of Alençon had the privilege of granting grace in his duchy. The King of England did not yield to these representations, but so urgently solicited St. Aignan's pardon, that at last he obtained it.
On his return home, to fill up the measure of his wickedness the proctor made acquaintance with a sorcerer named Gallery, hoping to be put by him in a way to escape payment of the fifteen hundred crowns due by him to his victim's father. To this end he and his wife went in disguise to Paris; but the wife, seeing how he often shut himself up for a long time with Gallery without saying a word to her, watched them one morning, and saw Gallery set before her husband five wooden images, three of which had their hands hanging down, and two had them raised. "We must have waxen images made like them," said Gallery to St. Aignan; "those which shall have their arms hanging down will be for the persons we shall cause to die; and those with raised arms will be for the persons whose good-will we seek."
"Very well," said the proctor. "This one, then, shall be for the king, by whom I would be favored, and this one for Monsieur Brinon, Chancellor of Alençon."
"The images," said Gallery, "must be put under the altar, where they will hear mass, with certain words which I will teach you."
The proctor coming then to the images with pendent arms, said that one was for Maître Giles du Mesnil, father of the deceased, for he knew well, that as long as the old man lived, he would not cease to pursue the murderer of his son. One of the female figures with pendent arms was for my lady the Duchess of Alençon, the king's sister, because she was so fond of her old servant Du Mesnil, and had on so many occasion known the wickedness of the proctor, that unless she died he could not live. The second female figure of the same sort was for his wife, who, he said, was the cause of all his misfortunes, and who, he well knew, would never amend. His wife, who was peeping through the keyhole, and saw herself thus devoted by him to death, thought it high time to anticipate him. She had an uncle, named Neaufle, who was referendary to the Duke of Alençon, and going to him under the pretense of borrowing money, she related to him all she had seen and heard. The uncle, a good old servant of the duke's, went to the Chancellor of Alençon, and communicated to him what he had learned from his niece. As the duke and duchess were not that day at court, the chancellor waited on Madame la Régente, the mother of the king and the duchess, who as soon as she was informed of the matter set La Barre, the Provost of Paris, to work at once. The provost did his duty so promptly and so well, that the proctor and his necromancer were both arrested. Neither torture nor constraint was required to make them avow their guilt, and on their own confession their judgment was completed and laid before the king. Some persons who wished to save the lives of the culprits represented to the king that they had no other intention in performing their enchantments than to secure his good graces; but the king, to whom his sister's life was as dear as his own, commanded that they should be sentenced just as though they had been guilty against his own person. His sister, the Duchess of Alençon, nevertheless entreated the king to spare the proctor's life, and condemn him to a severe corporal punishment. Her request was granted, and St. Aignan and Gallery were sent to Saint Blancart's galleys at Marseilles, where they ended their days, and had leisure to reflect on the atrocity of their crimes. The proctor's wicked wife, after the loss of her husband, conducted herself worse than ever, and died miserably. *
Consider, ladies, I beseech you, what disorders a wicked woman occasions, and how many mischiefs ensued from the sin of the one you have just heard of. Since Eve made Adam sin, it has been the business of women to torment, kill and damn men. For my part, I have had so much experience of their cruelty, that I shall lay my death to nothing but the despair into which one of them has plunged me. And yet I am crazed enough to confess this hell is more agreeable to me, coming from her hand, than the paradise which another might bestow upon me.
Parlamente, affecting not to understand that it was of herself he spoke, replied, "If hell is as agreeable as you say, you can't be afraid of the devil who put you into it."
"If my devil," replied Simontault in a pet, "were to become as black as it has been cruel to me, it would cause this company as much fright as I feel pleasure in looking upon it. But the fire of love makes me forget the fire of that hell. So I will say no more about it, but call upon Madame Oisille, being assured that if she would speak of women as she knows them, she would corroborate my opinion."
The whole company turned to the old lady and begged her to begin, which she did with a smile, and with this little preamble:–"It seems to me, ladies, that the last speaker has cast such a slur upon our sex by the true story he has narrated of a wretched woman, that I must run back through all the past years of my life in order to call to my mind one woman whose virtue was such as to belie the bad opinion he has of our sex. Happily I recollect one such woman who deserves not to be forgotten, and will now relate her story to you."
Chaste and Lamentable Death of the Wife of One of the Queen of Navarre's Multeers.
THERE was at Amboise a muleteer who served the Queen of Navarre, sister of Francis I. This princess being at Blois, where she was delivered of a prince, the muleteer went thither to receive his quarterly payment, and left his wife at Amboise, in a house beyond the bridges. For a long time one of her husband's men had felt such a passion for her, that at last he could not help declaring it; but she being a virtuous woman, reproved him so sharply, threatening to have him beaten and dismissed by her husband, that he never afterwards durst address her with such language. Nevertheless, the fire of his love, though smothered, was not extinguished. His master then being at Blois, and his mistress at vespers at St. Florentin, which is the church of the castle, very remote from the muleteer's house, in which he was left alone, he resolved to have by force what he could not obtain either by prayers or services. To this end he broke an opening through the boarded partition between his mistress's chamber and that in which he himself slept; and this was not perceived, being covered by the curtains of the master's bed on one side, and by those of the men's bed on the other.
When the poor woman had gone to bed with a little girl of twelve years old, and was sleeping soundly, as one usually does in the first sleep, the man entered the room through the opening, in his shirt, with his sword in his hand, and got into the bed with her. The moment she felt him she sprang out of bed, and addressed such remonstrances to him as would occur to any woman of honor in the like case. He, whose love was but brutality, and who would better have understood the language of his mules than such virtuous pleadings, appeared more insensible to reason than the brutes with which he had long associated. Seeing that she ran so fast round a table that he could not catch her, and that although he had twice laid hands on her she had strength enough both times to break from his grasp, he despaired of ever taking her alive, and stabbed her in the loins, to see if pain would make her yield what fear and force had failed to extort from her. But it was quite the reverse; for as a brave soldier when he sees his own blood is the hotter to revenge himself on his enemies and acquire honor, so her chaste heart gathering new strength, she ran faster than ever to escape falling into the hands of that wretch, at the same time remonstrating with him in the best way she could, thinking by that means to make him conscious of his fault. But he was in such a frenzy that he was incapable of profiting by good advice. In spite of the speed with which she ran as long as her strength lasted, she received several more wounds, till at length, weakened by loss of blood and feeling the approach of death, she raised her eyes and her clasped hands to heaven, and gave thanks to God, whom she called her strength, her virtue, her patience, and her chastity, beseeching him to accept the blood which, according to his commandment, was shed through respect for that of his Son, wherein she was thoroughly assured that all sins are washed out, and effaced from the memory of his wrath. Then exclaiming, "Lord, receive my soul which thy goodness has redeemed," she fell on her face and received several more wounds from the villain, who, after she had lost the power of speech and motion, satisfied his lust, and fled with such speed that, in spite of all efforts to track him, he was never heard of afterwards.
The little girl who had been in bed with the poor woman had hid herself beneath it in her fright; but as soon as she saw that the man was gone, she went to her mistress, and finding her speechless and motionless, she called out through the window to the neighbors for help. Esteeming and liking the muleteer's wife as much as any woman in the town, they all hurried at once to her aid, and brought with them surgeons, who found that she had received twenty-five mortal wounds. They did all they could for her, but she was past saving. She lingered, however, for an hour, making signs with her eyes and hands, and showing thereby that she had not lost consciousness. A priest having asked her in what faith she died, she replied by signs as unequivocal as speech, that she put her trust in the death of Jesus Christ, whom she hoped to see in his heavenly glory. And so with a serene countenance and eyes uplifted to heaven, she surrendered her chaste body to the earth, and her soul to her Creator.
Her husband arrived just as they were about to carry her to the grave, and was shocked to see his wife dead before he had heard any news of her; but double cause he had to grieve when he was told how she had died; and so poignant was his sorrow, that it had like to cost him his life. The martyr of chastity was buried in the church of St. Florentin, being attended to the grave by all the virtuous women of the place, who did all possible honor to her memory, deeming it a happi-
There, ladies, you have a true tale, and one which may well incite to
chastity, which is so
fine a virtue. Ought we not to die of shame, we who are of good birth,
to feel our hearts
full of the love of the world, since, to avoid it, a poor muleteer's
wife did not fear so cruel a death? Therefore we must humble ourselves,
for God does not bestow his graces on men
because they are noble or rich; but, according as it pleases his
goodness, which regards not
the appearance of persons, he chooses whom he will. He honours with his
virtues, and
finally crowns with his glory, those whom he has elected; and often he
chooses low and
despised things to confound those which the world esteems high and
honourable. Let us
not rejoice in our virtues, as Jesus Christ says, but let us rejoice for
that we are enrolled in the Book of Life.
The ladies were so touched by the sad and glorious death of the muleteer's wife, that there was not one of them but shed tears, and promised herself that she would strive to follow such an example should fortune expose her to a similar trial. At last, Madame Oisille, seeing they were losing time in praising the dead woman, said to Saffredent, "If you do not say something to make the company laugh, no one will forgive me for the fault I have committed in making them weep." Saffredent, who was really desirous to say something good and agreeable to the company, and especially to one of the ladies, replied that this honor was not due to him, and that there were others who were older and more capable than himself who ought to speak before him. "But since you will have it so," he said, "the best thing I can do is to despatch the matter at once, for the more good speakers precede me, the more difficult will my task be when my turn comes."
A King of Naples, having debauched the wife of a Gentleman, at last wears horns himself.
AS I have often wished I had shared the good fortune of one about whom I am going to tell you a tale, I must inform you that in the time of King Alfonso, the scepter of whose realm was lasciviousness, there was at Naples a handsome, agreeable gentleman, in whom nature and education had combined so many perfections, that an old gentleman gave him his daughter, who for beauty and engaging qualities was in no respects inferior to her husband. Great was their mutual love during the first months of their marriage; but the carnival being come, and the king going masked into the houses, where every one did his best to receive him well, he came to this gentleman's, where he met with a better reception than anywhere else. Confections, music, concerts, and other amusements were not forgotten; but what pleased the king most was the wife, the finest woman, to his thinking, he had ever seen. After the repast she sang with her husband, and that so pleasingly, that she seemed still more beautiful. The king, seeing so many perfections in one person, took much less pleasure in the sweet harmony of the husband and wife than in thinking how he might break it. Their mutual affection appeared to him a great obstacle to his design; therefore he concealed his passion as well as he could; but to solace it in some manner, he frequently entertained the lords and ladies of Naples, and did not forget the husband and his wife.
As one readily believes what one desires, the king thought that the lady's eyes promised him something agreeable, if only those of the husband were not in the way. To put his conjecture to the proof, he sent the husband to Rome with a commission which would occupy him a fortnight or three weeks. When he was gone, his wife, who never before had lost sight of him, so to speak, was in the deepest affliction. The king went to see her frequently, and did his best to console her by obliging words and presents. In a word, he played his part so well, that she was not only consoled, but even very well pleased with her husband's absence. Before the end of three weeks she was so much in love with the king, that she was quite as distressed at her husband's return as she had been at his departure. That she might not be deprived of the king's presence, it was settled between them, that whenever the husband went to the country she should give notice to the king, who then might come to see her in perfect security, and so secretly, that her honor, which she respected more than her conscience, should not be hurt; a hope which the fair lady dwelt on with great pleasure.
The husband, on his return, was so well received by his wife, that even had he been told that the king fondled her during his absence, he never could have believed it. But in course of time this fire, which such pains were taken to conceal, began gradually to make itself visible, and became at last so glaring, that the husband, justly alarmed, set himself to observe, and with such effect, that he had scarcely any room left for doubt. But as he was afraid that he who wronged him would do him a still worse mischief if he made any noise about the matter, he resolved to dissemble, thinking it better to live with grief at his heart, than to expose his life for a woman who did not love him. Nevertheless, he longed, in the bitterness of his resentment, to retaliate on the king, if it were possible; and as he knew that spite will make a woman do more than love, especially such as are of a great and honorable spirit, he took the liberty one day to say to the queen how grieved he was that the king her husband treated her with indifference. The queen, who had heard of the king's amour with his wife, replied that she could not have honor and pleasure both together. "I know well," she added, "that I have the honor whereof another receives the pleasure; but then she who has the pleasure has not the same honor as is mine."
Well knowing to whom these words applied, the gentleman responded, "Honor is born with you, madam. You are of so good a lineage, that the rank of queen or empress could add nothing to your nobility; but your beauty, your graces, and your winning deportment, merit so much pleasure, that she who robs you of that which is your due does more harm to herself than to you, since for a glory which turns to shame she loses as much pleasure as you or any woman in the kingdom could enjoy. And I can tell you, madam, that the king, the crown apart, is not more capable than I of contenting a woman. Far from it, I am certain that to satisfy a woman of your merit the king ought to wish that he was of my temperament."
"Though the king is of a more delicate complexion than you," replied the queen, laughing, "the love he has for me gratifies me so much, that I prefer it to any other thing."
"If that be so, madam," returned the gentleman, "I no longer pity you. I know that if the king had for you a love as pure as that you have for him, you would literally enjoy the gratification you speak of; but God has determined that it should be otherwise, in order that, not finding in him what you desire, you should not make him your god on earth."
"I own to you," said the queen, "that the love I have for him is so great, that no heart can love with such passion as mine."
"Allow me, if you please, to tell you, madam, that you have not fathomed the love in every heart. I dare assure you, madam, that there is one who loves you with a love so perfect and impassioned, that what you feel for the king cannot be compared with it. His love grows stronger as that of the king grows weaker, and it only rests with yourself, madam, if you think proper, to be more than compensated for all you lose."
By this time the queen began to perceive, both from the gentleman's words and his manner, that his tongue was the interpreter of his heart. She now recollected that for a long time past he had been seeking opportunities to do her service, and seeking them with such eagerness that he had become quite melancholy. At first she had supposed that his wife was the cause of his sadness; but now she made no doubt that it was all on her own account. As love never fails to make itself felt when it is real, the queen had no difficulty in unriddling what was a secret for every one else. The gentleman, therefore, appearing to her more amiable than her husband, considering, besides, that he was forsaken by his wife, as she was by her husband, and animated with resentment and jealousy against her husband, "My God!" she exclaimed with a sigh, and with tears in her eyes, "must it be that vengeance shall effect upon me what love has never been able to effect?"
"Vengeance is sweet, madam," observed the now hopeful suitor, "when, instead of killing one's enemy, one bestows life on a real friend. It is high time, methinks, that the truth should cure you of an unreasonable love you entertain for a person who has none for you and that a just and well-founded love should expel the fear which is very ill-lodged in a heart so great and so virtuous as yours. Let us put out of consideration, madam, your royal quality, and let us contemplate the fact that you and I, of all persons in the world, are the two who are most basely duped and betrayed by those whom we have most perfectly loved. Let us avenge ourselves, madam, not so much for sake of retaliation as for the satisfaction of love, which on my side is such that I could not bear more and live. If your heart is not harder than adamant, you must feel some spark of that fire which augments in proportion as I labor to conceal it, and if pity for me, who am dying for love of you, does not incite you to love me, at least you should do so out of resentment. Your merit is so great, that it is worthy of the love of every honest heart; yet you are despised and abandoned by him for whom you have abandoned all others."
These words caused the queen such violent transports, that in order to conceal the commotion of her spirits, she took the gentleman's arm, and went with him into a garden adjoining her chamber, where she walked up and down a long while without being able to speak a single word to him. But the gentleman, seeing her half-conquered, no sooner reached the end of an alley where no one could see them, than he plied her to good purpose with his long-concealed passion. Being both of one mind, they revenged themselves together; and it was arranged between them that whenever the king went to visit the gentleman's wife, the gentleman should visit the queen. Thus, the cheaters being cheated, four would share the pleasure which two imagined they had all to themselves. When all was over, the queen retired to her chamber, and the gentleman went home, both of them so well contented, that they thought no more of their past vexations. The gentleman, far from dreading lest the king should visit his wife, on the contrary desired nothing better; and to afford him opportunity for doing so, he went to the country oftener than he had been used. When the king knew that the gentleman was at his village, which was but half a league from the city, he went at once to the fair lady; whilst the gentleman repaired by night to the queen's chamber, where he did duty as the king's lieutenant so secretly that no one ever perceived it.
Things went on in this way for a long while; but whatever pains the king took to conceal his amour, all the world was aware of it. The gentleman was much pitied by all good-natured people, and ridiculed by the ill-natured, who used to make horns at him behind his back. He knew very well that they did so, and he laughed in his sleeve, for he thought his horns were as good as the king's crown. One day when the royal-gallant was at the gentleman's, casting his eyes on a pair of antlers hung up in the hall, he could not help saying, with a laugh, in presence of the master of the house himself, "These antlers very well become this place." The gentleman, who had as much spirit as the king, had this inscription put up beneath the antlers after the king was gone:
Io porto le corna, ciascun lo vede;
Ma tal le porta, chi no lo crede.I wear the horns as all men know;
He wears them too who thinks not so.
On his next visit the king observed this inscription, and asked the meaning of it. "If the stag," replied the gentleman, "does not know the king's secret, it is not just that the king should know the stag's secret. Be satisfied with knowing, sire, that it is not every one who wears horns who has his cap lifted off his head by them; some horns are so soft that a man may wear them without knowing it."
It was plain to the king from this reply that the gentleman knew something of his own affair, but he never suspected either him or the queen. That princess played her part extremely well; for the more pleased she was with her husband's conduct, the more she pretended to be dissatisfied. So they lived as good friends on both sides until old age put an end to their mutual pleasures. This, ladies, is a story which I have great pleasure in proposing to you by way of example, to the end that when your husbands give you horns you may do the same by them. *
"I am very well assured, Saffredent," said Ennasuite, laughing, "that if
you were as much
in love as you have formerly been, you would endure horns as big as oaks
for the sake of
bestowing a pair as you pleased; but now that your hair is beginning to
turn gray, it is time
to put a truce to your desires."
"Though she whom I love, mademoiselle, allows me no hope," replied Saffredent, "and age has exhausted my vigour, my desires remain still in full force. But since you reproach me with so seemly a passion, you will, if you, please, relate to us the fourth novel; and we shall see if you can find some example which may refute me."
One of the ladies present, who knew that she who had taken Saffredent's words to herself was not the person he loved so much as to be willing to wears horns of her making, could not help laughing at the manner in which she had taken them up. Saffredent, who perceived that the laughing lady had guessed right, was very glad of it, and let Ennasuite talk on. "To prove, ladies," she said, "to Saffredent and all the company that all women are not like the queen of whom he has told us, and that the audacious are not always successful, I will relate to you the adventure of a lady who deemed that the vexation of failing in love was harder to bear than death itself. I shall not name the persons, because the story is so recent that I should be afraid of offending some of the near relations if I did so."
Presumptuous attempt of a Gentleman upon a Princess of Flanders, and the shame it brought upon him.
THERE was in Flanders a lady of such good family that there was none better in the country. She was a widow, had been twice married, but had no children living. During her second widowhood she resided with her brother, who loved her much, and who was a very great lord, being married to one of the king's daughters. This young prince was much addicted to pleasure, and was fond of the chase, amusements, and the ladies, as usual with young people. He had a very ill-tempered wife, who was by no means well pleased with her husband's diversions; wherefore as his sister was the most lively and cheerful companion possible, she accompanied the prince to every place to which he took his wife. There was at the prince's court a gentleman who surpassed all the others in height, figure, and good looks, and who, seeing that his master's sister was a lively lady, and fond of laughing, thought he would try if a well-bred lover would be to her taste. But the result was quite contrary to what he had expected; although she pardoned his audacity in consideration of his good looks and good breeding, and even let him know that she was not angry that he had spoken to her, only she desired she might never hear the same language from him again. He promised this, that he might not lose the honor and pleasure of her society, but as his passion increased with time, he forgot his promise. He did not, however, have recourse to words, for experience had taught him that she knew how to make chaste replies; but he flattered himself that being a widow, young, vigorous, and good-humored, she would, perhaps, take pity on him and on herself if he could find her in a convenient place.
To this end he acquainted the prince that he had a house admirably situated for the chase, and that if he would come thither and hunt three or four stags in the month of May, he would have excellent sport. The prince promised he would do so, and he kept his word. He found a handsome house prepared for his reception, in the best order, as belonging to the richest nobleman in the country. Its owner lodged her whom he loved better than himself in an apartment opposite to that which he assigned to the prince and princess. Her bedroom was so well tapestried above and so well matted below, that it was impossible to perceive a trap-door he had contrived in the alcove, and which led down into the room occupied by his aged and infirm mother. As the good old
One night he stayed so late with the princess, that seeing she was falling asleep he was obliged to leave her and return to his own chamber. He took the handsomest and best perfumed shirt he had, and a nightcap of the choicest kind; then, looking at himself in the glass, he was so satisfied with his own appearance, that he thought no lady could possibly withstand his good looks. Promising himself marvels therefore from his enterprise, he lay down on his bed, where he did not think he should stay long, for he expected to exchange it for one more honorable.
No sooner had he dismissed his attendants, than he rose and locked the door, and listened for a long time to hear whether there was any noise in the princess's chamber, which, as already said, was above his own. When he had satisfied himself that all was quiet, he began to put his fine project in execution, and gradually let down the trap-door, which was so well made and so well covered with cloth, that it did not make the least noise. Then stealing up into the alcove where the princess was fast asleep, he got into bed to her without ceremony, regardless of her high birth and the obligations he was under to her, and without having in the first instance obtained her consent. The first intimation she had of his arrival was to find herself in his arms; but being a strong woman she broke loose from his grasp, and, demanding who he was, made such good use of her hands and nails that he tried to stuff the quilt into her mouth for fear she should cry out. But he never could accomplish his purpose, for as, she found that he was doing his best to dishonor her, she did her best to defend herself, and called out to her lady of honor, an aged and very prudent woman who slept in the same room, and she hastened in her shift to her mistress's aid.
The gentleman, finding he was discovered, was so much afraid of being recognized, that he hurried away through his trap-door as fast as he could, no less overcome at the plight in which he returned from his enterprise than he had been keen-set and confident when he entered upon it. The candle was still burning on the table before his mirror, which showed his face all scratched and bitten, and the blood streaming from it over his fine shirt. "Thou art rightly served, pernicious beauty!" he said, apostrophizing his own lacerated visage. "Thy vain promises set upon an impossible enterprise, and one which, far from increasing my good fortune, will, perhaps, bring upon me a world of trouble. What will become of me if she knows that I have committed this folly in violation of my promise? The least that can happen to me will be to be banished from her presence. Why did I employ fraud to steal what my birth and my good looks might have obtained for me by lawful ways? Could I expect to make myself master of her heart by violence? Ought I not to have waited till love put me in possession of it in recompense for my patience and my long service? For without love, all the merits and power of man are nothing."
The rest of the night was spent by the discomfited gallant in such reflections as these, mingled with tears, groans, and wailings indescribable. In the morning he feigned illness, to conceal the mangled state of his countenance, pretending all the while the company remained in the house that he could not endure the light. The lady, who was convinced that there was no one at the court capable of so audacious an act except the man who had had the boldness to declare his love to her, searched the chamber with the lady of honor; but not finding a passage through which any one could have entered, she broke into a towering passion. "Be assured," she said to the lady of honor, "that the lord of this mansion is the man, and that I will make such a report to-morrow morning to my brother, that the culprit's head shall bear witness to my chastity."
"I am delighted, madam," said her wary attendant, who saw what a transport of rage she was in,–"I am delighted that honor is so precious in your eyes, that for its sake you would not spare the life of a man who has put it in jeopardy through excess of love. But in this, as in every other matter, one may fall backwards when thinking to advance. Therefore, tell me, madam, the plain truth. Has he had anything of you?"
"Nothing, I do assure you," replied the princess, "besides scratches and cuffs; and unless he has found a very clever surgeon, I am sure he will show the marks of them tomorrow."
"That being the case, madam, it strikes me you ought rather to praise God, than think of vengeance. Since he has had the heart to make such an attempt, the vexation of having failed in it will be more poignant than even death itself. If you would be avenged on him, leave him to his love and to his shame, which will make him suffer more than anything you can do. Do not fall, madam, into the blunder he has committed. He promised himself the sweetest of all pleasures, and he has brought upon himself the most miserable torment. Profit by his example, madam, and do not diminish your glory in thinking to augment it. If you complain of the adventure, you will publish what is known to nobody; for you may be sure that on his part it will remain an everlasting secret. Suppose even my lord your brother does you the justice you demand, and that it costs the poor gentleman his life, people will say that he has had his will of you: and most people will find it hard to believe that he would have made such an attempt if you had not given him encouragement. You are handsome, young, and lively. All the court knows that you are graciously familiar with the gentleman you suspect; and so every one will conclude that he only made this attempt because it was your wish that he should do so. Your honor, which has hitherto sustained no blemish, will become at least questionable wherever this story is told."
The princess yielded to the force of these judicious representations, and asked the lady of honor what she should do. "Since you are pleased to receive my counsel, madam," replied the lady, "seeing the affection from which it proceeds, I must say, that in my opinion, you ought to be heartily rejoiced that the handsomest and best-bred man I know has neither by fair means nor by foul been able to make you swerve from the path of virtue. For this, madam, you should feel bound to humble yourself before God, and acknowledge that it is his work, and not your own. Many a woman, indeed, has maintained a more imposing air of gravity than you, who yet has yielded to a man less worth loving than this gentleman. You ought to be more on your guard than ever against everything in the shape of soft speeches, and bethink you that many have resisted a first attack who have yielded to a second. Remember, madam, that love is blind, and that he makes people blind, so that they think they have nothing to fear when they are most in danger. It is my opinion, then, madam, that you ought not to tell any one what has occurred to you, and that even if he should think of speaking to you on the subject, you should affect not to understand him. Thereby you will avoid two bad things: one is vainglory for the victory you have achieved; the other, the pleasure you might take in remembering things so agreeable to the flesh; for the chastest of our sex can hardly prevent themselves, strive as they will, from feeling something of the sort. Furthermore, madam, that he may not believe that what he has done accords in any way with your inclinations, I advise you to make him feel his folly by gradually withdrawing something of that friendly countenance you have been used to show him. He will also feel at the same time that you manifest great goodness of heart in contenting yourself with your victory and renouncing vengeance. God grant you the grace, madam, to persist in the virtue with which he has endowed you, and to love and serve him better than you have hitherto done, knowing that he is the source of all good things."
The princess followed her lady of honor's sage counsels, and slept calmly through the rest of the night, whilst the gentleman lay awake in bitter anguish of spirit. Next day, the prince being about to take his departure, asked after his host, and was told he was so ill he could not bear to see the light or hear any one speak. Surprised at this sudden malady, the prince would have gone to see him, but hearing that he was asleep, and not wishing to disturb him, he went away with his wife and sister without bidding him farewell. His sister, concluding that the gentleman's illness was only a pretence to avoid showing the marks she had left upon his face, was now assured beyond all doubt that it was he who had been her nightly assailant. The prince repeatedly sent word to him to return to court, but he did not obey until he had been thoroughly cured of all his wounds, except those which love and vexation had made in his heart. On his return to court, he could not sustain the presence of his victorious enemy without blushing. Though he had been possessed of more assurance than any man at court, he was so disconcerted that he often appeared before her quite abashed–a new proof that her suspicions were well founded. She broke with him, therefore, little by little. Adroitly as she did this, he failed not to perceive it, but durst not remonstrate for fear of worse. He kept his love concealed, and endured patiently a disgrace he had well merited. *
There, ladies, is a story which should strike fear into those who would
seize what does not
belong to them, and which should inspire ladies with courage,
considering the virtue of the
young princess and the good sense of her lady of honour. Should a
similar thing befal one
of you, here you see how it is to be remedied.
"To my thinking," said Hircan, "the tall gentleman you have been telling us of had such a faint heart that he did not deserve the honor of having his adventure talked of. Having such a fine opportunity, nothing should have prevented him from profiting by it. His love, it must be owned, was not very great, since the fear of death and of shame found a place beside it in his heart."
"And what could the poor gentleman have done against two women?" said Nomerfide.
"He should have killed the old one," replied Hircan, "and the young one, seeing herself alone, would have been half vanquished."
"Killed!" exclaimed Nomerfide; "you would turn a lover into a murderer! It would be a terrible thing to fall into your hands, I see."
"If I had pushed matters so far," continued Hircan, "I should think myself ruined in reputation unless I went the whole way to the end."
"Do you think it matter for wonder," said Geburon, "that a princess trained to virtue proves too much for one man? What would you say, then, to one woman in low life escaping from two men?"
"Geburon," said Ennasuite, "I call upon you for the fifth novel. If I am not mistaken, you know one about this poor woman which will not be displeasing to the company."
"Be it so, then," said Geburon; "I will tell you a story which I know to be true, having examined into it on the spot. You will see from it that princesses are not the only prudent and the only virtuous of their sex, and that often those who are reputed very amorous and very sly are less so than is supposed.
A Boatwoman escapes from two Cordeliers, who wanted to force her, and exposes them to public Derision.
THERE was in the port of Coulon, near Niort, a boatwoman, who did nothing day and night but convey people from point to point. Two Cordeliers of Niort crossed the river alone with her. As it is one of the widest ferries in France, they took it into their heads to make love to her, for fear she should grow dull by the way. She gave no more ear to them than they deserved; but the good fathers, who were neither fatigued by the labor of the passage, nor chilled by the coldness of the water, nor abashed by the woman's refusal, resolved to force her, or throw her into the river if she was refractory. But she was as good and as shrewd as they were wicked and witless, and said to them, "I am not so ill-natured as you might suppose; only grant me two things I have to beg of you, and you will see I am not more willing to satisfy you than you are to be satisfied." The Cordeliers swore by their good St. Francis there was nothing they would not grant her to have from her what they wanted. "Well, then," said she, "I ask you, in the first place, to promise and vow that living man shall never know from you what passes between us." This they did with great readiness. "The second thing I ask is, that you will have to do with me one by one, for I should be too much ashamed if it was done in presence of you both. Settle between yourselves which is to have me first." The Cordeliers thought that fair enough, and the younger of them yielded precedence to the elder.
Running the boat ashore at a little island, she said to the younger one, "Say your prayers there whilst your comrade and I go to another island. If he is satisfied with me when we come back, we will leave him, and you and I will go away together." The younger friar jumped ashore at once, and the boatwoman rowed away with his companion to another island. When they reached it, she pretended to be making her boat fast, whilst she said to the monk, "See if you can find a convenient spot." The Cordelier, like a booby, stepped out of the boat to do as she told him, and no sooner was he ashore, than setting her foot against a tree, she shot the boat out into the stream, and left the two good fathers in the lurch. "Wait there, my masters," said she, "till God's angel comes to console you, for you will get nothing from me." The duped Cordeliers went down on their knees, and begged her, for Heaven's sake, not to serve them so, but take them to the port, upon their solemn oath they would ask nothing of her. "A pretty fool I should be," she replied, still rowing away, "to put myself into your hands again once I have got out of them."
When she got home to the village, she told her husband what had occurred, and applied to the ministers of justice to come and capture those two wolves from whose fangs she had contrived to escape. The ministers of justice set out for the purpose, well accompanied, for there was no one, great or small, but was bent on taking part in this hunt. The poor friars, seeing such a multitude coming after them, hid themselves each on his island, as Adam did from the sight of God when he had eaten the apple. Half dead with shame and the fear of punishment, they were caught and led away prisoners, amid the jeers and hootings of men and women. "These good fathers," said one, "preach chastity to us, and want to foul our wives." "They dare not touch money," said the husband, "but they are ready enough to handle women's thighs, which are far more dangerous." "They are sepulchres," said others, "whitened without, but full of rottenness within." "By their fruits you shall know the nature of these trees." In short, all the passages of Scripture against hypocrites were cast in the teeth of the poor prisoners. At last the warden came to the rescue. They were given up to him at his request, upon his assuring the magistrate that he would punish them more severely than secular justice itself could do, and that by way of reparation to the offended parties, they should say as many masses and prayers as might be desired. As he was a worthy man, they were chaptered in such a manner, that they never afterwards passed over the river without crossing themselves, and beseeching God to keep them out of all temptation.
If this boatwoman had the wit to trick two such bad men, what should
they do who have
seen and read of so many fine examples? If women who know nothing, who
scarcely hear
two good sermons in a year, and have no time to think of anything but
earning their bread,
do yet carefully guard their chastity, what ought not others of their
sex to do who, having
their livelihood secured, have nothing to do but to read the Holy
Scriptures, hear sermons,
and exercise themselves in all sorts of virtues? This is the test by
which it is known that
the heart is truly virtuous, for the more simple and unenlightened the
individual, the
greater are the works of God's spirit. Unhappy the lady who does not
carefully preserve
the treasure which does her so much honor when well kept, and so much
dishonor when
she keeps it still!
"It strikes me, Geburon," said Longarine, "that it does not need much virtue to refuse a Cordelier. On the contrary, I should rather think it impossible to love such people."
"Those who are not accustomed to have such lovers as you have," replied Geburon, "do not think so contemptuously of Cordeliers. They are well-made, strapping fellows, can talk like angels, and are for the most part importunate as devils.
PREMIÈRE JOURNÉE
Nouvelle Ve
"O by my faith!" exclaimed Nomerfide, raising her voice, "you may say what you will, but for my part I would rather be flung into the river than go to bed with a Cordelier."
"You can swim, then," retorted Oisille, laughing.
Nomerfide was piqued at this, and said with warmth, "There are those who have refused better men than Cordeliers, without making any flourish of trumpets about it for all that."
"Or yet beating the drum about what they have done and granted," rejoined Oisille, who laughed to see her vexed.
"I perceive that Nomerfide has a mind to speak," said Geburon, "and I give voice in her favor, that she may unburden her heart upon some good novel."
"The remarks which have just been made," said Nomerfide, "concern me so little, that they can give me neither pain nor pleasure. But as I have your voice I beg you to hear mine, while I show you that if one is sly for a good purpose, others are so for a bad one. We are vowed to speak the truth, and therefore I will not conceal it; for just as the boatwoman's virtue is no honor to other women if they do not resemble her in it, so the vice of another cannot dishonor them. Listen, then.
Stratagem by which a woman enabled her gallant to escape, when her husband, who was blind of an eye, thought to surprise them together.
CHARLES, the last Duke of Alençon, had an old valet-de-chambre who was blind of an eye, and who was married to a woman much younger than himself. The duke and duchess liked this valet better than any other domestic of that order in their household, and the consequence was that he could not go and see his wife as often as he could have wished, whilst she, unable to accommodate herself to circumstances, so far forgot her honor and her conscience as to fall in love with a young gentleman of the neighborhood. At last the affair got wind, and there was so much talk about it, that it reached the ears of the husband, who could not believe it, so warm was the affection testified to him by his wife. One day, however, he made up his mind to know the truth of the matter, and to revenge himself if he could on the person who put this affront upon him. With this view he pretended to go for two or three days to a place at some little distance; and no sooner had he taken his departure, than his wife sent for her gallant. They had hardly been half an hour together when the husband came and knocked loudly at the door. The wife knowing but too well who it was, told her lover, who was so astounded that he could have wished he was still in his mother's womb. But while he was swearing and confounding her and the intrigue which had brought him into such a perilous scrape, she told him not to be uneasy, for she would get him off without its costing him anything; and that all he had to do was to dress himself as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile the husband kept knocking and calling to his wife as loud as he could bawl, but she pretended not to know him. "Why don't you get up," she cried to the people of the house, "and go and silence those who are making such a noise at the door? Is this a proper time to come to honest people's houses? If my husband was here he would make you know better." The husband, hearing her voice, shouted louder than ever. "Let me in, wife; do you mean to keep me at the door till daylight?" At last, when she saw that her lover was ready to slip out, "Oh, is that you, husband?" she said; "I am so glad you are come! I was full of a dream I had that gave me the greatest pleasure I ever felt in my life. I thought you had recovered the sight of your eye." Here she opened the door, and catching her husband round the neck, kissed him, clapped one hand on his sound eye, and asked him if he did not see better than usual. Whilst the husband was thus blindfolded the gallant made his escape. The husband guessed how it was, but said "I will watch you no more, wife. I thought to deceive you, but it is I who have been the dupe, and you have put the cunningest trick upon me that ever was invented. God mend you! for it passes the act of man to bring back a wicked woman from her evil ways by any means short of putting her to death. But since the regard I have had for you has not availed to make you behave better, perhaps the contempt with which I shall henceforth look upon you will touch you more, and have a more wholesome effect." Therefore he went away, leaving her in great confusion. At last, however, he was prevailed upon by the solicitations of relations and friends, and by the tears and excuses of his wife, to cohabit with her again. *
You see from this example, ladies, with what adroitness a woman can get herself out of a scrape. If she is prompt at finding an expedient to conceal a bad deed, I believe she would be still more prompt and ingenious in discovering means to hinder herself from doing a good one; for, as I have heard say, good wit is always the stronger.
"You may boast of your cunning as much as you will," said Hircan, "but I believe, if the same thing had happened to you, you could not have concealed it."
"I would as soon you told me flatly," said Nomerfide, "that I am the most stupid woman in the world."
"I do not say that," replied Hircan, "but I look upon you as more likely to be alarmed at a rumor against you than to find an ingenious way of putting an end to it."
"You think that every one is like yourself, who to get rid of one rumor set another afloat. You pass for a very cunning man, but if you think you surpass woman in that way, I will give up my turn to you, that you may tell us some story in point. Of course you know plenty, of which you are yourself the hero."
"I am not here to make myself appear worse than I am," returned Hircan, "though there are some who give me a worse character than I desire or deserve," he added, looking at his wife.
"Don't let me hinder you from speaking the truth," said she. "I would rather hear you relate your sly tricks than see you play them. But be assured that nothing can diminish the love I have for you."
"For that reason," said Hircan, "I do not complain of the injustice with which you often judge me. And so, since we understand each other, there will be so much the more peace and quiet for the future. But I am not the man to tell a story of myself, the truth of which may be displeasing to you, but shall relate one of a person who was an intimate friend of mine."
Trick put by a mercer of Paris upon an old woman, to conceal his intrigue with her daughter.
THERE was a mercer in Paris who was enamored of a girl in his neighborhood, or, to speak more properly, who was loved by her, rather than she by him, for he only pretended to be attached to her in order to conceal another amour with a more exalted object. For her part, she was very willing to be deceived, and loved him so much that she forgot all the usual coyness of her sex. After the mercer had long taken the trouble of going in search of her, he used afterwards to make her come to him wherever he pleased. The mother, who was a respectable woman, perceived this, and forbade her daughter ever to speak to the mercer, under pain of being sent to a convent; but the girl, who loved the mercer more than she feared her mother, behaved worse than ever. One day the mercer, finding her alone in a convenient place, began to entertain her on matters that ought not to be discussed before witnesses; but a servant who had seen him come in, ran and told the mother, who hastened to the spot to put an end to the conversation. The daughter hearing her footsteps, said, with tears in her eyes, "My love for you will cost me dear; here comes my mother, and she will now be convinced of what she has always feared." The mercer, without losing his presence of mind, instantly quitted the girl, ran to meet her mother, threw his arms round the old woman's neck, hugged her with all his might, threw her on a little bed, and began to expend upon her all the rage her daughter had excited within him. The poor old woman, quite confounded at being treated in this way, could only exclaim, "What are you about? Are you mad?" But he no more desisted than if she had been the handsomest young girl in the world; and if her screams
Here you have, ladies, an instance of a man's having been cunning enough to deceive an old woman, and save the honor of a young one. If I were to name the persons, or if you had seen the countenance of the mercer and the surprise of the old woman, you must have had very tender consciences to keep from laughing. I have sufficiently proved to you by this example that men are not less ingenious than women in inventing at need expedients upon the spot; and so, ladies, you need not be afraid of falling into their hands, for, should your own wit fail, you will find theirs ready to screen your honor.
"I own, Hircan," said Longarine, "that the story is comical and the stratagem well invented; but, for all that, it does not follow that the example is one which ought to be imitated by girls. I have no doubt there are plenty whom you would wish to approve of it; but you have too much sense to wish that your wife and your daughter, whose honor is dearer to you than pleasure, should play at such a game. I believe there is no one who would watch them more closely, and put a stop to such doings more promptly, than yourself."
"Upon my conscience," replied Hircan, "if my wife had done the same thing, I should not esteem her the less, provided I knew nothing about it. I don't know if some one has not played as good a trick at my expense, but, fortunately, as I know nothing, I give myself no concern."
"The wicked are always suspicious," said Parlamente; "but happy are they who give no cause for suspicion."
"I can't say I ever saw a fire without some smoke," said Longarine; "but I have certainly seen smoke without any fire. Those who have bad hearts suspect alike where there is mischief and where there is none."
"You have so well supported the cause of ladies unjustly suspected," said Hircan to Longarine, "that I call upon you for your novel. I hope you will not make us weep as Madame Oisille has done by too much praise of honest women."
"Since you would have me make you laugh," said Longarine, laughing with all her heart, "it shall not be at the expense of our sex. I will let you see how easy it is to cheat jealous wives who think they are wise enough to cheat their husbands."
A man having lain with his wife, believing that he was in bed with his servant, sends his friend to do the same thing; and the friend makes a cuckold of him without the wife being aware of it.
THERE was in the county of Allez a person named Bornet, who had married a virtuous wife, and held her honor and reputation dear, as is the case, I suppose, with all the husbands here present. Though he desired that his wife should be faithful to him, he did not choose to be equally bound to her; in fact, he made love to his servant, though all the good he could get by the change was the pleasure attending a diversity of viands. He had a neighbor, much of his own sort, named Sandras, a tailor by trade, with whom he was on terms of such close friendship, that everything was common between them except the wife. Accordingly Bornet declared the design he had formed upon the servant-girl to his friend, who not only approved of it, but did what he could for its success, in hopes of having a finger in the pie. But the servant would not hear of such a thing, and finding herself persecuted on all sides, she complained to her mistress, and begged to be allowed to go home to her relations, as she could no longer endure her master's importunity. The mistress, who was very fond of her husband and who even before this had been jealous of him, was very glad to have this opportunity of reproaching him, and showing that it was not without reason she had suspected him. With this view she induced the servant to finesse with her master, give him hopes by degrees, and finally promise to let him come to bed to her in her mistress's wardrobe. "The rest you may leave to me," she said "I will take care that you shall not be troubled at all, provided you let me know the night he is to come to you, and that you do not breathe a syllable of the matter to any one living."
The girl faithfully obeyed her mistress's instructions, and her master was so delighted that he hastened at once to impart this good news to his friend, who begged that, since he had been concerned in the bargain, he should also partake of the pleasure. This being agreed to, and the hour being come, the master went to bed, as he supposed, with the servant; but the mistress had taken her place, and received him, not as a wife, but as a bashful and frightened maid; and she played her part so well that he never suspected anything. I cannot tell you which of the two felt the greater satisfaction, he in the belief that he was cheating his wife, or she in the belief that she was cheating her husband.
After he had remained with her not so long as he wished, but as long as he could, for he showed symptoms of an old married man, he went out of doors to his friend, who was younger and more vigorous, and told him what a fine treat he had just had. "You know what you promised me," said the friend. "Well, be quick then," said the master, "for fear she gets up, or my wife wants her." The friend lost no time, but took the unoccupied place beside the supposed servant, who, thinking he was her husband, let him do whatever he liked without a word said on either side. He made a much longer business of it than the husband, greatly to the surprise of the wife, who was not accustomed to be so well regaled. However, she look it all patiently, comforting herself with the thought of what she would say to him in the morning, and how she would make game of him. The friend got out of bed towards daybreak, but not without taking the stirrup cup. During this ceremony he drew from her finger the ring with which her husband had wedded her, a thing which the women of that country preserve with great superstition, thinking highly of a woman who keeps it till death; on the other hand, one who has had the mischance to lose it, is looked upon as having given her faith to another than her husband.
When the friend had rejoined the husband, the latter asked him what he thought of his bedfellow. "Never was a better," replied the friend; "and if I had not been afraid of being surprised by daylight, I should not have come away from her so soon." That said, they went to bed, and slept as quietly as they could. In the morning, when they were dressing, the husband perceived on his friend's finger the ring which looked very like that he had given his wife when he married her. He asked who had given him that ring, and was astounded to hear that he had taken it from the servant's finger. "Oh Lord! have I made a cuckold of myself, without my wife's knowing it?" cried the husband, knocking his head against the wall. The friend suggested for his consolation that possibly his wife might have given the ring overnight to the servant to keep.
Home goes the husband, and finds his wife looking handsomer and gayer than usual, delighted as she was to have hindered her servant from committing a sin, and to have convicted her husband without any more inconvenience to herself than having passed a night without sleeping. The husband, seeing her in such good spirits, said to himself, "She would not look so merry if she knew what has happened." Falling into chat with her upon indifferent matters, he took her hand, and saw that the ring she always wore was not on her finger. Aghast, and with a trembling voice, he asked her what she had done with it. This gave her the opportunity she was on the watch for to let loose upon him, and she seized it with avidity:
"O, you most abominable of men!" she said, "from whom do you suppose you took it. You thought you had it from the servant. You thought it was for her you did more than you ever did for me. The first time you came to bed to her, I thought you made as much of her as it was possible to do; but after you left the room and came again the second time, it seemed as though you were the very devil of incontinence. What infatuation has possessed you to praise me so much, you wretch? You have had me long enough, and never cared about me. Is it the beauty and plumpness of your servant that made the pleasure seem so sweet to you? No, base man, it is the fire of your own disorderly lust that makes you so blindly and madly in love with the servant, that in the furious fit you were in, I believe you would have taken a she-goat with a nightcap on for a fine girl. It is high time, husband, that you should mend your ways, and content yourself with me who
If ever a man was utterly confounded and horrified, it was the poor husband. It was bad enough to think that he had forsaken his wife, who was fair, chaste, and virtuous, and overflowing with affection for him, for a woman who did not love him; but it was infinitely worse when he represented to himself that he had been so unlucky as to make her quit the path of virtue, in spite of herself and without knowing it, to share with another the pleasures which should have been his alone, and to have forged for himself the horns of perpetual mockery. Seeing, however, that his wife was already angry enough about his intended intrigue with the servant, he did not dare to tell her of the villainous trick he had played upon herself. He implored her pardon, promised to make amends for the past by the strictest propriety of conduct in future, and gave her back her ring, which he had taken from his friend, whom he begged not to say a word of what had happened. But as everything whispered in the ear is by-and-by proclaimed from the house-top, the adventure became public at last, and people called him a cuckold, without any regard for his wife's feelings. *
It strikes me, ladies, that if all those who have been guilty of similar infidelity to their wives were punished in the same way, Hircan and Saffredent would have great cause for fear.
"Why, Longarine?" said Saffredent. "Are Hircan and I the only married men in the company?"
"You are not the only married men," she replied, "but you are the only ones capable of playing such a trick."
"Who told you," returned Saffredent, "that we have sought to debauch our wives' servant-maids?"
"If those who are interested in the matter," she answered, "were to speak the truth, we should certainly hear of servant-maids dismissed before their time."
"This is pleasant, truly," observed Geburon; "you promised to make the company laugh, and instead of that you vex these gentlemen."
"It comes to the same thing," replied Longarine; "provided they do not draw their swords, their anger will not fail to make us laugh."
"If our wives were to listen to this lady," said Hircan, "there is not a married couple in the company but she would set at variance."
"Nay," said Longarine, "I know before whom I speak. Your wives are so prudent, and love you so much, that though you were to make them bear horns as big as those of a deer, they would believe, and try to make others believe, that they were chaplets of roses."
The whole company, including even the ladies concerned, laughed so heartily, that the conversation would have ended there if Dagoucin, who had not yet spoken, had not taken it into his head to say, "A man is surely very unreasonable who cannot content himself when he has the means. I have often known people who, thinking to better themselves, only made themselves much worse off because they could not be satisfied in reason. Such people deserve no pity; for, after all, inconstancy is unpardonable."
"But what would you do," inquired Simontault, "with those who have not found their true half? Would you call it inconstancy on their part to seek it wherever it might be found?"
"As it is impossible to know," replied Dagoucin, "where is that half so exactly like its counterpart that there is no difference between them, one should hold fast where love has once attached him, and change neither in heart nor will, happen what may. For if she you love is like you, and has but one will with you, it is yourself you will love and not her."
"You would fall into a false opinion, Dagoucin," said Hircan; "as though we ought to love our wives without being loved."
"When one loves a woman, Hircan," said Dagoucin, "only because she has beauty, charming manners, and fortune, and the end he proposes to himself is pleasure, honors, or riches, such a love is not of long duration; for when the principle that inspired it ceases, the love itself vanishes at once. I am then convinced that he who loves, and has no other end and desire than to love well, will die rather than cease to love."
"In good faith, Dagoucin," said Simontault, "I do not believe you have ever been really in love. Had you known what it is to be so, like other men, you would not now be picturing to us Plato's Republic, founded on fine phrases, and on little or no experience."
"You are mistaken," replied Dagoucin; "I have been in love; I am so still, and shall be so long as I live. But I am so much afraid that the demonstration of my passion would do injustice to the perfection of my love, that I shrink from making it known to her by whom I would be loved in equal measure. I dare not even think how I love her, lest my eyes should betray the secret of my heart; for the more I conceal my flame, the more pleasure I feel in the consciousness that I 1ove perfectly."
"Yet I suppose you would be very glad to be loved in return?" said Geburon.
"I own I should; but as nothing could diminish my love, though I love much and am not loved, so it could not be augmented, even were I loved as much I love."
"Take care, Dagoucin," said Parlamente, who disapproved of this fantastic sentiment; "I have known others who chose rather to die than to declare themselves."
"And they were happy, doubtless," returned Dagoucin.
"Yes," retorted Saffredent, "and worthy, moreover, of being classed with those innocents for whom the Church chants Non loquendo, sed moriendo confessi sunt. I have heard much of these languishing lovers, but I never yet saw one of them die for love. Since I myself have recovered, after much tribulation, I do not believe that any other man can ever die from that cause."
"Ah, Saffredent!" said Dagoucin, "how can you expect to be loved! I know many instances of lovers who have died from nothing else than the intensity of their passion."
"Since that is the case, tell us one of those stories, and let it be a good one," said Longarine.
"Yes," said he, "to confirm my doctrine by signs and miracles, I will tell you a story that happened three years ago."
Deplorable death of a lover in consequence of his knowing too late that he was beloved by his mistress.
ON the confines of Dauphiné and Provence there lived a gentleman who was much better endowed with the gifts of nature and education than with those of fortune. He was passionately enamored of a demoiselle whose name I will not mention, on account of her relations, who are of good and great houses; but you may rely on the reality of the fact. Not being of as good family as she was, he durst not declare his passion; but though his inferior birth made him despair of ever being able to marry her, nevertheless the love he bore her was so pure and respectful that he would have died rather than ask of her anything which could compromise her honor. He loved her then only because he thought her perfectly lovable, and he loved her so long that at last she had some inkling of the fact. Seeing, then, that his love for her was founded on virtue only, she deemed herself fortunate in being loved by so upright a man; and she treated him with such affability that he, who aspired to nothing better than this, was transported with delight. But envy, the enemy of all quiet, could not suffer so innocent and so sweet an intercourse to continue. Some one told the girl's mother he was surprised the gentleman went so often to her house, that people saw it was her daughter's beauty that attracted him, and that they had often been seen together. The mother, who was thoroughly assured of the gentleman's probity, was greatly annoyed at finding that a bad interpretation was put upon his visits; but in the end, dreading scandal and malicious gossip, she begged he would for some time cease to frequent her house. The gentleman was the more mortified at this, as the proper and respectful manner in which he had always behaved towards the daughter had deserved very different treatment. However, to put an end to the gossip about him, he withdrew, and did not renewed his visits until it had ceased.
Absence, meanwhile, by no means diminished his love; but one day, when he was paying a visit to his mistress, he heard talk of her being married to a gentleman not richer than himself, and whom consequently he thought no better entitled to have her. He began to take heart, and employed his friends to speak on his part, in the hope that if the lady was allowed to choose, she would prefer him to his rival; but as the latter was much the wealthier man, the young lady's mother and relations gave him the preference. The gentleman, who knew that his mistress was a loser as well as himself, was so grieved at being rejected, that, without any other malady, he began by degrees to waste away, and became so changed, that one would have said he had covered his handsome face with the mask of death, to which from hour to hour he was gaily hastening. Still he could not refrain from going as often as he could to see her whom he loved so well; but at last, his strength being worn out, he was compelled to keep his bed, but would never let his mistress know of it for fear of distressing her. So entirely did he give himself up to despair, that he neither ate, drank, slept, nor rested; and became so lean and wan that he was no 1onger to be recognized. Some one made his state known to the mother of the demoiselle, who was very kind-hearted, and had besides so much esteem for the gentleman, that if the relations had been of the same mind as herself and her daughter, the personal merit of the invalid would have been preferred to the alleged wealth of the other suitor; but the paternal relations would not hear of it. However, she went with her daughter to see the poor gentleman, whom she found more dead than alive. As he knew that his end was near, he had confessed and communicated, and never expected to see any more visitors; but on beholding again her who was his life and his resurrection, his strength returned, so that he at once sat up in the bed, and said, "What brings you hither, madam! How come you to visit man who has already one foot in the grave, and of whose death you are the cause?"
"What!" exclaimed the lady. "Is it possible we should cause the death of a person we love so much? Tell me, I entreat, why you speak in this manner?"
"Madam, I concealed my love for your daughter as long as I could; my relations, however, who have asked her of you in marriage, have gone further than I wished, since I have thereby had the misfortune to lose hope. I say misfortune, not with reference to my individual satisfaction, but because I know that no one will ever treat her so well or love her so much as I would have done. Her loss of the best and most faithful friend and servant she has in the world touches me more sensibly than the loss of my life, which I wished to preserve for her alone. Nevertheless, since henceforth it can be of no use to her, I gain much in losing it."
The mother and daughter tried to comfort him. "Cheer up, my friend," said the mother; "I promise you, that if God restores you to health, my daughter shall never have any other husband than you. She is present, and I command her to make you the same promise."
The daughter, weeping sorely, assured him of what her mother said; but he, knowing that although God were to restore him to health, he should not have his mistress, and that it was only to cheer him that these hopes were held out, replied, "Had you spoken in this manner three months ago, I should have been the healthiest and happiest gentleman in France; but this succor comes so late, that I can neither believe it nor rest any hope upon it." Then, as they strove to overcome his incredulity, he continued, "Since you promise me a blessing which can never be mine even if you would grant it, I will ask you to confer on me one much less, which I have never ventured to demand of you." They both vowed that they would grant his request, and that he might declare it boldly. "I implore you," said he, "to put into my arms her whom you promise me for a wife, and to bid her embrace and kiss me."
The daughter, who was not accustomed to such caresses, was on the point of making objections; but her mother expressly commanded her to comply, seeing that there was no longer in him either the feeling or the power of a living man. After such a command, the daughter no longer hesitated, but going up to the bedside, "Cheer up, my friend," she said; "cheer up, I conjure you." The poor dying creature, notwithstanding his extreme weakness, stretched out his emaciated arms, embraced with all his might her who was the cause of his death, and laying his cold pale lips to hers, clung there as long as he could.
"I have loved you," he said at last, "with a love so intense and so pure, that, marriage excepted, I have never desired any other favor of you than that which I now receive. But as God has not been pleased to unite us in marriage, I gladly surrender up my soul to him who is love and perfect charity, and who knows how much I have loved you, and how pure my desires have been, beseeching him, that since I hold the dear object of my desires within my arms, he will receive my soul in his." So saying, he clasped her again in his embrace with such vehemence, that his enfeebled heart, being unable to sustain the effort, was abandoned by all his spirits; for joy so dilated them, that the seat of the soul gave way and fled to its Creator.
Though it was already some time since the poor gentleman had expired, and could not retain his hold, the love she had felt for him, and which she had always concealed, broke forth at this moment in such wise, that the mother and the servants had much difficulty in detaching the almost dead survivor from the corpse. The poor gentleman was honorably interred; but the greatest triumph in his obsequies was the tears and cries of that poor demoiselle, who as openly displayed her feelings after his death as she had concealed them during his life, as if she would make amends for the wrong she had done him. And I have been told, that for all they gave her a husband to console her, she never afterwards knew real joy. *
Does it not strike you, gentlemen, who refused to believe me, that this example must force you to confess that intense love, too much concealed and too little known, brings people to the grave? There is not one of you but knows the relations on both sides; therefore you cannot question the fact. But this is one of those things which no one believes until he has experienced it.
"Well," said Hircan, who saw that the ladies were weeping, "a greater fool I never heard of. Now, in good faith, is it reasonable that we should die for women who are made only for us, and that we should be afraid of asking of them what God commands them to give us? I do not speak for myself, or for others who are married; for as for me, I have as much as I want in that way, or more; but I say it for those who stand in need. They are, to my thinking, great blockheads to fear those who ought to fear them. Don't you see that this girl repented of her imprudence? Since she embraced the dead man–a thing repugnant to nature–rely upon it she would still better have embraced the living man if he had been as bold as he was pitiable on his deathbed."
"By the very conduct for which you upbraid him," said Oisille, "he showed that he loved honestly, and for that he deserves eternal praise; for chastity in an enamored heart is a thing more divine than human."
"Madam," replied Saffredent, "to confirm what Hircan has just said, I beg you to believe that fortune favors those who are bold, and that no man who is loved by a lady fails to obtain from her at last what he demands, either in whole or in part, provided he knows how to set about it sagely and amorously; but ignorance and timidity make men lose many a good fortune. What is singular is, that they attribute the loss of them to the virtue of their mistress, which they have never put to the least proof. Be assured, madam, that no fortress was ever well attacked but it was taken at last."
"I am shocked at you two," said Parlamente, "that you dare to hold such language. Those whom you have loved have little reason to be obliged to you; or else you have employed your address upon such easy conquests, that you have concluded all others are like them."
"For my part, madam," said Saffredent, "I have the misfortune to have nothing to boast of; but this I attribute much less to the virtue of the ladies than to the fault I have committed in not having conducted my enterprises with sufficient sagacity and prudence. In support of my opinion, I shall cite no other authority than that of the old woman in the 'Romance of the Rose,' who says: 'Without question, fair sir, we are all made for each other; every she for every he, and every he for every she.' In short, I am persuaded that if a woman is once in love, her lover will compass his end unless he be a booby."
"Now if I should name a lady," returned Parlamente, "who loved well, was strongly solicited, pressed, and importuned, and yet remained a virtuous woman, victorious over her love and her lover, would you own that this fact, which is truth itself, was possible?"
"Why, yes," replied Saffredent.
"Then you are very incredulous if you do not believe the example adduced by Dagoucin."
"As I have given you," said Dagoucin, "an authentic instance of virtuous love on the part of a gentleman which continued to his last gasp, if you, madam, know any story that is to the honor of some lady, I beg you will be good enough to finish the day by relating it. Never mind the length; for there is time enough still to say many good things."
"Since I am to finish the day," said Parlamente, "I will not make you a long preamble, my story being so good, so beautiful, and so true, that I long to put you in possession of it. I have not been an eye-witness to the facts; but I have them from an intimate friend of the hero, who related them to me on condition that if I repeated them I should conceal the names of the persons. Everything, then, which I am about to tell you is true, except the names, the places, and the country.
The Loves of Amadour and Florida, wherein are seen Several Stratagems and Dissimulations, and the Exemplary Chastity of Florida.
THERE was in the county of Aranda, in Aragon, a lady who, while still quite young, was left a widow by Count Aranda, with one son and one daughter, named Florida. She spared no pains to bring up her children according to their quality in virtue and good breeding, so that her house was considered to be one of the most honorable in all the Spains. She often went to Toledo, where the King of Spain then resided; and when she came to Saragossa, which was not far from her own house, she used to remain a long time at the queen's court, where she was as much esteemed as any lady could be. Going one day, according to her custom, to pay her court to the king, who was then in Saragossa, she passed through a village belonging to the Viceroy of Catalonia, who did not quit the frontiers of Perpignan, on account of the wars between the Kings of France and Spain. But as peace was then made, the viceroy, accompanied by several officers, had come to pay his devoirs to the king. The viceroy having been apprised that the countess was to pass through his domains, went to meet her, as well by reason of the old friendship he bore her, as to do her honor as the king's kinswoman. He was accompanied by several gentlemen of merit, who had acquired so much glory and reputation during the wars that every one thought it a good fortune to enjoy their society. There was one among them named Amadour, who, notwithstanding his youth (he was not more than eighteen or nineteen), had such an air of self-possession, and a judgment so ripe, that one would have chosen him among a thousand as a fit man to govern a state. It is true that besides good sense he had so engaging a mien, and graces so vivid and natural, that one never tired of gazing upon him. His conversation so well corresponded with all this, that it was hard to say whether nature had been more bountiful in regard to corporeal or to mental endowments. But what gained him most esteem was his great daring, far exceeding what was common with persons of his age. He had on so many occasions shown what he was capable of, that not only the Spains, but France and Italy also, highly esteemed his virtues, for he had never spared himself in any of the wars in which he had been engaged. When his country was at peace he went in search of war amongst foreigners, and won the respect and love of friends and enemies.
This gentleman was among those who accompanied his captain to the domain at which the countess had arrived. He could not behold with indifference the beauty and the charms of her daughter, who was then but twelve years old. He had never, he thought, seen a being so beautiful and of such high breeding, and he believed that if he could have her good grace he should he should be happier than if he possessed all the wealth and all the pleasures he could receive from another. After having long regarded her, he finally resolved to love her, in spite of tll the insurmountable obstacles to success which reason presented to his view, whether on account of disparity of birth, or as regarded the extreme youth of the beautiful girl, who was not yet of an age to listen to tender speeches. Against all these obstacles he set a resolute hope, and promised himself that time and patience would bring all his toils to a happy end. To remedy the greatest difficulty, which consisted in the remoteness of his residence and the few opportunities he had of seeing Florida, he resolved to marry, contrary to what he had resolved in Barcelona and Perpignan, where he was in such favor with the ladies that they hardly refused him anything. He had lived so long on those frontiers during the war, that he had the air of a Catalan rather than that of a Castilian, though he was born at Toledo, of a rich and distinguished family. Being a younger son, he had not much patrimony; but love and fortune seeing him ill-provided by his parents, resolved to make him a chef-d'oeuvre, and gave him by means of his valor what the laws of the country refused him. He was thoroughly versed in the art of war, and princes and lords esteemed him so highly, that he oftener refused their good offices than took the trouble to solicit them.
The Countess of Aranda arrived then in Saragossa, and was extremely well received by the king and the whole court. The Governor of Catalonia paid her frequent visits, in which Amadour failed not to accompany him, for the sole pleasure of seeing Florida, for he, in order to make himself known in such good company, attached himself to the daughter of an old knight, his neighbor. Her name was Aventurada. She had been brought up from childhood with Florida, and knew all the secrets of her heart. Whether it was that Amadour found her to his taste, or that her dowry of three thousand ducats a year tempted him, he made her an offer of marriage. She listened to him with pleasure; but as he was poor, and the old knight was rich, she was afraid he would never consent to the marriage, except at the solicitation of the Countess of Aranda. She addressed herself, therefore, to Florida, and said, "I believe, madam, that this Castilian gentleman, who as you are aware often speaks to me here, intends to seek me in marriage. You know what sort of man my father is, and you must be sure he will never give his consent unless the countess and you have the goodness to press him strongly." Florida, who loved the damsel like herself, assured her she would make the business her own; whereupon Aventurada presented Amadour to her, who on kissing her hand had like to faint for joy. Though he was considered one of the men who spoke best in all the Spains, he could not find a tongue in presence of Florida. She was greatly surprised at this, for though she was but twelve years old, she nevertheless well remembered to have heard that there was not in Spain a man who could deliver what he had to say more fluently, or with a better grace. Seeing then that he uttered not a word, she broke silence.
"You are so well known by reputation all over the Spains," she said, "that it would be surprising, Señor Amadour, if you were unknown here; and all who know you desire to have an opportunity to serve you. So is I can be of use to you in any way, I beg you will employ me." Amadour, who was gazing on Florida's charms, was so rapt and transported that he could hardly say grammercy. Though Florida was surprised at his silence, she attributed it to some caprice rather than to its true cause, and retired without saying more. "Do not be surprised," said Amadour to her he wished to marry, "if I was tongue-tied in presence of the Lady Florida. She speaks so discreetly, and so many virtues are latent under her great youth, that admiration made me dumb. As you know her secrets, I beg you will tell me, Aventurada, how it is possible that she does not possess the hearts of all the gentlemen of this court, for those who shall know her and love her not must be stones or brutes." Aventurada, who already loved Amadour above all men, and could conceal nothing from him, told him that Florida was loved by everybody; but that, in accordance with the custom of the country, she spoke to few; and that as yet she was aware of only two persons who made much show of love for Florida, and those were two young Spanish princes, who desired to marry her. One was the son of the Fortunate Infante, and the other was the young Duke of Cardona.
"Tell me, pray," said Amadour, "which of the two do you think she likes best?"
"She is so good and virtuous, that all she can be prevailed on to say is, that she has no choice but as her mother pleases. As far, however, as we can judge, she likes the son of the Fortunate Infante better than the young Duke of Cardona. I believe you to be a man of such good sense, that you may, if you like, come to a right surmise upon the matter at once. The son of the Fortunate Infante was brought up at this court, and is the handsomest and most accomplished young prince in Europe. If the question were to be decided by the votes of us maidens, this match would take place, in order that the most charming couple in all Spain might be united. You must know, that although they are both very young, she being but twelve and he fifteen, they have loved each other these three years. If you wish to have her good grace, I advise you to become his friend and servant."
Amadour was very glad to hear that Florida loved something, for he hoped, with the help of time, to become, not her husband, but her lover; for her virtue caused him no uneasiness; his only fear being lest she should not love at all. He had little difficulty in introducing himself to the son of the Fortunate Infante, and still less in gaining his good-will, for he was expert in all the exercises which the young prince was fond of. He was, above all, a good horseman, skilled in feats of arms, and in all sorts of exercises befitting a young man. As war was then beginning again in Languedoc, Amadour was obliged to return with the governor; but it was not without keen regret, for there was no prospect of his returning to the place where he could see Florida. Before his departure he spoke to his brother, who was major-domo to the Queen of Spain, told him the good match he had in the Countess of Aranda's house in the Lady Aventurada, and begged him to do his best during his absence to further his marriage, and to procure on his behalf the influence of the king, the queen, and all his friends. The brother, who loved Amadour not only as a brother but for his great worth, promised to do all he could, and bestirred himself so well, that Aventurada's miserly old father forgot his avarice, and suffered himself to be moved by Amadour's virtues as they were represented to him by the Countess of Aranda, the beautiful Florida, and the young Count of Aranda, who was beginning, as he grew up, to love people of merit. After the marriage had been agreed on between the relations, the major-domo made his brother return to Spain under favor of a truce then pending between the two kings. During this truce the King of Spain withdrew to Madrid, to avoid the bad air which was in several places, and at the request of the Countess of Aranda gave his sanction to the marriage of the heiress-Duchess of Medinaceli with the little Count of Aranda. The wedding was celebrated at the palace of Madrid. Amadour was present, and turned the occasion to such account, that he married her whom he had inspired with more love than he felt for her, and whom he made his wife only that he might have a plausible pretext for frequenting the place where his mind incessantly dwelt.
After his marriage he became so bold and so familiar in the family of the Countess of Aranda, that no more distrust was entertained of him than if he had been a woman. Though he was then but twenty-two years old, he was so prudent that the countess communicated all her affairs to him, and commanded her daughter and her son to converse with him and follow all his advice. Having gained this capital point, he conducted himself so discreetly and with such address, that even she whom he loved never suspected it. As she was very fond of Amadour's wife, she had such confidence in the husband that she concealed nothing from him, and even declared to him all the love she felt for the son of the Fortunate Infante; and Amadour, whose views were all directed to gaining her entirely, talked to her incessantly of the young prince; for he cared not what was the subject on which he spoke to her provided he could hold her long in conversation.
He had hardly been a month married when he was obliged to go to the wars again, and it was more than two years before he could return to his wife, who all the while continued to reside where she had been brought up. He wrote frequently to her in the interval; but the chief part of his letters consisted of compliments to Florida, who on her part failed not to return them, and often even wrote with her own hand some pretty phrase in Aventurada's letters. This was quite enough to induce the husband to write frequently to his wife; yet in all this Florida knew nothing but that she loved him like a brother. Amadour went and came several times, and during five years he saw Florida not more than two months altogether. Yet, in spite of distance and long absence, his love not only remained in full force, but even grew stronger.
At last Amadour, coming to see his wife, found the countess far away from the court. The king had gone into Andalusia, and had taken with him the young Count of Aranda, who has already beginning to bear arms, and the countess had retired to a country-house of hers on the frontier of Aragon and Navarre. She was very glad of the arrival of Amadour, whom she had not seen for nearly three years. He was welcomed by everybody, and the countess commanded that he should be treated as her own son. When he was with her, she consulted him on all the affairs of her house, and did just as he advised. In fact, his influence in the family was unbounded; and so strong was the belief in his discernment, that he was trusted on all occasions as though he had been a saint or an angel. As for Florida, who loved Aventurada, and had no suspicion of her husband's intentions, she testified her affection for him without reserve. Her heart being free from passion, she felt much pleasure in his society, but she felt nothing more. He, on the other hand, found it a very hard task to evade the penetration of those who knew by experience the difference between the looks of a man who loves and of one who does not love; for when Florida talked familiarly with him in her frank simplicity, the hidden fire in his heart blazed up so violently, that he could not help feeling it in his face, and letting some sparks from it escape from his eyes.
To baffle observation, therefore, he entered into an intrigue with a lady named Paulina, who was considered in her time so beautiful, that few men saw her and escaped her fascinations. Paulina being aware how Amadour had made love in Barcelona and Perpignan, and won the hearts of the handsomest ladies in the country, especially that of a certain Countess of Palamos, who has reputed the finest woman in all Spain, told him one day that she pitied him for having, after so many good fortunes, married a wife so ugly as his own. Amadour, who well knew that she had a mind to supply his wants, talked to her in the most engaging terms he could use, hoping to conceal a truth from her by making her believe a falsehood. As she had experience in love she did not content herself with words, and plainly perceiving that Amadour's heart was not her own, she made no doubt that he wanted to use her as a stalking-horse. With this suspicion in her mind, she observed him so narrowly, that not a single glance of his eyes escaped her; but he managed, though with the utmost difficulty, to regulate them so well, that she could never get beyond conjectures. Florida, who had no notion of the nature of Amadour's feelings towards her, used to speak to him so familiarly before Paulina, that he could hardly prevent his eyes from following the movements of his heart. To prevent bad consequences, one day, as Florida and he were talking together at a window, he said to her, "My dear, I beseech you to advise me which of the two is better, to speak or to die?"
"I shall always advise my friends to speak," she replied without hesitation; "for there are few words which cannot be remedied; but from death there is no return."
"You promise me, then, that not only you will not be angry at what I want to tell you, but even that you will not give way to surprise until I have laid my whole mind open to you?"
"Say what you please," replied Florida, "for if you surprise me there is no one who can reassure me."
"Two reasons, madam, have hindered me hitherto from declaring the strong passion I feel for you; one is, that I wished to make it known to you by long services, and the other, that I was afraid you would regard it as a great vanity that a simple gentleman like myself should raise his desires so high. Even though my birth were as illustrious as your own, a heart so true as yours would take it ill that any other than he on whom you have bestowed it, the son of the Fortunate Infante, should talk to you of love. But, madam, as in war necessity often compels the belligerent to destroy his own property, and ruin his standing crops that the enemy may not profit by them, so I venture to forestall the fruit which I hoped to gather in time, lest your enemies and mine profit by our loss. Know, madam, that from the first moment I had the honour of seeing you, I so wholly consecrated myself to your service, though you were very young, that I have forgotten nothing whereby I could hope to acquire your good grace. It was to that end alone that I married her whom I thought you loved best; and knowing the love you bore to the son of the Fortunate Infante, I took pains to serve him and be about him; in short, whatever I thought could please you, I have tried with all my might to do. You see that I have had the good fortune to win the esteem of the countess your mother, of the count your brother, and of all those whom you love, and that I am regarded here not as a servant, but as a son of the family. All the pains I have taken for five years have had no other object than to procure me the happiness of passing my whole life with you. I crave no favor or pleasure of you which is not consistent with virtue. I know that I cannot wed you, and if I could I would not do so to the prejudice of the love you bear to him whom I would gladly see as your husband. To love you with a criminal love, like those who presume to think that a lady's dishonor should be the recompense of their long services, is a thought I am so far from entertaining, that I would rather see you dead than know that you were less worthy of love, and that your virtue should suffer the least blemish for sake of any pleasure whatever to myself. I ask but one thing of you in recompense for my long services, and that is, that you will deign to become a mistress so loyal as never to remove me from your good grace, but let me continue on my present footing, and trust in me more than in any one besides. Furthermore, madam, do me the honor to be well assured that, be the matter what it may, should you have need of the life of a gentleman, you may count on mine, which I would sacrifice for you right gladly. I beseech you to believe, likewise, madam, that whatever I shall do that is honorable and virtuous shall be done for love of you. If, for sake of ladies inferior to you, I have done things which have been thought well of, what shall I not do for a mistress like you? Things which I found difficult or impossible will seem easy to me. But if you will not permit me to be wholly devoted to you, my resolution is to forsake the career of arms, and renounce the virtue which shall not have helped me at need. I entreat you, then, madam, to grant me the just grace which I ask, and you cannot refuse in conscience and with honor."
Florida changed color at a speech so novel to her. Surprise made her cast down her eyes; nevertheless, her good sense prompted her to reply, "Does it need so long an harangue, Amadour, to ask of me what you have already? I fear so much, that under your seemingly courteous and modest language there is some lurking mischief to deceive my unpractised youth, that I know not how to reply to you. Were I to reject the virtuous friendship you offer me, I should do contrary to what I have done hitherto; for you are the person in whom I have reposed most confidence. My conscience and my honor do not revolt either against your request, or against the love I bear to the son of the Fortunate Infante, since it rests on marriage, to which you do not aspire. There is nothing, then, to hinder me from replying in accordance with your desires, except a fear I have in my heart, proceeding from the little occasion you have for speaking to me as you do; for if you already have what you ask, how comes it that you ask for it again with so much eagerness?"
"You speak very prudently, madam," replied Amadour, who had his answer ready, "and you do me so much honor and so much justice in putting the confidence in me you say, that if I were not content with such a blessing, I were unworthy of all others. But consider, madam, that he who wants to build a durable edifice must begin by laying a good and solid foundation. As I desire to remain for ever in your service, I think not only of the means of being near you, but also of hindering my attachment to you from being perceived. Though this attachment, madam, is quite pure, yet those who do not know the hearts of lovers often judge ill of them, and this gives occasion for scandal as much as if their conjectures were well founded. What makes me speak of this is, that Paulina, who knows well that I cannot love her, suspects me so much, that wherever I am she has her eyes continually upon me. When you speak to me before her with so much kindness, I am so much afraid of making some gesture on which she may rest a surmise, that I fall into the very thing I wish to avoid. I am, therefore, constrained, madam, to request you will not for the future address me so suddenly before her, or before those whom you know to be as malicious as she is, for I would rather die than that any creature living should perceive it. If your honor was less dear to me, I should not have been in haste to say this to you, since I am so happy in the love and the confidence you manifest towards me, that I desire nothing more than their continuance."
Florida was so gratified that she could hardly contain herself, and thenceforth she felt in her heart emotions that were new to her. "Virtue and good breeding reply for me," she said, "and grant you what you request."
That Amadour was transported with joy will not be doubted by any who love. Florida followed his advice better than he could have wished; for as she was timid not only in presence of Paulina, but everywhere else too, she no longer sought his society as she had been used to do. She even disapproved of his intercourse with Paulina, who seemed to her so handsome that she could not believe he did not love her. Florida vented her grief with Aventurada, who was beginning to be very jealous of her husband and Paulina. She poured out her lamentations to Florida, who being sick of the same distemper, consoled her as well as she could.
Amadour, soon perceiving the change in Florida's conduct, believed not only that she was reserved, as he had advised her to be, but even that she had conceived unfavorable sentiments with regard to him. One day, as he was escorting her home from a convent where she had heard vespers, "What sort of countenance do you show me, madam?" he said.
"Such as I believe you wish me to show," she replied.
Suspecting the truth then, he continued, "I have taken such means, madam, that Paulina no longer suspects you."
"You could not do better for yourself and for me," she replied; "for while doing yourself pleasure, you do me honor."
Amadour, inferring from this that she believed he took pleasure in talking with Paulina, was so incensed, that he could not help saying in anger, "You begin betimes, madam, to make me suffer. I am more to be pitied than blamed, and the most cruel mortification I have ever endured in my life, is the painful necessity I am under of speaking to a woman I do not love. Since you put a bad interpretation on what I have done for your service, I will never speak more to Paulina, happen what may. To hide my sorrow as I have hidden my joy, I will retire to some place in the neighborhood, and wait there until your caprice has passed away. But I hope I shall receive news from my captain, and be obliged to return to the army, where I will remain so long as will prove to you, I hope, that nothing keeps me here but you."
So saying, he went away without awaiting her reply, which caused Florida an anxiety it is impossible to express. Thus love began to make its strength felt through its opposite. Finding on reflection that she had been wrong, Florida wrote to Amadour begging him to return, which he did after his anger had somewhat subsided. I cannot tell you in detail what they said to each other to destroy these prejudices of jealousy; but the result was, that he justified himself so well that she promised not only that she would never believe he loved Paulina, but that she would remain convinced that it was a most cruel martyrdom for him to speak to her, or any other woman, except only with a view to render her service.
After love had dissipated this cloud, and when the lovers were beginning to take more pleasure than ever in each other's society, news came that the King of Spain was sending his whole army to Salces. Amadour, whose custom it was to be among the first to join the royal standards, would not miss this new opportunity of acquiring glory; but it must be owned that he set out with unwonted regret, as well on account of the pleasure he lost, as because he was afraid of finding a change on his return. He reflected that Florida was now fifteen, that many princes and great lords were seeking her hand, and that if she married during his absence he would have no more opportunity of seeing her, unless the Countess of Aranda should give her Aventurada for her companion. Accordingly, he managed so adroitly, that the countess and Florida both promised him that wherever the latter resided after her marriage, his wife should never leave her; and as there was a talk then of her being married in Portugal, it was resolved that Aventurada should accompany her to that country. Upon this assurance Amadour took his departure, not without extreme regret, and left his wife with the countess.
Florida, left lonely by her lover's departure, lived in such a manner as she hoped would gain for her the reputation of the most perfect virtue, and make the whole world confess that she merited such a servant as Amadour. As for him, on arriving at Barcelona, he was cordially welcomed by the ladies; but they found him so changed, that they never could have believed that marriage could have such an effect upon a man. In fact, he was no longer the same; he was even vexed at the sight of what he formerly desired; and the Countess of Palamos, of whom he had been so enamored, could never find means to make him even visit her. Being impatient to reach the spot where honor was to be gained, he made as short a stay as possible in Barcelona. He was no sooner arrived at Salces than war broke out with great fury between the two kings. I will not enter into details of the campaign, nor enumerate the heroic actions performed in it by Amadour, for then instead of telling a tale, I should have to compose a great book. It is enough to say that his renown overtopped that of all his comrades in arms. The Duke of Nagyeres, who commanded two thousand men, arrived at Perpignan, and took Amadour for his lieutenant. He did his duty so well with his little corps, that in every skirmish no other cry was heard than that of Nagyeres!
Now the King of Tunis, who had long been at war with the Spaniards, learning that Spain and France were waging mutual hostilities about Perpignan and Narbonne, thought it a good opportunity to harass the King of Spain, and sent a great number of ships to pillage and destroy every ill-guarded point they found on the coasts of Spain. The people of Barcelona, seeing so many strange sail pass by, sent word to the viceroy, who was then at Salces, and who immediately despatched the Duke of Nagyeres to Palamos. The barbarians, finding the place so well defended, made a feint of sheering off; but they returned in the night, and landed so many men that the Duke of Nagyeres, who had let himself be surprised, was taken prisoner. Amadour, who was very vigilant, hearing the noise, assembled instantly as many men as he could, and made so stout a resistance that the enemy, however superior in numbers, were for a long time held at bay. But at last, learning that the Duke of Nagyeres was a prisoner, and that the Turks were resolved to burn Palamos and the house in which he withstood them, he thought it better to surrender than to cause the loss of those who had followed him. Besides, by paying for his ransom, he expected to see Florida again. He surrendered then to a Turk named Dorlin, Viceroy of Tunis, who presented him to his master, in whose service he remained nearly two years, honored and well treated, but still better guarded; for, having him in their hands, the Turks thought they had the Achilles of all the Spains.
The news of this event having reached Spain, the relations of the Duke of Nagyeres were greatly affected at his disaster; but those who had the glory of the country at heart thought the loss of Amadour still more grievous. It became known to the Countess of Aranda, in whose house poor Aventurada lay dangerously ill. The countess, who had great misgivings as to the tender feelings which Amadour entertained for her daughter, but concealed and tried to suppress them, in consideration of the virtues which she recognized in him, called her daughter aside to communicate this painful intelligence to her. Florida, who could dissemble well, said it was a great loss for their whole house, and that, above all, she pitied his poor wife, who, to make the matter worse, was on her sick bed; but seeing that her mother wept much, she let fall a few tears to keep her company, for fear that the feint should be discovered by being overdone. The countess often talked with her again on the subject, but could never draw from her any indication on which she could form a definite conclusion. I will say nothing of the pilgrimages, prayers, orisons, and fasts which Florida regularly performed for Amadour's safety. Immediately on his reaching Tunis, he sent an express to Florida to acquaint her that he was in good health and full of hope that he should see her again, which was a great consolation to her. In return, she corresponded with him so diligently, that Amadour had not leisure to grow impatient.
At this period the countess received orders to repair to Saragossa, where the king was. The young Duke of Cardona was there, and bestirred himself so effectually with the king and queen, that they begged the countess to conclude the marriage between him and Florida. The countess, who neither could nor would refuse their majesties anything, consented to it the more willingly, as she believed that her daughter would at those years have no other will than hers. All being settled, she told her daughter she had chosen for her the match she thought would be most advantageous; and Florida submitted, seeing no room was left her for deliberation, the business being already settled. To make matters worse, she heard that the Fortunate Infante was at the pint of death. She never suffered the least evidence of her mortification to escape in presence of her mother or any one else; and so strongly did she constrain her feelings, that instead of shedding tears she was seized with a bleeding at the nose so copious as to endanger her life. By way of re-establishing her health, she married the man she would willingly have exchanged for death. After the marriage she went with her husband to the duchy of Cardona, and took with her Aventurada, whom she acquainted, in confidence, with her mother's harshness towards her, and her regret for the loss of the Fortunate Infante; but with regard to Amadour, she spoke of him only to console his wife. Resolutely setting God and honor before her eyes, she so well concealed her sorrows, that none of those who were most intimate with her ever perceived that she disliked her husband. For a long time did she continue this life, which was hardly better than death. She failed not to make all known to Amadour, who, knowing the greatness of her heart, and how she had loved the Fortunate Infante, thought it impossible she could live long, and mourned for her as one whom he looked upon as worse than dead. This affliction augmented that under which he already labored. Gladly would he have been a slave all his life, so Florida had found a husband after her own heart; for the thought of his mistress's sorrows made him forget his own. Meanwhile he learned from a friend he had made at the court of Tunis, that the king was resolved to give him his choice, either to renounce his faith or be impaled, for he wished to keep him in his service if he could make a good Turk of him. To prevent this, Amadour prevailed upon his master to let him go upon his parole without speaking to the king; and his ransom was set so high that the Turk calculated that a man who had so little wealth could never raise that amount.
On his return to the court of Spain he made but a short stay there, and went away to seek his ransom in the purses of his friends. He went straight to Barcelona, whither the young Duke of Cardona, his mother, and Florida, were gone on some business. Aventurada was no sooner apprised of her husband's return, than she imparted the news to Florida, who rejoiced at it as if for her sake. But for fear lest the joy of again beholding Amadour should produce a change in her countenance which might be noticed by those who did not know her, and therefore would misjudge her, she placed herself at a window, in order to catch sight of him at a distance, and the moment she perceived him, running down a staircase so dark that it was impossible to discern if she changed color, she embraced him, took him up to her chamber, and then presented him to her mother-in-law, who had never seen him. He had not been there two days before he was as great a favorite as he had been in the house of the Countess of Aranda. I will say nothing of the conversations between Florida and Amadour, nor all she told him of the afflictions she had incurred during his absence. After many tears wrung from her eyes by her grief at having married contrary to her inclination, and at having lost him whom she loved so passionately, and whom she never hoped to see again, she resolved to console herself with the love and confidence she had in Amadour. However, she durst not avow her intentions; but Amadour, who suspected them, lost neither time nor opportunity to make known to her how much he loved her.
Just when Florida could hardly refrain from advancing Amadour from the condition of an expectant to that of a favored lover, a distressing and very inopportune accident occurred. The king summoned Amadour to the court upon an affair of importance. His wife was so shocked by this news that she fainted, and falling down a flight of stairs, hurt herself so much that she never recovered. Florida, whom her death bereaved of all her consolation, was as much afflicted as one who had lost all her good friends and relations. Amadour was inconsolable, for, on the one hand, he lost one of the best of wives, and, on the other hand, the means of being again with Florida; and so overwhelming was his grief that he was near dying suddenly. The old Duchess of Cardona was constantly at his bedside, repeating the arguments of the philosophers to console him; but it was of no avail, for if his grief for the dead was great, his love for the living made him a martyr.
Amadour's wife being interred, and the king's orders being pressing, he could find no pretext to prolong his stay; which so augmented his anguish that he had like to lose his senses. Florida, who, thinking to console him, was his very desolation, passed a whole afternoon in conversing with him in the most gracious manner, thinking to comfort him by the assurance that she would always find means to see him, oftener than he supposed. As he was to depart on the following day, and was so weak that he could not quit his bed, he entreated her to come again in the evening to see him, after every one else had left him. She promised to do so, not knowing that excessive love knows no restraint of reason; whilst he, despairing for the future of seeing her whom he had so long loved, and of whom he had never had but what you have seen, was so racked by his love and despair, that he resolved to play, as it were, at double or quits–that is to say, to win or lose all, and to pay himself in one hour for what he thought he had merited. He had his bed hung with such good curtains that he could not be seen by persons in the room, and he complained more than usual, so that everybody in the house thought he had not four-and-twenty hours to live.
After every one else had visited him in the evening, Florida came at the request of her husband himself to see him, her mind made up to console him by a declaration of her affection, and to tell him, without disguise or reserve, that she was resolved to love him as much as honor could allow her. Seated on a chair beside the head of his bed, she began her consolations by weeping with him; seeing which, Amadour fancied that in this great agitation of her mind he could the more easily accomplish his purpose, and he sat up in his bed. Florida, thinking he was too weak to do this, offered to prevent him. "Must I lose you for ever?" he exclaimed, on his knees; and saying this he let himself fall into her arms like a man whose strength suddenly failed him. Poor Florida embraced and supported him a long while, doing her best to comfort him; but the remedy she applied to assuage his pain increased it greatly. Still counterfeiting the appearance of one half dead, and saying not a word, he set himself in quest of what the honor of ladies prohibits. Florida, seeing his bad intention, but unable to believe it after the laudable language he had always addressed to her, asked him what he meant. Amadour, fearing to provoke a reply which he knew could not be other than chaste and virtuous, went straight to his mark without saying a word. Florida's surprise was extreme, and choosing rather to believe that his brain was turned than that he had a deliberate design upon her virtue, she called aloud to a gentleman who she knew was in the room, whereupon Amadour in an agony of despair, threw himself back on his bed so suddenly that the gentleman thought he was dead. Florida, who had risen from her chair, sent the gentleman to fetch some vinegar, and then said to Amadour, "Are you mad, Amadour? What is this you have thought of doing?"
"Do such long services as mine merit such cruelty?" replied Amadour, who had lost all reason in the violence of his love.
"And where is that honor you have so often preached to me?" she retorted.
"Ah, madam," said he, "it is impossible to love your honor more than I have done. As long as you were unmarried I so well mastered my passion that you never were aware of it; but now that you are married and your honor is shielded, what wrong do I do you in asking of you what belongs to me? For have I not won you by the force of my love? The first who had your heart has so little coveted your body that he deserved to lose both. He who possesses your body is unworthy to have your heart, and consequently your body even does not belong to him. But I have taken such pains for your sake during the last five or six years, that you cannot but be aware, madam, that to me alone belong your body and your heart, for which I have forgotten my own. If you think to excuse yourself on the ground of conscience, doubt not that when love forces the body and the heart, sin is never imputed. Those even who are so infuriated as to kill themselves, cannot sin; for passion leaves no room for reason. And if the passion of love is the most intolerable of all others, and that which most blinds all the senses, what sin would you attribute to him who lets himself be led by an invincible power? I am constrained to go away without the hope of ever seeing you again. But if I had from you before my departure that assurance which my love deserves, I should be strong enough patiently to endure the pains of that long absence. If, however, you will not grant me what I ask, you will soon learn that your rigor has caused me to perish miserably."
Florida, equally astonished and grieved at hearing such language from a man whom till then she had never distrusted, replied, in tears, "Is this, Amadour, the end of all the virtuous speeches you made me during my youth? Is this the honor and the conscience you have often counselled me to prize more than my own life? Have you forgotten the good examples you have given me of virtuous ladies who have withstood criminal love, and the scorn you have always expressed for the wanton? I cannot believe, Amadour, that you are so different from yourself that God, your conscience and my honor, are dead in you. But if what you say is true, I thank God for having prevented the misfortune into which I had nearly fallen, by causing your tongue to make known to me the bottom of your heart, which I have never fathomed till now. After losing the son of the Fortunate Infante, not only by my marriage, but also because I know he loves another, and seeing myself wedded to a man I cannot love in spite of all my efforts, I had resolved to love you with my whole heart, basing my affection on that virtue which I thought I discerned in you, and which I think I have attained through your means, which is to love my honor and my conscience more than my very life. With these laudable views I had come, Amadour, to lay a good foundation for the future; but you have convinced me that I should have built on a drifting sand, or rather on loathsome mud; and though a great part of the house was already built, in which I hoped perpetually to abide, you have knocked it all down at a blow. So never more expect anything of me; and never think of speaking to me wherever I may be, either with your tongue or your eyes; and be assured that my sentiments will never change. I say this to you with extreme regret. If I had plighted you a perfect friendship, I am sure my heart could not have borne this rupture and lived; though, indeed, the amazement into which I am cast at having been deceived is so intense and poignant, that if it does not cut short my life, it will at least render it very unhappy. I have no more to say but to bid you an eternal farewell."
I will not attempt to describe the anguish of Amadour at hearing these words. It would be impossible not only to depict it but even to imagine it, except for those who have been in a similar position. As Florida turned to depart, he caught her by the arm, well knowing that he should lose her forever unless he removed the bad opinion his conduct had caused her to entertain of him. "It has been the longing of my whole life, madam," he said, with the most sanctimonious countenance he could assume, "to love a woman of virtue; and as I have found few such, I wished to know if you were as estimable in that respect as you are for beauty; whereof I am now, thanks be to God, fully convinced. I congratulate myself on having given my heart to such an assemblage of perfections; and I entreat you, madam, to pardon my caprice and my audacity, since the dénouement is so glorious for you, and yields me such pleasure."
Florida was beginning to have her eyes opened to the wiles of men; and as she had been slow to believe evil where it existed, she was still slower to believe good where it was not. "Would to God," she said, "that your words were true; but I am not so ignorant but that my married experience shows me clearly that the force and infatuation of passion have made you do what you have done. Had God suffered me to slacken the reins, I am quite sure you would not have tightened them. No one would think of looking for virtue in that sort of way. But enough of this. If I too lightly gave you credit for some goodness, it is time I should know the truth, which now delivers me out of your hands."
So saying, she left the room, and passed the whole night in tears. The anguish she felt from the change was so great that she could hardly bear it. Reason told her she should cease to love, but her heart told her quite another thing, and who can master the heart? Unable, then, to overcome her love, she resolved to cherish it as warmly as ever, but to suppress all tokens of it for the satisfaction of her honor.
Amadour went away the next day, in such a state of mind as you may imagine. His great heart, however, instead of letting him yield to despair, suggested to him a new device whereby he might again see Florida and regain her good-will. Taking the road then to Toledo, where the King of Spain was residing, he passed through the county of Aranda, arrived late one evening at the countess's mansion, and found the countess sick with grief at the absence of Florida. She kissed and embraced Amadour as though he were her own son, both because she loved him, and because she suspected that he loved Florida. She asked news of her, and he gave her as much as he could, but not all true. He avowed the friendship which subsisted between them, which Florida had always concealed, begged her mother often to send him news of her, and to bring her soon to Aranda. He passed the night at the countess's, and continued his journey next day.
Having despatched his business with the king, he joined the army, but looked so melancholy and so changed, that the ladies and the captains with whom he was intimate could hardly believe he was the same man. He wore only black clothes, and those of a much coarser nap than was requisite for the mourning he wore ostensibly for his wife, whose death served as a convenient pretext for his sadness. Amadour lived in this way for three or four years, without returning to court. The Countess of Aranda, hearing that her daughter was piteously changed, wanted her to come back to her, but Florida would not; for when she learned that Amadour had acquainted her mother with their mutual friendship, and that her mother, though so discreet and virtuous, had so much confidence in Amadour that she approved of it, she was in marvellous perplexity. On the one hand, she considered that if she told her mother the truth, it might occasion mischief to Amadour, which she would not have done for her life, believing that she was quite able to punish his insolence without any help from her relations. On the other hand, she foresaw that if she concealed his misconduct, her mother and her friends would oblige her to speak with him and show him a fair countenance, and thereby, as she feared, encourage his evil intentions. However, as he was far away, she said nothing of what was past, and wrote to him when the countess desired her to do so; but it was plain, from the tone of her letters, that they were written not from her spontaneous impulses, but in obedience to her mother, so that Amadour felt pain in reading them instead of the transports of joy with which he had formerly received them.
Having during two or three years performed so many fine exploits that all the paper in Spain could not contain them, he devised a grand scheme, not to regain Florida's heart, for he believed he had lost it wholly, but to vanquish his enemy, since such she declared herself. Setting aside reason, and even the fear of death to which he exposed himself, he adopted the following course. He made such interest with the governor-in-chief that he was deputed to go and report to the king respecting certain enterprises that were in hand against Leucate; and without caring for the consequences, he communicated the purport of his journey to the Countess of Aranda before he had mentioned it to the king. As he knew that Florida was with her mother, he posted to the countess's under pretence of wishing to take her advice, and sent one of his friends before him to apprise her of his coming, begging she would not mention it, and would do him the favor to speak with him at night unknown to every one. The countess, very glad of this news, imparted it to Florida, and sent her to undress in her husband's room, that she might be ready when she should send for her after every one was in bed. Florida, who had not recovered from her first fear, said nothing of it, however, to her mother, and went to her oratory to commend herself to God, and pray that he would guard her heart from all weakness. Remembering that Amadour had often praised her for her beauty, which had lost nothing by her long illness, she chose rather to impair it with her own hand than to suffer it to kindle so criminal a fire in the heart of so worthy a man. To this end she took a stone, which she found opportunely, and gave herself such a great blow with it on the face, that her mouth, eyes, and nose were quite disfigured. That it might not appear she had done it designedly, when the countess sent for her she let herself fall on coming out of her oratory. The countess hearing her cries hurried to her, and found her in that sad condition. Florida raised herself up and told her mother she had struck her face against a great stone. Her wounds were immediately dressed and her face bandaged, after which her mother sent her to her own chamber, and begged her to entertain Amadour, who was in her cabinet, until she had got rid of her company. Florida obeyed, supposing that Amadour had some one with him; but when she found herself alone with him, and the door closed, she was as much vexed as Amadour was delighted, fancying that he should achieve, by fair means or by force, what he had so long coveted.
After a brief conversation, finding her sentiments unchanged, and hearing from her lips a protestation that, though it were to cost her her life, she would never swerve from the principles she had professed at their last meeting, he exclaimed desperately, "By God, Florida, your scruples shall not deprive me of the fruit of my toils. Since love, patience, and entreaties are of no avail, I will employ force to have that without which I should perish."
Amadour's visage and his eyes were so changed that the handsomest complexion in the world was become red as fire, and the mildest and most agreeable aspect so horrible and furious, that it seemed as though the fire in his heart blazed out through his eyes. In his rage he had seized both Florida's delicate hands in his strong gripe, and finding herself deprived of all means of defence or flight, she thought the only chance left her was to try if his former love was so extinct that it could not disarm his cruelty. "If I must now look upon you as an enemy, Amadour," she said, "I conjure you, by the virtuous love with which I formerly believed your heart was animated, at least to hear me before you do me violence. What can possess you, Amadour," she said, seeing that he listened to her "to desire a thing that can give you no pleasure, and would overwhelm me with grief? You have so well known my sentiments during my youth and my prime, which might have served as an excuse for your passion, that I wonder how, at my present age, and ugly as you see I am, you seek for that which you know you cannot find. I am sure you do not doubt that my sentiments are still the same, and, consequently, that nothing but violence can enable you to obtain your wishes. Look at the state of my face, forget the beauty you have seen in it, and you will lose all desire to approach me. If there is any remnant of love in your heart, it is impossible but that pity shall prevail over your rage. It is to your pity, and to the virtue of which you have given me so many proofs, that I appeal for mercy. Do not destroy my peace of mind, and make no attempt upon my honor, which, in accordance with your counsel, I am resolved to preserve. If the love you had for me has degenerated into hate, and you design from vindictiveness rather than affection to make me the most miserable woman on earth, I declare to you that it shall not be so, and that you will force me to complain openly of your vicious conduct to her who is so prejudiced in your favor. If you reduce me to this extremity, consider that your life is not safe."
"If I must die," replied Amadour, "a moment will put an end to all my troubles; but the disfigurement of your face, which I believe is your own work, shall not hinder me from doing what I have resolved; for though I could have nothing of you but your bones, I would have them close to me."
Finding that entreaties, arguments, and tears were useless, Florida had recourse to what she feared as much as the loss of life, and screamed out as loudly as she could to her mother. The countess, on hearing her cries, at once suspected the truth, and hastened to her with the utmost promptitude. Amadour, who was not so near dying as he said, let go his hold so quickly that the countess, on opening the cabinet, found him at the door, and Florida far enough away from him. "What is the matter, Amadour?" said the countess. "Tell me the truth." Amadour, who was prepared beforehand, and was never at a loss for an expedient at need, answered, with a pale and woe-begone countenance, "Alas! madam, I no longer recognise Florida. Never was man more surprised than I am. I thought, as I told you, that I had some share in her good-will, but now I see plainly I have no longer any. Methinks, madam, that whilst she lived with you she was neither less discreet nor less virtuous than she is now; but she had no squeams of conscience to hinder her from talking to people and looking them in the face. I wanted to look at her, but she would not allow it. Seeing this, I thought I must be in a dream or a trance, and I asked leave to kiss her hand, according to the custom of the country, but she absolutely refused it. It is true, madam, I have done wrong, and I crave your pardon for it, in taking her hand and kissing it in a manner by force. I asked nothing more of her, but I see plainly that she is resolved upon my death, and that, I believe, is why she called you. Perhaps she was afraid I had some other design upon her. Be that as it may, madam, I acknowledge I was wrong; for though she ought to love all your good servants, such is my ill-luck, that I have no part in her good-will. My heart will not change for all that, with regard either to her or to you; and I entreat you, madam, to let me retain your good-will, since I have lost hers without deserving it."
The countess, who partly believed and partly doubted, asked her why she had called out so loudly. Florida replied that she did so because she was frightened. The countess asked her many other questions, and never got any but the same reply; for having escaped from her enemy, Florida thought him sufficiently punished by the disappointment. After the countess had conversed a long time with Amadour, she let him talk again with Florida in her presence, in order to see how he would look; but he said little to her, and contented himself with thanking her for not having told her mother, and begging her that at least, since he was banished from her heart, another might not profit by his disgrace. "If I could have defended myself in any other way," said Florida, "all would have passed between our two selves. You shall be let off with this, unless you force me to do worse. Do not be afraid that I shall ever love; for since I have been deceived in my judgment of a heart which I thought was full of virtue, I shall never believe that a man exists who is worthy to be trusted. This misfortune will make me banish forever from my breast all passions which love can occasion." So saying she took leave of him.
Her mother, who had been watching them, could come to no conclusion, except that she saw clearly that her daughter had no longer any friendship for Amadour. She thought this unreasonable and that it was enough for herself to like any one to make Florida conceive an aversion for that person. From that moment she was so displeased with her, that for seven years she never spoke to her but with asperity, and all this at the solicitation of Amadour. Florida, who had formerly shunned nothing so much as her husband's presence, resolved to pass all her life by his side, to avoid her mother's harshness; but seeing that nothing succeeded with her, she made up her mind to deceive Amadour. To this end she pretended to be more tractable, and advised him to attach himself to a lady who she said she had spoken of their mutual love. This lady, who was in the queen's household, and whose name was Loretta, delighted at having made such a conquest, was so little mistress of her transports, that the affair became noised abroad. The Countess of Aranda herself, being at court, became aware of it, and afterwards treated Florida with more gentleness. Loretta's husband, who was a captain, and one of the King of Spain's great governors, was so incensed, that he was resolved to kill Amadour at all hazards; but Florida, who heard of this, and, in spite of herself, still loved Amadour, instantly gave him warning. Eager as he was to return to her, he replied, that if she would grant him every day three hours' conversation, he would never speak another word to Loretta; but she would do nothing of the sort. "Since, then, you do not wish me to live," said Amadour, "why would you hinder me from dying, unless you hope to make me suffer more in living than the pain of a thousand deaths. Let death fly me as it will, I will seek it so that at last I shall find it, and then only I shall be at rest."
Meanwhile news arrived that the King of Grenada had begun hostilities against the King of Spain, which obliged the king to send his son thither with the Constable of Castile and the Duke of Alva, two old and sage lords. The Duke of Cardona and the Count of Aranda desired to take part in the campaign, and begged the king to give them some command. The king gave them appointments suitable to their quality, and desired they should act under the advice of Amadour, who performed during the war such astonishing acts as testified as much desperation as valor. His desperate rashness at last cost him his life. The Moors having offered battle, gave way before the charge of the Spaniards, and made a feint of flying, in order to draw on the Christian army to pursue them. Their stratagem succeeded. The old Constable and the Duke of Alva, suspecting it, detained the Prince of Spain against his will, and hindered him from passing the river; but the Count of Aranda and the Duke of Cardona crossed it in defiance of orders to the contrary. The Moors, finding themselves pursued only by a small body, wheeled round. The Duke of Cardona was killed with a scymetar, and the Count of Aranda was so dangerously wounded, that he was left for dead on the field. Amadour, coming up, cleft his way through the mêlée with such fury, that one would have said he was a maniac, and had the bodies of the duke and the count carried to the camp of the prince, who regretted them as if they had been his own brothers. On examining their wounds, it was found that the Count of Aranda was not dead. He was laid on a litter and carried home, where he lay ill for a long time. The body of the young duke was transported to Cardona. After rescuing the two bodies, Amadour took so little care of his own person that he let himself be surrounded by a great number of Moors. Knowing, then, that if he fell into the hands of the King of Grenada he should die a cruel death, unless he renounced the Christian religion, he resolved not to give his enemies the glory of his death or his capture, but to surrender up his body and his soul to God; and kissing the cross of his sword he plunged it into his body with such force that no second blow was needed.
Thus died poor Amadour, as much regretted as his virtues deserved. The news instantly spread from mouth to mouth all over Spain. Florida, who was then at Barcelona, where her husband had formerly directed that he should be buried, after having caused his obsequies to be performed with pomp, retired into the convent of Jesus, without saying a word to her mother or her mother-in-law, taking for her spouse and lover him who had delivered her from a love so violent as that of Amadour, and from the distress caused her by the society of such a husband. Her sole subsequent occupation and care was to love God so perfectly that, after having been a long time a nun, she surrendered up her soul to him with the joy with which a bride meets her husband. *
I am afraid, ladies, you have found this long story tedious; but it would have been still longer if I had given it as it was told to me. Imitate Florida's virtues, ladies, but be not so cruel; and never esteem men so highly, lest, when you are undeceived, you bring upon them a miserable death, and a life of sorrow upon yourselves.
"Do you not think," said Parlamente, turning to Hircan, "that this lady was tried to the utmost, and that she resisted virtuously?"
"No," he replied; "for the least resistance a woman can decently make is to cry out. But what would she have done if she had been in a place where she could not be heard? Besides, if Amadour had not been more swayed by fear than by love, he would not so easily have given up. So I still maintain that no man ever loved heartily and was loved in return, who did not obtain what he sought if he went the right way about it. I must, however, applaud Amadour for having in part done his duty."
"Duty?" said Oisille. "Do you think that a servant does his duty, in offering violence to his mistress, to whom he owes all respect and obedience?"
"When our mistresses, madam," replied Saffredent, "hold their rank in chamber or hall, seated at their ease as our judges, we are on our knees before them; we timidly lead them out to dance, and serve them with so much diligence that we anticipate their commands; we have so much fear of offending them, and so much desire to serve them well, that no one can look upon us without compassion. We are often thought more witless than brutes, and people praise the proud spirit of our ladies, who look so imperious, and speak with so much good breeding, that they make themselves feared, loved, and esteemed by those who see only the outside. But in private, where there is no other judge than love, we know very well that they are women and we are men. The name of mistress is then changed to that of friend and he who was a servant in public become a friend in a tête-à-tête. Thence comes the old proverb–
Well to serve and loyal to be,
Raiseth a servant to mastery.
Of honor they have as much as men, who can give it them and take it away; and as they see we suffer with patience, it is just that they should indemnify us when they can do so without damage to their honor."
"You do not speak," said Longarine, "of that true honor which is the most perfect contentment that can be had in this world. Though all the world believed me a virtuous woman, and I alone knew the contrary, the praises of others would but increase my shame and my secret confusion. On the other hand, were all mankind to condemn me, whilst my conscience was free from all reproach, I should derive a sort of pleasure from calumny, so true it is that virtue is never wholly unhappy."
"Though you have left nothing to say," observed Geburon, "you will permit me to remark that I regard Amadour as the most worthy and most virtuous of cavaliers. Though he has been given a feigned name, I think, nevertheless, that I recognize him; but since others have not named him, neither will I. I will only say that if he is the same as I suppose, never was his heart susceptible of fear, or exempt from love."
"It strikes me," said Oisille, "that this day has passed so agreeably, that if this continues, our time will seem very short. The sun is already low, and vespers have been rung at the abbey this long time. I did not tell you so before, because I was less desirous to hear vespers than to know the end of the story."
Hereupon everybody rose, and proceeding to the abbey they found that the monks had been waiting for them for more than an hour. After vespers they supped. The evening was not passed without discussing the tales that had been told in the day, and reviewing in memory the means of making the next day pass as agreeably as the first. After no end of sports in the meadow, every one went to bed highly gratified by the way in which their first day had been spent.
* The events related in this novel, and the names of the persons, are all real. The last editors of the Heptameron (la Société des Bibliophiles Français, 1853) have published the writ of pardon granted by Francis I. to St. Aignan, the original of which is preserved in the Archives Nationales. The writ, as usual, recites the statement of the case made by the petitioner for pardon, and this agrees closely with the Queen of Navarre's narrative–allowance, of course, being made for the peculiar coloring which it was the murderer's interest to give to the facts.
* The tragedy here related must have occurred after August, 1530, when Margaret was delivered of a son named Jean, who lived only two months.
* The king who figures in this novel appears to be Alfonso V., King of Aragon and Sicily, who supplanted King René on the throne of Naples in 1443, and remained in possession of it until his death in 1458. He married, in 1415, Maria, daughter of Henry III., King of Castile, and lived on very bad terms with that princess, who, according to the authors of l'Art de vérifier les Dates, never set foot in Italy. Queen Mary, who was married in 1415, must have been long past her bloom in 1443. For this reason the Bibliophiles Français are inclined to believe that the Queen of Navarre has here related under borrowed names a true story of her own times.
* The princess and the gallant spoken of in this novel are none other than the Queen of Navarre herself and Guillaume de Bonnivet, Admiral of France, as we are informed by Brantôme (Dames Galantes, Discours iv. t. vii.). He states the fact upon the authority of his grandmother, who, as well as his mother, Anne de Vivonne, was about Margaret's person, and it is generally regarded as true. It is to be observed, however, that Margaret has purposely introduced into her narrative several circumstances calculated to disguise her own identity: the second widowhood, for instance, for the King of Navarre survived her, and the absence of children by both marriages, for Margaret had a surviving daughter by her second husband. The handsome and gallant Bonnivet figures repeatedly in the Heptameron.
* Although Margaret asserts that this is a true story, and that the actors in it belonged to the household of her first husband, it is to be found in many previous collections; as, for instance, the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, where it occurs as the 16th novel, entitled Le Borgne Aveugle. It is the sixth fable of the first book of the Pantcha Tantra, a collection of Hindoo stories.
* This tale is taken from the fabliau of Le Meunier d'Alens, and also occurs in the facetiæ of Poggio, in Sacchetti, and in the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles.
* It is possible that this may be, as Margaret asserts, a true story of her own day, but it very closely resembles the history of the troubadour Geoffroi Rudel of Blaye, who lived in the latter part of the twelfth century. Merely upon hearsay of the moral and personal perfections of the Countess of Tripoli, he fell so desperately in love with her that he pined away, and embarked in an advanced stage of illness to go and see her. When the vessel reached the port of Tripoli he was too weak to quit it. Moved by so extraordinary a display of love, the countess visited him on board, took his hand, and spoke out graciously and cheeringly to him. Geoffroi could hardly falter out his thanks, and overcome by emotion, instantly expired.
* "We have every reason to believe that this novel was suggested to the Queen of Navarre by some actual occurrence at the court of Charles VIII. and Louis XII. Whilst disguising the names of the principal actors, the princess has yet intermingled real events with her narrative. The beginning of the novel might even lead us to surmise that Margaret alludes in it to something in which she was personally concerned. The Countess of Aranda, left a very young widow, with a son and daughter, is very like Louise of Savoy and her two children, This, however, is a mere conjecture of ours, on which we by no means insist."For those who would like to attempt the solution of this little historical problem, we subjoin a list of some facts which occurred at the period in which the Queen of Navarre places her story.
"Taking of Salces by the French in 1496. Don Henry of Aragon, Count of Ribagorce, was then Viceroy of Catalonia, and Don Henry Henriquez governor of Roussillon.–Truce between France and Spain in 1497.–Revolt at Grenada in 1499.–In 1500 revolt of the Moors in the Alpujarras; King Ferdinand marches against them in person.–In 1501 defeat of the Spaniards, in which were killed Don Alfonson de Aguilar, Pedro de Sandoval, &c., &c. The Duke of Najera is sent against him.–In 1503 a Moorish fleet, consisting of ten flustes, ravages the coasts of Catalonia. That same year King Ferdinand burns Leucate.–In 1513 the King of Spain, to appease the feud existing between the Count of Ribagorce and the Count of Aranda, commissions Father Juan de Estuniga, provincial of the order of Saint Francis, to effect an agreement between them by means of a marriage between the eldest daughter of Count Aranda and the eldest son of the Count of Ribagorce. The latter refuses, and is banished the realm. As for the son of the Fortunate Infante, this must be Don Alfonso of Aragon, Count of Ribagorce, Duke of Segovia, sole male heir of the house of Castile, proposed in 1506 as husband for Jane the Crazed. His father, Henry of Aragon, Duke of Segovia, was surnamed the Infante of Fortune, because he was born in 1445, after the death of his father.
"Such are the events which the Queen of Navarre has mixed up with a narrative in which she declares that she has changed names, places, and countries."–Bibliophiles Français.
IN the morning they rose early, eager to return to the spot where they had had so much pleasure. Every one had his tale ready, and was impatient to bring it forth. After having heard Madam Oisille's reading and attended mass, dinner was the next affair, during which they also recalled to mind many a story.
After dinner they went to rest in their chambers, and at the appointed hour every one repaired to the meadow, where it seemed that the weather and the day expressly favored their design. After they were all seated on verdant couches prepared by nature's own hands, Parlamente said, "Since I was the last speaker yesterday, it is for me to select the lady who shall begin this day's proceedings. Those of yesterday having been opened by Madame Oisille, the sagest and eldest lady present, I give my vote to-day to the youngest,–I do not say to the most light-witted, for I am sure that if we all follow her example, the monks will not have to wait so long to say vespers as they did yesterday. I call upon you, Nomerfide, but I beg you will not make us begin the day with tears.
"There was no need to give me that caution," said Nomerfide; "for one of our companions has made me choose a tale which I have set so fast in my head that I could not tell any other; and if it engenders sadness in you, why then your nature must be very melancholy."
A Nasty Adventure which befel Madam De Roncex at the Franciscan Monastery of Thouars.
IN the household of Madame de La Tremouille there was a lady named Roncex, who one day when her mistress had gone to the Cordeliers, had a pressing need to go to the place to which she could not send her waiting-woman. She took with her a girl named La Mothe to keep her company, but from bashfulness and desire of secrecy, left her in the chamber, and entered alone into a very dark privy, which was common to all the Cordeliers; and they had rendered such good account there of all their victuals, that the whole place, the seat and the floor, were covered with must of Bacchus and Ceres, passed through the bellies of the Cordeliers. The poor woman, who was so hard pressed that she had scarcely time to tuck up her skirts to sit down, unluckily seated herself on the filthiest spot in the whole place, and there she stuck as if she had been glued to it, and her poor buttocks, garments, and feet were so bewrayed, that she durst not step or turn any way for fear of making herself still worse. Thereupon she began to cry out, as loud as she could, "La Mothe, my dear, I am undone and dishonored!" The poor girl, who had heard sundry tales of the wickedness of the Cordeliers, suspecting that some of them were hid there, and wanted to violate the lady, ran as fast as she could, saying to every one she met, "Come and help Madame de Roncex; the Cordeliers want to ravish her in that privy." They ran to the place with all speed, and found the poor dame De Roncex crying for help, desiring to have some woman who could clean her, and with her hinder parts all uncovered, for she was afraid to touch them with her garments lest she should befoul them. Rushing in at her cries, the gentlemen beheld that fine spectacle, and found no Cordelier molesting her, but only the ordure with which all her posteriors were glued. This did not pass without laughter on their part or great shame on hers; for instead of having women to clean her, she was waited on by men, who saw her naked in the worst condition in which a woman could show herself. Thereupon she dropped her clothes, and so dirtied what was still clean, forgetting the filth she was in for the shame she felt at seeing men. When she was out of that nasty place, it was necessary to strip her stark naked, and change all her clothes before she left the monastery. She was very much disposed to resent the help which La Mothe had brought her, but understanding that the poor girl believed her case was still worse, she forgot her anger and laughed like the rest.
Methinks, ladies, this story has been neither long nor melancholy, and that you have had from me what you expected.
The company laughed heartily at her story, and Oisille said to her, "Though the tale is nasty and dirty, we cannot object to it, knowing the persons to whom it happened. Well, I should have been very glad to see the faces worn by La Mothe and by her to whom she brought such good aid. But since you have ended so soon, give your voice to some one who does not think with such levity."
"If you would have my fault repaired," replied Nomerfide, "I give my voice to Dagoucin, who is so discreet that for his life he would not utter a folly."
Dagoucin thanked her for the favorable opinion she entertained of his good sense, and said, "The story I propose to relate will serve to show how love infatuates the greatest and worthiest hearts, and how difficult it is to overcome wickedness by dint of kindness."
DEUXIÈME JOURNÉE
Nouvelle XIe
[The preceding novel and epilogue, which are found in all the manuscripts consulted by the Bibiliophiles Français, are the nineteenth of the edition of 1558. They are suppressed in that of 1559 and in all the subsequent editions except that of 1853, and the following substituted for them.]
NEAR the town of Bleré, in Touraine, there is a village named Martin la Beau, where a Cordelier of Tours was called on to preach the Advent and Lent sermons. This Cordelier, who had more gabble than learning, finding himself sometimes short of matter, would contrive to eke out his hour by telling tales which were not altogether disagreeable to the good villagers. Preaching on Holy Thursday on the Pascal Lamb, when he had to state that it was eaten by night, seeing among the congregation some handsome young ladies newly arrived from Amboise with the intention of spending Easter at the village, he wished to surpass himself, and asked all the women if they knew what it was to eat raw meat at night. "If you don't, I will tell you, ladies," said he. The young men of Amboise, who had come, some with their wives, others with their sisters and nieces, and who were not acquainted with the pilgrim's humor, began to be scandalized; but after having heard him further, instead of being shocked, they laughed, especially when he told them that to eat the Pascal Lamb it was necessary to have one's loins girt, one's feet in one's shoes, and a hand on one's staff. The Cordelier seeing them laugh, and guessing why, immediately corrected himself. "Well, then, shoes on one's feet, and one's staff in his hand," said he. "Buttered bread, and bread buttered–is it not all one?" How this was received I leave you to guess. The Cordelier, perceiving that his hour was nearly out, made new efforts to divert the ladies, and gave them reason to be pleased with him. "By-and-by, ladies," he said to them, "when you are chatting with your gossips, you will ask them, 'Who is this master friar who speaks so boldly? He is a jovial companion, I warrant.' I tell you ladies, be not astonished–no, be not astonished if I speak boldly, for I am of Anjou, at your service. "So saying he ended his sermon, leaving his audience more disposed to laugh at his absurdities than to weep over the Passion of our Lord, the commemoration of which they were then celebrating.
His other sermons during the holidays were pretty much of the like efficacy. You know that the brethren of that order do not forget to go about making their collections to get them their Easter eggs, as they say. Not only have they no lack of these, but people give them besides many other things, such as linen, yarn, chitterlings, hams, chines, and so forth. On Easter Tuesday, when he was making his exhortations to charity, of which people of his sort are no niggards, he said, "I am bound, ladies, to thank you for the charities you have bestowed on our poor convent, but I cannot help remarking to you that you have not duly considered our wants. You have given us, for the most part, nothing but chitterlings, of which, thanks be to God, we have no scarcity, the convent being choke-full of them. What shall we do, then, with such lots of chitterlings? Do you know what we shall do with them? It is my advice, ladies, that you mix your hams with our chitterlings, and you will make a fine alms."
Then continuing his sermon, he contrived to introduce the subject of scandal. After having expatiated upon it and adduced some examples, he cried out, with warmth, "I am surprised, ladies and gentlemen of St. Martin, that you are scandalized at a thing that is less than nothing, and that you make a talk of me everywhere without reason, saying, 'Who would have thought it of the father, that he should have got his landlady's daughter with child?' That is a thing to be astonished about, truly. A monk has got a girl with child. What a wonder! But hark you, fair ladies, would you not have reason to be much more surprised if the girl had got the monk with child?"
Such, ladies, were the precious viands with which this good shepherd fed the Lord's flock. So shameless was he, that after the commission of his sin, he had the impudence to speak of it in the pulpit, where nothing should be uttered but what is edifying to one's neighbor, and tends, in the first place, to the glory of God.
"That was what you may call a master-monk," said Saffredent. "I should be at loss to choose between him and Friar Angebaut, at whose door were laid all the facetious things that were said in good company."
"I see no matter for laughter in all this," said Oisille, "nor is the circumstance of the time to the monk's advantage."
"You omit to say, madam," observed Nomerfide, "that at that time, although the thing happened not very long ago, your honest villagers, nay, most of the people even of the good towns, who think themselves cleverer than the others, had more regard for such preachers than for those who preached to them the holy gospel purely and simply."
"Be that as it may," said Hircan, "he was not far wrong in asking for hams in exchange for chitterlings, for there is a great deal more eating in them. If any devout dame had understood the thing amphibologically, as I believe the monk intended, neither he nor his brethren would have been badly off, any more than the young wench who had her bag full."
"What effrontery!" exclaimed Oisille, "to pervert the sense of the text according to his caprice, thinking he had to do with people as brutalized as himself, and impudently endeavoring to corrupt silly women, in order to teach them to eat raw meat at night."
"Ay," said Simontault, "but then he had before him those young tripesellers of Amboise, in whose tub he would fain have washed his– Shall I say what? No, you understand me. He would gladly have given them a taste of it, not roasted, but all stirring and frisking, to give them the more pleasure."
"Gently, gently, Seigneur Simontault," said Parlamente; "you forget yourself. Where is your usual modesty, of which you can make such good use at need?"
"True madam; but the foul-mouthed monk made me equivocate. To return to our first proceedings, I beg that Nomerfide, who is the cause of my error, will give her voice to some one who will make us forget our common fault."
"Since you will have it that I am a sharer in the fault," said Nomerfide, "I will chose one who will set all right again; and that is Dagoucin, who is so well behaved that he would rather die than say anything improper."
Dagoucin thanked her for her good opinion. "The story I am going to relate," he said, "is calculated to show you how love infatuates the greatest and the best, and how difficult it is to overcome wickedness by dint of kindness."
Incontinence and Tyranny of a Duke of Florence–Just punishment of his Wickedness.
TEN years ago there was at Florence a duke of the house of Medicis, who had married Madame Margaret, natural daughter of the Emperor Charles the Fifth. As the princess was still very young, and the duke would not sleep with her until she was of more mature age, he treated her very tenderly; and to spare her he amused himself with some other ladies of the city, whom he used to visit by night whilst his wife slept. Among others, he took a fancy to a lady as beautiful as she was good and virtuous, the sister of a gentleman whom the duke loved as himself and to whom he conceded such authority, that he was obeyed like the duke himself. The latter had no secrets which he did not communicate to him, so that, in a manner, he might be called his second self. The duke, knowing that the gentleman's sister was a lady of the highest virtue, durst not at first speak to her of his passion; but after having tried every other expedient, he at last addressed his favorite on the subject.
"If there was anything in the world my friend," he said, "which I would not do for you, I should be afraid to tell you what is in my thoughts, and still more to ask your aid. But I have so much friendship for you, that if I had a wife, a mother, or a daughter who could save your life, you may be assured you should not die. I am persuaded that you love me as much as I love you. If I, who am your master, have such an affection for you, that which you should have for me should be no less. I have a secret, then, to tell you. Through trying to conceal it, I have fallen into the state in which you now see me, from which I have no hope of escaping but by death, or by the service you may render me, if you will."
Touched by these representations on the part of his master, and seeing his face bathed in tears, the gentleman felt so much pity, that he said: "I am your creature, my lord; it is from you I hold all my wealth, and honors, and you may speak to me as to your own soul, being sure that whatever I can do is at your command."
The duke then declared the passion with which he was possessed for his favorite's sister, and told him it was impossible he should live long unless the brother enabled him to enjoy her; for be was quite sure that prayers or presents would be of no avail with her. "If, then," said the duke, in conclusion, "you love my life as much as I love yours, find means to secure to me a bliss I can never obtain but through your aid." The gentleman, who loved his sister and the honor of his house more than his master's pleasure, remonstrated with him, and implored him not to reduce him to the horrible necessity of soliciting the dishonor of his family, protesting there was nothing he would not do for his master, but that his honor would not suffer him to perform such a service as that. The duke, inflamed with intolerable anger, bit his nails, and replied furiously, "Since I find no friendship in you, I know what I have to do." The gentleman, who knew his master's cruelty, was alarmed, and said, "Since you absolutely insist on it, my lord, I will speak to her." "If you set store by my life, I will set store by yours," were the duke's last words as he went away.
The gentleman knew well what this meant, and remained a day or two without seeing the duke, pondering over the means of extricating himself from so bad a dilemma. On the one hand he considered the obligations he was under to his master, the wealth and honors he had received from him; on the other hand, he thought of the honor of his house and the virtue and chastity of his sister. He knew very well that she never would consent to such infamy, unless she were overcome by fraud or violence, which he could not think of employing, considering the shame it would bring upon him and her. In fine, he made up his mind that he would rather die than behave so vilely to his sister, who was one of the best women in Italy; and he resolved to deliver his country from a tyrant who was bent on disgracing his house; for he saw clearly that the only means of securing the lives of himself and his kindred was to get rid of the duke. Resolved, then, without speaking to his sister, to save his life and prevent his shame by one and the same deed, he went after two days to the duke, and told him that he had labored so hard with his sister, that at last, with infinite difficulty he had brought her to consent to the duke's wishes; but on condition that the affair should be kept secret, and that no one should know of it but they three. As people readily believe what they desire, the duke put implicit faith in the brother's words. He embraced him, promised him everything he could ask, urged him to hasten the fulfilment of his good tidings, and appointed a time with him for that purpose.
When the exulting duke saw the approach of the night he so longed for, in which he expected to conquer her whom he had thought invincible, he retired early with his favorite, and did not forget to dress and perfume himself with his best care. When all was still, the gentleman conducted him to his sister's abode, and showed him into a magnificent chamber, where he undressed him, put him to bed, and left him, saying, "I am going, my lord, to bring you one who will not enter this room without blushing; but I hope that before day dawns she will be assured of you." He then went away to his own room, where he found one trusty servant awaiting him by his orders. "Is thy heart bold enough," he said to him, "to follow me to a place where I have to revenge myself on the greatest of my enemies?" "Yes, my lord," replied the man, who knew nothing of the matter in hand, "though it were upon the duke himself." Thereupon, without giving the man time for reflection, the gentleman hurried him away so abruptly that he had not time to take any other weapon than a poniard with which he was already armed.
The duke, hearing his favorite's footsteps at the door, believed that he was bringing him the object of his passion, and threw open the curtains to behold and welcome her; but instead of her he saw her brother advance upon him with a drawn sword. Unarmed, but undaunted, the duke started up, seized the gentleman round the middle, saying, "Is this the way you keep your word?" and for want of other weapons used his nails and his teeth, bit his antagonist in the thumb, and defended himself so well that they fell together beside the bed. The gentleman not feeling confident in his own strength, called his man, who, seeing his master and the duke grappling each other so desperately that he could not well distinguish which was which in that dark spot, dragged them both out by the heels into the middle of the room, and then set about cutting the duke's throat with his poniard. The duke defended himself to the last, until he was exhausted by loss of blood. Then the gentleman and his man laid him on the bed, finished him with their poniards, drew the curtains upon the body, and left the room, locking the door behind them.
Having slain his enemy and liberated the republic, the gentleman thought that his exploit would not be complete unless he did the same by five or six near relations of the duke. To this end he ordered his man to go and fetch them one by one; but the servant, who had neither vigor nor boldness enough, replied, "It strikes me, my lord, that you have done enough for the present, and that you had much better think of saving your own life than of taking that of others. If every one of them should take as long to despatch as the duke, it would be daylight before we had finished, even should they be unarmed." As the guilty are easily susceptible of the contagion of fear, the gentleman took his servant's advice, and went with him alone to a bishop, whose place it was to have the gates opened and to give orders to the postmasters. The gentleman told the prelate he had just received intelligence that one of his brothers was at the point of death; that the duke had given him leave to go to him, and therefore he begged his lordship would give him an order to the postmasters for two good horses, and to the gatekeepers to let him pass. The bishop, to whom his request seemed almost equivalent to a command from the duke his master, gave him a note, by means of which he at once obtained what he required; but instead of going to see his brother, he made straight for Venice, where he had himself cured of the bites inflicted by the duke, and then passed over into Turkey.
Next morning the duke's servants, not seeing or hearing anything of him, concluded that he had gone to see some lady; but at last becoming uneasy at his long absence, they began to look for him in all directions. The poor duchess, who was beginning to love him greatly, was extremely distressed at hearing that he could not be found. The favorite also, not making his appearance, some of the servants went for him to his house. They saw blood at his chamber door, but no one could give any account of him. The trace of blood led the duke's servants to the chamber where he lay, and finding the door locked, they broke it open at once, saw the floor covered with blood, drew the curtains, and beheld the poor duke stark dead on the bed. Picture to yourselves the affliction of these poor servants, as they carried the body to the palace. The bishop arrived there at the same time, and told them how the gentleman had fled in the night, under pretence of going to see his brother. This was enough to lead every one to the conclusion that it was he who had done the deed. It clearly appeared that his sister had known nothing about it. Though she was surprised at so unexpected an event, she loved her brother for it, since, without regard to his own life, he had delivered her from a tyrant who was bent on the ruin of her honor. She continued always to lead the same virtuous life; and though she was reduced to poverty by the confiscation of all the family property, her sister and she found husbands as honorable and wealthy as any in Italy. Both of them have always lived subsequently in the best repute. *
Here is a fact, ladies, which should make you beware of that little god, who delights in tormenting princes and private persons, the strong and the weak; and who so infatuates them that they forget God and their conscience, and even the care of their own lives. Princes and those who are in authority ought to fear to outrage their inferiors. There is no man so insignificant but he can do mischief when it is God's will to inflict vengeance on the sinner, nor any so great that he can do hurt to one whom God chooses to protect.
This story was listened to by the whole company, but with very different sentiments. Some maintained that the gentleman had done well in securing his own life and his sister's
"'The Fair Lady without Compassion,'" * said Parlamente, has taught us to say that people hardly ever die of so agreeable a malady."
"Would to God, madam," rejoined Dagoucin, "that every lady here knew how false is this notion. They would not then, I imagine, desire the reputation of being pitiless, or like to resemble that incredulous fair one who let a good servant die for want of responding favorably to his passion."
"So then," said Parlamente, "to save the life of a man who says he loves us, you would have us violate our honor and our conscience?"
"I do not say that," replied Dagoucin, "for he who loves thoroughly would be more afraid of hurting the honor of his mistress than she herself. Hence it seems to me that a gracious response, such as is called for by a seemly and genuine love, would only give more lustre to the honor and conscience of a lady. I say a seemly love, for I maintain that those who love otherwise do not love perfectly."
"That is always the upshot of your orisons," said Ennasuite. "You begin with honor, and end with its opposite. If all the gentlemen present will tell us the truth of the matter, I will believe them on their oaths."
Hircan swore that he had never loved any one but his wife, and that it was far from his wish to make her offend God. Simontault spoke to the same effect, and added that he had often wished that all women were ill-natured except his own wife. "You deserve that yours should be so," retorted Geburon; "but for my part, I can safely swear that I loved a woman so much that I would rather have died than have made her do anything capable of diminishing the esteem in which I held her. My love was so founded upon her virtues, that I would not have seen a stain upon them for the most precious favors I could have obtained from her."
"I thought, Geburon," said Saffredent, laughing, "that the love you have for your wife, and the good sense with which nature has endowed you, would have saved you from playing, the lover elsewhere; but I see I was mistaken, for you use the very phrases which we are accustomed to employ to dupe the most subtle of dames, and under favor of which we obtain a hearing from the most discreet. Where is the lady, indeed, who will not lend us an ear when we begin our discourse with honor and virtue? But if we were all to lay open our hearts before them just as they are, there is many a man well received by the ladies, whom then they would not condescend so much as to look upon. We hide our devil under the form of the handsomest angel we can find, and so receive many a favor before we are found out. Perhaps, even, we lead the ladies so far, that thinking to go straight to virtue, they have neither time nor opportunity to retreat when they find themselves face to face with vice."
"I thought you quite a different sort of man," said Geburon, "and imagined that virtue was more agreeable to you than pleasure."
"Why," said Saffredent, "is there any greater virtue than to love in the way God has ordained? To me it seems much better to love a woman as a woman, than to make her one's idol, as many do. For my part, I am convinced that it is better to use than to abuse."
All the ladies coincided in opinion with Geburon, and bade Saffredent hold his tongue. "Very well," said he; "I am content to say no more on the subject, for I have fared so badly with regard to it that I don't want to have any more to do with it."
"You may thank your own bad thoughts for having fared badly," said Longarine; "for where is the woman with a proper sense of decorum who would have you for a lover after what you have just said?"
"There are those," he retorted, "who did not think me intolerable, and who would not have exchanged their own sense of decorum for yours. But let us say no more about it, in order that my anger may shock no one, and may not shock myself. Let us think to whom Dagoucin will give his voice."
"I give it to Parlamente," he replied at once, "persuaded as I am that she must know better than any one what is honorable and perfect friendship."
"Since you elect me to tell a story," said Parlamente, "I will relate to you one which occurred to a lady who had always been one of my good friends, and has never concealed anything from me."
A Captain of a Galley, under the cloak of devotion, fell in love with a Demoiselle. What happened in consequence.
THERE was in the household of the regent, mother of King Francis, a very devout lady, married to a gentleman of the same character. Though her husband was old, and she young and fair, nevertheless she served him and loved him as though he had been the handsomest young man in the world. To leave him no cause of uneasiness, she made it her care to live with him like a woman of his own age, shunning all company, all magnificence in dress, all sorts of dances and diversions such as women are usually fond of, and making the service of God her sole pleasure and recreation. One day her husband told her that from his youth upwards he had longed to make the journey to Jerusalem, and be asked her what she thought of the matter. She, whose only thought was how to please him, replied, "Since God has deprived us of children, my dear, and has given us wealth enough, I should be strongly inclined to spend a part of it in performing that sacred journey; for, whether you go to Jerusalem or elsewhere, I am resolved to accompany, and never forsake you." The good man was so pleased with this reply, that he fancied himself already standing on Mount Calvary.
Just at this time there arrived at court a gentleman who had served long against the Turks, and who was come to obtain the king's approval for a projected enterprise against a fortress belonging to the Ottomans, the success of which was likely to be very advantageous to Christendom. The old devotee talked with him about his expedition, and learning from him that he was resolved upon it, asked him if he would be disposed, after it was accomplished, to make another journey to Jerusalem, which himself and his wife had a great desire to see. The captain highly approving of so good a design, promised to accompany him, and to keep the thing secret. The old gentleman was impatient to see his wife, to tell her what he had done. As she had scarcely less longing than her husband to perform the journey, she talked of it often to the captain, who, paying more attention to her person than to her words, became so much in love with her, that in talking to her of the voyages he had made by sea, he often confounded the port of Marseilles with the Archipelago, and said horse when he meant to say ship, so much was he beside himself. He found her, however, of so singular a character that he durst not let her see that he loved her, much less tell her so in words. The fire of his passion became so violent by dint of his concealing it, that it often made him ill. The demoiselle, who regarded him as her guide, took as much care of him as of the cross, and sent to inquire after him so often, that the interest she evinced for him cured the patient without the aid of physic. Several persons who knew that the captain had always had a better reputation for valor than for devotion, were surprised at the great intercourse between him and this lady; and seeing that he had changed from white to black, that he frequented the churches, attended sermons, and performed all the devoirs of a devotee, they doubted not that he did so to ingratiate himself with the lady, and could not even help hinting as much to him. The captain, fearing lest this should come to the ears of the lady, withdrew from society, and told her husband and her that, being on the point of receiving his orders and quitting the court, he had many things to say to them; but that for the greater secrecy he would only confer with them in private, to which end he begged they would send for him when they had both retired for the night.
This proposal being quite to the old gentleman's liking, he failed not to go to bed early every night and make his wife undress. After everybody had gone to rest he used to send for the captain to talk about the journey to Jerusalem, in the course of which the good man often fell asleep devoutly. On these occasions, the captain seeing the old gentleman sleeping like the blessed, and himself seated in a chair at the bedside, close to her whom he thought the most charming woman in the world, felt his heart so hard pressed between his fear and his desire to declare himself, that he often lost the use of his tongue. But that she might not perceive his perplexity, he launched out upon the holy places of Jerusalem, where are to be seen the memorials of the great love which Jesus Christ had for us. What he said of that love was only uttered to conceal his own; and while he expatiated upon it he kept his eyes fixed on the lady, wept and sighed so à propos that her heart was quite penetrated with piety. Believing from this outward appearance of devotion that he was quite a saint, she begged him to tell her how he had lived, and how he had come to love God with such fervor? He told her he was a poor gentleman, who to acquire wealth and honors had forgotten his conscience, and married a lady who was too nearly related to him; one who was rich, but old and ugly, and whom he did not love at all; that after having drawn all his wife's money from her, he had gone to seek his fortune at sea, and had sped so well that he had become captain of a galley; but that since he had had the honor of her acquaintance, her holy converse and her good example had so changed him, that he was resolved, if by God's grace he came back alive from his expedition, to take her and her husband to Jerusalem, there to do penance for his great sins which he had forsaken, after which it would only remain for him to make reparation to his wife, to whom he hoped soon to be reconciled. This account which he gave of himself was very pleasing to the pious lady, who congratulated herself much on having converted a sinner of such magnitude.
These nocturnal confabulations continued every night until the departure of the captain, who never ventured to declare himself. Only he made the fair devotee a present of a crucifix from Our Lady of Pity, beseeching her, whenever she looked upon it, to think of him. The time of his departure being come, and having taken leave of the husband, who was falling asleep, he had last of all to take leave of the fair one, in whose eyes he saw tears, drawn forth by the kind feeling she entertained for him. His impassioned heart so thrilled at the sight, that he almost fainted as he bade her farewell, and burst into such an extraordinary perspiration, that he wept, so to speak, not only with his eyes, but with every part of his body. Thus he departed without any explanation, and the lady, who never before had seen such tokens of regret, was quite astonished at his emotion. She had not the less good opinion of him for all that, and her prayers accompanied him on his way. A month afterwards, as she was returning to her own house one day, she was met by a gentleman, who delivered a letter to her from the captain, begging her to read it in private, and assuring her that he had seen him embark, fully resolved to perform an expedition which should be pleasing to the king and advantageous to the faith. At the same the gentleman mentioned that he was going back to Marseilles to look after the captain's affairs. The lady went to the window and opened the letter, which consisted of two sheets of paper written all over. It was an elaborate declaration of the feelings which the writer had so carefully concealed, and in it was enclosed a large handsome diamond mounted in a black enameled ring, which the lady was supplicated to put on her fair finger.
Having read the enormously long letter from beginning to end, the lady was the more astonished as she had never suspected the captain's love for her. The diamond caused her much perplexity, for she knew not what to do with it. After thinking over the matter all that day, and dreaming of it at night, she rejoiced that she could abstain from replying for want of a messenger, saying to herself, that as the bearer of the letter had taken such pains on the writer's behalf; she ought to spare him the mortification of such a reply as she had resolved to give him, but which she now thought fit to reserve till the captain's return. The diamond was still a cause of much embarrassment to her, as it was not her custom to adorn herself at any one's expense but her husband's. At last her good sense suggested to her that she could not employ it better than for the relief of the captain's conscience, and she instantly despatched it by the hands of one of her servants to the captain's forlorn wife, to whom she wrote as follows, in the assumed character of a nun of Tarrascon :
"MADAM,–Your husband passed this way a little before he embarked. He confessed, and received his Creator like a good Christian, and declared to me a fact which lay heavy on his conscience, namely, his regret for not having loved you as he ought. He begged me at his departure to send you this letter with this diamond, which he begs you to keep for his sake, assuring you that if God brings him back safe and sound, he will make amends for the past by all the love that you can desire. This diamond will be for you a pledge of his word. I ask of you on his behalf the aid of your good prayers; for all my life he shall have part in mine."
When the captain's wife received this letter and the diamond, it may well be imagined how she wept with joy and sorrow; joy at being loved by her husband, and sorrow at being deprived of his presence. She kissed the ring a thousand times, washing it with her tears, and praised God for having restored her husband's affection to her at the close of her days, and when she least expected it. The nun who under God had wrought such a blessing for her was not forgotten in her grateful acknowledgments. She replied to her by the same man, who made his mistress laugh heartily when he told her how the captain's wife had received her communication. The fair devotee congratulated herself on having got rid of the diamond in so pious a manner, and was as much rejoiced at having re-established the good understanding between the husband and wife as though she had gained a kingdom.
Some time afterwards news arrived of the defeat and death of the poor captain. He had been abandoned by those who ought to have supported him, and the Rhodians, who had most interest in concealing his design, were the first to make it known. Nearly eighty men who had made a descent on the land were cut off almost to a man. Among them there was a gentleman named Jean and a converted Turk, for whom the fair devotee had been godmother, and whom she had given to the captain to accompany him on his expedition. Jean fell along with the captain; the Turk, wounded in fifteen places with arrows, escaped by swimming to the French vessels, and it was from his report that it was known exactly how the thing had happened. A certain gentleman whom the captain believed to be his friend, and whose interests he had advanced with the king and the greatest personages in France, after the captain had landed stood off shore with his vessels. The captain, seeing that his scheme was discovered, and that he was opposed by four thousand Turks, set about retreating. But the gentleman in whom he put such confidence, considering that after his death he himself would have the command and the profit of that great fleet represented to the officers that it was not right to risk the king's vessels and the lives of so many brave men on board them in order to save eighty or a hundred persons. The officers, as spiritless as himself, coincided with him in opinion. The captain, seeing that the more he called to them the more they drew off from the shore, faced round against his foes, and though he was up to his knees in sand, he defended himself so valiantly, that it almost seemed as if his single arm would defeat the assailants. But at last he received so many wounds from the arrows of those who durst not approach him within less than bowshot distance, that he began to grow weak from loss of blood. The Turks, seeing that the Christians were nearly spent, fell upon them with the scimitars; but notwithstanding the overwhelming numbers of the foe, the Christians defended themselves as long as they had breath. The captain called to him the gentleman named Jean, and the Turk whom the devotee had given him, and planting his sword in the ground, kissed and embraced the cross on his knees, saying, "Lord, receive the soul of him who has not spared his life for the exaltation of thy name." Jean, seeing him droop as he uttered these words, took him and his sword in his arms, wishing to succour him; but a Turk cut both his thighs to the bone from behind. "Come, captain," he cried, as he received the stroke, "let us go to Paradise to see him for whose sake we die." As he had been united with the captain in life, so was he also in death. The Turk, seeing that he could be of no use to either of them, and that he was pierced with arrows, made his way to the vessels by swimming; and though he was the only one who had escaped out of eighty, the perfidious commander would not receive him. But being a good swimmer, he went from vessel to vessel, till at last he was taken on board a small one, where in the course of a little time he was cured of his wounds.
It was through this foreigner that the truth became known respecting this event, glorious to the captain, and shameful to his companion in arms. The king, and all good people who heard of it, deemed the act of the latter so black towards God and man; that there was no punishment too bad for him. But on his return he told so many lies, and made so many presents, that not only did his crime remain unpunished, but he succeeded to the post of him whose lackey he was not worthy to be. When the sad news reached the court, the regent-mother, who highly esteemed the captain, greatly mourned his loss. So did the king and all who had known him. When she, whom he had so passionately loved, heard of his strange, piteous, and Christian end, the obduracy she had felt towards him melted into tears, and her lamentations were shared by her husband, whose pilgrim hopes were frustrated by the catastrophe.
I must not forget to mention that a demoiselle belonging to this lady, who loved the gentleman Jean better than herself, told her mistress the very day the captain and he were killed, that she had seen in a dream him whom she loved so much, that he had come to her in white raiment to bid her farewell, and told her that he was going to Paradise with his captain. But when she learned that her dream was true, she made such piteous moans that her mistress had enough to do to console her. Some time after the court went into Normandy, of which province the captain was a native, and his wife failed not to come and pay her respects to the regent-mother, intending to be introduced by the lady with whom her husband had been so much in love. Whilst waiting for the hour when she could have audience, the two ladies entered a church, where the widow began to laud her husband, and make lamentations over his death. "I am, madam, the most unhappy of women," she said. "God has taken my husband from me at the time when he loved me more than ever he had done." So saying, she showed her the diamond she wore on her finger as a pledge of his perfect affection. This was not said without a world of tears; and the other lady, who saw that her good-natured fraud had produced so excellent an effect, was so strongly tempted to laugh in spite of her grief, that not being able to present the widow to the regent, she handed her over to another, and retired into a chapel, where she had her laugh out. *
Methinks, ladies, that those of our sex to whom presents are made, ought to be glad to employ them as usefully as did this good lady; for they would find that there is pleasure and joy in doing good. We must by no means accuse her of fraud but praise her good sense which enabled her to extract good out of a bad thing.
"You mean to say, then," said Nomerfide, "that a fine diamond worth two hundred crowns is a bad thing? I assure you, if it had fallen into my hands, neither his wife nor his relations would ever have set eyes on it. Nothing is more one's own than a thing that is given. The captain was dead, no one knew anything of the matter, and she might well have abstained from making the poor old woman cry."
"Good faith, you are right," said Hircan, "for there is many a woman who, to show that she is better than others, does acts contrary to her nature. In fact, do we not all know that nothing is more covetous than a woman? Yet vanity often prevails with them over avarice, and makes them do things in which their hearts have no share. In my opinion, the lady who set so little store by the diamond did not deserve it."
"Gently, gently," said Oisille; "I think I know her, and I pray you not to condemn her unheard."
"I do not condemn her, madam," replied Hircan; "but if the gentleman was so gallant a man as he has been represented to have been, it was a glorious thing for her to have a lover of such merit and to wear his ring. But perhaps some one less worthy to be loved held her so fast by the finger that the ring could not be placed on it."
"Truly," said Ennasuite, "she might fairly keep it, since no one knew anything about it."
"What!" exclaimed Geburon, "is everything allowable for those who love, provided nobody knows of it?"
"I have never," said Saffredent, "seen anything punished as a crime except imprudence; in fact, no murderer, robber, or adulterer, is ever punished by justice, or blamed amongst men, provided they are as cunning as they are wicked. But wickedness often blinds them so that they become witless. Thus it may be truly said that it is only fools who are punished and not the vicious."
"You may say what you will," said Oisille, "but it is for God to judge the heart of the lady; for my part, I see nothing in her conduct but what is comely and virtuous, and to put an end to this dispute, I beg you, Parlamente, to call on some one to follow you."
"I have great pleasure in calling on Simontault," replied Parlemente, "and I am mistaken if, after these two sad novels, he will not give us one which will not make us weep."
"That is almost as good as saying that I am a buffoon," said Simontault. "By way of revenge, I will let you see that there are women who make a show of being chaste with regard to certain people, or for a certain time; but the end unmasks them, as you will see by this true story."
Subtlety of a Lover who, counterfeiting the real Favorite, found means to recompense himself for his past troubles.
IN the time when the grand-master of Chaumont was governor of the duchy of Milan, there was a gentleman named Bonnivet, whose merits afterwards raised him to the rank of admiral of France. As his rare endowments made him liked by everybody, he was often a welcome guest at banquets and entertainments where ladies were present, and he was better received by them than ever was Frenchman before or since, both because he was a handsome, agreeable man, and spoke well, and because he had the reputation of being one of the ablest and most resolute soldiers of his time. One day during the carnival, when he was among the maskers, he danced with a lady, one of the handsomest and finest women in Milan. At every pause in the music he failed not to entertain her with the language of love, in which no one was such an adept as he; but the fair one; not thinking herself bound to respond to his most humble supplications, cut him short, told him flatly that she neither loved nor ever would love any one but her husband, and that he had better address his tender speeches elsewhere. Nothing daunted by this reply, which he would by no means take for a refusal, Bonnivet stuck to the lady, and continued to press his suit with great vivacity until Mid-Lent. In spite of all his endeavors he found her steadfast in the resolution she had expressed, yet could not persuade himself that all this was real earnest, seeing the hard favor of the husband and the beauty of the wife.
Convinced, then, that she practised dissimulation, he resolved to have recourse to the same art, and thenceforth desisted from his solicitations. He narrowly inquired into her conduct, and found that she loved an Italian gentleman of good parts and accomplishments. Bonnivet gradually insinuated himself into the Italian's acquaintance, and did so with such adroitness that the latter never suspected his motive, but conceived such an esteem for him, that next to his fair one he was the person he loved best in the world. In order to extract the Italian gentleman's secret from his breast, Bonnivet pretended to unlock his own, and told him that he loved a lady, naming one whom he scarcely ever thought of; at the same time begging him to keep the secret, that they might both have but one heart and one thought. The Italian, in return for the confidence which Bonnivet reposed in him, informed him, without reserve, of his passion for the lady before mentioned, on whom Bonnivet wanted to be revenged. The two friends met every day, and mutually recounted the good fortunes of the last four-and-twenty hours, with this difference, however, that one lied and the other told the truth. The Italian confessed that he had loved the lady in question for three years, without ever having obtained from her more than fair words and assurances that he was loved. Bonnivet gave him his very best advice; the Italian acted upon it, and prospered by it so well, that in a few days the lady consented to fulfil all his desires. Nothing remained now but to contrive means for their meeting; but as Bonnivet was fertile in expedients, this was soon done.
"I am more obliged to you than to any man living," said the Italian to him one evening before supper, "for, thanks to your excellent advice, I expect this night to enjoy what I have been longing for so many years."
"Pray let me know the nature of your enterprise," said Bonnivet, "so that if there is any risk in it, or it requires any artifice, l may aid and serve as your friend."
He then learned that the lady had an opportunity for leaving the great door of the house open, under the pretext of enabling one of her brothers, who was ill, to send out at any hour of the night for what he might require. The Italian was to enter the court-yard through that door, but was not to ascend the main staircase. He was to turn to the right to a small staircase, go up it to the first gallery, on which the chambers of her father-in-law and her brother-in-law opened. He was to take the third door from the stairs, push it gently, and if he found it locked, he was to go away at once, for he might conclude for certain that her husband had returned, though he was not expected back for two days; but if he found the door open, he was to come in softly, and lock the door behind him, being assured that there was no one in the room but herself. Above all, he was to wear felt shoes that he might make no noise, and not leave home till two hours after midnight, for her brothers-in-law, who were much addicted to play, never went to bed till past one o'clock. Bonnivet congratulated his friend, wished him good speed, and bade him not hesitate to command his services if he could be of any use to him. The Italian thanked him, said that in affairs such as this one could not be too much alone, and went off to make his preparations.
Bonnivet, on his side, did not sleep; and seeing that the time was come to be revenged on the cruel fair one, he went to bed early, had his beard trimmed after the fashion of the Italian's, and his hair cut so that she might not recognize the difference if she touched him. The felt shoes were not forgotten, nor any of the other things which the Italian was accustomed to wear. As he was held in high consideration by the lady's father-in-law, he did not hesitate to go early to the house, being prepared, in case any one perceived him, to go straight to the chamber of the old gentleman, with whom he had some business.
He reached the house at midnight; met several people in it passing to and fro, but no one noticed him, and he made his way into the gallery. He touched the first two doors, and found them shut; the third being open he entered it, and locked it behind him. The chamber was all hung with white and there was a bed with a drapery of the same color, of such fine stuff and so excellently wrought with the needle, that nothing could be handsomer. The lady was alone in bed, dressed in the most exquisite night-gear, as he could perceive (himself unseen) through a corner of the curtain, for there was a large wax candle burning in the room. For fear of being recognized, he first put out the light; then he undressed and went to bed to her. The fair one, believing him to be the man she had loved so long, received him with all possible caresses; but he, well knowing that he owed all this to her mistake, took good heed not to say one word to her, his only care being to revenge himself at the cost of her honor, and without being under any obligation to her; but she liked that sweet revenge so well, that she thought she had recompensed him for all his sufferings. This lasted till the clock struck one, when it was time to leave her. Then he asked her, in a very low whisper, if she was as well satisfied with him as he was with her. She, thinking still that he was her lover, replied that she was not only satisfied, but even surprised at the excess of his love, which had kept him an hour without speaking. Upon this he could restrain himself no longer. "Now, madam," he said, laughing outright, "will you refuse me another time, as you have hitherto done?"
"The lady, recognizing him too late by his voice and his laughter, was overwhelmed with shame and vexation, and called him a thousand times impostor, cheat, traitor, villain! She would have sprung out of bed to look for a knife with which to kill herself for having been so unhappy as to lose her honor for a man whom she did not love, and who, to be revenged upon her, might make known this affair to the whole world. But he held her fast, and vowed so hard that he would love her better than the other, and would faithfully keep her secret, that at last she believed him, and was pacified. He then told her how he had contrived to find himself where he then was, and related to her all the pains he had taken to win her; whereupon she praised his ingenuity, and vowed that she would love him better than the other, who had not been able to keep her secret. She was now convinced, she said, how false were the prejudices that prevailed against the French, who were better men, more persevering and more discreet than the Italians; and from that moment she would cast off the erroneous opinions of her countrypeople, and attach herself heartily to him. Only she entreated him that for some time he would forbear from showing himself at any entertainment or in any place where she might be, unless he were masked; for she knew well she should be so much ashamed, that her countenance would tell tales of her to everybody. Having, promised this, he begged her in his turn to receive his friend well when he should come about two o'clock, and afterwards get rid of him by degrees. She made great difficulties about this, and only yielded at last under the strong coercion of her love for Bonnivet, who on taking leave of her behaved so much to her satisfaction that she would gladly have had him stay a little longer.
Having risen and put on his clothes, he went out of the room, and left the door ajar, as he had found it. As it was near two o'clock, he withdrew into a corner near the head of the stairs, lest he should meet the Italian; and soon afterwards saw him pass along the gallery and enter the fair one's chamber. Bonnivet then went home to rest after the fatigues of the night, and remained in bed till nine next morning. The Italian failed not to come to him when he was getting up, and gave him an account of his adventure, which had not turned out quite so agreeably as he had expected; for, said he, "I found the lady out of bed in her dressing-gown, and in a high fever, her pulse beating violently, her face all on fire, and such a great perspiration breaking out upon her, that she begged me to go away for fear she should be obliged to call her women to her. She was so ill, in short, that she had more need to think of death than of love, and to be put in mind of Heaven rather than of Cupid. She was very sorry, she told me, that I had run such a hazard for her sake, since she could not make me any requital in this world, being about, as she hoped, to find herself soon in a better one. I was so shocked at a mischance I so little anticipated, that my fire and my joy were changed to ice and sadness, and I instantly withdrew. At daylight this morning I sent to inquire for her, and have received word that she is extremely ill."
As he delivered this sad report he wept so piteously that one would have thought his soul would have been washed out with his tears. Bonnivet, who was as much disposed to laugh as the other was to weep, consoled him as well as he could, and bade him recollect that things of long duration always seem to have an untoward beginning, and that love had caused this delay only to enhance his future enjoyment. Thereupon the two friends parted. The lady kept her bed for some days, and was no sooner out of it once more than she dismissed her first lover, alleging as her reason the fear of death in which she had been, and the terror of her conscience. She devoted herself wholly to Bonnivet, whose love lasted, as usual, about as long as the bloom and beauty of the flowers.
It strikes me, ladies, that Bonnivet's sly manoeuvres were a fair set-off against the hypocrisy of the Milanese lady, who, after playing the prude so long, at last let her lasciviousness be seen.
"You may say what you please of women," said Ennasuite; "but Bonnivet's conduct was anything but that of a man of honor. If a woman loves a man, is that any reason why another should have her by trickery?"
"Set it down for certain," said Geburon, "that when that sort of goods is for sale, they are always carried off by the highest and last bidder. Do not imagine that those who serve ladies take such a word of trouble for their sakes. No, it is for themselves, and for their own pleasure."
"Of that I entertain no manner of doubt," said Longarine; "for, to be frank with you, all the lovers I have had have invariably begun by talking of my interests, and telling me that they loved my life, my welfare, and my honor, and the upshot of it all has no less invariably been their own interest, their own pleasure, and their own vanity. So it is best to dismiss them before they have finished the first part of their sermon; for when you come to the second, you cannot refuse them with so much credit to yourself, since declared vice is a thing to be rejected as a matter of course."
"According to your doctrine, then," said Ennasuite, "one ought to rebuff a man as soon as he opens his mouth, without knowing what he has to say."
"Not so," replied Parlamente. "Every one knows that, at the outset, a woman ought not to let it appear that she understands, still less that she believes, the declaration made to her by a lover; but when he comes to strong oaths, it strikes me that it is more becoming in the lady to leave him in the middle of that fine road than to go with him all the way to the bottom."
"Nay, but are we always to assume that they love us with a criminal passion?" said Nomerfide. "Is it not sinful to think ill of one's neighbor?"
"You may believe this or not, as you please," said Oisille; "but there is so much reason for fearing that such is the case, that the moment you discover the least inkling of it, you cannot be too prompt in getting away from a fire which is too apt to burn up a heart before even it is once perceived."
"That is a very hard law you lay down," replied Hircan, "If women, whom gentleness becomes so well, were all as rigorous as you would have them to be, we men would lay aside meekness and supplication, and have recourse to stratagem and violence."
"The best thing," said Simontault, "is, that every one should follow the bent of his nature, and love or not, as he pleases, but always without dissimulation."
"Would to God," exclaimed Saffredent, "that the observance of this law were as productive of honor as it would be of pleasure!"
But Dagoucin could not refrain from observing, "Those who would rather die than make known their sentiments, could not endure your law."
"Die!" cried Hircan. "The good knight is yet unborn who would die for any such cause. But let us say no more of what is impossible, and see to whom Simontault will give his voice."
"To Longarine," replied the gentleman thus appealed to; "for I observed her just now talking to herself. I suspect she was conning over some good thing, and she is not wont to disguise the truth either against man or woman."
"Since you think me such a friend to the truth," said Longarine, "I will tell you a story, which, though not quite so much to the credit of our sex as I could wish, will, nevertheless, show you that there are women who have as much spirit and as sound wits as men, and are not inferior to them in cunning. If my story is somewhat long, I will endeavor to make you amends by a little gaiety."
A lady of the Court, seeing herself neglected by her husband, whose love was bestowed elsewhere, retaliated upon him.
THERE was at the court of King Francis the First a gentleman whom I could name if I would. He was poor, not having five hundred livres a year; but the king prized him so highly for his great endowments, that he bestowed upon him a wife so wealthy that a great lord might have been satisfied with such a match. As his wife was still very young, the king requested one of the greatest ladies of the court to take her into her household, which she did with great willingness. The gentleman was so well-bred and so good-looking, that he was greatly esteemed by all the court ladies, especially by one of them, whom the king loved, and who was neither so young nor so handsome as his wife. The gentleman loved this lady so passionately, and made so little account of his wife, that he hardly shared her bed one night in the year; and to add to the poor creature's mortification, he never spoke to her, or showed her any token of kindness; a sort of treatment which she found it very hard to bear. Meanwhile he spent her income for his own gratification, and allowed her so small a share of it, that she had not wherewithal to dress as became her quality. The lady with whom she resided often complained of this to the husband. "Your wife," she said, "is handsome, rich, and of a good family, yet you neglect her. Her extreme youth has enabled her hitherto to endure this neglect; but it is to be feared that when she comes to maturer years, her mirror, and some one who is no friend to you, will so set before her eyes her beauty which you disdain, that resentment will prompt her to do what she would not have dared to think of if you had treated her better." But the gentleman, whose heart was set elsewhere, made light of these judicious remonstrances, and went on in his old ways.
After two or three years, the young wife began to be one of the finest women in France. Her reputation was so great that it was commonly reported at court that she had not her equal. The more sensible she became that she was worthy to be loved, the more poignantly she felt her husband's contemptuous treatment, and but for the efforts of her mistress to console her, she would almost have sunk into hopeless melancholy. After having tried in vain every means to please her husband, she came to the conclusion that it was impossible he should so ill respond to the love she bore him unless he were captivated elsewhere. With this idea in her mind, she set to work so carefully and so shrewdly that she found out where it was he was so occupied every night as to forget his conscience and his wife. When she had thus got certain evidence of the life he led, she fell into such deep despondency that she would wear nothing but black, and shunned all places of amusement. Her mistress perceived this, and omitted nothing by which she could hope to raise her out of that gloomy mood; but, all her kind efforts were unavailing. Her husband was made acquainted with her condition, but instead of caring to relieve it, he only laughed at it.
A great lord who was nearly related to the young wife's protectress, and who paid her frequent visits, having one day been informed of the husband's hard-hearted behavior, was so shocked at it, that he would fain try to console the wife; but he was so charmed with her conversation and manners, and thought her so beautiful, that he had far more desire to make her love him than to talk to her of her husband, except it was to let her know how little cause she had to love such a man. As for the young lady herself, forsaken by him who ought to have loved and cherished her, and wooed by a lord who had everything to recommend him, she thought herself fortunate in having made such a conquest. Though she desired always to preserve her honor, nevertheless she took great pleasure in talking to him, and in seeing that she was loved, a thing whereof she had, so to speak, a famishing need. This tender friendship lasted some time, but at last the king became aware of it, and as he had a great regard for the husband, and would not have any one affront or annoy him, he begged the prince to discontinue his attentions, on pain of incurring the royal displeasure. The prince, who prized the king's good graces above all the ladies in the world, promised to forego his designs, since such was the king's wish, and to go that very evening and bid farewell to the lady.
That evening the husband, being at his window, saw the prince come in and enter his wife's chamber, which was beneath his own. The prince saw him too, but did not turn back for all that. On saying farewell to her whom he was but beginning to love, the only reason he alleged for this change in him was the king's command. After many tears and lamentations, which lasted nearly until one o'clock in the morning, the lady said to him at parting, "I thank God, my lord, for the grace he confers upon me in depriving me of your friendship, since it is so little and so weak that you take it up and lay it down at the commands of men. As for me, I did not consult either mistress, or husband, or myself, whether I should love you or not. Your engaging manners and your good looks won my heart; but since yours is less amorous than timid, you cannot love perfectly, and the friend who is not true and staunch to the uttermost is not the friend for me to love thoroughly, as I had resolved to love you; farewell, then, my lord, you whose timidity does not deserve a love so frank and so sincere as mine."
The prince went away with tears in his eyes, and looking back, he again saw the husband, who had watched him in and out. Next day the prince told him why he had gone to see his wife, and acquainted him with the commands laid upon him by the king, whereat the gentleman was greatly pleased, and gave much thanks to his sovereign. But seeing that his wife was becoming more beautiful every day, and he himself older and less good-looking, he began to change his part, and to assume that which he had long made his wife play; for he sought her more than he had been wont, and took much more notice of her. But the more he sought her the more she shunned him, being very glad to pay him back a part of the distress he had caused her by his indifference. At the same time, not to miss the pleasure which love was beginning to afford her, she cast her eyes on a young gentleman whose person and manners were so engaging, that he was a favorite with all the ladies of the court. By complaining to him of the unkind treatment she had experienced, she inspired him with such pity for her, that he left nothing untried to console her. On her part, to indemnify her for the prince she had lost, she loved this new friend so heartily, that she forgot her past griefs, and thought only of the means of adroitly carrying on her intrigue; and in this she succeeded so well, that her mistress never perceived it, for she took good care never to speak in her presence to her lover. When she had anything to say to him, she went to see certain ladies of the court. Among these was one with whom her husband seemed to be in love.
One dark night after supper she stole away alone, and entered the ladies' room, where she found him whom she loved more than herself. She sat down beside him, and leaning over a table they conversed together, whilst they pretended to be reading a book. Some one whom the husband had set on the watch came and told him whither his wife was gone; and he, like a sensible man as he was, said nothing, but followed her quickly, entered the room, and saw her reading a book. Pretending not to see her, he went straight up to the ladies who were at the other side of the room; whilst so disconcerted was she at being found by him with a man to whom she had never spoken in his presence, that she scrambled over a table and ran away as if her husband was pursuing her sword in hand, and went to her mistress, who was just about to retire for the night.
After her mistress was undressed and she had left the room, she met one of her own women coming to tell her that her husband wanted her. She said flatly she would not go to him, for he was so strange and harsh, that she was afraid he would do her some mischief. Nevertheless, she went at last, for fear of worse. Her husband said not a word to her about what had occurred until they were in bed; but then as she could not help crying, he asked her the cause of her tears? She cried, she said, because she was afraid he was angry at having found her reading with a gentleman. The husband replied that he had never forbidden her to speak to anybody; but that he had been surprised at seeing her run away as if she had done something wrong; and that this had made him believe she loved the gentleman. The end of the matter was, that he forbade her thenceforward to speak to any man, either in public or in private, assuring her that otherwise he would kill her without mercy. But to forbid things we like is the surest way to make us desire them more ardently, and it was not long before this poor woman had forgotten her husband's threats and her own promises.
The very same evening, having gone back to sleep with other demoiselles and her attendants, she sent to invite the gentleman to visit her at night. Her husband, whose jealousy kept him awake, and who had heard that the gentleman used to visit his wife at night, wrapped himself up in a cloak, took a valet de chambre with him, and went and knocked at his wife's door. Up she got, and seeing her women all asleep, she went alone in her mantle and slippers to the door, never in the least suspecting who was there. Her inquiry, who was there? was answered in her lover's name; but for her better assurance, she half opened the wicket and said, "If you are the person you say, give me your hand, and I shall know if you speak truly." The moment she felt her husband's hand, she recognized him, and slamming the wicket, cried out, "Ha, monsieur! it is your hand."
"Yes," cried her husband, in a great passion, "it is the hand that will keep word with you. So fail not to come when I send for you."
With that he went away, and she returned to her chamber more dead than alive. "Get up, my friends," she cried to her women; "get up. You have slept too long for me. I thought to trick you, and I have been tricked myself," and saying this, she fainted away. Her women, thus suddenly roused from their sleep, were astonished at her words, and still more when they saw her lying like a corpse, and they ran hurriedly to and fro in search of means to revive her. When she had recovered her speech, she said to them, "You see before you, my friends, the most wretched creature in the world." Then she related to them her adventure, entreating them to stand by her, for she looked upon herself already as a dead woman. While her women were endeavoring to comfort her, a valet de chambre arrived with a message from her husband, ordering her to come to him instantly. Thereupon she embraced two of her women, and began to cry and shriek, beseeching them not to let her go, for she was sure she should never return. The valet de chambre, however, bade her not be afraid, for he would answer for it with his life that no harm should happen to her. Seeing, then, that resistance was useless, she threw herself into the valet's arms, saying, "Since it must be so, my friend, carry this wretched body to death;" and in fact he carried, rather than led her away, for she was almost in a swoon. The moment she entered her husband's room, she fell on her knees, and said, "Have pity on me, monsieur, I beseech you; and I swear to you before God that I will tell you the whole truth."
"That I am determined you shall," replied the husband in a furious tone, and ordered every one to quit the room. As his wife had always seemed to him very devout, he thought she would not perjure herself if he made her swear on the cross. He therefore sent for a very handsome one he had, and when they were alone he made her swear on that cross that she would speak the truth as to such questions as he should put to her. By this time she had been able to rally her spirits, and having partly recovered from her first terror, she resolved to conceal nothing, but at the same time not to say anything which could compromise her lover. Her husband then put the questions he deemed necessary, and this was how she replied to them:
"I will not attempt to justify myself, monsieur, or to make little of the love I have entertained for the gentleman who is the cause of your jealousy. Whatever I might say to that effect, you could not and ought not to believe it after what has occurred; but I must tell you what has occasioned this love. Never wife so loved her husband as I loved you; and but for your unkindness I should never have loved any one but you. You know that while I was yet a child, my parents wished to marry me to a man of higher birth than you; but they could never make me consent to it from the moment I had spoken to you. I declared for you in spite of all they could say, and without caring for your poverty. You know in what manner you have treated me hitherto. This has caused me such grief and vexation, that but for the support of the lady with whom you have placed me, I should have sunk under my despair. But at last, seeing myself full-grown, and esteemed fair by every one but you, I began to feel so acutely the wrong you did me, that the love I had for you turned into hatred, and the desire of pleasing you, into that of revenging myself. While in this desperate mood, I had opportunity to see a prince who, more obedient to the king than to love, forsook me at a time when I was beginning to derive consolation from an honorable love. After I had lost the prince, I found one who had no need to be at any pains to woo me, for his good looks, his deportment, and his excellent endowments, are enough to make him an object of interest to all women of sense. At my solicitation, and not at his own, he has loved me with such propriety that he has never asked of me anything inconsistent with my honor. Though the little cause I have to love you might induce me to make light of my wedded faith, yet my love for God and my own honor have hitherto prevented me from doing anything I have need to confess, or which can make me apprehensive of infamy. I do not deny that, under pretence of going to say my prayers, I have retired as often as I could into a garderobe to con-
DEUXIÈME JOURNÉE
Nouvelle XVe
"But you, sir, who are the sole cause of my misfortunes, would you desire to be revenged for conduct of which you have so long been setting me an example, with this difference, that what you have done you have done without honor and without conscience? You know, and I know too, that she whom you love does not content herself with what God and reason command. Though the laws of men condemn to infamy women who love any others than their husbands, the law of God, which is infinitely more venerable and more august, condemns men who love any other women than their own wives. If the faults we have both committed be weighed in the balance, you will be found more guilty than I. You are a wise man; you have age and experience enough to know evil, and shun it; but I am young, and have no experience of the force and might of love. You have a wife who loves you, and to whom you are dearer than her own life; and I have a husband who shuns me, hates me, and treats me with such harshness as he would not show to a servant woman. You love a woman in years, lean and lanky, and not so handsome as I am; and I love a gentleman, younger than you, handsomer, and more agreeable. You love the wife of your best friend and the mistress of your sovereign, thus violating friendship and the respect you owe to both; and I love a gentleman who has no other ties than his love for me. Judge now, sir, without partiality, which of us two is the more to be condemned or excused. I do not believe there exists a man of sense and knowledge of the world who would not give his verdict against you, seeing that I am young and ignorant, despised by you and loved by the handsomest and best-bred gentleman in France, and that notwithstanding all that, I love him only because I despair of being loved by you."
Hearing such home truths as these delivered by the lips of a beautiful woman, with such grace and assurance that it was easy to see she did not think herself deserving of any punishment, the husband was so confounded that he knew not what to reply, except that a man's honor and a woman's were different things. Nevertheless, as she swore that nothing criminal had taken place between her and her lover, it was not his intention to love her less; but he begged that she would offend no more, and that they should both forgive and forget the past. She gave a promise to that effect, and the reconciliation being effected, they went to bed together.
Next morning an old demoiselle, who was greatly alarmed for her mistress's life, came to her bedside, and said, "Well, madam, how do you find yourself?" "There is not a better husband in the world than mine," she replied, laughing, "for he believed me on my oath." In this way five or six days passed in apparent harmony between the married pair; meanwhile, however, the husband, whose jealousy was not at all allayed, had his wife narrowly watched night and day; but in spite of all this vigilance his spies could not hinder the lady from again entertaining her lover in a dark and very suspicious place. Nevertheless, she managed the matter so secretly, that no one could ever know the truth for certain; only some valet set a story afloat that he had found a gentleman and a lady in a stable which was under the chamber occupied by the mistress of the lady in question. Upon this doubtful evidence the husband's jealousy became so increased that he resolved to have the gallant assassinated; and he assembled for that purpose a great number of relations and friends, who were to despatch him in case they met him. But it happened that one of the principal persons among the confederates was an intimate friend of the man whose death they plotted; and instead of surprising him, he put him fully on his guard; and the gentleman was such a general favorite, and always had such a good escort of friends, that he did not fear his enemy; nor was he ever assailed.
He thought it right, however, to have a conference with the lady under whose protection his fair one resided, and who had never heard a word of the whole affair, for he had never spoken with the young lady in her presence. Going to a church where he knew that she was, he acquainted her with the husband's jealousy, and the design he had formed against his life, and told her, that although he was innocent, he was resolved to go and travel in foreign countries, in order to extinguish the false report that was beginning to gather strength. The princess was greatly astonished at hearing such news, and vowed that the husband did very wrong to suspect so virtuous a woman as his wife, and one in whom she had never seen anything but virtue and propriety. However, considering the husband's influence, and in order to put an end to this scandalous report, she advised him to withdraw for some time, assuring him she would never believe any such idle fancies and suspicions. Furthermore, she advised him to speak to the husband before his departure.
He took her advice, and meeting the husband in a gallery near the king's chamber, he said to him with an assured countenance, and with the respect due to a man of his rank, "I have all my life desired, monsieur, to render you service, and I learn that in return you laid wait, yesterday evening, for my life. I beg you to consider, monsieur, that although you have more power and authority than I, nevertheless I am a gentleman as well as you, and I should be very loth to part with my life for nothing. I entreat you also to consider that you have a virtuous wife, and if any one chooses to say the contrary, I will tell him that he foully lies. For my part, I am not conscious of having done anything that should give you cause for wishing me ill; therefore, if it so please you, I will remain your obedient servant; or if not, I am the king's, and that is enough for me."
The husband replied, that true it was he had suspected him; but he thought him so gallant a man that he would rather be his friend than his enemy; and, taking leave of him, hat in hand, he embraced him as his friend. You may imagine what was said by those who had been commissioned on the preceding evening to kill the gentleman, when they witnessed these demonstrations of esteem and friendship. The lover then set out on his travels; but as he had less money than good looks, his mistress gave him a ring her husband had given her, worth three thousand crowns, which he pawned for fifteen hundred.
Some time after his departure the husband waited on the princess, and begged leave for his wife to pass some months with one of his sisters. The princess was much surprised at this unexpected request, and pressed him so much to tell her the reason of it, that he partially explained it to her. The young lady then having taken her leave of her mistress and the whole court, without shedding tears, or showing the least sign of grief, set out for the place to which her husband chose to send her, under the care of a gentleman who had express orders to watch her carefully, and above all, not to suffer her to speak on the road with the suspected person. Being aware of the nature of the orders given to her escort, she every day gave them alarms, and made game of their vigilance. On the day she began her journey, she fell in with a Cordelier on horseback, and chatted with him from dinner almost till bedtime. When they were within a good league of the inn, she said to him, "Here, father, are two crowns for the consolations you have afforded me; I have wrapped them in paper as you see, for otherwise I know you would not venture to touch them. Do me the favor to set off at a gallop across the country the moment you quit my side, and take care that you are not seen by the people about me. I say this for your good and for the obligation I am under to you."
Off went the Cordelier accordingly; and no sooner had he gone, than she said to her attendants, "Good servants you are, forsooth, and very vigilant guards. Properly you fulfil the orders of your master who confided in you. The very person with whom you have been commanded not to suffer me to speak, has been conversing with me the whole day, and you have let him alone. You deserve the stick, and not wages." The gentleman to whose care the fair lady had been entrusted was so vexed at hearing this, that he could not answer her a single word. Taking two men with him, he set spurs to his horse and galloped after the Cordelier, who did his best to escape, seeing himself pursued; but as they were better mounted they overtook him. The good father, who had no idea why they treated him in that manner, roared for mercy, and in suppliant humility took off his hood and remained bareheaded. They then perceived that he was not the person they had taken him for, and that their mistress had made fools of them; which she did more cruelly still when they came back from their chase. "You are proper men," she said, "to be entrusted with the care of women. You let them talk without knowing to whom, and then believing anything they choose to tell you, you go and insult God's servants."
After several other pranks as humorous as this, she reached the place of her destination, where her two sisters-in-law and the husband of one of them kept her in great subjection. By this time the husband learned that her ring was pledged for fifteen hundred crowns. To save the honor of his wife and recover the ring, he sent her word to redeem it, and that he would pay the money. Caring nothing for the ring since her lover had the money for it, she wrote to him that her husband constrained her to reclaim it, and lest he should suppose that she loved him less than before, she sent him a diamond which her mistress had given her, and which she prized more than all her other jewels. Her lover cheerfully sent her the merchant's obligation, thinking himself well off to have fifteen hundred crowns and a diamond; but glad above all things at being assured that his mistress loved him still. As long as the husband lived, they remained apart, and could only correspond in writing. Upon the husband's death, the lover, supposing that his mistress still retained the same feelings towards him which she had always professed, lost no time in demanding her hand in marriage; but found that long absence had given him a rival who was preferred to himself. He was so mortified at this, that, shunning all intercourse with ladies, he wooed danger, and died at last, after having distinguished himself as much as ever young man did.
This tale, ladies, in which our sex is not spared, conveys this lesson to husbands: that wives of high spirit suffer themselves to be led astray by resentment and vindictiveness, rather than by the charms of love. The heroine of this novel long resisted that sweet passion, but at last gave way to her despair. A good woman should not do like her, for there is no excuse for a bad action. The more one is exposed to do wrong the more virtue there is in overcoming one's self and doing well, instead of rendering evil for evil, especially as the ill one thinks to do to another often recoils upon the doer. Happy those women in whom God manifests the virtues of chastity, meekness, and patience.
"It strikes me, Longarine," said Hircan, "that the lady you have been telling us of was inspired by resentment more than by love; for had she loved the gentleman as much as she pretended, she would never have quitted him for another; and therefore she may be called spiteful, vindictive, obstinate, and fickle."
"You talk at your ease on such matters," said Ennasuite; "but you know not what a heart-break it is to love without being loved."
"It is true I have little experience in that way," said Hircan; "for only let a lady show the least coldness towards me, and at once I bid adieu to love and her."
"That is all very well," said Parlamente, "for a man like you, who loves only his own pleasure; but an upright wife ought not to forsake her husband."
"And yet," observed Simontault, "the fair one in question forgot for awhile that she was a woman; for a man could not have revenged himself more signally."
"It is not fair," said Oisille, "to conclude from one instance of a naughty woman, that all others are like her."
"You are all women, however," replied Saffredent; "and however bravely adorned you may be, any one who looked carefully under your petticoats would find that you are so."
"We should do nothing but wrangle all day, if we were to listen to you," said Nomerfide. "But I so long to hear another story, that I beg Longarine to call on some one."
Longarine cast her eyes on Geburon, and said, "If you have a story to tell of some good lady, pray do so now."
"Since you call upon me," replied Geburon, "I will relate to you a thing that happened at Milan."
A Milanese lady tested her lover's courage, and afterwards loved him heartily.
AT the time when the Grand-Master of Chaumont was governor of Milan, there was a lady there who passed for one of the most respectable in the city. She was the widow of an Italian count, and resided with her brothers-in-law, not choosing to hear a word about marrying again. Her conduct was so correct and guarded, that she was highly esteemed by all the French and Italians of the duchy. One day, when her brothers and sisters-in-law entertained the Grand-Master of Chaumont, the widow could not help being present, contrary to her custom of never appearing at any festive meeting. The French could not see her without praising her beauty and her grace; one among them especially, whom I will not name. It is enough to inform you that there was not a Frenchman in Italy more worthy to be loved, for he was fully endowed with all the beauties and graces which a gentleman could have. Though he saw the widow dressed in black crape, apart from the young people, and withdrawn into a corner with several old ladies, yet, being one who had never known what it was to fear man or woman, he accosted her, took off his mask, and quitted the dance to converse with her. He passed the whole evening with her and the old ladies her companions, and enjoyed himself more than he could have done with the youngest and sprightliest ladies of the court. So charmed was he with this conversation, that when it was time to retire he hardly believed he had had time to sit down. Though he talked with the widow only upon common topics, suited to the company around her, she failed not to perceive that he was anxious to make her acquaintance, which she was so resolute to prevent, that he could never afterwards meet with her in any company, great or small.
At last, having made inquiries as to her habits of life, and learned that she went often to the churches and religious houses, he set so many people on the watch that she could not go to any of those places so secretly but that he was there before her, and stayed as long as he could see her. He made such good use of his time, and gazed at her with such hearty good-will, that she could not be ignorant of his passion; and to prevent these encounters she resolved to feign illness for some time, and hear mass at home. This was a bitter mortification to the gentleman, for he was thus deprived of his only means of seeing her. At last, when she thought she had baffled his plans, she returned to the churches as before, and Love took care forthwith to make this known to the gentleman, who then resumed his habits of devotion. Fearing lest she should throw some other obstacle in his way, and that he should not have time to make known to her what he felt, one morning, when she was hearing mass in a little chapel, where she thought herself snugly concealed, he placed himself at the end of the altar, and turning to her at the moment when the priest was elevating the host, said, in a voice of deep feeling, "I swear to you, madam, by Him whom the priest holds in his hands, that you are the sole cause of my death. Though you deprive me of all opportunity to address you, yet you cannot be ignorant of the passion I entertain for you. My haggard eyes and death-like countenance must have sufficiently made known to you my condition." The lady pretended not to understand him, and replied, "God's name ought not to be taken in vain; but the poets say that the gods laugh at the oaths and falsehoods of lovers, wherefore women who prize their honor ought neither to be credulous nor pitiful." So saying, she rose and went home.
Those who have been in the like predicament will readily believe that the gentleman was sorely cast down at receiving such a reply. However, as he did not lack courage, he thought it better to have met with a rebuff than to have missed an opportunity of declaring his love. He persevered for three years, and lost not a moment in which he could solicit her by letters and by other means; but during all that time she never made him any other reply, but shunned him as the wolf shuns the mastiff; and that not by reason of any aversion she felt for him, but because she was afraid of exposing her honor and reputation. The gentleman was so well aware that there lay the knot of the difficulty, that he pushed matters more briskly than ever; till, after a world of trouble, refusals, and sufferings, the lady was touched by his constancy, took pity on him, and granted him what he had so long desired and waited for.
The assignation having been made, and the requisite measures concerted, the gentleman failed not to present himself at the rendezvous, at whatever risk of his life, for the fair widow resided with her relations. But as he was not less cunning than handsome, he managed so adroitly, that he was in the lady's chamber at the moment appointed. He found her alone in a handsome bed; but as he was undressing in eager haste he heard whisperings outside the chamber door, and the noise of swords clashing against the walls. "We are undone," cried the widow, more dead than alive. "Your life and my honor are in mortal peril. My brothers are coming to kill you. Hide yourself under the bed, I beseech you; for then they will not find you, and I shall have a right to complain of their alarming me without cause."
The gentleman, who was not easily frightened, coolly replied, "What are your brothers that they should make a man of honor afraid? If their whole race was assembled at the door, I am confident they would not stand the fourth lunge of my sword. Remain quietly in bed therefore, and leave me to guard the door."
Then, wrapping his cloak around his left arm, and with his sword in his hand, he opened the door, and saw that the threatening weapons were brandished by two servant maids. "Forgive us, monsieur," they said. "It is by our mistress's orders we do this; but you shall have no more annoyance from us." The gentleman, seeing that his supposed antagonists were women, contented himself with bidding them go the devil, and slamming the door in their faces. He then jumped into bed to his mistress without delay. Fear had not cooled his ardor, and without wasting time in asking the meaning of the sham alarm, he thought only of satisfying his passion.
Towards daylight he asked his bedfellow why she had so long delayed his happiness, and what was her reason for making her servants behave so oddly? "I had resolved," she said, laughing, "never to love; and I have adhered to that resolution ever since I became a widow. But the first time you spoke to me, I saw so much to admire in you, that I changed my mind, and began from that hour to love you as much as you loved me. It is true that honor, which has always been the ruling principle of my conduct, would not suffer love to make me do anything which might blemish my reputation. But as the stricken deer thinks to change its pain by change of place, so did I go from church to church, hoping to fly from him whom I carried in my heart, the proof of whose perfect love has reconciled honor with love. But to be thoroughly assured that I gave my heart to a man who was perfectly worthy of it, I ordered my women to do as they have done. I can assure you, if you had been frightened enough to hide under the bed, my intention was to have got up and gone into another room, and never have had anything more to do with you. But as I have found you not only comely and pleasing, but also full of valor and intrepidity to a degree even beyond what fame had reported you; as I have seen that fear could not appal you, nor in the least degree cool the ardor of your passion for me, I have resolved to attach myself to you for the rest of my days; being well assured that I cannot place my life and my honor in better hands than in those of him whom of all men in the world I believe to be the bravest and the best." *
And if human will could be immutable, they mutually promised and vowed a thing which was not in their power–I mean, perpetual affection–which can neither grow up nor abide in the hearts of men, as those ladies know who have learned by experience what is the duration of such engagements. Therefore, ladies, if you are wise, you will be on your guard against us, as the stag would be against the hunter if the animal had reason; for our felicity, our glory, and delight, is to see you captured, and to despoil you of what ought to be dearer to you than life.
"Since when have you turned preacher, Geburon?" said Hircan. "You did not always talk in that fashion."
"It is true," replied Geburon, "that I have all my life long held a quite different language; but as my teeth are bad, and I can no longer chew venison, I warn the poor deer against the hunters, that I may make amends in my old age for the mischiefs I have desired in my youth."
"Thank you, Geburon, for your warning," retorted Nomerfide; "but after all, we doubt that we have much reason to be obliged to you; for you did not speak in that way to the lady you loved so much; therefore, it is a proof that you do not love us, or yet wish that we should love. Yet we believe ourselves to be as prudent and virtuous as those you so long chased in your young days. But it is a common vanity of the old to believe that they have always been more discreet than those who come after them."
"When the cajolery of one of your wooers," retorted Geburon, "shall have made you acquainted with the nature of men, you will then believe, Nomerfide, that I have told you the truth."
"To me it seems probable," observed Oisille, "that the gentleman whose intrepidity you extol so highly must rather have been possessed by the fury of love, a passion so violent, that it makes the greatest poltroons undertake things which the bravest would think twice before attempting."
"If he had not believed, madam," said Saffredent, "that the Italians are readier with their tongues than with their hands, methinks he must have been frightened."
"Yes," said Oisille, "if he had not had a fire in his heart which burns up fear."
"Since you do not think the courage of this gentleman sufficiently laudable," said Hircan, "I presume you know of some other instance which seems to you more worthy of praise."
"It is true that this gentleman's courage deserves some praise," said Oisille, "but I know an instance of intrepidity that is worthy of higher admiration."
"Pray tell us it, then, madam," said Geburon.
"If you so much extol," said Oisille, "the bravery of a man who displayed it for the defence of his own life and of his mistress's honor, what praise is too great for another, who, without necessity, and from pure valor, behaved in the manner I am about to relate?"
King Francis gives a signal proof of his courage in the case of Count Guillaume, who designed his death.
A GERMAN Count named Guillaume, of the House of Saxe, to which that of Savoy is so closely allied that anciently the two made but one, came to Dijon, in Burgundy, and entered the service of King Francis. This count, who was considered one of the finest men in Germany, and also one of the bravest, was so well received by the king, that he not only took him into his service, but placed him near his person, as one of the gentlemen of his chamber. The Seigneur de la Tremouille, Governor of Burgundy, an old knight and a faithful servant of the king, being naturally suspicious and attentive to his master's interests, had always a good number of spies among his enemies to discover their intrigues; and he conducted himself with such wariness that little escaped his notice. One day he received a letter, informing him among other things that Count Guillaume had already received certain sums of money, with promises of more, provided he would have the king put to death in any way in which it could be done. The Seigneur de la Tremouille instantly communicated the intelligence to the king, and made no secret of it to Madame Louise, of Savoy, his mother, who, putting out of consideration that she was related to the German, begged the king to dismiss him forthwith. Instead of doing so, the king begged Madame Louise to say no more about it, declaring it impossible that so gallant a man could be guilty of so villainous an act.
Some time after a second dispatch was received, confirmatory of the former one. The governor, burning with zeal for the preservation of his master's life, begged permission of him either to expel the count from the realm, or to take precautionary measures against him; but the king expressly commanded him to make no stir in the matter, doubting not that he should come at the truth by some other means.
One day the king went to the chase, armed with no other weapon than a very choice sword, and took Count Guillaume with him, desiring him to keep close up with him. After having hunted the stag for some time, the king, finding himself alone with Count Guillaume, and far from his suite, turned aside, and rode into the thick of the forest. When they had advanced some way he drew his sword, and said to the count, "What think you? Is not this an excellent sword?" The count, taking it by the point, replied that he did not think he had ever seen a better. "You are right," rejoined the king; "and it strikes me that if a gentleman had conceived the design of killing me, and knew the strength of my arm, the boldness of my heart, and the temper of this good sword, he would think twice of it before he attacked me; nevertheless, I should regard him as a great villain, if, being alone with me, man to man, he durst not attempt to execute what he had dared to undertake."
"The villainy of the design would be very great, sire," replied the astounded count; "but not less would be the folly of attempting to put it in execution."
The king sheathed his sword with a laugh, and hearing the sound of the chase, set spurs to the horse, and galloped in the direction from which the sound came.
When he rejoined his suite he said not a word of what had passed, satisfied in his own mind that Count Guillaume, for all his vigor and bravery, was not the man to strike so daring a blow. The count, however, making no doubt that he was suspected, and greatly fearing a discovery, went the next day to Robertet, the secretary of finance, and told him that, on considering the profits and appointments the king had proposed to make him for remaining in his service, he found they would not be sufficient to maintain him for half the year; and that unless his majesty would be pleased to double them, he should be under the necessity of retiring. He concluded by begging that Robertet would ascertain the king's pleasure in the matter, and make him acquainted with it as soon as possible. Robertet said he would lose no time, for he would go that instant to the king: a commission which he undertook the more readily, as he had seen the information obtained by La Tremouille. As soon as the king was awake, Robertet laid his business before him, in presence of Monsieur de la Tremouille and Admiral de Bonnivet, who were not aware of what the king had done the day before.
"You want to dismiss Count Guillaume," said the king, laughing, "and you see he dismisses himself. You may tell him, then, that if he is not satisfied with the terms he accepted when he entered my service, and which many a man of good family would think himself fortunate in having, he may see if he can do better elsewhere. Far from wishing to hinder him, I shall be very glad to have him find as good a position as he deserves."
Robertet was as prompt in carrying this reply to the count as he had been in laying the latter's proposals before the king. "That being the case, I must retire from his majesty's service," said the count. Fear made him so eager to be gone, that twenty-four hours sufficed for the rest. He took leave of his majesty as he was sitting down to table, and affected extreme regret at the necessity which compelled him to quit that gracious presence. He also took leave of the king's mother, who let him go with no less gladness than she had welcomed him as a kinsman and friend. The king, seeing his mother and his courtiers surprised at the count's sudden departure, made known to them the alarm he had given the count, adding, that even if he were innocent of what was laid to his charge, he had had a fright sufficient to make him quit a master whose temper he did not yet know. *
I see no reason, ladies, which could have obliged the king thus to expose his person against a man who was reckoned so formidable an adversary, had he not chosen, from mere greatness of soul, to quit the company in which kings find no inferiors to offer them simple combat, in order to put himself upon an equal footing with a man whom he regarded as his enemy, and to prove in person his daring and high courage.
"He was certainly right," said Parlamente; "for the praises of all mankind are not so satisfying to a great heart, as its own experience of the virtues with which God has endowed it."
"The ancients long ago represented," said Geburon, "that one cannot arrive at the temple of Fame without passing through that of Virtue. As I know the two persons of whom you have related this tale, I know perfectly well that the king is one of the most intrepid men in his dominions."
"When Count Guillaume came to France," said Hircan, "I should have been more afraid of his sword than of those of the best four among the Italians who were then at court."
"We all know," said Ennasuite, "that all the praises we could bestow on the king would fall far short of his merits, and that the day would be gone before every one should have said all he thinks of him. Therefore, madam, give your voice to some one who may again tell us something to the advantage of men, if any such thing there be."
"I imagine," said Oisille to Hircan, "that as you are so much in the habit of speaking ill of women, you will not find it difficult to tell us something good of your own sex."
"That I can the more easily do," replied Hircan, "as it is not long since I was told a tale of a gentleman whose love, fortitude, and patience were so praiseworthy, that I must not suffer their memory to be lost."
A Lady tests the fidelity of a young student, her lover, before granting him her favors.
THERE was in one of the good towns of France a young seigneur of good family, who was attending the schools, desiring to acquire the knowledge which endows those of quality with honor and virtue. Though he had already made such progress in his studies, that at the age of seventeen or eighteen he was a pattern for other students, Love failed not, nevertheless, to teach him other lessons. To make them more impressive and acceptable, that sly instructor concealed himself under the face and in the eyes of the handsomest lady in the country, who had come to town on business connected with a lawsuit. Before Love employed the charms of this lady to subjugate the young seigneur, he had gained her heart by letting her see the perfections of the gentleman, who for good looks, pleasing manners, good sense, and a winning tongue, was not surpassed by any one. You who know what way this fire makes in a little time, when once it has begun to burn the outworks of a heart, will easily imagine that Love was not long in rendering himself master of two such accomplished subjects, and so filling them with his light, that their thoughts, wishes, and words, were but the flame of that love. The natural timidity of youth made the gallant press his suit with all possible gentleness. But it was not necessary to do violence to the fair one, since love had already vanquished her. Modesty, nevertheless, that inseparable companion of the ladies, obliged her to conceal the sentiments of her heart as long as she could. But at last the citadel of the heart, wherein honor has its dwelling, was so breached, that the poor lady gave her consent to what she had never been loth to. Still, in order to put the patience, fortitude, and passion of her lover to the proof, she surrendered only on one very difficult condition; on his fulfilling which, she assured him that she would always love him most truly; but if he failed in it, she would do quite the reverse. The condition she proposed was this: she would condescend to talk with him, both being in bed together en chemise, but he was to ask nothing of her beyond kisses and sweet words; and he, thinking there was no joy comparable to that which she offered him, accepted the condition without hesitation.
That night the compact was filled. It was in vain she caressed him; he would never break his word, however sharply he felt the promptings of nature. Though he was fully assured that the pains of purgatory were not a whit worse than those he endured, yet his love was so great, and his hopes so strong, that, counting on the perpetual affection it cost him so much to secure, he triumphed by his patience, and got up from beside her just as he laid down. The fair one, more astonished, I rather think, than pleased at such extraordinary forbearance, took it into her head either that his love was not so great as he said, or that he had not found in her all the attractions he had expected; for she made no account at all of the propriety, patience, and religious fidelity of her lover. She resolved therefore, before she surrendered, to put the love he professed for her once more to the proof. To this end she requested him to gallant a girl she had in her service, one who was very good-looking, and much younger than herself, in order that persons who saw him come so often to her house, might suppose that he came for the sake of the girl and not of herself. The young seigneur, who flattered himself that he had inspired as much love as he harbored in his own bosom, did all that was required of him, and made love to the girl in obedience to her mistress's desire; and the girl, pleased with the addresses of so handsome a youth, who had such a seductive tongue, believed all he said to her, and was in love with him in earnest.
The mistress, seeing that things had come to this pass, and that her lover desisted none the more from pressing her to fulfil her promise, admitted to him that, after having put his
Love, however, who is never without hope, suggested to him that the greater his constancy and the more it was made known by such decisive experiments, the longer and more blissful would be his enjoyment. The lady, who had witnessed all, was so delighted and so surprised at the excess and firmness of his love, that she was impatient to see him again, in order to made amends for the sufferings she had inflicted upon him in testing his affection. The moment she saw him she spoke to him so graciously and with such tenderness, that he not only forgot all he had undergone, but even rejoiced at it, seeing that his mistress honored his constancy, and was convinced of the sincerity of his love. He had no more disappointments to complain of; his services and his love were crowned, and he obtained from the fair one thenceforth all his heart could wish for.
Show me, ladies, if you can, a woman who has evinced the same firmness, patience, and fidelity in love as this gentleman. Those who have been exposed to the like temptations, think those which painters assign to St. Anthony very trivial in comparison. For he who can be chaste and patient in spite of the temptations of beauty, love, opportunity, and the absence of all hindrance, may rely on having virtue enough to overcome all the devils in hell.
"It is a pity," said Oisille, "that the gentleman did not address his love to a lady as virtuous as himself; it would then have been the most decorous and perfect I ever heard of."
"Tell me," said Geburon, "which of this gentleman's two trials do you think was the more difficult?"
"The last, I think," said Parlamente; "for resentment and anger are the most terrible of all temptations.
Longarine said she thought that the first was the most arduous of the two; for in order to keep his promise, he had to be victorious over love and over himself.
"You talk at random," said Simontault; "but we, who know something about the matter, may be allowed to say what we think of it. For my part I say that he was a fool the first time, and a blockhead the second. It is my belief, that in keeping his word to his mistress, he made her suffer as much as himself, or more. She only exacted that promise from him to make herself appear a better conducted woman than she really was; for she could not but know that there is no command, or oath, or anything else in the world, which is capable of stopping the headlong impulses of a violent love. She was very glad to cover her vice under an appearance of virtue, and make believe that she was accessible for nothing beneath a heroic virtue. He was a blockhead the second time to leave her who loved him, and was worth more than the other, especially when he had so good an excuse as the provocation he had received."
"I say quite the contrary," interrupted Dagoucin. "The first time he showed himself firm, patient, and a man of his word; and the second time faithful, and loving to perfection."
"And who knows," said Saffredent, "but he was one of those whom a chapter names de frigidis et maleficiatis? * But that nothing might be wanting to the glory of this hero, Hircan ought to have acquainted us if he did his duty when he got what he wanted. We should then have been able to judge whether he was so chaste through virtue or through impotence."
"You may be sure," said Hircan, "that if I had been told this, I should not have concealed it any more than the rest. But knowing as I do the man and his temperament, I attribute his conduct to the force of his love, and not at all to impotence or coldness."
"If that is the case," said Saffredent, "he ought to have laughed at his promise. Had the fair one been offended at his doing so, it would not have been very hard to appease her."
"But, perhaps," said Ennasuite, "she would not then have consented."
"That's a fine idea!" cried Saffredent. "Was he not strong enough to force her, since she had given him the opportunity?"
"Holy Mary!" exclaimed Nomerfide, "how you talk! Is that the way to win the good graces of a lady who is believed to be chaste and modest?"
"It seems to me," replied Saffredent, "that one cannot do more honor to a woman of whom one desires to have that sort of thing than to take it by force, for there is not the pettiest demoiselle of them all but dearly loves to be long wooed and entreated. There are some who can only be won by dint of presents; others are so stupid that they are hardly pregnable on any side. With those latter one must think of nothing but how to hit upon the means of having them. But when one has to do with a dame so wary that one cannot deceive her, and so good that she is not to be come at either by presents or by fair words, is it not allowable to try all possible means of success? Whenever you hear that a man has forced a woman you may be sure that she had left him no other means to accomplish his ends; and you ought not to think the worse of a man who has risked his life to satisfy his love."
"I have seen in my time," said Geburon, laughing, "places besieged and taken by storm, because there was no means of bringing the governors to terms either by money or threats; for they say that a fortress which treats is half taken."
"One would think," said Ennasuite, "that love is built only upon these follies. There have been many who have loved constantly with other intentions."
"If you know one such instance," said Hircan, "tell it us."
"I know one," said Ennasuite, "which I will willingly relate."
Two Lovers, in despair at being hindered from marrying, turn Monk and Nun.
IN the time of the Marquis of Mantua, who had married the sister of the Duke of Ferrara, there was in the service of the duchess a demoiselle named Pauline, so much loved by a gentleman who was in the service of the marquis that every one was surprised at the excess of his passion; for, being poor, but a handsome man, and, moreover, in great favor with the marquis, it was thought that he ought to attach himself to a lady who had wealth enough for them both: but he regarded Pauline as the greatest of all treasures, which he hoped to make his own by marriage. The marchioness, who loved Pauline, and wished that she should make a wealthier match, dissuaded her from this one as much as she could, and often hindered the lovers from seeing each other, telling them, that if they married they would be the poorest and most miserable couple in Italy. But the gentleman could not admit the validity of this argument. Pauline, on her part, dissembled her love as much as she could; but she only thought of it the more for all that. Their courtship was long, and they hoped their fortune would mend in time.
While they were awaiting this happy change, war broke out, and the gentleman was made prisoner, along with a Frenchman who was as much in love in his own country as the other was in Italy. Being fellows in misfortune, they began reciprocally to communicate their secrets. The Frenchman told his companion that his heart was captive, without saying to whom; but as they were both in the service of the Marquis of Mantua, the Frenchman knew that his comrade loved Pauline, and, having his interest at heart, advised him to abandon that connexion. This the Italian vowed it was impossible for him to do, and added that, unless the Marquis of Mantua, in recompense for his imprisonment and his good services, bestowed his mistress upon him at his return, he would turn Cordelier, and never serve any other master than God. The Frenchman, who saw in him no signs of religion, with the exception of his devotion to Pauline, could not believe that he spoke in earnest. At the end of nine months the Frenchman was set at liberty, and exerted himself to such effect that he procured that of his comrade also, who immediately on his liberation renewed his importunities to the marquis and the marchioness for their sanction to his marriage with Pauline. It was in vain they represented to him the poverty to which they would both be reduced; the relations on both sides, who would not consent to the match, forbade him to speak any more to Pauline, in hopes that absence and impossibility would cure him of his headstrong passion: but all this was unavailing to change his feelings. Seeing himself forced to submit, he asked leave of the marquis and marchioness to bid farewell to Pauline, after which he would see her no more, and his request was forthwith granted.
"Since heaven and earth are against us," said he to Pauline when they met, "and we are not only forbidden to marry, but even to see each other, the marquis and marchioness, our master and mistress, who exact such a cruel kind of obedience of us, may boast of having with one word smitten two hearts, whose bodies can henceforth only languish to death. By so unfeeling a mandate they plainly show that they have never known love or pity. I know well that their purpose is to see us both prosperously established in wealthy marriages; but they know not that people are truly rich only when they are content. However, they have so wronged and incensed me, that it is impossible I should remain in their service. I have no doubt, that if I had never talked of marrying you, they would not have carried their scruples so far as to forbid our speaking to each other; but as for me, I can assure you, that having long loved you so honestly and truly, I shall continue to love you all my life. And forasmuch as seeing you I could not endure the monstrous hardship of not being allowed to speak to you, and not seeing you, my heart, which could not remain void, would be filled with a despair which might end fatally for me, I have for a long time resolved to retreat into a cloister. Not but that I well know one may work out his salvation in any condition of life; but I believe that in these retreats one has more leisure to meditate on the greatness of the Divine goodness, which will have pity, I trust, on the faults of my youth, and dispose my heart to love the things of heaven as much as I have loved those of earth. If God gives me the grace to be able to obtain his, my continual occupation will be to pray for you. I entreat you, by the faithful and constant love we have borne to one another, to remember me in your prayers, and to beseech the Lord to give me as much constancy when I cease to see you, as he gave me gladness in beholding you. As I have hoped all my life to have from you through marriage what honor and conscience allow, and have contented myself with that hope, now that I lose it, and can never be treated by you as a husband, I entreat, that in bidding me farewell, you will treat me as a brother, and let me kiss you."
Poor Pauline, who had manifested rigor enough towards him, seeing the extremity of his grief and the reasonableness of his request, which was so moderate under such circumstances, could only reply by throwing herself in tears on his neck. So overcome was she, that speech, sense, and motion failed her, and she fainted in his arms, whilst love, sorrow, and pity produced the same effect on him. One of Pauline's companions, who saw them fall, called for help, and they were recovered by force of remedies. Pauline, who wished to hide her affection, was ashamed when she was aware how vehemently she had suffered it to display itself; however, she found a good excuse in the commiseration she had felt for the gentleman. That heart-broken lover, unable to utter the words, "Farewell forever!" hurried away to his chamber, fell like a corpse on his bed, and passed the night in such bitter lamentations, that his servants supposed he had lost all his relations and friends, and all he was worth in the world. Next morning he commended himself to our Lord, and after dividing the little he possessed among his domestics, only retaining a very small sum of money for his immediate use, he forbade his servants to follow him, and wended his way alone to the convent of the Observance, to ask for the monastic habit, with the determination of wearing none other as long as he lived. The warden, who had known him formerly, thought at first that he was joking, or that he himself was dreaming; indeed, there was not a man in all the country who had less the look of a Cordelier, or was better gifted with the graces and endowments, which one could desire to see in a gentleman. But after having heard him, and seen him shed floods of tears, the source of which was unknown to him, the warden kindly received him as a guest, and soon afterwards, seeing his perseverance, he gave him the robe of the order, which the poor gentleman received with great devotion.
The marquis and marchioness were made acquainted with this event, and were so much surprised at it that they could hardly believe it. Pauline, to show that she was without passion, did her best to dissemble her regret for her lover, and succeeded so well that everybody said she had forgotten him, whilst all the time she would fain have fled to some hermitage, to shun all commerce with the world. But one day, when she went to hear mass at the Observance with her mistress, when the priest, the deacon, and sub-deacon issued from the vestry to go to the high altar, her lover, who had not yet completed the year of his noviciate, served as acolyte, and led the procession, carrying in both hands the two canettes covered with silk-cloth, and walking with downcast eyes. Pauline, seeing him in that garb, which augmented rather than diminished his good looks, was so surprised and confused, that, to conceal the real cause of her heightened color, she began to cough. At that sound, which he recognized better than the bells of his monastery, the poor lover durst not turn his head; but as he passed before her, he could not hinder his eyes from taking the direction to which they had so been long used. Whilst gazing sadly on his mistress, the fire he had thought almost extinct blazed up so fiercely within him, that, making an effort beyond his strength to conceal it, he fell full length on the floor. His fear lest the cause of this accident be known prompted him to say that the floor of the church, which was broken at that spot, had thrown him down. Pauline perceived from this circumstance that he had not changed his heart along with his habit; and believing that, as it was now so long since he had retired from the world, every one imagined she had forgotten him, she resolved to put into execution her long-meditated design of following her lover's example.
Having now been more than fourteen months privily making all necessary arrangements previous to her taking the veil, she one morning asked leave of the marchioness to go to hear mass at the convent of St. Claire. Her mistress granted this request without knowing why it was preferred. Calling at the Franciscan monastery on her way, Pauline begged the warden to let her see her lover, whom she called her relation. She saw him in private, in a chapel, and said to him: "If I could with honor have retired to the cloister as soon as you, I should have been there long ago. But now that by my patience I have prevented the remarks of those who put a bad construction upon everything rather than a good one, I am resolved to renounce the world, and adopt the order, habit, and life which you have chosen. If you fare well, I shall have my part; and if you fare ill, I do not wish to be exempt. I desire to go to paradise by the same road as you, being assured that the Being who is supremely perfect, and alone worthy to be called Love, has drawn us to his service by means
The cowled lover wept with joy to hear her express such a holy desire, and did his utmost to confirm it. "Since I can never hope for more than the satisfaction of seeing you," he said, "I esteem it a great blessing that I am in a place where I may always have opportunity to see you. Our conversations will be such that we shall both be the better for them, loving as we shall do with one love, one heart, one mind, led by the goodness of God, whom I pray to hold us in His good hands, in which no one perishes." So saying, and weeping with love and joy, he kissed her hands; but she stooped her face as low as her hand, and they exchanged the kiss of love in true charity.
From the Franciscan monastery Pauline went straight to the convent of St. Clair, where she was received and veiled. Once there, she sent word to her mistress, who, hardly crediting such strange news, went to see her next day, and did all she could to dissuade her from her purpose. The only reply she received from Pauline was, that she ought to be satisfied with having deprived her of a husband of flesh, the only man in the world she had ever loved, without seeking likewise to separate her from Him who is immortal and invisible, which neither she nor all the creatures on earth could do. The marchioness, seeing her so strong in her pious resolution, kissed her, and left her in her convent with extreme regret.
These two persons lived afterwards such holy and devout lives, that it cannot be doubted that He whose law is charity, said to them at the end of their course, as to Mary Magdalen, "Your sins are forgiven, since you have loved so much," and removed them in peace to the blessed abode, where the recompense infinitely surpasses all human merits.
You cannot but own, ladies, that the man's love was the greater of the two; but it was so well repaid, that I would all those who love were so richly recompensed.
"In that case there would be more fools than ever," said Hircan.
"Do you call it folly," said Oisille, "to love virtuously in youth, and then to center all our love in God?"
"If despite and despair are laudable," replied Hircan, laughing, "then I must say that Pauline and her lover are worthy of high praise."
"Yet God has many ways of attracting us to Him," said Geburon; "and though their beginnings seem bad, their end is, nevertheless, very good."
"I believe," said Parlamente, "that no one ever perfectly loved God who did not perfectly love some of his creatures in this world."
"What do you call loving perfectly?" said Saffredent. "Do you believe that those enamored cataleptics who worship ladies at a hundred paces' distance, without daring to speak out, love perfectly?"
"I call perfect lovers," replied Parlamente, "those who seek in what they love some perfection, be it goodness, beauty, or charming demeanor; who aim always at virtue, and whose hearts are so noble and so spotless that they would rather lose their lives than devote them to low things forbidden by honor and conscience; for the soul which is created only to return to its sovereign good, so long as it is imprisoned in the body, does but long to arrive at that high destination. But because the senses, which can give it views thereof, are obscured and carnal since the sin of our first parents, they can only present to it those visible objects which approach nearest to perfection. In that direction the soul rushes forth, and thinks to find in outward beauty, in visible graces, and in moral virtues, the supreme beauty, grace, and virtue. But after having sought and proved them, and not found what it loves, the soul lets them go, and passes on its way, like the child who loves apples, pears, dolls, and other trivial things the handsomest it can see, and thinks that to amass little pebbles is to be wealthy; but as it grows up it loves living dolls, and amasses things necessary to human life. After a longer experience has shown it that there is neither perfection nor felicity in the things of this earth, it seeks the true felicity, and Him who is its source and principle. Still, if God did not open the eyes of its faith, it would be in danger of passing from ignorance to infidel philosophy; for it is faith alone that demonstrates and makes the soul receive that good which the carnal and animal man cannot know."
"Do you not see," said Longarine, "that even the uncultivated ground which produces only trees and useless herbs, is, nevertheless, an object of desire, in the hope that when it is well cultivated and sown it will produce good grain? In like manner the heart of man, which is conscious only of visible things, will never arrive at the condition of loving God but through the seed of the Word; for that heart is a sterile, cold, and corrupted soil."
"Thence it comes," said Saffredent, "that most doctors are not spiritual, because they never love anything but good wine and ugly sluts of chambermaids, without making trial of what it is to love honorable ladies."
"If I could speak Latin well," said Simontault, "I would quote St. John to you, who says: 'He who loves not his brother whom he sees, how shall he love God whom he doth not see?' In loving visible things, one comes to love things invisible."
"Tell us where is the man so perfect as you describe, et laudabimus eum," said Ennasuite.
"There are such men," replied Dagoucin; "men who love so strongly and so perfectly, that they would rather die than entertain desires contrary to the honor and conscience of their mistresses, and who yet would not have either them or others be aware of their sentiments."
"These men are like the chameleon, who lives on air," observed Saffredent. "There is no man in the world but is very glad to have it known that he loves, and delighted to know that he is loved. Also, I am convinced, that there is no fever of affection so strong but passes off as soon as one knows the contrary. For my part, I have seen palpable miracles in that way."
"I beg, then," said Ennasuite, "that you will take my place, and tell us a story of some one who has been restored from death to life, by having discovered in his mistress the reverse of what he desired."
"I am so much afraid," said Saffredent, "of displeasing the ladies, whose most humble servant I have always been, and always shall be, that without an express command I should not have dared to speak of their imperfections. But, in token of obedience, I will speak the truth."
A Gentleman finds his cruel fair one in the arms of her groom, and is cured at once of his love.
THERE was a gentleman in Dauphiné named the Seigneur De Riant, of the household of King Francis I., and one of the best-looking and best-bred men of his day. He paid his court for a long time to a widow, whom he loved and respected so much, that, for fear of losing her good graces, he durst not ask of her that which he longed for with the utmost passion. As he was conscious of being a handsome man and well worthy of being loved, he firmly believed what she often swore to him–namely, that she loved him above all men in the world; and that if she were constrained to do anything for any one, it would be for him alone, who was the most accomplished gentleman she had ever known. She begged he would content himself with this, and not attempt to exceed the limits of decorous friendship, assuring him, that upon the least symptom of his craving anything more, she should be lost to him forever.
The poor gentleman not only contented himself with these fine words, but even deemed himself happy in having won the heart of a person he believed to be so virtuous. It would be an endless affair to give you a circumstantial detail of his love, of the long intercourse he had with her, and of the journeys he made to see her. Enough to say, that this poor martyr to a fire so pleasing, that the more one is burned by it the more one likes to be burned, daily sought the means of aggravating his martyrdom. One day he was seized with a desire to travel post to see her whom he loved better than himself, and whom he prized above all the women in the world. On arriving at her house he asked were she was. They told him she had just come back from vespers, and was gone to take a turn in the warren to finish her devotions. He dismounts, goes straight to the warren, and meets her woman, who tells him that she is gone to walk alone in the great alley. Upon this he began to hope more than ever for some good fortune, and continued to search for her as softly as possible, desiring above all things to steal upon her when she was alone. But on coming to a charming pleached arbor, in his impatience to behold his adored, he darted into it abruptly, and what did he see then but the lady stretched on the grass, in the arms of a groom, as ugly, nasty, and disreputable, as De Riant was all the reverse. I will not pretend to describe his indignation at so unexpected a spectacle; I will only say it was so great, that in an instant it extinguished his long-cherished flame. "Much good may it do you, madam," cried he, as full of resentment as he had been of love. "I am now cured and delivered of the continual anguish which your fancied virtue had caused me;" and without another word he turned on his heel and went back faster than he had come. The poor woman had not a word to say for herself, and could only put her hands over her face, that as she could not cover her shame she might at least cover her eyes, and not see him who saw her but too plainly, notwithstanding her long dissimulation.
So, ladies, unless you choose to love perfectly, never think of dissembling with a proper man, and giving him displeasure for sake of your own glory; for hypocrisy is paid as it deserves, and God favors those who love frankly. *
"It must be confessed," said Oisille, "that you have kept something good in reserve for us to the end of the day. If we were not pledged to tell the truth, I could not believe that a woman of such station could have forgotten herself so much as to quit so handsome a gentleman for a nasty groom."
"If you knew, madam," replied Hircan, "the difference there is between a gentleman who has all his life worn harness and followed the army, and a servant who has led a sedentary life and been well fed, you would excuse this poor widow."
"Say what you will," rejoined Oisille, "I doubt that you would admit any excuse for her."
"I have heard," said Simontault, "that there are women who are very glad to have apostles to preach up their virtue and their chastity; they treat them with the most gracious kindness and familiarity, and assure them that they would grant them what they sue for, did conscience and honor permit it. When the poor dupes are in company they talk of these excellent ladies, and swear they would put their hands in the fire if they are not women of virtue, relying on the proof they think they have personally obtained for their assertion. But the ladies thus praised by these simple gentlemen show themselves in their real colors to those who are like themselves, and choose for the objects on whom they bestow their favors men who have not the boldness to tell tales, and of so abject a condition, that even, were they to blab, they would not be believed."
"I have heard the same thing said before by extravagantly jealous folk," said Longarine. "But surely this is what may be called painting a chimera; for though such a thing may have happened to one wretched woman, is it thence to be inferred that all women do the same thing?"
"The more we talk on this subject," said Parlamente, "the more we shall be maligned. We had better go hear vespers, that we may not keep the monks waiting for us as we did yesterday." This proposal was unanimously agreed to.
"If any one," said Oisille, as they were walking back to the monastery, "gives thanks to God for having told the truth to day, Saffredent ought to implore his pardon for having told such a villainous tale against the ladies."
"I give you my oath," said Saffredent, "that although I have only spoken upon hearsay, what I have told you is, nevertheless, the strict truth. But if I chose to tell you what I could relate of women from my own knowledge, you would make more signs of the cross than they do in consecrating a church."
"Since you have so bad an opinion of women," said Parlamente, "they ought to banish you from their society."
"There are some who have so well practised what you advise," he replied, "that if I could say worse of them, and do worse to them all, to excite them to avenge me on her who does me so much injustice, I should not be slow to do so."
While he was speaking, Parlamente put on her half-mask and went with the rest into the church, where they found that although the bell had been rung for vespers there were no monks to say them. The fathers had been apprised of the agreeable manner in which the company spent their time in the meadow, and being fonder of pleasure than of their prayers, they had gone and crouched down there in a ditch behind a very thick hedge, and had listened to the tales with so much attention that they had not heard the vesper-bell. The consequence was, that they came running in with such haste that they were quite out of breath when they should have begun vespers. After service, some of the company inquiring of them why they had come in so late and chanted so badly, they confessed the cause; and for the future they were allowed to listen behind the hedge, and to sit at their ease. The supper was a merry one; and during it were uttered such things as any of the company had forgotten to deliver in the meadow. This filled up the rest of the evening, until Oisille begged them to retire that they might prepare for the morrow, saying that an hour before midnight was better than three after it. Thereupon they sought their respective chambers, and so ended the second day.
* The historical fact related in this novel, is one of the most celebrated in the annals of Florence. The duke was Alessandro, natural son of Lorenzo de Medicis, and the murderer was his cousin, Lorenzo de Medici. Historians state that the latter decoyed the duke to his house under pretence of affording him an interview with a Florentine lady, but they do not mention that she was Lorenzo's sister.
* La Belle Dame sans Merci is the title of a poem by Alain Chartier, in the form of a long metaphysical dialogue between a lady and her lover.
* The incidents related in this novel appear to be real, but it is impossible to discover the names of the actors. M. Paul Lacroix supposes the hero of the novel to be a Baron de Malleville, Knight of Malta, who was killed at Beyrout in an expedition against the Turks, and whose death has been celebrated by Clement Marot. But the Bibliophiles Français remark that the conjecture is untenable, De Malleville being styled Parisien by the poet, whereas the captain was a Norman. He was a married man, too, which a Knight of Malta could not be.
* The hero of this novel is again Admiral de Bonnivet, as we learn from Brantôme.
* The fact related in this novel must have occurred in the forest of Argilly, in July, 1521, when Francis I. was at Dijon. The German count in question was Wilhelm von Furstemberg. He is the subject of the thirtieth chapter of Brantôme's Capitaines Etrangers.
* This is an allusion to the penalties pronounced by several councils, and repeated in the Capitularies and the Decretals of Pope Boniface VIII. against those who were supposed guilty by having magical practices deprived a bridegroom of the power of consummating his nuptials.
* This is a very old story, though told by the Queen of Navarre with name and date, as one of her own time. It occurs in the introduction to the Arabian Nights, in the eighteenth canto of the Orlando Furioso, and in the novels of Morlini, the first edition of which was printed at Naples in 1520. La Fontaine has put it at the beginning of his tale of Joconde.
EARLY as it was next morning when the company assembled in the refectory, they found Madame Oisille already there. She had been meditating for half an hour on what she was to read to them; and so intent were they on listening to her that they did not hear the bell, and a monk had to come and tell them that high mass was about to begin. After hearing mass and dining soberly, in order to have their memories more clear, they all retired to their chambers to review their several repertories of tales previously to the next meeting in the meadow. Those who had some droll story to tell were already so merry, that one could not look in their faces without being prepared beforehand for a hearty laugh. When all were seated, they asked Saffredent to whom he addressed his call. "The fault I committed yesterday," he said, "being as you say so great, and knowing not how to repair it, I call on Parlamente. Her excellent sense will enable her to praise the ladies in such a manner as will make you forget the truth I have told you."
"I do not undertake to repair your faults," replied Parlamente; "but I will take good care not to imitate them. To this end, without departing from the truth we have pledged ourselves to speak, I will show you that there are ladies who in their love have had no other end in view than virtue and honor. As the lady of whom I have to speak is of a good family, I will change nothing in her story but the names. You will see, ladies, from what I am going to narrate, that love can make no change in a chaste and virtuous heart."
Virtuous love of a young lady of quality and a bastard of an illustrious house–hindrance of their marriage by a queen–Sage reply of the demoiselle to the queen–Her subsequent marriage.
THERE was a queen in France who had in her household several young ladies of good birth, and among the rest, one named Rolandine, who was her near relation. But the queen being displeased with this young lady's father, punished the innocent for the guilty, and behaved not very well to Rolandine. Though this young lady was neither a great beauty nor the reverse, such was the propriety of her demeanor and the sweetness of her disposition, that many great lords sought her in marriage, but obtained no reply, for Rolandine's father was so fond of his money that he neglected the establishment of his daughter. On the other hand, she was so little in favor of her mistress, that she was not wooed by those who wished to ingratiate themselves with the queen. Thus, through the negligence of her father and the disdain of her mistress, this poor young lady remained long unmarried. At last she took this sorely to heart, not so much from eagerness to be married, as
When she was approaching her thirtieth year, she became acquainted with a gentleman, a bastard of an illustrious house, and one of the best-bred men of his day, but ill endowed by fortune, and of so little comeliness that no one but herself would have readily chosen him for a lover. As this poor gentleman had remained solitary like herself, and as the unfortunate naturally seek each other's society, he one day accosted Rolandine. There being a strong similitude between them in point of temperament and fortune, they poured their griefs into each other's ears, and that was the beginning of a very intimate friendship between them. Seeing that they both labored under the same misfortune, they everywhere sought each other out for mutual consolation, and thus they became more and more attached to each other to an extraordinary degree. Those who had known Rolandine so coy that she would hardly speak to any one, were shocked to see her every moment with the bastard, and told her gouvernante that she ought not to permit such long conversations. The gouvernante spoke to Rolandine on the subject, telling her that it was taken amiss that she should be on such familiar terms with a man who was neither rich enough to marry her, nor good-looking enough to be loved. Rolandine, who had hitherto been reproved for her austerity, rather than for her mundane ways, replied, "You see, mother, that I cannot have a husband of my own quality. I have hitherto always attached myself to the young and good-looking; but as I am afraid of falling into the pit into which I have seen so many fall, I now attach myself to this gentleman, who, as you know, is so correct and so virtuous that he never talks to me but of seemly things. What harm, then, do I do to you, and to those who make a talk about it, consoling my sorrows by means of an innocent converse?"
The poor woman, who loved her mistress more than herself, made answer, "I see plainly, mademoiselle, that you are right, and that your father and your mistress do not treat you as you deserve. But since this acquaintance gives rise to remarks which are not to the advantage of your honor, you ought to break it off, though the man were your own brother."
"I will do so, since such is your advice," replied Rolandine, weeping, "but it is very hard to have no consolation in the world."
The bastard came to see her as usual, but, with tears in her eyes, she related to him in detail all that her gouvernante had said to her, and begged him not to visit her any more until this tattle should have subsided; and he complied with her entreaty. Both of them having lost their consolation through this separation, they began to feel an uneasiness such as neither had ever before experienced. Her whole time was spent in prayer, fasting, and journeying; for the sentiment of love, so totally new to her, caused her such agitation that she did not know a moment's rest. The bastard was not in a much better plight; but as he had made up his mind to love her and try to obtain her for a wife, and saw that it would be a very glorious thing for him to succeed in the attempt, his only thought was how he should press his suit, and how he should secure the gouvernante in his interest. To this end he represented to her the deplorable condition of her mistress, who was wilfully deprived of all consolation. The good woman thanked him with tears for the interest he took in her mistress's welfare, and cast about with him for means to enable him to have an interview with her. It was arranged between them that Rolandine should pretend to be troubled with a headache, which made all noise insupportable to her; and that when her companions left her in her chamber, the bastard and she might remain alone, and converse together without restraint. The bastard, delighted with the expedient, gave himself up entirely to the guidance of the gouvernante, and in this way he was enabled to talk with his mistress whenever he pleased.
But this pleasure was not of long duration; for the queen, who disliked Rolandine, asked what she was doing in her chamber. Some one replied that she had a headache; but somebody else; either disliking her absence or wishing to cause her annoyance, said that the pleasure she took in conversing with the bastard would be sure to cure her headache. The queen, who regarded as mortal sins in Rolandine what would have been venial sins in others, sent for her, and forbade her ever to speak to the bastard, except in her own chamber or hall. Rolandine professed obedience, and replied, that had she known that the bastard, or any one else, was displeasing to her majesty, she would never have spoken to him. At the same time she was inwardly resolved to find out some other expedient, of which the queen should know nothing. As she fasted on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, and did not quit her chamber, she took care to be visited on those days by the bastard, whom she was beginning to love greatly, and had time to talk with him in presence of her gouvernante whilst the others were at supper. The less time they had at their disposal, the more fervid and impassioned was their language; for they stole the time for mutual conversation, as the thief steals something precious. But there is no secret which is not found out at last. A varlet, having seen the bastard come in one day, mentioned it in a place where it failed not to be repeated, till it reached the ears of the queen, who put herself into such a towering passion, that the bastard never afterwards durst enter the chamber of the demoiselles. He often pretended to go a journey, in order to have opportunity to see the object of his affections, and every evening he used to return to the chapel of the château, dressed sometimes as a Cordelier, sometimes as a Jacobin, and always so well disguised that no one knew him except Rolandine and her gouvernante, who failed not at once to accost the good father.
The bastard, feeling assured that Rolandine loved him, did not scruple to say to her one day, "You see, mademoiselle, to what I expose myself for your service, and how the queen has forbidden you to speak to me. You see, too, that nothing is further from your father's thoughts than disposing of you in marriage. He has refused so many good offers, that I know no one far or near who can have you. I know that I am poor, and that you could not marry a gentleman who was not richer than myself; but if to have a great deal of love were to be rich, I should think myself the most opulent man in the world. God has given you great wealth, and the expectation of still greater. If I were so happy as to be chosen by you for your husband, I would be all my life your spouse, your friend, and your servant. If you marry one who is your own equal–and such a one, I think, will not easily be found–he will insist on being the master, and will have more regard to your wealth than to your person, to beauty than to virtue; he will enjoy your wealth, and will not treat you as you deserve. My longing to enjoy this contentment, and my fear that you will have none with another, oblige me to entreat that you will make me happy, and yourself the best-satisfied and best-treated wife in the world."
Rolandine, hearing from her lover's lips the declaration she had made up her mind to address to him, replied with a glad face, "I rejoice that you have anticipated me, and have said to me what I have long resolved to say to you. Ever since I have known you, now two years, not a moment has passed in which I have not thought over all the arguments that could be adduced in your favor and against you; but at last, having resolved to engage in matrimony, it is time that I should make a beginning, and choose the man with whom I think I can pass my life with most quiet and satisfaction. I have had as suitors men of good figure, wealthy and of high birth; but you are the only one with whom it seems to me that my heart and mind can best agree. I know that in marrying you I do not offend God, but that, on the contrary, I do what he commands. As for my father, he has so much neglected the duty of establishing me, and has rejected so many opportunities, that the law empowers me to marry without his having a right to disinherit me; but even should I have nothing but what belongs to myself, I shall esteem myself the happiest woman in the world in having such a husband as you. As for the queen my mistress, I need make no scruple of disobeying her to obey God, since she has not scrupled to frustrate all the advantages that offered themselves to me during my youth. But to prove to you that my love for you is founded on honor and virtue, I require your promise, that in case I consent to the marriage you propose, you will not ask to consummate it until after the death of my father, or until I shall have found means to obtain his consent."
The bastard having promised this with alacrity, they gave each other a ring in pledge of marriage, and exchanged kisses in the church before God, whom they called to witness their mutual promise; and never afterwards was there anything between them of a more intimate nature than kisses. This slight satisfaction quite contented these two perfect lovers, who were a long time without seeing each other, or ever giving way to mutual suspicion. There was hardly a place where honor was to be acquired to which the bastard did not repair, being assured that he could never be poor, since God had bestowed on him a rich wife; and she during his absence so faithfully preserved that perfect affection for him, that she made no account of any other man. There were some who sought her in marriage, and had for answer, that having been so long unmarried, she was resolved to remain so for ever. This reply obtained such publicity that it reached the ears of the queen, who asked her the reason of such language. Rolandine replied that it was dictated by obedience; that she well knew her majesty had never chosen to marry her when very advantageous matches had offered; and that age and patience had taught her to be content with her present condition. Whenever marriage was mentioned to her, she always replied to the same effect.
The war being ended, and the bastard having returned to court, she did not speak to him before others, but always in the church under pretext of confession, for the queen had forbidden both of them, on pain of their lives, ever to converse except in public. But virtuous love, which fears no prohibitions, was more ingenious in suggesting to them means and opportunity to meet and converse than their enemies in hindering them. There was no monastic habit which the bastard did not successively assume; and by that means their intercourse was always agreeably maintained, until the king went to one of his country seats near Tours, which was so situated that the ladies could not go on foot to any other church than that of the château, which had such an exposed confessional, that the confessor would have easily been recognized. But as often as one opportunity failed them, love furnished them with another. At that very time there came to the court a lady nearly related to the bastard. She and her son were lodged in the king's residence; and the young prince had a projecting chamber, detached as it were from the king's apartments, and so placed, that from his window one could see and speak to Rolandine, their windows being exactly at the angle of the main building and the wing. The chamber which was over the king's hall was that of Rolandine and the other ladies of honor. Rolandine having frequently seen the young prince at the window, sent word of the fact by her gouvernante to the bastard. The latter having reconnoitered the ground, pretended to take great pleasure in reading the book of the Knights of the Round Table, which was one of those belonging to the prince; and towards dinner-hour he used to beg a valet de chambre to let him in, and leave him shut up in the chamber to finish reading his book. The valet, knowing him to be his master's relation, and a gentleman to be trusted, let him read as much as he pleased. Rolandine, on her part, used to come to her window, and in order to be free to remain there the longer, she pretended to have a sore leg; and she took her meals so early that she had no need to go to the table of the ladies of honor. She also bethought her of working at a crimson silk coverlet, which she hung at the window where she was very glad to be left alone to converse with her husband, who spoke in such a manner that no one could overhear them. When she saw any one coming she coughed and made signs to the bastard to retire. Those who had orders to watch them were persuaded that there was no love between them, for she never quitted a chamber in which he certainly could not see her, the entrée being forbidden him.
The mother of the young prince being one day in her son's chamber, placed herself at the window where lay the big book. Presently one of Rolandine's companions in office, who was at the window of their chamber, saluted the lady. The latter asked her how Rolandine was. The other replied that she should see her if she pleased, and made her come to the window in her nightcap. After some conversation about Rolandine's illness, both parties retired. The lady, casting her eyes on the big book of the Round Table, said to the valet de chambre who had charge of it, "I am astonished that young people give up their time to reading such follies." The valet de chambre replied that he was still more surprised that persons of ripe years, and who passed for sensible people, were more attached to them than the young; and thereupon he told her, as a curious fact, how the bastard, her relation, spent four or five hours every day in reading that book. The lady at once guessed the reason, and ordered the valet de chambre to conceal himself, and watch narrowly what the bastard did. The valet de chambre executed his commission, and found that, instead of reading, the bastard planted himself at the window, and that Rolandine came and talked with him. He even overheard many expressions of their love, which they thought they had so well concealed. Next day, the valet having told his mistress what he had seen and heard, she sent for her cousin, the bastard, and after some sharp remonstrances, forbade him ever more to place himself at that window. In the evening she spoke to Rolandine, and threatened she would inform the queen if she persisted in that foolish attachment. Rolandine, without losing her presence of mind, replied, that whatever the lady might have been told, she had not spoken to the bastard since she had been prohibited from doing so by her mistress, as her companions, and her servants, could witness. As for the window of which the lady spoke, she had never talked there with the bastard.
The lover now fearing lest his intrigue should be exposed, withdrew from the danger, and absented himself for a long time from court, but not without writing to Rolandine, which he managed to do with such address, that, in spite of all the queen could do, Rolandine heard from him twice a week. In the first instance he employed a monk to convey his letters; but this means failing, he sent a little page, dressed sometimes in one color, sometimes in another. The page used to post himself at the places through which the ladies passed, and, mingling with the other servants, found means always to deliver his letters to Rolandine. The queen going into the country, one of those persons whom she had charged to be on the watch regarding this affair recognized the page, and ran after him; but the page, who was a cunning lad, darted into the house of a poor woman, who was boiling her pot, and instantly thrust his letters into the fire. The gentleman who pursued him having caught and stripped him naked, searched him all over, but, finding nothing, let him go. When the page was gone, the good woman asked the gentleman why he had searched the poor boy in that manner. He replied, that it was because he believed the boy had letters about him. "You were not likely to find them," she said; "he had hidden them too well." "Where, pray?" inquired the gentleman who now made sure of having them. He was quite confounded when he heard that they were burnt, and saw that the page had been too clever for him. However, he went at once, and told the queen what he had ascertained.
The bastard not being able to employ the page any more, sent in his stead an old domestic, who, without caring for the threats of death which he well knew the queen had proclaimed against all who should meddle in this affair, undertook to convey the letters to Rolandine. Having entered the château, he stationed himself at a door which was at the foot of a great staircase used by all the ladies; but a valet, who had formerly known him, recognized him at once, and denounced him to the queen's maître d'hôtel, who gave orders for his instant arrest. The wary servant, seeing that he was watched, turned to the wall, under a certain pretence, tore his letters into the smallest possible pieces, and threw them behind the door. Immediately afterwards he was arrested and searched, but nothing being found on him, he was interrogated upon oath as to whether he had not carried letters. Nothing was left untried in the way of promises or threats to make him confess the truth, but, in spite of all they could do, they could never get anything out of him. This unsatisfactory result was reported to the queen; but some one having thought of looking behind the door, found there the fragments of the letters. The king's confessor was sent for; and having arranged all the pieces on a table, he read the whole of the letter, in which the secret marriage was plainly revealed, for the bastard called Rolandine his wife. The queen, who was not of a humor to conceal her neighbor's fault, made a great noise about the matter; and insisted on every means being employed to make the man confess the truth respecting the letter, the identity of which he could not deny; but say to him or show him what they would, there was no possibility of making him avow anything. Those who had been commissioned in this matter took him to the edge of the river, and put him into a sack, telling him that he lied to God and the queen, contrary to the proved truth. Choosing rather to die than to betray his master, he asked for a confessor, and after having set his conscience right, he said to them, "I pray you, Sir, to tell the bastard my master, that I commend to him my wife and my children, and that I die with a good heart for his service. Do with me what you please and be assured that you will never extract anything from me to my master's disadvantage." Then, to frighten him more, they threw him into the water, shut up as he was in the sack, and shouted to him that his life should be saved if he would speak the truth; but seeing that he made no reply, they took him out of the water, and reported his firm behavior to the queen. "Neither the king nor myself," said her majesty, "is so fortunate in servants as the bastard, who has not wherewithal to reward them." She did all she could to engage the worthy fellow in her service, but he would never quit his master, until the latter permitted him to enter the service of the queen; in which he lived happy and contented.
Having discovered the secret marriage by means of the intercepted letter, the queen sent for Rolandine, and with great violence of manner called her several times wretch instead of cousin, upbraiding her with the dishonor she had done to her house, and to her who was her mistress, in having thus married without her consent. Rolandine, who was long aware of the little kindness the queen entertained for her, fully returned that feeling. As there was no love between them, fear no longer availed; and as Rolandine saw plainly that a reprimand so publicly given was prompted less by regard for her than by the wish to put her to shame, and that the queen was more pleased in mortifying her than grieved to find her in fault, she replied with an air as calm and composed as that of the queen was agitated and passionate, "If you did not know your own heart, madam, I would set before you the bad feeling you have long entertained towards my father and me; but you know it so well, that you will not be surprised to hear that it is not a secret for anybody. For my part, madam, I have seen and felt it to my cost. If you had been as kind to me as to those who are not so nearly related to you, I should now be married in a manner that would do honor both to you and to me; but you have forsaken me, and not shown me the least mark of favor, so that I have missed all the good offers I have had through my father's negligence and the little account you have made of me. This unkind treatment threw me into such despair, that if my health had been strong enough to endure the austerities of a convent, I would gladly have entered one to escape from the continual vexations which your harshness caused me. In the midst of this despondency I became acquainted with one who would be of as good a house as myself, if the love of two persons was as much esteemed as the matrimonial ring; for you know that his father would take precedence of mine. He has long loved and cheered me; but you, madam, who have never forgiven me the least fault, or praised any good act I may have done, though you knew by experience that it was not my wont to talk of love and mundane vanities, and that I lived a more religious life than any other of your servants, you have not hesitated from the first to take offence at my speaking to a gentleman as unfortunate as myself, and in whose friendship I sought nothing else than consolation of mind. When I saw that I was entirely deprived of this, my despair was so great that I resolved to seek my repose with as much solicitude as you took to deprive me of it. From that very hour we interchanged promises of marriage which were sealed with a ring. It seems to me, then, madam, that you wrong me in calling me wicked. The great and perfect friendship which subsists between the bastard and myself would have given me occasion to do wrong if I had been so disposed, yet we have never gone further than kissing, it being my conviction that God would do me the grace to obtain my father's consent before the consummation of our marriage. I have done nothing against God or against my conscience. I have waited till the age of thirty to see what you and my father would do for me; and my youth has been passed in such chastity and virtue that no one in the world can justly cast the least reproach upon me in that respect. Finding myself on the decline, and without the hope of obtaining a husband of my own rank, reason determined me to take one according to my taste, not for the lust of the eyes, for, as you know, he whom I have chosen is not comely; nor yet for that of the flesh, since there has been no consummation; nor for the pride and ambition of this life, for he is poor, and of little preferment; but I have had regard purely and simply to the virtue and good qualities he possesses, as to which all the world is constrained to do him justice, and to the great love he has for me, which affords me the hope of enjoying quiet and contentment with him. After having maturely considered the good and the evil which might result to me, I took the course which appeared to me the best, and finally resolved, after two years' examination, to end my life with him; and this I so fully resolved, that no torments which could be inflicted upon me, nor death itself, could make me change my purpose. So, madam, I beseech you to excuse in me what is highly excusable, as you very well know, and leave me to enjoy the peace and quiet I expect to find with him."
The queen, unable to make any reasonable reply to language so resolute and so true, could only renew her passionate chiding and abuse, and, bursting into tears, "Wretch," she said, "instead of humbling yourself, and testifying repentance for the fault you have committed, you speak with audacity, and, instead of blushing, you do not so much as shed one tear; thereby giving plain proof of your obstinacy and hardness of heart. But if the king and your father do as I would have them, they will put you in a place where you will be constrained to hold other language."
"Since you accuse me, madam, of speaking with audacity," replied Rolandine, "I am resolved to say no more, unless you are pleased to permit me to speak." The queen having given her permission, she continued: "It is not for me, madam, to speak to you with audacity. As you are my mistress, and the greatest princess in Christendom, I must always entertain for you the respect which is your due; and it has never been my intention to depart from it. But as I have no advocate but the truth, and as it is known to myself alone, I am obliged to speak it boldly, in the hope that if I have the good fortune to make you thoroughly cognizant of it, you will not believe me to be such as you have been pleased to call me. I am not afraid that any mortal creature should know in what manner I have conducted myself in the affair which is laid to my charge, for I know that I have not done anything contrary either to God or to my honor. This, madam, is what makes me speak without fear, being well assured that He who sees my heart is with me; and with such a judge on my side, I should be wrong to fear those who are subject to His judgment. Wherefore should I weep, madam, since honor and conscience do not upbraid me? As to repentance, madam, I am so far from repenting of what I have done, that were it to be done again, I would do it. It is you, madam, who have great reason to weep, both for the wrong you have done me in the past, and for that which you now do me in censuring me publicly for a fault of which you are more guilty than I. If I had offended God, the king, you, my kindred, and my conscience, I ought to testify my repentance by my tears; but I ought not to weep for having done an act that is good, just, and holy, which would never have been spoken of but with honor, if you, madam, had not prematurely divulged it, and given it an air of culpability; thereby plainly showing that you are more bent on dishonoring me than on preserving the honor of your house and your kindred. But since it is your pleasure, madam, to act thus, it is not for me to gainsay you. Innocent as I am, I shall feel no less pleasure in submitting to the punishment you may choose to inflict upon me, than you in imposing it. You and my father, madam, have but to say what you desire that I should suffer, and you shall be promptly obeyed. I reckon upon it, madam, that he will not be backward in this; and I shall be very glad if he will share your sentiments, and if, after having agreed with you in the negligence he has shown in providing for my welfare, he imitates your activity now that the question is how to do me harm. But I have another Father in heaven, who, I hope, will give me patience enough to endure the evils I see you are preparing for me; and it is in Him alone I put my whole trust."
The queen, bursting with rage, gave orders that Rolandine should be taken out of her sight, and shut up alone in a chamber where she should not be allowed to speak to any one. Nevertheless, her gouvernante was left with her, and through her it was that Rolandine made known her present condition to the bastard, asking his advice at the same time as to what she should do. The bastard, believing that the services he had rendered to the king would be counted for something, repaired at once to the court. He found the king at the chase, told him the truth of the matter, reminded him of his poverty, and besought his majesty to appease the queen and permit the consummation of the marriage. The king made no other reply than to say, "Do you assure me that you have married her?"
"Yes, sire," replied the bastard, "by words and by presents only; but if your majesty pleases, the ceremony shall be completed."
The king looked down, and without saying another word returned to the château. On arriving there, he called for the captain of his guards, and ordered him to arrest the bastard. However, one of the friends of the latter, who guessed the king's intention, sent him warning to get out of the way and retire to one of his houses which was not far off, promising, that if the king should send in search of him, as he expected would be the case, he should have prompt notice, so that he might quit the kingdom; and that should matters be more favorable, he would send him word to return. The bastard took his friend's advice, and made such good speed that the captain of the guards did not find him.
Meanwhile, the king and queen having conferred together as to what should be done with the poor lady who had the honor to be their relation, it was decided, at the queen's suggestion, that she should be sent back to her father, who should be made acquainted with the truth of the matter. Before she went away, several ecclesiastics and people of sage counsel went to see her, and represented to her that, being engaged only by word of mouth, the marriage could easily be dissolved, provided both parties were willing, and that it was the king's pleasure she should do so, for the honor of the house to which she belonged; but she replied, that she was ready to obey the king in all things, provided conscience was not implicated; but what God had joined men could not put asunder. She besought them not to ask of her a thing so unreasonable. "If the love and the good-will which are founded only on the fear of God," she added, "are a true and solid bond of marriage, then am I so closely bound that neither steel, nor fire, nor water can loose me. Death alone can do so, and to it alone will I surrender my ring and my oath; so, gentlemen, I beg you will say no more to me on the subject." She had so much steadfastness, that she would rather die and keep her word, than live after having broken it.
This resolute reply was reported to the king, who, seeing that it was impossible to detach her from her husband, gave orders that she should be taken away to her father's; and thither she was carried with such little ceremony or regard to her quality, that none who saw how she was treated could restrain their tears. She had transgressed, indeed; but her punishment was so great and her fortitude so singular, that they made her fault seem a virtue. Her father, on hearing this disagreeable news, would not see his daughter, but sent her away to a castle situated in a forest, and which he had formerly built for a reason well worthy to be narrated. There she was for a long time a prisoner, and every day she was told, by her father's orders, that if she would renounce her husband he would treat her as his daughter, and set her at liberty. But nothing could shake her constancy. One would have thought she made pleasant pastime of her sufferings, to see how cheerfully she bore them for the sake of him she loved.
What shall I say here of men? The bastard, who was under such obligations to her, fled to Germany, where he had many friends, and showed by his inconstancy that he had attached himself to Rolandine through avarice and ambition, rather than through real love; for he became so enamored of a German lady, that he forgot to write to her who was suffering so much for his sake. However cruel fortune was towards them, she yet left it always in their power to write to each other; but this sole comfort was lost through the bastard's inconstancy and negligence; whereat Rolandine was distressed beyond measure. The few letters he did write were so cold and so different from those she had formerly received from him, that she felt assured some new amour had deprived her of her husband's heart, and done what vexations and persecutions had been incapable of effecting. But her love for him was too great to allow of her taking any decisive step on mere conjectures. In order, therefore, to know the truth, she found means to send a trusty person, not to carry any letters or messages to him, but to observe him, and make careful inquiries. This envoy, on his return, informed her that the bastard was deeply in love with a German lady, and that it was said she was very rich, and that he wished to marry her. So extreme was poor Rolandine's affliction on learning this news, that she fell into a dangerous illness. Those who were aware of its cause told her, on the part of her father, that since the bastard's inconstant and dastardly behavior were known, she had a perfect right to abandon him; and they tried hard to persuade her to do so. But it was in vain they tormented her; she remained unchanged to the end, displaying alike the greatness of her love and of her virtue. In proportion as the bastard's love diminished, Rolandine's augmented, the latter gaining as it were all that the former lost. Feeling that in her bosom alone was lodged all the love that had formerly dwelt in two, she resolved to cherish it until the death of the one or the other.
The divine goodness, which is perfect charity and true love, took pity on her sorrows, and had so much regard for her patience, that the bastard died soon after in the midst of his wooing of another woman. The news being brought her by persons who had been present at his burial, she sent to her father, begging he would be so good as to allow her to say a few words to him. Her father, who had never spoken to her during the whole time of her captivity, went to her forthwith. After having heard her plead her justification at very great length, instead of condemning and thinking of killing her, as he had often threatened, he embraced her, and said, with swimming eyes, "You are more just than I, my daughter; for if you have committed a fault, I am the principal cause of it. But since it has pleased God that things should happen thus, I will try to make amends for the past." Accordingly, he took her home, and treated her as his eldest daughter.
A gentleman who bore the name and the arms of the family at last sought her in marriage. This gentleman, who was very prudent and virtuous, often saw Rolandine, and conceived so much esteem for her, that he praised her for what others blamed, persuaded as he was that she acted only upon virtuous principles. The chevalier being liked both by the father and the daughter, the marriage was forthwith concluded. It is true that a brother she had, and who was the father's sole heir, would never give her a portion of the family wealth, under pretext that she had been wanting in obedience to her father; after whose death he treated her so cruelly, that she and her husband, who was a younger son, found it a hard matter to subsist. But God provided a remedy, for the brother, who wished to retain all, died, leaving behind him both his own wealth and that of his sister, which he unjustly retained. By this means Rolandine and her husband were raised to great affluence. They lived honorably, according to their quality, were grateful for the favors bestowed on them by Providence, had much love for one another, and, after they had brought up two sons, with whom it pleased God to bless their marriage, Rolandine joyfully yielded up her soul to him in whom she had always put her whole trust. *
Ladies, let the men who regard us as inconstancy's very self show us a husband like the wife of whom I have been telling you, one who had the same goodness, fidelity, and constancy. I am sure they will find the task so very hard, that I will acquit them of it altogether, rather than put them to such infinite pain. As for you, ladies, I beg that, for the maintenance of your dignity, you will either not love at all, or love as perfectly as this demoiselle. Do not say that she exposed her honor, since by her firmness she has been the means of so augmenting ours.
"It is true, Oisille," said Parlamente, "that your heroine was a woman of a very lofty spirit, and the more commendable for her steadfastness, as she had to do with an unfaithful husband, who wished to quit her for another."
"That, I think," said Longarine, "must have been the hardest thing for her to bear; for there is no burden so heavy which the love of two persons who are truly united may not bear with ease and comfort; but when one of the two deserts his duty, and leaves the whole burden to the other, the weight becomes insupportable."
TROISIÈME JOURNÉE
Nouvelle XXIIe
"You ought then to have pity on us," said Geburon, "since we have to bear the whole weight of love, and you will not so much as help with a finger-end to ease the burden."
"The burdens of the man and of the woman are often different," observed Parlamente. "The wife's love, founded on piety and virtue, is so just and reasonable, that he who is untrue to the duties of such a friendship ought to be regarded as a dastard, and wicked in the sight of God and man. But as men love only with a view to pleasure, women, who in their ignorance are always the dupes of wicked men, often engage themselves too deeply in a commerce of tenderness; but when God makes known to them the criminal intentions of those whom they supposed to entertain none but good ones, they may break off with honor, and without damage to their reputation, for the shortest follies are always the best."
"That is a mere whim of your own," said Hircan, "to assert that virtuous women may honorably cease to love men, whilst the latter may not in like manner cease to love women; as if the heart of one sex was different from that of the other. For my part, I am persuaded that, in spite of the diversity in faces and dresses, the inclinations of both are the same; the only difference is, that the more hidden guilt is the worse."
"I am very well aware," said Parlamente, with some anger, "that in your opinion the least guilty women are those whose guilt is known."
"Let us change the subject," interrupted Simontault, "and dismiss that of the heart of man and of woman by saying that the best of them is good for nothing. Let us see to whom Parlamente will give her voice."
"To Geburon," she said.
"Since I have begun with mentioning the Cordeliers," said he, "I must not forget the monks of St. Benedict, and cannot forbear relating what happened in my time to two of these good fathers; at the same time, let not what I am going to tell you of a wicked monk hinder you from having a good opinion of those that deserve it. But as the Psalmist says that all men are liars, and that there is none that worketh righteousness, no not one, it seems to me that one cannot fail to esteem a man such as he is. In fact, if there is good in him, it is to be attributed, not to the creature, but to Him who is the principle and the source of all good. Most people deceive themselves in giving too much to the creature, or in too much esteeming themselves. And that you may not suppose it impossible to find extreme concupiscence under an extreme austerity, I will relate to you a fact which happened in the time of King Francis I."
A hypocritical Prior tries every means to seduce a Nun, but at last his villainy is discovered.
THERE was at St. Martin-des-Champs, at Paris, a prior, whose name I will not mention, because of the friendship I once bore him. He led so austere a life until the age of fifty, and the fame of his sanctity was so strong throughout the kingdom, that there was no prince or princess who did not receive him with veneration when he paid them a visit. No monastic reform was effected in which he had not part; and he received the name of the "Father of true monasticism." He was elected visitor of the celebrated society of the Ladies of Fontevrault, who were in so much awe of him, that when he came to any of their convents the nuns trembled with fear, and treated him just as they might have treated the king, hoping thereby to soften his rigor towards them. At first, he did not wish that such deference should be paid him; but as he approached his fifty-fifth year, he at last came to like the honors he had refused in the beginning; and coming by degrees to regard himself as the public property of the religious societies, he was more careful to preserve his health than he had been. Though he was bound by the rules of his order never to eat meat, he granted himself a dispensation in that respect, a thing he would never do for any one else, alleging as his reason, that the whole burden of the brethren's spiritual interests rested upon him. Accordingly, he pampered himself, and to such good purpose, that from being a very lean monk he became a very fat one.
With the change in his manner of living a change took place in his heart also, and he began to look at faces on which he had before made it a matter of conscience to cast his eyes casually. By dint of looking at beauties, rendered more desirable by their veils, he began to lust after them. In order to satisfy his unholy passion he changed from a shepherd into a wolf; and if he found an Agnes in any of the convents under his jurisdiction, he failed not to corrupt her. After he had long led this wicked life, Divine goodness taking pity on the poor misused sheep, was pleased to unmask the villain, as you shall hear.
He had gone one day to visit a convent near Paris named Gif, and while he was confessing the nuns there came before him one named Sister Marie Herouet, whose sweet and pleasing voice indicated that her face and heart were not less so. The mere sound inspired the good father with a passion exceeding all he had ever felt for other nuns. In speaking to her he stooped down to look at her, and seeing her mouth so rosy and charming, he could not help lifting up her veil to satisfy himself if her eyes corresponded to the beauty of her lips. He found what he sought, and noted it so well that his heart became filled with a most vehement ardor; he lost his appetite for food and drink, and even all countenance, in spite of his efforts to dissemble. On his return to his priory there was no rest for him. He passed his days and nights in extreme disquietude, his mind continually occupied in devising means to gratify his passion, and make of this nun what he had made of so many others. As he had observed that she possessed steadiness of character and quickness of perception, the thing appeared to him hard to accomplish. Conscious, moreover, that he was ugly and old-looking, he resolved not to attempt to win her by soft words, but extort from her by fear what he could not hope to obtain for love.
With this intention, he returned a few days after to the convent of Gif, and displayed more austerity there than ever he had done before, angrily rating all the nuns. One did not wear her veil low enough; another carried her head too high; another did not make obeisance properly like a nun. So severe was he with regard to all these trifles, that he seemed as terrible as the picture of God on the day of judgment. Being gouty, he was much fatigued in visiting all the parts of the convent, and it was about the hour of vespers (an hour assigned by himself) that he reached the dormitory. The abbess told him it was time to say vespers. "Have them said, mother," replied the prior, "for I am so tired that I will remain here, not to repose, but to speak to Sister Marie about a scandalous thing I heard of her; for I am told that she babbles like a worldling." The prioress, who was aunt to Sister Marie's mother, begged that he would chapter her soundly, and left her in the hands of the prior, quite alone, except that a young monk was with him.
Left alone with Sister Marie, he began by lifting up her veil, and bidding her look in his face. Sister Marie replied, that her rule forbade her to look at men. "That is well said, my daughter," said the prior, "but you are not to believe that monks are men."
For fear, then, of being guilty of disobedience, Sister Marie looked at him, and thought him so ugly, that it seemed to her more a penance than a sin to look at him. The reverend father, after talking of the love he bore her, wanted to put his hands on her breasts. She repulsed him as she ought; and the reverend father, vexed at so untoward a beginning, exclaimed in great anger, "What business has a nun to know that she has breasts?"
"I know that I have," replied Sister Marie; "and I am very certain that neither you nor any one else shall ever touch them. I am neither young enough nor ignorant enough not to know what is a sin and what is not so."
Seeing, then, that he could not compass his designs in that way, he had recourse to another expedient, and said, "I must declare my infirmity to you, my daughter; I have a malady which all physicians deem incurable, unless I delight myself with a women whom I passionately love. I would not for my life commit a mortal sin; but even should it come to that, I know that simple fornication is not to be compared to the sin of homicide. So, if you love my life, you will hinder me from dying, and save your own conscience."
She asked him what sort of diversion it was that he contemplated; to which he replied, that she might rest her conscience on his, and he assured her that he would do nothing which would leave any weight on either. To let her judge by the preliminaries what sort of pastime it was he asked of her, he embraced her and tried to throw her on a bed. Making no doubt then of his wicked intention, she cried out, and defended herself so well that he could only touch her clothes. Seeing, then, that all his devices and efforts were fruitless, like–I will not say a madman, but like a man without conscience or reason, he put his hand under her robe, and scratched all that came under his nails with such fury, that the poor girl, shrieking with all her might, fell in a faint. The abbess, hearing her cries, ran to the dormitory, reproaching herself for having left her relation alone with the reverend father. She stood for a moment at the door to listen, but, hearing her niece's voice, she pushed open the door, which was held by the young monk. When she entered the dormitory, the prior, pointing to her niece, said, "You did wrong, mother, not to acquaint me with Sister Marie's constitution; for, not knowing her weakness, I made her stand before me, and while I was reprimanding her, she fainted away, as you see."
Vinegar and other remedies being applied, Sister Marie recovered from her faint; and the prior, fearing lest she should tell her aunt the cause of it, found means to whisper in her ear, "I command you, my daughter, on pain of disobedience and eternal damnation, never to speak of what I have done to you. It was my great love for you that made me do it; but since I see that you will not respond to my passion, I will never mention it to you while I live. I may, however, assure you for the last time, that if you will love me I will have you chosen abbess of one of the best abbeys in this kingdom."
She replied that she would rather die in perpetual imprisonment than ever have any other friend than Him who had died for her on the cross; deeming herself happier in suffering all ills with Him, than enjoying without Him all the pleasures the world can afford. She warned him once for all not to speak to her any more in that manner, if he did not wish her to complain of it to the abbess; but if he desisted, she would say nothing of what was past. Before this bad shepherd withdrew, in order to appear quite different from what he was in reality, and to have the pleasure of again gazing on her he loved, he turned to the abbess and said, "I beg, mother, that you will make all your daughters sing a Salve Regina in honor of the Virgin, in whom I rest my hope." The Salve Regina was sung; and all the while the fox did nothing but weep, not with devotion, but with regret at having so ill succeeded. The nuns, who attributed his emotion to the love he felt for the Virgin Mary, regarded him as a saint; but Sister Marie, who knew his hypocrisy, prayed to God in her heart to confound a villain who had such contempt for virginity.
The hypocrite returned to St. Martin's, carrying with him the criminal fire which consumed him day and night, and occupied his mind only in trying to find means for accomplishing his unrighteous end. Being afraid of the abbess, whose virtue he was aware of, he thought he could not do better than to remove her from that convent. With that view, he went to Madame de Vendôme, who was then residing at La Fère, where she had built and endowed a convent of the order of St. Benedict, named Mont d'Olivet. In his professed character of a sovereign reformer, he represented to her that the abbess of Mont d'Olivet was not capable of governing such a community. The good lady begged him to name one who should be worthy to fill that office. This was just what he wanted, and he at once recommended her to take the abbess of Gif, whom he depicted to her as the abbess of the greatest capacity in France. Madame de Vendôme sent for her forthwith, and gave her the government of her convent of Mont d'Olivet; whilst the prior, who commanded the suffrages of all the communities, had one who was devoted to him elected abbess of Gif.
This being done, he went to the convent to try once more if by prayers or promises he could prevail over Sister Marie. He succeeded no better than the first time, and returning in despair to St. Martin's, he there contrived more villainy. As much with a view to accomplish his original purpose as to be revenged on the uncomplying nun, and for fear the affair should obtain publicity, he had the relics stolen from the convent of Gif by night, accused the confessor of the convent, an aged and worthy monk, of having committed the theft, and imprisoned him at St. Martin's. Whilst he kept him there he suborned two witnesses, who deposed that they had seen the confessor and Sister Marie committing an infamous and indecent act in a garden: and this he wanted to make the old monk confess. The good man, who knew all the prior's tricks, begged him to assemble the chapter, and said he would state truly all he knew in presence of the monks. This demand he took care not to grant, fearing lest the confessor's justification should condemn himself; but finding the latter so invincibly steadfast, he treated him so ill that some say he died in prison; others say that the prior forced him to unfrock and quit the realm. Be that as it may, he was never seen afterwards.
The prior, having, as he thought, such a great hold on Sister Marie, went to Gif, where the abbess his creature never disputed a word that fell from his lips. He began by exercising his authority as visitor, and summoned all the nuns one by one, that he might hear them in chamber in form of confession and visitation. Sister Marie, who had lost her good aunt, having at last appeared in her turn, he began by saying to her, "You know, Sister Marie, of what a crime you are accused; and consequently you know that the great chastity you affect has availed you nothing, for it is well known that you are anything but chaste."
"Produce my accuser," replied Sister Marie, undauntedly, "and you will see how he will maintain such a statement in my presence."
"The confessor himself has been convicted of the fact, and that must be proof enough for you," returned the prior.
"I believe him to be such a good man," said Sister Marie, "that he is incapable of confessing such a falsehood. But even should he have done so, set him before me and I will prove the contrary."
The prior, seeing she was not daunted, said, "I am your father, and as such I wish to be tender with your honor; I leave the matter between you and your conscience, and will believe what you shall tell me. I conjure you, then, on pain of mortal sin, to tell me the truth. Were you a virgin when you entered this house?"
"My age at that time, father, is warrant for my virginity. I was then but five years old."
"And since then, my daughter, have you not lost that fair flower?"
She swore she had not, and that she had never undergone any temptation except from him.
"I cannot believe it," the hypocrite replied: "it remains to be proved."
"What proof do you require?"
"That which I exact from other nuns. As I am the visitor of souls, so am I also of bodies. Your abbess and prioresses have all passed through my hands, and you must not scruple to let me examine your virginity. Lay yourself on that bed, and turn the front of your robe over your face."
"You have told me so much of your criminal love for me," replied Sister Marie, indignantly, "that I have reason to believe your intention is not so much to examine my virginity as to despoil me of it. So be assured I will never consent."
"You are excommunicated," returned the prior, "to refuse obedience; and unless you do as I bid you, I will dishonor you in full chapter, and will state all I know of you and the confessor."
Sister Marie, without suffering herself to be dismayed, replied that He who knew the hearts of His servants would be her stay. "And since you carry your malevolence so far," she said, "I would rather be the victim of your cruelty than the accomplice of your criminal desires; because I know that God is a just judge."
In a rage that may be more easily imagined than described, the prior hurried off to assemble the chapter. Summoning Sister Marie before him, he made her kneel, and thus addressed her: "It is with extreme grief, Sister Marie, that I see how the wholesome remonstrances which I have addressed to you on so capital a fault have been of no avail, and I am compelled with regret to impose a penance on you contrary to my custom. I have examined your confessor touching certain crimes of which he was accused, and he has confessed to me that he has abused you, and that in a place where two witnesses depose to having seen you. Instead, then, of the honorable post of mistress of the novices in which I had placed you, I ordain that you be the lowest of all, and also that you eat your diet of bread and water on the ground in the presence of all the sisters, until you shall have merited pardon by your repentance."
Sister Marie, having been warned beforehand, by one of her companions who knew her whole affair, that if she made any reply which was displeasing to the prior he would put her in pace, that is, immure her forever in a cell, heard her sentence without saying a word, raising her eyes to heaven, and praying that He who had given her the grace to resist sin, would give her the patience necessary to endure her sufferings. This was not all. The venerable prior further prohibited her speaking for three years to her mother or her relations, or writing any letters excepting in community.
After this the wretch went away and returned no more. The poor girl remained a long time in the condition prescribed by her sentence; but her mother, who had a more tender affection for her than for her other children, was surprised at not hearing from her, and said to one of her sons that she believed her daughter was dead, and that the nuns concealed her death in order the longer to enjoy the annual payment made for her maintenance. She begged him to inquire into the matter and see his sister if it were possible. The brother went of at once to the convent, was answered with the usual excuses, and was told that for three years his sister had not quitted her bed. The young man would not be put off with that reply, and swore that unless she were shown to him he would scale the walls and break into the convent. This threat so alarmed the nuns that they brought his sister to the grating: but the abbess followed her so closely, that she could not speak to her brother without being heard by the good mother. But Sister Marie, having her wits about her, had taken the precaution beforehand to write down all the facts I have related, together with the details of a thousand other stratagems which the prior had employed to seduce her, and which, for the sake of brevity, I omit.
I must not, however, forget to mention that, whilst her aunt was abbess, the prior, fancying that it was on account of his ugliness he was repulsed, caused Sister Marie to be tempted by a young and handsome monk, hoping that, if she yielded to the latter for love, he himself might afterwards have his will of her through fear. But the young monk having accosted her in a garden, with words and gestures so infamous that I should be ashamed to repeat them, the poor girl ran to the abbess, who was talking with the prior, and cried to her, "Mother, they are demons, and not monks, who come to visit us." Upon this the prior, afraid of being discovered, said to the abbess, with a laugh, "Certainly, mother, Sister Marie is right." He then took her hand, and said, in presence of the abbess, "I had heard that Sister Marie spoke very well, and with such facility as led people to believe that she was mundane. For this reason I have done violence to my nature, and have spoken to her as worldlings speak to women, so far as I know that language from books: for in point of personal experience I am as ignorant as I was the day I was born. And as I attributed her virtue to my age and ugliness, I ordered my young monk to speak to her in the same tone. She has made, as you see, a sage and virtuous resistance. I am pleased with her for it, and esteem her so highly, that henceforth I desire that she be the first after you, and the mistress of the novices, in order that her virtue may be fortified more and more." The venerable prior did many feats of the same sort during the three years he was in love with the nun, who, as I have said, gave her brother a full written narrative of her sad adventures through the grating.
The brother carried the paper to his mother, who hurried distractedly to Paris, where she found the Queen of Navarre, only sister to the king, and laid this piteous tale before her, saying, "Put no more trust, madam, in these hypocrites. I thought I had placed my daughter on the outskirts of heaven, or at least on the way to it; but I find I have placed her in hell, and in the hands of people worse than all the devils there; for the devils tempt us only so far as we are ourselves consenting parties, but these wretches try to prevail over us by violence when they cannot do so by love." The Queen of Navarre was greatly perplexed. She had implicit confidence in the prior of St. Martin's, and had committed to his charge the abbesses of Montivilliers and of Caen, her sisters-in-law. On the other hand, the crime appeared to her so black and horrible, that she longed to avenge the poor innocent girl, and communicated the matter to the king's chancellor, who was then legate in France. * The legate made the prior appear before him, and all that the latter could allege in excuse for himself was that he was seventy years of age. He appealed to the Queen of Navarre, beseeching, by all the pleasures she could ever wish to do him, and as the sole recompense of his past services, that she would have the goodness to put a stop to these proceeding, assuring her he would avow that Sister Marie Herouet was a pearl of honor and chastity. The queen was so astounded at this speech, that, not knowing how to reply to it, she turned her back upon him, and left him there. The poor monk, overwhelmed with confusion, retired to his monastery, where he never more would let himself be seen by anybody, and died a year afterwards. Sister Marie Herouet, esteemed as the virtues God had given her deserved, was taken from the abbey of Gif, where she had suffered so much, and was made by the king abbess of the abbey of Giy, near Montargis. She reformed the abbey which his majesty had given her, and lived like a saint, animated by the spirit of God whom she praised all her life long for the repose He had procured her, and the dignity with which he had in vested her. *
There, ladies, is a story which well confirms what St. Paul says to the Corinthians, that God makes use of weak things to confound the strong, and of those who seem useless in men's eyes to overthrow the glory and splendor of those who, thinking themselves something, are yet in reality nothing. There is no good in any man but what God put into him by His grace; and there is no temptation out of which one does not come victorious, when God grants us aid. You see this by the confession of a monk, who was believed to be a good man, and by the elevation of a girl whom he wished to exhibit as criminal and wicked. In this we see the truth of our Lord's saying, that "He that exalteth himself shall be humbled, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted."
"How many worthy people this monk deceived!" said Oisille; "for I have seen how they trusted in him more than in God."
"I should not have been one of those he deceived," said Nomerfide, "for I have such a horror of the very sight of a monk that I could not even confess to them, believing them to be worse than all other men, and never to frequent any house without leaving in it some shame or dissension."
"There are some good men amongst them," said Oisille; "and the wickedness of an individual ought not to be imputed to the whole body; but the best are those who least frequent secular houses and women."
"That is very well said," observed Ennasuite, "for the less one sees and knows them the better one esteems them; for upon more experience one comes to know their real nature."
"Let us leave the monastery where it is," said Nomerfide, "and see to whom Geburon will give his voice."
"To Madame Oisille," replied Geburon, "in order that she may tell us something in honor of the regular clergy."
"We have pledged ourselves so strongly to speak the truth," replied Oisille, "that I could not undertake that task. Besides, your tale reminded me of a piteous one, which I must relate to you, as I come from the neighborhood of the country where the thing occurred in my own time. I choose this story of recent date, ladies, in order that the hypocrisy of those who believe themselves more religious than others may not so beguile you as to make your faith quit the right path, and induce you to hope for salvation in any other than Him who will have no companion in the work of our creation and redemption. He alone is almighty to save us in eternity, and to comfort us in this life, and deliver us out of all our afflictions. You know that Satan often assumes the appearance of an angel of light, in order that the eye, deceived by the semblance of sanctity and devotion, may attach itself to the things it ought to shun."
A Cordelier is the cause of three murders, that of husband, wife and child.
THERE was in Perigord a gentleman whose devotion to St. Francis was such that he imagined all those who wore that saint's habit were, as a matter of course, as holy as the sainted founder of their order. In honor of that good saint he fitted up a suite of apartments in his house to lodge the Franciscan monks, by whose advice he regulated all his affairs, even to the smallest household matters, thinking that he could not but walk safely when he followed such good guides. It happened that the wife of this gentleman, a handsome lady, and as virtuous as she was handsome, was delivered of a fine boy; for which her husband, who already loved her much, now regarded her with redoubled affection. The better to entertain his wife, the gentleman sent for one of his brothers-in-law; and a Cordelier, whose name I shall conceal for the honor of the order, arrived also. The gentleman was very glad to see his spiritual father, for whom he had no secrets; and after a long conversation between the lady, her brother, and the monk, they all sat down to supper. During the repast, the gentleman, looking wistfully at his lovely wife, said aloud to the good father, "Is it true, father, that it is a mortal sin to be with one's wife during the month of her confinement?"
The Cordelier, who was anything but what he seemed, replied, "Certainly, sir, I think it is one of the greatest sins that can be committed in marriage. I need only refer you to the example of the blessed Virgin, who would not enter the Temple till the day after her purification, though she had no need of that ceremony. This alone should teach you the indispensable necessity of abstaining from this little pleasure, since the good Virgin Mary, in order to obey the law, abstained from going to the Temple in which was her whole consolation. Beside, the physicians say that there is reason to fear for the children that might be begotten under such circumstances."
The gentleman, who had expected that the monk would give him permission to lie with his wife, was much annoyed at a reply so contrary to his hope; however, he let the matter drop. The reverend father having drunk a little more than was reasonable during the conversation, cast his eyes on the lady, and concluded within himself that if he was her husband, he would lie with her without asking any one's advice. As the fire kindles little by little, and at last waxes so strong and fierce that it burns down the house, so the poor monk felt himself possessed with such vehement concupiscence, that he resolved all at once to satisfy the desire he had cherished in secret for three years. After the supper-things had been taken away, he took the gentleman by the hand, led him to the side of the bed, and said to him, in the presence of his wife, "Knowing, sir, as I do, the affection that subsists between you and mademoiselle, I compassionate the feelings with which your great youth inspires you both. Therefore I will impart to you a secret of our holy theology. You must know, then, that the law which is so rigorous on account of the abuses committed by indiscreet husbands, is not so strict with regard to husbands so prudent and moderate as you. Hence, sir, after having stated before others what is the severity of the law, I must tell you in private what is its mildness. Know, then, that there are women and women, as there are men and men. Before all things, then, it is necessary that mademoiselle, who has been delivered these three weeks, should tell you if her flux of blood has quite ceased."
The demoiselle replied very positively that it had.
"That being the case, my son," resumed the Cordelier, "I permit you to lie with her without scruple, on these two conditions: first, that you mention it to no one, and that you come to her secretly; secondly, that you do not come to her until two hours after midnight, in order not to disturb your wife's digestion."
The gentleman promised to observe both these conditions, and confirmed his promise by so strong an oath that the monk, who knew him to be more of a fool than a liar, did not doubt that he would keep his word. After a pretty long conversation he bade them good-night, gave them plenty of benedictions, and retired to his chamber. As he was leaving the room he took the gentleman by the hand, and said, "Certes, sir, it is time for you to retire also, and leave mademoiselle to repose." They gentleman obeyed, and withdrew, telling his wife in the good father's presence to leave the door open.
On reaching his chamber the good monk thought of anything but sleeping. As soon as he found that the house was all still, that is to say, about the hour when he was wont to go to matins, he went straight to the chamber where the gentleman was expected. He found the door open, and having entered, he began by putting out the candle, and then got into bed to the lady as fast as he could. "My dear, this is not what you promised the good father," said the demoiselle, who mistook him for her husband; "you said you would not come here until two o'clock." The Cordelier, who was more intent on action than on contemplation, and was afraid, too, of being recognized if he spoke, made no reply, but proceeded at once to gratify the criminal passion which had long poisoned his heart; whereat the demoiselle was much astonished. The hour when the husband was to come being at hand, the Cordelier got out of bed and returned to his chamber; but as love had before hindered him from sleeping, so now the fear that always follows crime allowed him no repose. He got up, went to the porter, and said, "My friend, monsieur has commanded me to go back at once to our convent, where I am to put up prayers for him. So pray let me have my beast, and open the door for me without letting any one know, for this business requires secrecy." The porter, knowing that to obey the Cordelier was to serve his master, opened the gate and let him out.
At that moment the gentleman awoke, and seeing that it was near the time when he was to go to his wife, he wrapped his dressing-gown about him, and went to his wife's bed, whither he might have gone in accordance with God's law without asking leave of any one. His wife being ignorant of what had occurred, and finding her husband beside her, and hearing his voice, said to him, in surprise, "What, sir! Is this the promise you made to the good Cordelier, that you would be cautious of your health and mine? Not content with having come hither before the time, you now come again. Do think better of it, I entreat you."
Confounded at being addressed in this manner, and unable to conceal his vexation, the husband replied, "What is this you say? It is three weeks since I have been in bed with you, and you accuse me of coming to you too often. If you continue to talk to me in that strain, you will make me believe that my company is distasteful to you. And constrain me to do what I have never yet done, that is, to seek elsewhere the lawful pleasure you refuse me."
The lady, who thought he was joking, replied, "Do not deceive yourself, sir, in thinking to deceive me. Though you did not speak to me the first time you came, I knew very well that you were there."
The gentleman then perceived that they had both been duped, and solemnly vowed that he had not been there before; and the wife, in an agony of grief, begged he would find out at once who it could be that had deceived her, since the only persons who slept in the house were her brother and the Cordelier. The husband's suspicions falling immediately on the latter, he ran to his chamber, and found it empty. To make sure whether or not he had fled, he called the porter, and asked if he knew what had become of the Cordelier. The porter told him what had passed, and the poor gentleman, convinced of the monk's villainy, went back to his wife, and said, "Be assured, my dear, that person who lay with you and performed such feats was no other than our father confessor."
The lady, to whom honor had always been most precious, was so horror-stricken, that, forgetting all humanity and the natural gentleness of her sex, she entreated her husband on her knees to revenge her for such a cruel outrage; whereupon he mounted his horse, and rode off in pursuit of the Cordelier. The wife, left alone in her bed, without any one to counsel her, and without any consolation except her new-born babe, pondered over the hideous adventure which had befallen her, and making no account of her ignorance, regarded herself as guilty, and as the most miserable woman in the world. And then, having never learned anything from the Cordelier but confidence in good works, satisfaction for sins by austerity of life, fasting, and discipline, and being wholly ignorant of the grace given by our good God through the merits of His Son, the remission of sins through His blood, the reconciliation of the Father with us through His death, and the life given to sinners by His sole goodness and mercy, she was so bewildered between her horror at the enormity of the deed and her love for her husband and the honor of her line, that she thought death far happier than such a life as hers. Thus rendered desperate by her grief, she lost not only the hope which every Christian ought to have in God, but common sense too, and the recollection of her own nature. Not knowing, then, either God or herself, but, on the contrary, full of rage and madness, she undid one of the cords of her bed, and strangled herself with her own hands. In the agony of that painful death, amidst the last violent efforts of nature, the unfortunate woman pressed her foot upon her infant's face, and its innocence could not secure it from a death as piteous as its mother's.
Roused by a great cry uttered by the expiring lady, a woman who slept in her room got up, and lighted a candle. Seeing her mistress hanging dead by the bedcord, and her infant smothered at her feet, the horrified servant went to the bedroom of the deceased's brother, and took him to see that sad spectacle. The brother, as deeply afflicted as a man would naturally be who tenderly loved his sister, asked the servant who had perpetrated such a crime? She could not tell at all; the only thing she could say was, that no one had entered the room but her master, who had quitted it but a moment ago. The brother, hurrying instantly to his brother-in-law's chamber, and not finding him there, was firmly persuaded that he had done the deed. Mounting his horse without more delay, or waiting for fuller information, he rode after his brother-in-law, and met him as he was returning from his ineffectual pursuit of the Cordelier. "Defend yourself, base villain!" cried the brother-in-law; "I trust that God will revenge me with this sword on the greatest miscreant on earth." The husband would have expostulated; but the brother-in-law pressed him so hard, that all he could do was to defend himself, without knowing what was the cause of the quarrel. They dealt each other so many wounds, that they were compelled, by loss of blood and weakness, to dismount and rest a little. While they were taking breath, the husband said, "Let me at least know, brother, why the friendship we have always had for one another has been changed into such rancorous hatred?"
"Let me know why you have put my sister to death, one of the best women that ever lived," replied the brother; "and why, under pretext of going to sleep with her, you have hung her with the bedcord?"
More dead than alive on hearing these words, the poor husband faltered out, "Is it possible, brother, that you found your sister in the state you say?" Being assured that this was the exact truth, "Pray, brother, listen to me," he continued, "and you shall know why I left the house." And then he related the adventure of the Cordelier. The astonished brother now bitterly repented the precipitation with which he had acted, and earnestly implored forgiveness. "If I have wronged you," said the husband, "you are avenged; for I am wounded beyond hope of recovery." The brother-in-law set him on his horse as well as he could, and led him back to his own house, where he died the next day, and the survivor confessed before all his relations and friends that he was the cause of his death.
For the satisfaction of justice, the brother-in-law was advised to go and solicit his pardon of King Francis I. To this end, after having honorably interred the father, mother, and child, he set out one Good Friday, to solicit his pardon at court; and he obtained it through the favor of François Olivier, chancellor of Alençon, afterwards, in consideration of his great endowments, chosen by the king to be chancellor of France.
I am persuaded, ladies, that after this story, which is the very truth, there is not one of you but will think twice before giving reception to such guests. Let it at least teach you, that the more hidden the venom, the more dangerous it is.
"Surely," said Hircan, "this husband was a great fool to bring such a gallant to sup by the side of such a handsome and virtuous woman."
"I have seen the time," said Geburon, "when there was not a house in our country in which there was not a chamber for the good fathers; but at present people know them so well, that they are more feared than adventurers."
"It seems to me," said Parlamente, "that a woman in bed ought never to let monk or priest into her room except to administer to her the sacraments of the church; and for my part, when I summon any of them to my bedside, it may be taken for a sure sign that I am very far gone."
"If everybody was as austere as you," said Ennasuite, "the poor clergy would no longer be free to see women when and where they pleased, and that would be worse to them than excommunication."
"Have no fear on their account," said Saffredent; "these worthies will never want for women."
"Is not this too bad?" exclaimed Simontault. "It is they who unite us with our wives in the bonds of wedlock, and they have the wickedness to try to disunite us, and make us break the oath they have imposed upon us."
"It is a pity," said Oisille, "that they who have the administration of the sacraments make light of them in this manner. They ought to be burned alive."
"You would do better to honor them than to blame them," replied Saffredent, "and to flatter instead of abusing them, for it is they who have the power to burn and dishonor others; therefore, let them alone and let us see, whom does Oisille call on?"
"On Dagoucin," she replied; "for I see he is so pensive, that it strikes me he must have something good at the tip of his tongue."
"Since I cannot and dare not say what I think," said Dagoucin, "at least I will speak of a man to whom cruelty was prejudicial and afterwards advantageous. Although love has such a good opinion of its own strength and potency that it likes to show itself quite naked, and finds it extremely irksome, nay, insupportable to go cloaked, yet those who in obedience to its dictates make too great haste to disclose themselves, often suffer for it, as happened to a gentleman of Castile, whose story I shall relate to you."
THE END OF VOLUME ONE.
Ingenious device of a Castilian in order to make a declaration of love to a Queen, and what came of it.
THERE was at the court of a king and queen of Castile, whose names history does not mention, a gentleman of such good birth and comely person, that his equal there was not in all Spain. Every one held his endowments in admiration, but still more his eccentricity; for it had never been perceived that he loved or courted any lady, though there were many at the court who might have fired ice itself; but there was not one who could kindle the heart of Elisor, for so this gentleman was named. The queen, who was a woman of great virtue, but a woman nevertheless, and not more exempt than the rest of her sex from that flame which is the more violent the more it is compressed–the queen, I say, surprised that this gentleman did not attach himself to any of her ladies, asked him one day if it was true that he was as indifferent as he appeared? He replied, that if she saw his heart as she saw his face, she would not have asked him that question. Eager to know what he meant, she pressed him so hard, that he confessed he loved a lady whom he believed to be the most virtuous in all Christendom. She did all she could by entreaties and commands to make him say who the lady was, but all to no purpose; till at last she pretended to be most deeply incensed against him, and swore that she would never speak to him again if he did not name the lady he loved so passionately. To escape from her importunities, he was forced to say, that he would rather die than do what she required of him; but at last, finding that he was about to be deprived of the honor of seeing her, and to be cast out of her favor for not declaring a truth in itself so seemly that no one could take it in bad part, he said to her, trembling with emotion, "I cannot and dare not, madam, name the person; but I will show her to you the first time we go to the chase; and I am sure that you will say as well as I, that she is the most beautiful and most accomplished lady in the world."
After this reply, the queen went to the chase sooner than she would otherwise have done. Elisor had notice of this, and prepared to wait on her majesty as usual. He had got made for himself a great steel mirror in the shape of a corslet, and this he placed on his chest, concealed beneath a mantle of black frieze, all bordered with purl and gold. He rode a black horse very richly caparisoned. His harness was all gilded and enameled black in the Moorish fashion, and his black silk hat had a buckle adorned with precious stones, and having in the center, for a device, a Love concealed by Force. His sword, poniard, and the devices upon them, corresponded to the rest; in short, he was admirably accoutred; and he was such a good horseman, that all who saw him neglected the pleasures of the chase to see the paces and the leaps which Elisor made his horse perform. After escorting the queen to the place where the toils were spread, he alighted and went to aid her majesty to dismount. At the moment she held out her arms, he opened his cloak, which covered his new cuirass, and said, "Be pleased, madam, to look here;" and without awaiting her reply he set her gently on the ground.
When the chase was ended, the queen returned to the palace without speaking to Elisor. After supper she called him to her, and told him he was the greatest liar she had ever seen, for he had promised to show her at the chase the lady of his love, and yet he had done no such thing; but for her part, she was resolved for the future to make no account of him. Elisor, fearing that the queen had not understood what he had said to her, replied that he had kept his word, and that he had shown her not only the woman, but also that thing in all the world which he loved best. Affecting ignorance of his meaning, she declared she was not aware that he had shown her any of her ladies. "That is true," replied Elisor; "but what did I show you when you dismounted from your horse?"
"Nothing," said the queen, "but a mirror you had on your chest."
"And what did you see in the mirror?"
"Nothing but myself."
"Consequently, madam, I have kept my word and obeyed you. Never did anything enter my heart but that which you saw when you looked at my chest. She who was there pictured is the only one whom I love, revere, and adore, not as a woman merely, but as an earthly divinity, on whom my life and death depend. The only favor I ask of you, madam, is, that the perfect passion, which has been life to me whilst concealed, may not be my death now that I have declared it. If I am worthy that you should regard me and receive me as your most impassioned servant, suffer me at least to live, as I have hitherto done, upon the blissful consciousness that I have dared to give my heart to a being so perfect and so worthy of all honor, that I must be content to love her, though I can never hope to be loved in return. If the knowledge you now possess of my intense love does not render me more agreeable to your eyes than heretofore, at least do not deprive me of life, which for me consists in the bliss of seeing you as usual. I now receive from you no other favor than that which is absolutely necessary for my existence. If I have less you will have a servant the less, and will lose the best and most affectionate one you have ever had or ever will have."
The queen, whether it was that she might appear other than she really was, or that she might put his love for her to a longer proof, or that she loved another whom she would not forsake for him, or, lastly, that she was glad to have this lover in reserve in case her heart should became vacant through any fault which might possibly be committed by him whom she loved already, said to him, in a tone which expressed neither anger nor satisfaction, "I will not ask you, Elisor, although I know not the power of love, how you can have been so presumptuous and so extravagant as to love me; for I know that the heart of man is so little at his own command, that one cannot love or hate as one chooses. But since you have so well concealed your feelings, I desire to know how long you have entertained them?"
Elisor, looking in her beautiful face, and hearing her inquire about his malady, was not without hopes that she would afford him some relief; but, on the other hand, seeing the self-command and the gravity with which she questioned him, he feared he had to do with a judge who was about to pronounce sentence against him. Notwithstanding this fluctuation between hope and fear, he protested that he had loved her since her early youth; but that it was only within the last seven years he had been conscious of his pain, or rather of a malady so agreeable that he would rather die than be cured.
"Since you have been constant for seven years," said the queen, "I must be no more precipitate in believing you than you have been in declaring your love to me. Therefore, if you speak the truth, I wish to convince myself of it in a manner that shall leave no room for doubt; and if I am satisfied with the result of the trial, I will believe you to be such towards me as you swear that you are; and then, when I find you to be indeed what you say, you shall find me to be what you wish."
Elisor besought her to put him to any proof she pleased, there being nothing so hard that would not appear to him very easy, in the hope that he might be happy enough to convince her of the perfect love he bore her. He only waited, he said, to be honored with her commands.
"If you love me, Elisor, as much as you say," replied the queen, "I am sure that nothing will seem hard to you to obtain my good graces; so I command you, by the desire you have of possessing them, and the fear of losing them, that to-morrow, without seeing me more, you quit the court and go to a place where for seven years you shall hear nothing of me, nor I of you. You know well that you love me, since you have had seven years' experience of the fact. When I shall have a similar seven years' experience, I shall believe what all your protestations would fail to assure me of."
This cruel command made Elisor believe at first that her intention was to get rid of him; but, upon second thoughts, he accepted the condition, hoping that the proof would do more for him than all the words he could utter. "If I have lived seven years without any hope," he said, "under the painful necessity of dissembling my love, now that it is known to you, and that I have some gleam of hope, I shall pass the other seven years with patience and calmness. But, madam, since in obeying the command you impose upon me, I am deprived of all the joy I have ever had in the world, what hope do you give me that, at the end of seven years, you will own me for your faithful servant?"
Drawing a ring off her finger, "Let us cut this ring in two," said the queen; "I will keep one half and you the other, in order that I may recognize you by that token in case length of time makes me forget your face."
Elisor took the ring, divided it in two, gave the queen one half, and kept the other. Then, taking leave of her, more dead than those who hav