Produced by David Widger





THE TALES OF

THE HEPTAMERON

OF

Margaret, Queen of Navarre

_Newly Translated into English from the Authentic Text_

OF M. LE ROUX DE LINCY WITH

AN ESSAY UPON THE HEPTAMERON

BY

GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A.

Also the Original Seventy-three Full Page Engravings



Designed by S. FREUDENBERG

And One Hundred and Fifty Head and Tail Pieces

By DUNKER

_IN FIVE VOLUMES_

VOLUME THE FOURTH

LONDON: PRINTED FOR THE SOCIETY OF ENGLISH BIBLIOPHILISTS

MDCCCXCIV


[Illustration: Frontispiece]

[Margaret, Queen of Navarre, from a crayon drawing by Clouet, preserved
at the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris]

[Illustration: Titlepage]




CONTENTS OF VOLUME IV.

FOURTH DAY.

Prologue

Tale XXXI. Punishment of the wickedness of a Friar who sought to lie
with a gentleman’s wife.

Tale XXXII. How an ambassador of Charles VIII., moved by the repentance
of a German lady, whom her husband compelled to drink out of her lover’s
skull, reconciled husband and wife together.

Tale XXXIII. The hypocrisy of a priest who, under the cloak of sanctity,
had lain with his own sister, is discovered and punished by the wisdom
of the Count of Angoulême.

Tale XXXIV. The terror of two Friars who believed that a butcher
intended to murder them, whereas the poor man was only speaking of his
Pigs.

Tale XXXV. How a husband’s prudence saves his wife from the risks she
incurred while thinking to yield to merely a spiritual love.

Tale XXXVI. The story of the President of Grenoble, who saves the honour
of his house by poisoning his wife with a salad.

Tale XXXVII. How the Lady of Loué regained her husband’s affection.

Tale XXXVIII. The kindness of a townswoman of Tours to a poor
farm-woman who is mistress to her husband, makes the latter so ashamed
of his faithlessness that he returns to his wife.

Tale XXXIX. How the Lord of Grignaulx rid one of his houses of a
pretended ghost.

Tale XL. The unhappy history of the Count de Jossebelin’s sister, who
shut herself up in a hermitage because her brother caused her husband to
be slain.


FIFTH DAY.

Prologue

Tale XLI. Just punishment of a Grey Friar for the unwonted penance that
he would have laid upon a maiden.

Tale XLII. The virtuous resistance made by a young woman of Touraine
causes a young Prince that is in love with her, to change his desire to
respect, and to bestow her honourably in marriage.

Tale XLIII. How a little chalk-mark revealed the hypocrisy of a lady
called Jambicque, who was wont to hide the pleasures she indulged in,
beneath the semblance of austerity.

Tale XLIV. (A). Through telling the truth, a Grey Friar receives as alms
from the Lord of Sedan two pigs instead of one.

Tale XLIV. (B). Honourable conduct of a young citizen of Paris, who,
after suddenly enjoying his sweetheart, at last happily marries.

Tale XLV. Cleverness of an upholsterer of Touraine, who, to hide that
he has given the Innocents to his serving-maid, contrives to give them
afterwards to his wife.

Tale XLVI. (A). Wicked acts of a Grey Friar of Angoulême called De Vale,
who fails in his purpose with the wife of the Judge of the Exempts, but
to whom a mother in blind confidence foolishly abandons her daughter.

Tale XLVI. (B). Sermons of the Grey Friar De Vallès, at first against
and afterwards on behalf of husbands that beat their wives.

Tale XLVII. The undeserved jealousy of a gentleman of Le Perche towards
another gentleman, his friend, leads the latter to deceive him.

Tale XLVIII. Wicked act of a Grey Friar of Perigord, who, while a
husband was dancing at his wedding, went and took his place with the
bride.

Tale XLIX. Story of a foreign Countess, who, not content with having
King Charles as her lover, added to him three lords, to wit, Astillon,
Durassier and Valnebon.

Tale L. Melancholy fortune of Messire John Peter, a gentleman of
Cremona, who dies just when he is winning the affection of the lady he
loves.

Appendix to Vol. IV.




PAGE ENGRAVINGS CONTAINED IN VOLUME IV.

Tale XXXI. The Wicked Friar Captured.

Tale XXXII. Bernage observing the German Lady’s Strange Penance.

Tale XXXIII. The Execution of the Wicked Priest and his Sister.

Tale XXXIV. The Grey Friar imploring the Butcher to Spare his Life.

Tale XXXV. The Lady embracing the Supposed Friar.

Tale XXXVI. The Clerk entreating Forgiveness of the President.

Tale XXXVII. The Lady of Loué bringing her Husband the Basin of Water.

Tale XXXVIII. The Lady of Tours questioning her Husband’s Mistress.

Tale XXXIX. The Lord of Grignaulx catching the Pretended Ghost.

Tale XL. The Count of Jossebelin murdering his Sister’s Husband.

Tale XLI. The Beating of the Wicked Grey Friar.

Tale XLII. The Girl refusing the Gift of the Young Prince.

Tale XLIII. Jambicque repudiating her Lover.

Tale XLIV. (B). The Lovers returning from their Meeting in the Garden.

Tale Tale XLV. The Man of Tours and his Serving-maid in the Snow.

Tale XLVI. (B). The Young Man beating his Wife.

Tale XLVII. The Gentleman reproaching his Friend for his Jealousy.

Tale XLVIII. The Grey Friars Caught and Punished.

Tale XLIX. The Countess facing her Lovers.

Tale L. The Lady killing herself on the Death of her Lover.




FOURTH DAY.

_On the Fourth Day are chiefly told Tales of the
virtuous patience and long suffering of
Ladies to win over their husbands;
and of the prudence that Men
have used towards Women
to save the honour of
their families and
lineage._




PROLOGUE.

The Lady Oisille, as was her excellent custom, rose up on the morrow
very much earlier than the others, and meditating upon her book of
Holy Scripture, awaited the company which, little by little, assembled
together again. And the more slothful of them excused themselves in the
words of the Bible, saying, “I have a wife, and therefore could not come
so quickly.” (1) In this wise it came to pass that Hircan and his wife
Parlamente found the reading of the lesson already begun. Oisille,
however, knew right well how to pick out the passage in the Scriptures,
which reproves those who neglect the hearing of the Word, and she not
only read the text, but also addressed to them such excellent and pious
exhortations that it was impossible to weary of listening to her.

     1  “I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.”--St.
     Luke xiv. 20.--M.

The reading ended, Parlamente said to her--

“I felt sorry for my slothfulness when I came in, but since my error
has led you to speak to me in such excellent fashion, my laziness has
profited me double, for I have had rest of body by sleeping longer, and
satisfaction of spirit by hearing your godly discourse.” “Well,” said
Oisille, “let us for penance go to mass and pray Our Lord to give us
both will and power to fulfil His commandments; and then may He command
us according to His own good pleasure.”

As she was saying these words, they reached the church, where they
piously heard mass. And afterwards they sat down to table, where Hircan
failed not to laugh at the slothfulness of his wife. After dinner they
withdrew to rest and study their parts, (2) and when the hour was come,
they all found themselves at the wonted spot.

     2  Meaning what they had to relate. The French word is
     _rolle_ from _rotulus_.--M.

Then Oisille asked Hircan to whom he would give his vote to begin the
day.

“If my wife,” said he, “had not begun yesterday, I should have given her
my vote, for although I always thought that she loved me more than any
man alive, she has further proved to me this morning that she loves me
better than God or His Word, seeing that she neglected your excellent
reading to bear me company. However, since I cannot give my vote to the
discreetest lady of the company, I will present it to Geburon, who is
the discreetest among the men; and I beg that he will in no wise spare
the monks.”

“It was not necessary to beg that of me,” said Geburon; “I was not at
all likely to forget them. Only a short while ago I heard Monsieur de
Saint-Vincent, Ambassador of the Emperor, tell a story of them which is
well worthy of being rememorated and I will now relate it to you.”

[Illustration: 007a.jpg The Wicked Friar Captured]

[The Wicked Friar Captured]

[Illustration: 007.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XXXI_.

     _A monastery of Grey Friars was burned down, with the monks
     that were in it, as a perpetual memorial of the cruelty
     practised by one among them that was in love with a lady_.

In the lands subject to the Emperor Maximilian of Austria (1) there was
a monastery of Grey Friars that was held in high repute, and nigh to it
stood the house of a gentleman who was so kindly disposed to these
monks that he could withhold nothing from them, in order to share in the
benefits of their fastings and disciplines. Among the rest there was
a tall and handsome friar whom the said gentleman had taken to be his
confessor, and who had as much authority in the gentleman’s house as the
gentleman himself. This friar, seeing that the gentleman’s wife was as
beautiful and prudent as it was possible to be, fell so deeply in love
with her that he lost all appetite for both food and drink, and all
natural reason as well. One day, thinking to work his end, he went all
alone to the house, and not finding the gentleman within, asked the lady
whither he was gone. She replied that he was gone to an estate where he
proposed remaining during two or three days, but that if the friar had
business with him, she would despatch a man expressly to him. The friar
said no to this, and began to walk to and fro in the house like one with
a weighty matter in his mind.

     1  Maximilian I., grandfather of Charles V. and Ferdinand
     I., and Emperor of Germany from 1494 to 1519.--Ed.

When he had left the room, the lady said to one of her women (and there
were but two) “Go after the good father and find out what he wants, for
I judge by his countenance that he is displeased.”

The serving-woman went to the courtyard and asked the friar whether he
desired aught, whereat he answered that he did, and, drawing her into a
corner, he took a dagger which he carried in his sleeve, and thrust
it into her throat. Just after he had done this, there came into the
courtyard a mounted servant who had been gone to receive the rent of a
farm. As soon as he had dismounted he saluted the friar, who embraced
him, and while doing so thrust the dagger into the back part of his
neck. And thereupon he closed the castle gate.

The lady, finding that her serving-woman did not return, was astonished
that she should remain so long with the friar, and said to the other--

“Go and see why your fellow-servant does not come back.”

The woman went, and as soon as the good father saw her, he drew her
aside into a corner and did to her as he had done to her companion.
Then, finding himself alone in the house, he came to the lady, and told
her that he had long been in love with her, and that the hour was now
come when she must yield him obedience.

The lady, who had never suspected aught of this, replied--

“I am sure, father, that were I so evilly inclined, you would be the
first to cast a stone at me.”

“Come out into the courtyard,” returned the monk, “and you will see what
I have done.”

When she beheld the two women and the man lying dead, she was so
terrified that she stood like a statue, without uttering a word. The
villain, who did not seek merely an hour’s delight, would not take her
by force, but forthwith said to her--

“Mistress, be not afraid; you are in the hands of him who, of all living
men, loves you the most.”

So saying, he took off his long robe, beneath which he wore a shorter
one, which he gave to the lady, telling her that if she did not take it,
she should be numbered with those whom she saw lying lifeless before her
eyes.

More dead than alive already, the lady resolved to feign obedience,
both to save her life, and to gain time, as she hoped, for her husband’s
return. At the command of the friar, she set herself to put off her
head-dress as slowly as she was able; and when this was done, the friar,
heedless of the beauty of her hair, quickly cut it off. Then he caused
her to take off all her clothes except her chemise, and dressed her in
the smaller robe he had worn, he himself resuming the other, which he
was wont to wear; then he departed thence with all imaginable speed,
taking with him the little friar he had coveted so long.

But God, who pities the innocent in affliction, beheld the tears of
this unhappy lady, and it so happened that her husband, having arranged
matters more speedily than he had expected, was now returning home by
the same road by which she herself was departing. However, when the
friar perceived him in the distance, he said to the lady--

“I see your husband coming this way. I know that if you look at him he
will try to take you out of my hands. Go, then, before me, and turn
not your head in his direction; for, if you make the faintest sign, my
dagger will be in your throat before he can deliver you.”

As he was speaking, the gentleman came up, and asked him whence he was
coming.

“From your house,” replied the other, “where I left my lady in good
health, and waiting for you.”

The gentleman passed on without observing his wife, but a servant who
was with him, and who had always been wont to foregather with one of
the friar’s comrades named Brother John, began to call to his mistress,
thinking, indeed, that she was this Brother John. The poor woman, who
durst not turn her eyes in the direction of her husband, answered not a
word. The servant, however, wishing to see her face, crossed the road,
and the lady, still without making any reply, signed to him with her
eyes, which were full of tears.

The servant then went after his master and said--“Sir, as I crossed the
road I took note of the friar’s companion. He is not Brother John, but
is very like my lady, your wife, and gave me a pitiful look with eyes
full of tears.”

The gentleman replied that he was dreaming, and paid no heed to him; but
the servant persisted, entreating his master to allow him to go back,
whilst he himself waited on the road, to see if matters were as he
thought. The gentleman gave him leave, and waited to see what news he
would bring him. When the friar heard the servant calling out to Brother
John, he suspected that the lady had been recognised, and with a great,
iron-bound stick that he carried, he dealt the servant so hard a blow in
the side that he knocked him off his horse. Then, leaping upon his body,
he cut his throat.

The gentleman, seeing his servant fall in the distance, thought that he
had met with an accident, and hastened back to assist him. As soon as
the friar saw him, he struck him also with the iron-bound stick, just
as he had struck the servant, and, flinging him to the ground, threw
himself upon him. But the gentleman being strong and powerful, hugged
the friar so closely that he was unable to do any mischief, and was
forced to let his dagger fall. The lady picked it up, and, giving it to
her husband, held the friar with all her strength by the hood. Then her
husband dealt the friar several blows with the dagger, so that at last
he cried for mercy and confessed his wickedness. The gentleman was
not minded to kill him, but begged his wife to go home and fetch their
people and a cart, in which to carry the friar away. This she did,
throwing off her robe, and running as far as her house in nothing but
her shift, with her cropped hair.

The gentleman’s men forthwith hastened to assist their master to bring
away the wolf that he had captured. And they found this wolf in the
road, on the ground, where he was seized and bound, and taken to the
house of the gentleman, who afterwards had him brought before the
Emperor’s Court in Flanders, when he confessed his evil deeds.

And by his confession and by proofs procured by commissioners on the
spot, it was found that a great number of gentlewomen and handsome
wenches had been brought into the monastery in the same fashion as the
friar of my story had sought to carry off this lady; and he would have
succeeded but for the mercy of Our Lord, who ever assists those that put
their trust in Him. And the said monastery was stripped of its spoils
and of the handsome maidens that were found within it, and the monks
were shut up in the building and burned with it, as an everlasting
memorial of this crime, by which we see that there is nothing more
dangerous than love when it is founded upon vice, just as there is
nothing more gentle or praiseworthy when it dwells in a virtuous heart.
(2)

     2  Queen Margaret states (_ante_, p. 5) that this tale was
     told by M. de St.-Vincent, ambassador of Charles V., and
     seems to imply that the incident recorded in it was one of
     recent occurrence. The same story may be found, however, in
     most of the collections of early _fabliaux_. See _OEuvres de
     Rutebeuf_, vol. i. p. 260 (_Frère Denise_), Legrand
     d’Aussy’s _Fabliaux_, vol. iv. p. 383, and the _Recueil
     complet des Fabliaux_, Paris, 1878, vol. iii. p. 253. There
     is also some similarity between this tale and No. LX. of the
     _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_. Estienne quotes it in his
     _Apologie pour Hérodote_, L’Estoile in his _Journal du règne
     de Henri III. (anno_ 1577), Malespini uses it in his
     _Ducento Novelle_ (No. 75), and it suggested to Lafontaine
     his _Cordeliers de Catalogne_.--L. and M.

“I am very sorry, ladies, that truth does not provide us with stories
as much to the credit of the Grey Friars as it does to the contrary. It
would be a great pleasure to me, by reason of the love that I bear their
Order, if I knew of one in which I could really praise them; but we have
vowed so solemnly to speak the truth that, after hearing it from such
as are well worthy of belief, I cannot but make it known to you.
Nevertheless, I promise you that, whenever the monks shall accomplish a
memorable and glorious deed, I will be at greater pains to exalt it than
I have been in relating the present truthful history.”

“In good faith, Geburon,” said Oisille, “that was a love which might
well have been called cruelty.”

“I am astonished,” said Simontault, “that he was patient enough not to
take her by force when he saw her in her shift, and in a place where he
might have mastered her.”

“He was not an epicure, but a glutton,” said Saffredent. “He wanted to
have his fill of her every day, and so was not minded to amuse himself
with a mere taste.”

“That was not the reason,” said Parlamente. “Understand that a lustful
man is always timorous, and the fear that he had of being surprised and
robbed of his prey led him, wolf-like, to carry off his lamb that he
might devour it at his ease.”

“For all that,” said Dagoucin, “I cannot believe that he loved her, or
that the virtuous god of love could dwell in so base a heart.”

“Be that as it may,” said Oisille, “he was well punished, and I pray God
that like attempts may meet with the same chastisement. But to whom will
you give your vote?”

“To you, madam,” replied Geburon; “you will, I know, not fail to tell us
a good story.”

“Since it is my turn,” said Oisille, “I will relate to you one that is
indeed excellent, seeing that the adventure befel in my own day, and
before the eyes of him who told it to me. You are, I am sure, aware
that death ends all our woes, and this being so, it may be termed our
happiness and tranquil rest. It is, therefore, a misfortune if a man
desires death and cannot obtain it, and so the most grievous punishment
that can be given to a wrongdoer is not death, but a continual torment,
great enough to render death desirable, but withal too slight to bring
it nearer. And this was how a husband used his wife, as you shall hear.”

[Illustration: 0016.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 017a.jpg Bernage observing the German Lady’s Strange Penance]

[Bernage observing the German Lady’s Strange Penance]

[Illustration: 017.jpg Page Image




_TALE XXXII_.

     _Bernage, learning in what patience and humility a German
     lady submitted to the strange penance laid upon her for her
     unchastity by her husband, so persuaded the latter that he
     forgot the past, showed pity to his wife, and, taking her
     back again, afterwards had by her some very handsome
     children_.

King Charles, eighth of the name, sent into Germany a gentleman called
Bernage, Lord of Sivray, near Amboise, (1) who to make good speed spared
not to travel both by day and night. In this wise he came very late one
evening to a gentleman’s castle, where he asked for lodging, a request
which was not granted him without great difficulty.

     1  Bernage, Bernaige, or Vernaiges, as the name is diversely
     written in the MSS. of the _Heptameron_, was in 1495 equerry
     to Charles VIII., a post which brought him an annual salary
     of 300 livres.--See Godefroy’s _Histoire de Charles VIII_.,
     p. 705. Civray, near Chenonceaux, on the Cher, was a fief of
     the barony of Amboise. In 1483 we find a certain John
     Goussart doing homage for it to the crown.--Archives
     Nationales, Section Domaniale, côte 3801.--L.

However, when the gentleman came to know that he was servant to so great
a King, he went to him and begged him not to take the churlishness of
his servants in bad part, since he was obliged to keep his house thus
closed on account of certain of his wife’s kinsfolk who sought to do
him hurt. Bernage then told him the nature of his mission, wherein the
gentleman offered to serve the interests of the King his master, so far
as in him lay; and he forthwith led Bernage into the house, where he
lodged and entertained him honourably.

It was the hour for supper, and the gentleman led him into a handsome
room, hung with beautiful tapestry, where, as soon as the meats were
served, he saw come from behind the hangings the most beautiful woman it
were possible to behold; though her head was shorn and she was dressed
in black garments of the German fashion.

After the gentleman had washed his hands with Bernage, water was borne
to the lady, who also washed hers and then sat down at the end of the
table without speaking to the gentleman, or he to her. The Lord de
Bernage looked very closely at her, and thought her one of the most
beautiful women he had ever seen, except that her face was very pale,
and its expression very sad.

After eating a little, she asked for drink, which was brought to her by
a servant in a most marvellous vessel, for it was a death’s head, the
eyeholes of which were closed with silver; and from this she drank two
or three times. When she had supped, the lady washed her hands, made
a reverence to the lord of the house, and retired again behind the
tapestry without speaking to any one. Bernage was exceedingly amazed at
this strange sight, and became very melancholy and thoughtful.

The gentleman, who perceived this, then said to him--

“I perceive that you are astonished at what you have seen at this table;
but for the sake of the excellence that I find in you I will explain
the matter, so that you may not think I could show such cruelty without
reasons of great weight. The lady whom you saw is my wife; I loved her
more than ever man loved woman, insomuch that in order to marry her I
forgot all fear, and brought her hither in defiance of her relations. On
her part, she showed me so many tokens of love that I would have risked
ten thousand lives in bringing her hither, to her delight and mine.
And here we lived for a while in such peace and gladness that I deemed
myself the happiest gentleman in Christendom.

“But it came to pass, upon my undertaking a journey which my honour
compelled me to make, she forgot her honour, conscience and love for me
to such a degree as to fall in love with a young gentleman whom I had
brought up in this house, and this I thought I could perceive when I
returned home again. Nevertheless, the love I bore her was so great that
I was not able to mistrust her, until at last experience opened my eyes
and made me see what I dreaded more than death, whereupon my love for
her was turned to frenzy and despair in such wise that I watched her
closely, and one day, while feigning to walk abroad, I hid myself in the
room in which she now dwells.

“Thither she withdrew soon after my departure, and sent for the young
gentleman, whom I saw come in with such familiarity as should have been
mine alone. But when I saw him about to get upon the bed beside her, I
sprang out, seized him in her very arms, and slew him. And as my wife’s
crime seemed to me so great that death would not suffice to punish it, I
laid upon her a penalty which she must hold, I think, to be more bitter
than death; and this penalty was to shut her up in the room to which she
was wont to retire to take her greatest pleasures in the company of
him for whom she had more love than she had for me; and there I further
placed in a cupboard all her lover’s bones, hanging there even as
precious things are hung up in a cabinet.

“That she may not lose the memory of this villain I cause her to be
served with his skull, (2) in place of a cup, when she is eating and
drinking at table, and this always in my presence, so that she may
behold, alive, him whom her guilt has made her mortal enemy, and dead,
through love of her, him whose love she did prefer to mine. And in this
wise, at dinner and at supper, she sees the two things that must be most
displeasing to her, to wit, her living enemy, and her dead lover; and
all this through her own great sinfulness.

     2  It will be remembered that the Lombard King Alboin forced
     his wife Rosamond to drink his health out of a goblet which
     had been made from the skull of her father Cunimond,
     sovereign of the Gepidæ. To revenge herself for this
     affront, Rosamond caused her husband to be murdered one
     night during his sleep in his palace at Pavia.--Ed.

“In other matters I treat her as I do myself, save that she goes
shorn; for an array of hair beseems not the adulterous, nor a veil the
unchaste.

“For this reason is her hair cut, showing that she has lost the honour
of virginity and purity. Should it please you to take the trouble to see
her, I will lead you to her.”

To this Bernage willingly consented, and going-downstairs they found her
in a very handsome apartment, seated all alone in front of the fire. The
gentleman drew aside a curtain that hung in front of a large cupboard,
wherein could be seen hanging a dead man’s bones. Bernage greatly longed
to speak to the lady, but durst not do so for fear of the husband. The
gentleman, perceiving this, thereupon said to him--

“If it be your pleasure to say anything to her, you will see what manner
of grace and speech is hers.”

Then said Bernage to her--“Lady, your patience is as great as your
torment. I hold you to be the most unhappy woman alive.”

With tears in her eyes, and with the humblest grace imaginable, the lady
answered--

“Sir, I acknowledge my offence to have been so great that all the woes
that the lord of this house (for I am not worthy to call him husband)
may be pleased to lay upon me are nothing in comparison with the grief I
feel at having offended him.”

So saying, she began to weep bitterly. The gentleman took Bernage by the
arm and led him away.

On the following morning Bernage took his leave, in order to proceed
on the mission that the King had given him. However, in bidding the
gentleman farewell, he could not refrain from saying to him--

“Sir, the love I bear you, and the honour and friendship that you have
shown me in your house, constrain me to tell you that, having regard to
the deep penitence of your unhappy wife, you should, in my opinion, take
compassion upon her. You are, moreover, young and have no children, and
it would be a great pity that so fair a lineage should come to an end,
and that those who, perhaps, have no love for you, should become your
heirs.”

The gentleman, who had resolved that he would never more speak to his
wife, pondered a long time on the discourse held to him by the Lord de
Bernage, and at last recognised that he had spoken truly, and promised
him that, if his wife should continue in her present humility, he would
at some time have pity upon her.

Accordingly Bernage departed on his mission, and when he had returned
to his master, the King, he told him the whole story, which the Prince,
upon inquiry, found to be true. And as Bernage among other things had
made mention of the lady’s beauty, the King sent his painter, who was
called John of Paris, (3) that he might make and bring him a living
portrait of her, which, with her husband’s consent, he did. And when she
had long done penance, the gentleman, in his desire to have offspring,
and in the pity that he felt for his wife who had submitted to this
penance with so much humility, took her back again and afterwards had by
her many handsome children. (4)

     3  John Perréal, called “Jehan de Paris,” was one of the
     most famous painters of the reigns of Charles VIII. and
     Louis XII. At the end of 1496 we find him resident at Lyons,
     and there enjoying considerable celebrity. From October 1498
     to November 1499 he figures in the roll of officers of the
     royal household, as valet of the wardrobe, with a salary of
     240 livres. In the royal stable accounts for 1508 he appears
     as receiving ten livres to defray the expense of keeping a
     horse during June and July that year. He is known to have
     painted the portrait and planned the obsequies of Philibert
     of Savoy in 1509; to have been sent to England in 1514 to
     paint a portrait of the Princess Mary, sister of Henry
     VIII., who married Louis XII.; and in 1515 to have had
     charge of all the decorative work connected with Louis
     XII.’s obsequies. In his _Légende des Vénitiens_ (1509) John
     Le Maire de Belges praises Perréal’s skill both in landscape
     and portrait painting, and describes him as a most
     painstaking and hardworking artist. He had previously
     referred to him in his _Temple d’Honneur et de Vertu_ (1504)
     as being already at that period painter to the King. In the
     roll of the officers of Francis I.’s household (1522)
     Perréal’s name takes precedence of that of the better known
     Jehannet Clouet, but it does not appear in that of 1529,
     about which time he would appear to have died. Shortly
     before that date he had designed some curious initial
     letters for the famous Parisian printer and bookseller,
     Tory. The Claud Perréal, “Lyonnese,” whom Clement Marot
     commemorates in his 36th _Rondeau_ would appear to have been
     a relative, possibly the son, of “Jehan de Paris.”--See Léon
     de La Borde’s _Renaissance des Arts_, vol. i., Pericaud
     ainé’s _Notice sur Jean de Paris_, Lyons, 1858, and more
     particularly E. M. Bancel’s _Jehan Perréal dit Jean de
     Paris, peintre et valet-de-chambre des rois Charles VIII.
     Louis XII., &c_. Paris, Launette, 1884.--L. and M.

     4  Brantôme refers to this tale, as an example of marital
     cruelty, in his _Vies des Dames Galantes_, Lalanne’s
     edition, vol. ix. p. 38.--L.

“If, ladies, all those whom a like adventure has befallen, were to drink
out of similar vessels, I greatly fear that many a gilt cup would be
turned into a death’s head. May God keep us from such a fortune, for
if His goodness do not restrain us, there is none among us but might
do even worse; but if we trust in Him He will protect those who confess
that they are not able to protect themselves. Those who confide in
their own strength are in great danger of being tempted so far as to
be constrained to acknowledge their frailty. Many have stumbled through
pride in this way, while those who were reputed less discreet have been
saved with honour. The old proverb says truly, ‘Whatsoever God keeps is
well kept.’”

“The punishment,” said Parlamente, “was in my opinion a most reasonable
one, for, just as the offence was more than death, so ought the
punishment to have been.”

“I am not of your opinion,” said Ennasuite. “I would rather see the
bones of all my lovers hanging up in my cabinet than die on their
account. There is no misdeed that cannot be repaired during life, but
after death there is no reparation possible.”

“How can shame be repaired?” said Longarine. “You know that, whatever
a woman may do after a misdeed of that kind, she cannot repair her
honour.”

“I pray you,” said Ennasuite, “tell me whether the Magdalen has not now
more honour among men than her sister who continued a virgin?” (5)

     5  Martha, sister of Lazarus and Mary Magdalen.--M.

“I acknowledge,” said Longarine, “that we praise her for the great love
she bore to Jesus Christ and for her deep repentance; yet the name of
sinner clings to her.”

“I do not care what name men may give me,” said Ennasuite, “if only God
forgive me, and my husband do the same. There is nothing for which I
should be willing to die.”

“If the lady loved her husband as she ought,” said Dagoucin, “I am
amazed that she did not die of sorrow on looking at the bones of the man
whom her guilt had slain.”

“Why, Dagoucin,” returned Simontault, “have you still to learn that
women know neither love nor even grief?”

“Yes, I have still to learn it,” said Dagoucin, “for I have never made
trial of their love, through fear of finding it less than I desired.”

“Then you live on faith and hope,” said Nomerfide, “as the plover does
on air. (6) You are easily fed.”

     6  This popular error was still so prevalent in France in
     the last century, that Buffon, in his Natural History, took
     the trouble to refute it at length.--B. J.

“I am content,” he replied, “with the love that I feel within myself,
and with the hope that there is the like in the hearts of the ladies. If
I knew that my hopes were true, I should have such gladness that I could
not endure it and live.”

“Keep clear of the plague,” said Geburon; “as for the other sickness
you mention, I will warrant you against it. But I should like to know to
whom the Lady Oisille will give her vote?”

“I give it,” she said, “to Simontault, who I know will be sparing of
none.”

“That,” he replied, “is as much as to say that I am somewhat given to
slander; however, I will show you that reputed slanderers have spoken
the truth. I am sure, ladies, that you are not so foolish as to believe
all the tales that you are told, no matter what show of sanctity they
may possess, if the proof of them be not clear beyond doubt. Many an
abuse lurks even under the guise of a miracle, and for this reason I am
minded to tell you the story of a miracle that will prove no less to the
honour of a pious Prince than to the shame of a wicked minister of the
Church.”

[Illustration: 028.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 029a.jpg The Execution of the Wicked Priest and his Sister]

[The Execution of the Wicked Priest and his Sister]

[Illustration: 029.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XXXIII_.

     _The hypocrisy of a priest who, under the cloak of sanctity,
     had got his sister with child, was discovered by the wisdom
     of the Count of Angoulême, by whose command they both were
     visited with punishment by law_. (1)

Count Charles of Angoulême, father of King Francis, a pious Prince and
one that feared God, happened to be at Coignac when he was told that
in a village called Cherues, (2) not far away, there dwelt a maiden who
lived a marvellously austere life, and who, for all that, was now great
with child. She made no secret of the matter, but assured every one that
she had never known a man and that she could not tell how such a fortune
should have befallen her, unless indeed it were the work of the Holy
Ghost. This explanation the people readily received, and knowing as they
all did how virtuous she had been from her youth up, and how she had
never given a single token of worldliness, they believed and deemed her
a second Virgin Mary. She used to fast not only on the days commanded by
the Church, but, from natural devotion, several times a week also; and
she never stirred from the church whenever there was a service going on
there. For these reasons she was held in such great repute among all the
vulgar that every one came to see her as though she were a miracle, and
those who succeeded in touching her dress deemed themselves fortunate
indeed.

     1  This tale is historical, the incidents must have occurred
     between 1480 and 1490.--L.

     2  Cherves-de-Cognac, now a large village of nearly 3000
     inhabitants, within four miles of Cognac. The church, where
     some of the incidents recorded in the tale occurred, is
     still in existence. It dates from the eleventh and twelfth
     centuries, and is surmounted by three cupolas.--Eu.

The priest of the parish was her brother; he was a man advanced in
years and of very austere life, and was loved and reverenced by his
parishioners, who held him for a holy man. He treated his sister
with such harshness as to keep her shut up in a house, to the great
discontent of all the people; and so greatly was the matter noised
abroad that, as I have told you, the story reached the ear of the Count.
He perceived that the people were being deceived, and, wishing to set
them right, sent a Master of Requests and an Almoner, two very worthy
men, to learn the truth. These repaired to the spot and inquired into
the matter with all possible diligence, addressing themselves for
information to the priest, who, being weary of the whole affair, begged
them to be present at an examination which he hoped to hold on the
morrow.

Early the next morning the said priest chanted mass, his sister, who was
now far gone with child, being present on her knees; and when mass was
over, the priest took the “Corpus Domini,” and in presence of the whole
congregation said to his sister--

“Unhappy woman that you are, here is He who suffered death and agony for
you, and in His presence I ask you whether, as you have ever affirmed to
me, you are indeed a virgin?”

She boldly replied that she was.

“How is it possible that you can be with child and yet be still a
virgin?”

“I can give no reason,” she replied, “except that the grace of the
Holy Ghost has wrought within me according to His good pleasure;
nevertheless, I cannot deny the grace that God has shown me in
preserving me a virgin without ever a thought of marriage.”

Forthwith her brother said to her--

“I offer you the precious Body of Jesus Christ, which you will take to
your damnation if it be not as you say; and the gentlemen here present
on behalf of my lord the Count shall be witnesses thereof.”

The maiden, who was nearly thirty years of age, (3) then swore as
follows:--

“I take this Body of Our Lord, here present, to my damnation in the
presence of you, gentlemen, and of you, my brother, if ever man has
touched me any more than yourself.”

And with these words she received the Body of Our Lord.

Having witnessed this, the Master of Requests and the Almoner went away
quite confounded, for they thought that no lie was possible with such an
oath. And they reported the matter to the Count, and tried to persuade
him even as they were themselves persuaded. But he was a man of wisdom,
(4) and, after pondering a long time, bade them again repeat the terms
of the oath. And after weighing them well, he said--

“She has told you the truth and yet she has deceived you. She said that
no man had ever touched her any more than her brother had done, and I
feel sure that her brother has begotten this child and now seeks to hide
his wickedness by a monstrous deception. We, however, who believe that
Jesus Christ has come, can look for none other. Go, therefore, and put
the priest in prison; I am sure that he will confess the truth.”

     3  In the MS. followed for this edition, as well as in
     Boaistuau’s-version of the _Heptameron_, the age is given as
     “thirteen.” We borrow the word “thirty” from MS. 1518
     (Béthune).--L.

     4  Charles of Angoulême, father of King Francis and Queen
     Margaret, had received for the times a most excellent
     education, thanks to the solicitude of his father, Count
     John the Good, who further took upon himself to “instruct
     him in morality, showing him by a good example how to live
     virtuously and honestly, and teaching him to pray God and
     obey His commandments.”--_Vie de très illustre et vertueux
     Prince Jean, Comte d’Angoulême_, by Jean du Port, Angoulême,
     1589, p. 66. That Count Charles profited by this teaching is
     shown in the above tale.--ED.

This was done according to his command, though not without serious
remonstrances concerning the putting of this virtuous man to open shame.

Albeit, as soon as the priest had been taken, he made confession of his
wickedness, and told how he had counselled his sister to speak as she
had done in order to conceal the life they had led together, not only
because the excuse was one easy to be made, but also because such a
false statement would enable them to continue living honoured by all.
And when they set before him his great wickedness in taking the Body of
Our Lord for her to swear upon, he made answer that he had not been so
daring, but had used a wafer that was unconsecrated and unblessed.

Report was made of the matter to the Count of Angoulême, who commanded
that the law should take its course. They waited until the sister had
been delivered, and then, after she had been brought to bed of a fine
male child, they burned brother and sister together. And all the people
marvelled exceedingly at finding beneath the cloak of holiness so
horrible a monster, and beneath a pious and praiseworthy life indulgence
in so hateful a crime.

“By this you see, ladies, how the faith of the good Count was not
lessened by outward signs and miracles. He well knew that we have but
one Saviour, who, when He said ‘Consummatum est,’ (5) showed that no
room was left for any successor to work our salvation.”

     5  “When Jesus therefore had received the vinegar, He said,
     It is finished.”--St. John xix. 30.--M.

“It was indeed,” said Oisille, “great daring and extreme hypocrisy to
throw the cloak of Godliness and true Christianity over so enormous a
sin.”

“I have heard,” said Hircan, “that such as under pretext of a commission
from the King do cruel and tyrannous deeds, receive a double punishment
for having screened their own injustice behind the justice of the Crown.
In the same way, we see that although hypocrites prosper for a time
beneath the cloak of God and holiness, yet, when the Lord God lifts His
cloak, they find themselves exposed and bare, and then their foul and
abominable nakedness is deemed all the more hideous for having had so
honourable a covering.”

“Nothing can be pleasanter,” said Nomerfide, “than to speak forth
frankly the thoughts that are in the heart.”

“Yes, for profit’s sake,” (6) replied Longarine. “I have no doubt that
you give your opinion according to your temper.”

     6  This sentence is rather obscure in the MSS., and we have
     adopted the reading suggested by M. Frank. M. Lacroix,
     however, was of opinion that the sentence should run, “Yes,
     for mirth’s sake.”--M.

“I will tell you what it is,” said Nomerfide. “I find that fools, when
they are not put to death, live longer than wise folk, and the only
reason that I know for this, is that they do not conceal their passions.
If they be angry, they strike; if they be merry, they laugh: whereas
those that aim at wisdom conceal their imperfections with such exceeding
care that they end by thoroughly corrupting their hearts.”

“I think you are right,” said Geburon, “and that hypocrisy, whether
towards God, man or Nature, is the cause of all our ills.”

“It would be a glorious thing,” said Parlamente, “if our hearts were so
filled with faith in Him, who is all virtue and all joy, that we could
freely show them to every one.”

“That will come to pass,” said Hircan, “when all the flesh has left our
bones.”

“Yet,” said Oisille, “the Spirit of God, which is stronger than Death,
is able to mortify our hearts without changing or destroying the body.”

“Madam,” returned Saffredent, “you speak of a gift of God that is not as
yet common among mankind.”

“It is common,” said Oisille, “among those that have faith, but as this
is a matter not to be understood by such as are fleshly minded, let us
see to whom Simontault will give his vote.”

“I will give it,” said Simontault, “to Nomerfide, for, since her heart
is merry, her words cannot be sad.”

“Truly,” said Nomerfide, “since you desire to laugh, I will give you
reason to do so. That you may learn how hurtful are ignorance and fear,
and how the lack of comprehension is often the cause of much woe, I
will tell you what happened to two Grey Friars, who, through failing to
understand the words of a butcher, thought that they were about to die.”

[Illustration: 037.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 039a.jpg The Grey Friar imploring the Butcher to Spare his Life]

[The Grey Friar imploring the Butcher to Spare his Life]

[Illustration: 039.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XXXIV_.

     _Two Grey Friars, while listening to secrets that did not
     concern them, misunderstood the language of a butcher and
     endangered their lives_. (1)

Between Nyort and Fors there is a village called Grip, (2) which belongs
to the Lord of Fors.

     1  This story is evidently founded upon fact; the incidents
     must have occurred prior to 1530.--L.

     2  Gript, a little village on the Courance, eight miles
     south of Niort (Deux-Sèvres), produces some of the best
     white wine in this part of France. Its church of St. Aubin
     stood partly in the diocese of Poitiers, partly in that of
     Saintes, the altar being in the former, and the door in the
     latter one. This is the only known instance of the kind in
     France. Fors, a few miles distant from Gript, was a fief
     which Catherine, daughter of Artus de Vivonne, brought in
     marriage to James Poussart, knight, who witnessed the Queen
     of Navarre’s marriage contract, signing himself, “Seigneur
     de Fors, Bailly du Berry.” He is often mentioned in the
     Queen’s letters.--See Génin’s _Lettres de Marguerite, &c_,
     pp. 243-244, 258-259, 332.--L. and M.

It happened one day that two Grey Friars, on their way from Nyort,
arrived very late at this place, Grip, and lodged in the house of a
butcher. Now, as there was nothing between their host’s room and their
own but a badly joined partition of wood, they had a mind to listen to
what the husband might say to his wife when he was in bed with her, and
accordingly they set their ears close to the head of their host’s bed.
He, having no thought of his lodgers, spoke privately with his wife
concerning their household, and said to her--

“I must rise betimes in the morning, sweetheart, and see after our Grey
Friars. One of them is very fat, and must be killed; we will salt him
forthwith and make a good profit off him.”

And although by “Grey Friars” he meant his pigs, the two poor brethren,
on hearing this plot, felt sure that they themselves were spoken of, (3)
and so waited with great fear and trembling for the dawn.

     3  The butcher doubtless called his pigs “Grey Friars” in
     allusion to the latter’s gluttony and uncleanly habits. Pigs
     are even nowadays termed _moines_ (monks) by the peasantry
     in some parts of France. Moreover, the French often render
     our expression “fat as a pig” by “fat as a monk.”--Ed.

One of them was very fat and the other rather lean. The fat one wished
to confess himself to his companion, saying that a butcher who had lost
the love and fear of God would think no more of slaughtering him than if
he were an ox or any other beast; and adding that as they were shut up
in their room and could not leave it without passing through that
of their host, they must needs look upon themselves as dead men, and
commend their souls to God. But the younger Friar, who was not so
overcome with fear as his comrade, made answer that, as the door was
closed against them, they must e’en try to get through the window, for,
whatever befel them, they could meet with nothing worse than death; to
which the fat Friar agreed.

The young one then opened the window, and, finding that it was not very
high above the ground, leaped lightly down and fled as fast and as far
as he could, without waiting for his companion. The latter attempted the
same hazardous jump, but in place of leaping, fell so heavily by reason
of his weight, that one of his legs was sorely hurt, and he could not
rise from the ground.

Finding himself forsaken by his companion and being unable to follow
him, he looked around him to see where he might hide, and could espy
nothing save a pigsty, to which he dragged himself as well as he could.
And as he opened the door to hide himself within, out rushed two huge
pigs, whose place the unhappy Friar took, closing the little door upon
himself, and hoping that, when he heard the sound of passers-by, he
would be able to call out and obtain assistance.

As soon as the morning was come, however, the butcher got ready his big
knives, and bade his wife bear him company whilst he went to slaughter
his fat pig. And when he reached the sty in which the Grey Friar lay
concealed, he opened the little door and began to call at the top of his
voice--

“Come out, Master Grey Friar, come out! I intend to have some of your
chitterlings to-day.”

The poor Friar, who was not able to stand upon his leg, crawled on
all-fours out of the sty, crying for mercy as loud as he could. But if
the hapless Friar was in great terror, the butcher and his wife were in
no less; for they thought that St. Francis was wrathful with them for
calling a beast a Grey Friar, and therefore threw themselves upon their
knees asking pardon of St. Francis and his Order. Thus, the Friar was
crying to the butcher for mercy on the one hand, and the butcher to
the Friar on the other, in such sort that a quarter of an hour went by
before they felt safe from each other.

Perceiving at last that the butcher intended him no hurt, the good
father told him the reason why he had hidden himself in the sty. Then
was their fear turned to laughter, except, indeed, that the poor Friar’s
leg was too painful to suffer him to be merry. However, the butcher
brought him into the house, where he caused the hurt to be carefully
dressed.

His comrade, who had deserted him in his need, ran all night long, and
in the morning came to the house of the Lord of Fors, where he lodged
a complaint against the butcher, whom he suspected of killing his
companion, seeing that the latter had not followed him. The Lord of Fors
forthwith sent to Grip to learn the truth, and this, when known, was by
no means the cause of tears. And he failed not to tell the story to his
mistress the Duchess of Angoulême, mother of King Francis, first of that
name. (4)

     4  Many modern stories and anecdotes have been based on this
     amusing tale.--Ed.

“You see, ladies, how bad a thing it is to listen to secrets that do not
concern us, and to misunderstand what other people say.”

“Did I not know,” said Simontault, “that Nomer-fide would give us no
cause to weep, but rather to laugh? And I think that we have all done so
very heartily.”

“How comes it,” said Oisille, “that we are more ready to be amused by a
piece of folly than by something wisely done?”

“Because,” said Hircan, “the folly is more agreeable to us, for it is
more akin to our own nature, which of itself is never wise. And like is
fond of like, the fool of folly, and the wise man of discretion. But
I am sure,” he continued, “that no one, whether foolish or wise, could
help laughing at this story.”

“There are some,” said Geburon, “whose hearts are so bestowed on the
love of wisdom that, whatever they may hear, they cannot be made to
laugh. They have a gladness of heart and a moderate content such as
nought can move.”

“Who are they?” asked Hircan.

“The philosophers of olden days,” said Geburon. “They were scarcely
sensible of either sadness or joy, or at least they gave no token of
either, so great a virtue did they deem the conquest of themselves and
their passions. I too think, as they did, that it is well to subdue a
wicked passion, but a victory over a natural passion, and one that tends
to no evil, appears useless in my eyes.”

“And yet,” added Geburon, “the ancients held it for a great virtue.”

“It is not maintained,” said Saffredent, “that they all were wise. They
had more of the appearance of sense and virtue than of the reality.”

“Nevertheless, you will find that they rebuke everything bad,” said
Geburon. “Diogenes himself, even, trod on the bed of Plato, who was too
fond (5) of rare and precious things for his taste, and this in order to
show that he despised Plato’s vanity and greed, and would put them under
foot. ‘I trample with contempt,’ said he, ‘upon the pride of Plato.’”

“But you have not told all,” said Saffredent, “for Plato retorted that
he did so from pride of another kind.”

“In truth,” said Parlamente, “it is impossible to accomplish the
conquest of ourselves without extraordinary pride. And this is the
vice that we should fear most of all, for it springs from the death and
destruction of all the virtues.”

“Did I not read to you this morning,” said Oisille, “that those who
thought themselves wiser than other men, since by the sole light of
reason they had come to recognise a God, creator of all things, were
made more ignorant and irrational not only than other men, but than the
very brutes, and this because they did not ascribe the glory to Him to
whom it was due, but thought that they had gained the knowledge they
possessed by their own endeavours? For having erred in their minds
by ascribing to themselves that which pertains to God alone, they
manifested their errors by disorder of body, forgetting and perverting
their natural sex, as St. Paul to-day doth tell us in the Epistle that
he wrote to the Romans.” (6)

     5  The French word here is _curieux_, which in Margaret’s
     time implied one fond of rare and precious things.--B. J

     6  _Romans_ i. 26, 27.--Ed.

“There is none among us,” said Parlamente, “but will confess, on reading
that Epistle, that outward sin is but the fruit of infelicity dwelling
within, which, the more it is hidden by virtue and marvels, is the more
difficult to pluck out.”

“We men,” said Hircan, “are nearer to salvation than you are, for we do
not conceal our fruits, and so the root is readily known; whereas you,
who dare not display the fruit, and who do so many seemingly fair deeds,
are hardly aware of the root of pride that is growing beneath so brave a
surface.”

“I acknowledge,” said Longarine, “that if the Word of God does not show
us by faith the leprosy of unbelief that lurks in the heart, yet God
is very merciful to us when He allows us to fall into some visible
wrongdoing whereby the hidden plague may be made manifest. Happy are
they whom faith has so humbled that they have no need to test their
sinful nature by outward acts.”

“But just look where we are now,” said Simontault. “We started from a
foolish tale, and we are now fallen into philosophy and theology. Let
us leave these disputes to such as are more fitted for such speculation,
and ask Nomerfide to whom she will give her vote.”

“I give it,” she said, “to Hircan, but I commend to him the honour of
the ladies.”

“You could not have commended it in a better place,” said Hircan, “for
the story that I have ready is just such a one as will please you. It
will, nevertheless, teach you to acknowledge that the nature of men and
women is of itself prone to vice if it be not preserved by Him to whom
the honour of every victory is due. And to abate the pride that you
display when a story is told to your honour, I will tell you one of a
different kind that is strictly true.”

[Illustration: 047.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 049a.jpg The Lady embracing the Supposed Friar]

[The Lady embracing the Supposed Friar]

[Illustration: 049.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XXXV_.

     _The affection of a lady of Pampeluna--who, thinking that
     there was no danger in spiritual love, had striven to
     insinuate herself into the good graces of a Grey Friar--was
     subdued by her husband’s prudence in such wise that, without
     telling her that he knew aught of the matter, he brought her
     mortally to hate that which she had most dearly loved, and
     wholly to devote herself to him_.

In the town of Pampeluna there lived a lady who was accounted beautiful
and virtuous, as well as the chastest and most pious in the land. She
loved her husband, and was so obedient to him that he had entire trust
in her. This lady was constantly present at Divine service and at
sermons, and she used to persuade her husband and children to be hearers
with her. She had reached the age of thirty years, at which women are
wont to claim discretion rather than beauty, when on the first day of
Lent she went to the church to receive the emblem of death. (1) Here she
found that the sermon was beginning, the preacher being a Grey Friar,
a man esteemed holy by all the people on account of his great austerity
and goodness of life, which made him thin and pale, yet not to such a
point as to prevent him from being one of the handsomest men imaginable.

The lady listened piously to his sermon, her eyes being fixed on this
reverend person, and her ears and mind ready to hearken to what he said.
And so it happened that the sweetness of his words passed through the
lady’s ears even to her heart, while the comeliness and grace of his
countenance passed through her eyes and so smote her soul that she was
as one entranced. When the sermon was over, she looked carefully to
see where the Friar would celebrate mass, (2) and there she presented
herself to take the ashes from his hand. The latter was as fair and
white as any lady’s, and this pious lady paid more attention to it than
to the ashes which it gave her.

     1  To receive the ashes on Ash Wednesday.--M.

     2  That is, in which of the chapels. A friar would not
     officiate at the high altar.--Ed.

Feeling persuaded that a spiritual love such as this, with any pleasure
that she might derive from it, could not wound her conscience, she
failed not to go and hear the sermon every day and to take her husband
with her; and they both gave such great praise to the preacher, that
they spoke of nought beside at table or elsewhere. At last this supposed
spiritual fire became so carnal that the poor lady’s heart in which it
glowed began to consume her whole body; and just as she had been slow to
feel the flame, so did she now swiftly kindle, and feel all the delights
of passion, before she knew that she even was in love. Being thus
surprised by her enemy, Love, she offered no further resistance to his
commands. But the worst was that the physician who might have cured
her ills was ignorant of her distemper; for which reason, banishing the
dread she should have had of making known her foolishness to a man of
wisdom, and her vice and wickedness to a man of virtue and honour, she
proceeded to write to him of the love she bore him, doing this, to begin
with, as modestly as she could. And she gave her letter to a little
page, telling him what he had to do, and saying that he was to be
careful above all things that her husband should not see him going to
the monastery of the Grey Friars.

The page, desiring to take the shortest way, passed through a street in
which his master was sitting in a shop. Seeing him pass, the gentleman
came out to observe whither he was going, and when the page perceived
him, he was quite confused, and hid himself in a house. Noticing this,
his master followed him, took him by the arm and asked him whither he
was bound. Finding also that he had a terrified look and made but empty
excuses, he threatened to beat him soundly if he did not confess the
truth.

“Alas, sir,” said the poor page, “if I tell you, my lady will kill me.”

The gentleman, suspecting that his wife was making some bargain without
his knowledge, promised the page that he should come by no hurt, and
should be well rewarded, if he told the truth; whereas, if he lied, he
should be thrown into prison for life. Thereupon the little page, eager
to have the good and to avoid the evil, told him the whole story, and
showed him the letter that his mistress had written to the preacher. At
this her husband was the more astonished and grieved, as he had all his
life long been persuaded of the faithfulness of his wife, in whom he had
never discovered a fault.

Nevertheless, being a prudent man, he concealed his anger, and so that
he might fully learn his wife’s intention, he sent a reply as though
from the preacher, thanking her for her goodwill, and declaring that his
was as great towards her. The page, having sworn to his master that he
would conduct the matter with discretion, (3) brought the counterfeit
letter to his mistress, who was so greatly rejoiced by it that her
husband could see that her countenance was changed; for, instead of
growing lean from the fasts of Lent, she now appeared fairer and fresher
than before they began.

     3  This is borrowed from MS. 1520. In our MS. the passage
     runs, “The page having shown his master how to conduct this
     affair,” &c.--L.

It was now mid-Lent, but no thought of the Passion or Holy Week
prevented the lady from writing her frenzied fancies to the preacher
according to her wont; and when he turned his eyes in her direction, or
spoke of the love of God, she thought that all was done or said for love
of her; and so far as her eyes could utter her thoughts, she did not
spare them.

The husband never failed to return her similar answers, but after Easter
he wrote to her in the preacher’s name, begging her to let him know how
he could secretly see her. She, all impatient for the meeting, advised
her husband to go and visit some estates of theirs in the country, and
this he agreed to do, hiding himself, however, in the house of a friend.
Then the lady failed not to write to the preacher that it was time he
should come and see her, since her husband was in the country.

The gentleman, wishing thoroughly to try his wife’s heart, then went to
the preacher, and begged him for the love of God to lend him his robe.
The preacher, who was a man of worth, replied that the rules of
his Order forbade it, and that he would never lend his robe for a
masquerade. (4) The gentleman assured him, however, that he would make
no evil use of it, and that he wanted it for a matter necessary to his
happiness and his salvation. Thereupon the Friar, who knew the other
to be a worthy and pious man, lent it to him; and with this robe, which
covered his face so that his eyes could not be seen, the gentleman put
on a false beard and a false nose, each similar to the preacher’s. He
also made himself of the same height by means of cork. (5)

     4  This may be compared with the episode of Tappe-coue or
     Tickletoby in Pantagruel:--“Villon, to dress an old clownish
     father grey-beard, who was to represent God the Father [at
     the performance of a mystery], begged of Friar Stephen
     Tickletoby, sacristan to the Franciscan Friars of the place,
     to lend him a cope and a stole. Tickletoby refused him,
     alleging that by their provincial statutes it was rigorously
     forbidden to give or lend anything to players. Villon
     replied that the statute reached no further than farces,
     drolls, antics, loose and dissolute games.... Tickletoby,
     however, peremptorily bid him provide himself elsewhere, if
     he would, and not to hope for anything out of his monastical
     wardrobe.... Villon gave an account of this to the players
     as of a most abominable action; adding that God would
     shortly revenge himself and make an example of Tickletoby.”--
     Urquhart’s _Works of Rabelais, Pantagruel_, (Book IV.
     xiii.)--M.

     5  In Boaistuau’s edition the sentence runs, “and by putting
     some cork in his shoes made himself of the same height as
     the preacher.”--L.

Thus garmented, he repaired in the evening to his wife’s apartment,
where she was very piously awaiting him. The poor fool did not tarry
for him to come to her, but ran to embrace him like a woman bereft of
reason. Keeping his face bent down lest he should be recognised, he
then began making the sign of the cross, and pretended to flee from her,
saying the while nothing but--

“Temptation! temptation!”

“Alas, father,” said the lady, “you are indeed right, for there is no
stronger temptation than that which proceeds from love. But for this
you have promised me a remedy; and I pray you, now that we have time and
opportunity, to take pity upon me.”

So saying, she strove to embrace him, but he ran all round the room,
making great signs of the cross, and still crying--

“Temptation! temptation!”

However, when he found that she was urging him too closely, he took a
big stick that he had beneath his cloak and beat her so sorely as to
end her temptation, and that without being recognised by her. Then he
immediately went and returned the robe to the preacher, assuring him
that it had brought him good fortune.

On the morrow, pretending to come from a distance, he returned home and
found his wife in bed, when, as though he knew nothing of her sickness,
he asked her the cause of it; and she replied that it was a catarrh,
and that she could move neither hand nor foot. The husband, who was much
inclined to laugh, made as though he were greatly grieved, and as if
to cheer her told her that he had bidden the saintly preacher to supper
that evening. But she quickly replied--

“God forbid, sweetheart, that you should ever invite such folk. They
bring misfortune into every house they visit.”

“Why, sweet,” said the husband, “how is this? You have always greatly
praised this man, and for my own part I believe that if there be a holy
man on earth, it is he.”

“They are good in church and when preaching,” answered the lady, “but in
our houses they are very antichrists. I pray you, sweet, let me not see
him, for with my present sickness it would be enough to kill me.”

“Since you do not wish to see him,” returned the husband, “you shall not
do so, but I must have him here to supper.”

“Do what you will,” she replied, “but let me not see him, for I hate
such folk as I do the devil.”

After giving supper to the good father, the husband said to him--

“Father, I believe you to be so beloved of God, that He will refuse you
no request. I therefore entreat you to take pity on my poor wife, who
for a week past has been possessed by the evil spirit in such a way,
that she tries to bite and scratch every one. She cares for neither
cross nor holy water, but I verily believe that if you will lay your
hand upon her the devil will come forth, and I therefore earnestly
entreat you to do so.”

“My son,” said the good father, “all things are possible to a believer.
Do you, then, firmly believe that God in His goodness never refuses
those that in faith seek grace from Him?”

“I do, father,” said the gentleman.

“Be also assured, my son,” said the friar, “that He can do what He will,
and that He is even as powerful as He is good. Let us go, then, strong
in faith to withstand this roaring lion, and to pluck from him his prey,
whom God has purchased by the blood of Jesus Christ, His Son.”

Accordingly, the gentleman led this worthy man to where his wife lay on
a little bed. She, thinking that it was the Friar who had beaten her,
was much astonished to see him there and exceedingly wrathful; however,
her husband being present, she cast down her eyes, and remained dumb.

“As long as I am with her,” said the husband to the holy man, “the devil
scarcely torments her. But sprinkle some holy water upon her as soon as
I am gone, and you will soon see how the evil spirit does his work.”

The husband left them alone together, and waited at the door to see
how they would behave. When the lady saw no one with her but the good
father, she began to cry out like a woman bereft of reason, calling him
rascal, villain, murderer, betrayer. At this, the good father, thinking
that she was surely possessed by an evil spirit, tried to put his hands
upon her head, in order to utter his prayers upon it; but she scratched
and bit him in such a fashion, that he was obliged to speak at a greater
distance, whence, throwing a great deal of holy water upon her, he
pronounced many excellent prayers.

When the husband saw that the Friar had done his duty, he came into the
room and thanked him for his trouble. At his entrance his wife ceased
her cursings and revilings, and meekly kissed the cross in the fear
she had of him. But the holy man, having seen her in so great a frenzy,
firmly believed that Our Lord had cast out the devil in answer to his
prayer, and he went away, praising God for this wonderful miracle.

The husband, seeing that his wife was well punished for her foolish
fancy, did not tell her of what he had done. He was content to have
subdued her affection by his own prudence, and to have so dealt with her
that she now hated mortally what she had formerly loved, and, loathing
her folly, devoted herself to her husband and household more completely
than she had ever done before.

“In this story, ladies, you see the good sense of a husband and the
frailty of a woman of repute. I think that if you look carefully into
this mirror you will no longer trust to your own strength, but will
learn to have recourse to Him who holds your honour in His hand.”

“I am well pleased,” said Parlamente, “to find you become a preacher to
the ladies, and I should be even more so if you would make these fine
sermons to all those with whom you speak.”

“Whenever you are willing to listen to me,” said Hircan, “I promise you
that I will say as much.”

“In other words,” said Simontault, “when you are not present, he will
speak in a different fashion.”

“He will do as he pleases,” said Parlamente, “but for my content I wish
to believe that he always speaks in this way. At all events, the example
he has brought forward will be profitable to those who believe that
spiritual love is not dangerous. In my opinion it is more so than any
other.”

“Yet,” said Oisille, “it seems to me that to love a worthy, virtuous and
God-fearing man is in nowise a matter for scorn, and that one cannot but
be the better for it.”

“Madam,” said Parlamente, “I pray you believe that no one can be more
simple or more easily deceived than a woman who has never loved. For in
itself love is a passion that seizes upon the heart before one is aware
of it, and so pleasing a passion is it that, if it can make use of
virtue as a cloak, it will scarcely be recognised before some mischief
has come of it.”

“What mischief,” asked Oisille, “can come of loving a worthy man?”

“Madam,” said Parlamente, “there are a good many men that are esteemed
worthy, but to be worthy in respect of the ladies, and to be careful for
their honour and conscience--not one such man as that could, I think, be
found in these days. Those who think otherwise, and put their trust in
men, find at last that they have been deceived, and, having begun such
intimacy with obedience to God, will often end it with obedience to the
devil. I have known many who, under pretext of speaking about God, began
an intimacy from which they could not withdraw when at last they wished
to do so, being held in subjection by this semblance of virtue. A
vicious love perishes of its own nature, and cannot continue in a good
heart, but virtuous love has bonds of silk so fine that one is caught in
them before they are seen.”

“According to you,” said Ennasuite, “no woman should ever love a man;
but your law is too harsh a one to last.”

“I know that,” said Parlamente, “but none the less must I desire that
every one were as content with her own husband as I am with mine.”

Ennasuite, who felt that these words touched her, changed colour and
said--

“You ought to believe every one the same at heart as yourself, unless,
indeed, you think yourself more perfect than all others.”

“Well,” said Parlamente, “to avoid dispute, let us see to whom Hircan
will give his vote.”

“I give it,” Hircan replied, “to Ennasuite, in order to make amends to
her for what my wife has said.”

“Then, since it is my turn,” said Ennasuite, “I will spare neither man
nor woman, that all may fare alike. I see right well that you are unable
to subdue your hearts to acknowledge the virtue and goodness of men, for
which reason I am obliged to resume the discourse with a story like to
the last.”


[Illustration: 062.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 063a.jpg The Clerk entreating Forgiveness of the President]

[The Clerk entreating Forgiveness of the President]

[Illustration: 063.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XXXVI_.

     _By means of a salad a President of Grenoble avenged himself
     upon one of his clerks with whom his wife was smitten, and
     so saved the honour of his house_.

In the town of Grenoble there dwelt a President whose name I shall not
mention, but he was not a Frenchman. (1) He had a very beautiful wife,
and they lived in great tranquillity together.

     1  The personage referred to is Jeffroy Charles or Carles,
     Chief President of the Parliament of Grenoble, and President
     of the Senate of Turin; his wife’s name was Margaret du
     Mottet; she came of a very old family of Embrun. Some
     interesting particulars concerning President Charles,
     supplied by that erudite scholar M. Jules Roman, will be
     found in the Appendix to the present volume (A).--Ed.

This lady, finding that her husband was now old, fell in love with a
young clerk, called Nicholas. When the President went to the court in
the morning, Nicholas used to enter his room and take his place. This
was observed by a servant of the President’s who had served his master
well for thirty years, and in his faithfulness he could not refrain from
speaking to him of the matter.

The President, being a prudent man, would not lightly believe the story,
but said that the servant wished to create contention between himself
and his wife. If the matter, said he, were really as the servant
declared, he could easily prove it to him, and if proof were not given
he would believe that it was a lie contrived in order to destroy the
love existing between himself and his wife. The servant promised that he
would show him the truth of what he had said, and one morning, as soon
as the President was gone to the court and Nicholas had entered the
room, he sent one of his fellow-servants to tell his master to come,
while he himself remained watching at the door lest Nicholas should come
out.

As soon as the President saw the sign that was made to him by one of his
servants, he pretended to be ill, left the court and hastened home.
Here he found his old servant at the door, and was assured by him that
Nicholas was inside and had only just gone in.

“Do not stir from this door,” said his lord to him, “for, as you are
aware, there is no other means of going into or out of the room, except
indeed by way of a little closet of which I myself alone carry the key.”

The President entered the room and found his wife and Nicholas in bed
together. The clerk, clad in nothing but his shirt, threw himself at his
feet to entreat forgiveness, while his wife began to weep.

Then said the President--

“Though you have done a deed the enormity of which you may yourself
judge, I am yet unwilling that my house should be dishonoured on your
account, and the daughters I have had by you made to suffer. Wherefore,”
 he continued, “cease to weep, I command you, and hearken to what I am
going to do; and do you, Nicholas, hide yourself in my closet and make
not a single sound.”

When this was done, he opened the door, and calling his old servant,
said to him--

“Did you not assure me that you would show me Nicholas in company with
my wife? Trusting in your word, I came hither in danger of killing my
poor wife, and I have found nothing of what you told me. I have searched
the whole room, as I will show you.”

So saying, he caused his servant to look under the beds and in every
quarter. The servant, finding nothing, was greatly astonished, and said
to his master--

“The devil must have made away with him, for I saw him go in, and he did
not come out through the door. But I can see that he is not here.”

Then said his master to him--

“You are a wicked servant to try to create contention in this way
between my wife and me. I dismiss you, and will pay you what I owe you
for your services to me, and more besides; but be speedily gone, and
take care that you are not in the town twenty-four hours from now.”

The President paid him for five or six years in advance, and, knowing
him to be a faithful servant, resolved to reward him still further.

When the servant was gone weeping away, the President made Nicholas come
forth from the closet, and after telling them both what he thought of
their wickedness, he commanded them to give no hint of the matter to
anyone. He also charged his wife to dress more bravely than was her
wont, and to attend all assemblies, dances and feasts; and he told
Nicholas to make more merry than before, but, as soon as he whispered
to him, “Begone,” to see that he was out of the town before three hours
were over. Having arranged matters in this way, he returned to the
court, none being any the wiser. And for a fortnight, contrary to his
wont, he entertained his friends and neighbours, and after the banquet
had the tabourers, so that the ladies might dance.

One day, seeing that his wife was not dancing, he commanded Nicholas to
lead her out. The clerk, thinking that the past had been forgotten, did
so gladly, but when the dance was over, the President, under pretence of
charging him with some household matter, whispered to him, “Begone,
and come back no more.” And albeit Nicholas was grieved to leave his
mistress, yet was he no less glad that his life was spared.

When the President had convinced all his kinsfolk and friends and the
whole countryside of the deep love that he bore his wife, he went into
his garden one fine day in the month of May to gather a salad, of such
herbs that his wife did not live for twenty-four hours after eating of
them; whereupon he made such a great show of mourning that none could
have suspected him of causing her death; and in this way he avenged
himself upon his enemy, and saved the honour of his house. (2)

     2  Whilst admitting the historical basis of this story, M.
     Le Roux de Lincy conceives it to be the same as No. xlvii.
     of the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_, printed half-a-century
     before the _Heptameron_ was written. Beyond the
     circumstance, however, that in both cases a judge is shown
     privily avenging himself on his wife for her infidelity,
     there is no resemblance between the two tales. There is good
     reason for believing that Queen Margaret’s narrative is
     based on absolute fact, and not on the story in the _Cent
     Nouvelles_. Both tales have often been imitated. See for
     instance Bonaventure Despéricr’s _Contes, Nouvelles, et
     joyeux Devis_ (tale xcii., or, in some editions, xc. ); _Les
     Heures de Récréation de Louis Guicciardini_, p. 28; G.
     Giraldi Cinthio’s _Hecatommithi, overro cento Novelle, &c_.
     (dec. iii. nov. vi. ); Malespini’s _Ducento Novelle _(part
     ii. nov. xvi.); Verboquet’s _Les Délices, &c_, 1623, p. 23;
     and Shirley’s _Love’s Cruelly_. These tales also inspired
     some of the Spanish dramatists, notably Calderon.--Ed. and
     L.

“I do not mean by this, ladies, to praise the President’s conscience,
but rather to bring out the frailty of a woman and the great patience
and prudence of a man. And I beg you, ladies, be not angered by the
truth, which sometimes speaks as loudly against ourselves as against the
men; for vice and virtue are common alike to men and women.”

“If all those,” said Parlamente, “who have fallen in love with their
servants were obliged to eat salads of that kind, I know some who would
be less fond of their gardens than they are at present, and who would
pluck up the herbs to get rid of such as restore the honour of a family
by compassing the death of a wanton mother.”

Hircan, who guessed why she had said this, angrily replied--“A virtuous
woman should never judge another guilty of what she would not do
herself.”

“Knowledge is not judgment nor yet foolishness,” returned Parlamente.
“However, this poor woman paid the penalty that many others have
deserved, and I think that the President, when desirous of vengeance,
comported himself with wondrous prudence and wisdom.”

“And with great malevolence, also,” said Longarine. “‘Twas a slow and
cruel vengeance, and showed he had neither God nor conscience before his
eyes.”

“Why, what would you have had him do,” said Hircan, “to revenge himself
for the greatest wrong that a woman can deal to a man?”

“I would have had him kill her in his wrath,” she replied. “The doctors
say that since the first impulses of passion are not under a man’s
control, such a sin may be forgiven; so it might have obtained pardon.”
 “Yes,” said Geburon, “but his daughters and descendants would have
always borne the stain.”

“He ought not to have killed her at all,” said Longarine, “for, when
his wrath was past, she might have lived with him in virtue, and nothing
would ever have been said about the matter.”

“Do you think,” said Saffredent, “that he was appeased merely because he
concealed his anger? For my part, I believe that he was as wrathful on
the last day, when he made his salad, as he had been on the first, for
there are persons whose first impulses have no rest until their passion
has worked its will. I am well pleased you say that the theologians deem
such sins easy to be pardoned, for I am of their opinion.”

“It is well to look to one’s words,” said Longarine, “in presence of
persons so dangerous as you. What I said is to be understood of passion
when it is so strong that it suddenly seizes upon all the senses, and
reason can find no place.”

“It is so,” said Saffredent, “that I understood your words, and I thence
conclude that, whatever a man may do, he can commit only venial sin
if he be deeply in love. I am sure that, if Love hold him fast bound,
Reason can never gain a hearing, whether from his heart or from his
understanding. And if the truth be told, there is not one among us but
has had knowledge of such passion; and not merely do I think that sin
so committed is readily pardoned, but I even believe that God is not
angered by it, seeing that such love is a ladder whereby we may climb
to the perfect love of Himself. And none can attain to this save by the
ladder of earthly love, (3) for, as St. John says, ‘He that loveth not
his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not
seen?’” (4)

     3  All this passage is borrowed, almost word for word, from
     Castiglione’s _Libro del Cortegiano_. See _ante_, vol. i. p.
     10.--B.J.

     4  i John iv. 20.--M.

“There is not a passage in Scripture,” said Oisille, “too good for you
to turn to your own purposes. But beware of doing like the spider, which
transforms sound meat into poison. Be advised that it is a perilous
matter to quote Scripture out of place and without cause.”

“Do you call speaking the truth out of place and without cause?” said
Saffredent. “You hold, then, that when, in speaking to you unbelieving
women, we call God to our assistance, we take His name in vain; but if
there be any sin in this, you alone must bear the blame, for it is your
unbelief that compels us to seek out all the oaths that we can think of.
And in spite of it all, we cannot kindle the flame of charity in your
icy hearts.”

“That,” said Longarine, “proves that you all speak falsely. If truth
were in your words, it is strong enough to make you be believed. Yet
there is danger lest the daughters of Eve should hearken too readily to
the serpent.”

“I see clearly,” said Saffredent, “that women are not to be conquered
by men. So I shall be silent, and see to whom Ennasuite will give her
vote.”

“I give it,” she said, “to Dagoucin, for I think he would not willingly
speak against the ladies.”

“Would to God,” said Dagoucin, “that they were as well disposed towards
me as I am towards them. To show you that I have striven to honour the
virtuous among them by recalling their good deeds, I will now tell you
the story of such a one. I will not deny, ladies, that the patience of
the gentleman at Pampeluna, and of the President at Grenoble was great,
but then it was equalled in magnitude by their vengeance. Moreover,
when we seek to praise a virtuous man, we ought not so to exalt a single
virtue as to make of it a cloak for the concealment of grievous vice;
for none are praiseworthy save such as do virtuous things from the love
of virtue alone, and this I hope to prove by telling you of the patient
virtue of a lady whose goodness had no other object save the honour of
God and the salvation of her husband.”


[Illustration: 072.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 073a.jpg The Lady of Loué bringing her Husband the Basin of Water]

[The Lady of Loué bringing her Husband the Basin of Water]

[Illustration: 073.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XXXVII_.

     _The Lady of Loué so influenced her husband by her great
     patience and longsuffering, that she drew him from his evil
     ways, and they lived afterwards in greater love than
     before_.

There was a lady of the house of Loué (1) who was so prudent and
virtuous, that she was loved and esteemed by all her neighbours. Her
husband trusted her, as well he might, with all his affairs, and she
managed them with such wisdom that his house came, by her means, to be
one of the wealthiest and best appointed in either the land of Anjou or
Touraine.

     1  Loué is in Anjou, in the department of the Sarthe, being
     the chief locality of a canton of the arrondissement of Le
     Mans. The Lady of Loué referred to may be either Philippa de
     Beaumont-Bressuire, wife of Peter de Laval, knight, Lord of
     Loué, Benars, &c.; or her daughter-in-law, Frances de
     Maillé, who in or about 1500 espoused Giles de Laval, Lord
     of Loué. Philippa is known to have died in 1525, after
     bearing her husband five children. She had been wedded fifty
     years. However, the subject of this story is the same as
     that of the Lady of Langallier, or Languillier (also in
     Anjou), which will be found in chapter xvii. of _Le Livre du
     Chevalier de la Tour-Landry_, an English translation of
     which, made in the reign of Henry VI., was edited in 1868 by
     Mr. Thomas Wright for the Early English Text Society.--See
     also Le Roux de Lincy’s _Femmes célèbres de l’ancienne
     France,_ vol i. p. 356. Particulars concerning the Laval-
     Loué family will be found in Duchesne’s Histoire de la
     Maison de Montmorency.--L. and M.

In this fashion she lived a great while with her husband, to whom
she bore several handsome children; but then, as happiness is always
followed by its opposite, hers began to be lessened. Her husband,
finding virtuous ease to be unendurable, laid it aside to seek for toil,
and made it his wont to rise from beside his wife as soon as she was
asleep, and not to return until it was nearly morning. The lady of Loué
took this conduct ill, and falling into a deep unrest, of which she was
fain to give no sign, neglected her household matters, her person and
her family, like one that deemed herself to have lost the fruit of her
toils, to wit, her husband’s exceeding love, for the preserving of which
there was no pain that she would not willingly have endured. But having
lost it, as she could see, she became careless of everything else in the
house, and the lack of her care soon brought mischief to pass.

Her husband, on the one part, spent with much extravagance, while, on
the other, she had ceased to control the management, so that ere long
affairs fell into such great disorder, that the timber began to be
felled, and the lands to be mortgaged.

One of her kinsfolk that had knowledge of her distemper, rebuked her for
her error, saying that if love for her husband did not lead her to care
for the advantage of his house, she should at least have regard to her
poor children. Hereat her pity for them caused her to recover herself,
and she tried all means to win back her husband’s love.

In this wise she kept good watch one night, and, when he rose from
beside her, she also rose in her nightgown, let make her bed, and said
her prayers until her husband returned. And when he came in, she went to
him and kissed him, and brought him a basin full of water that he might
wash his hands. He was surprised at this unwonted behaviour, and told
her that there was no need for her to rise, since he was only coming
from the latrines; whereat she replied that, although it was no great
matter, it was nevertheless a seemly thing to wash one’s hands on coming
from so dirty and foul a place, intending by these words to make him
perceive and abhor the wickedness of his life. But for all that he did
not mend his ways, and for a full year the lady continued to act in this
way to no purpose.

Accordingly, seeing that this behaviour served her naught, one day,
while she was waiting for her husband, who tarried longer than ordinary,
she had a mind to go in search of him, and, passing from room to room,
found him at last in a closet at the back of the house, lying asleep by
the side of the ugliest, vilest, and filthiest serving-woman they had.

Thereupon, thinking she would teach him to leave so excellent a wife for
so filthy and vile a woman, she took some straw and set it on fire in
the middle of the room; but on seeing that it would as soon kill her
husband as awaken him, she plucked him by the arm, crying out--

“Fire! fire!”

If the husband was ashamed and sorry at being found by so virtuous a
wife in company with such a slut, he certainly had good reason for it.
Then said his wife to him--

“For a year, sir, have I tried by gentle and patient means to draw you
from this wickedness, and to show you that whilst washing the outside
you should also cleanse that which is within. Finding that all I could
do was of no avail, I have sought assistance from that clement which
brings all things to an end, and I promise you, sir, that, if this
do not mend you, I know not whether I shall a second time be able to
deliver you from the danger as I have now done. I pray you remember that
the deepest despair is that caused by love, and that if I had not had
the fear of God before my eyes I could not have endured so much.”

The husband, glad to get off so easily, promised that he would never
again cause her any pain on his account. This the lady was very willing
to believe, and with her husband’s consent turned away the servant who
had so offended her. And from that time forth they lived most lovingly
together, so that even the errors of the past, by the good that had
resulted from them, served but to increase their happiness.

“Should God give you such husbands, ladies, I pray you despair not until
you have fully tried all means to win them back. There are twenty-four
hours in the day in which a man may change his mind, and a wife who
has gained her husband over by patience and longsuffering should deem
herself more fortunate than if fate and her kinsfolk had given her one
more perfect.”

“It is an example,” said Oisille, “that all married women ought to
follow.”

“Follow it who will,” said Parlamente; “for my own part, I should
find it impossible to be patient so long. Although in every condition
patience is a seemly virtue, yet I think that in wedded life it finally
produces ill-will. For, when suffering is caused you by your partner,
you are compelled to keep yourself as much apart from him as possible;
and from such estrangement there springs up contempt for the faithless
one; and this contempt gradually lessens love, for a thing is loved in
proportion as it is esteemed.”

“But there is a danger,” said Ennasuite, “that the impatient wife may
meet with a passionate husband who, instead of patience, will bring her
pain.”

“And what more,” said Parlamente, “could a husband do than was done by
the husband in the story?”

“What more?” said Ennasuite. “Why, beat his wife soundly, and make her
lie in the smaller bed, and his sweetheart in the larger.” (2)

     2  At this period, and for some time afterwards, there were
     usually two beds in the master’s room, a large one for
     himself and his wife, and a small one in which slept a
     trusty servant, male or female. These little beds are shown
     in some of the designs engraved by Abraham Bosse in the
     seventeenth century.--L.

“It is my belief,” said Parlamente, “that a true woman would be less
grieved by being beaten in anger than by being contemned for one of less
worth than herself. After enduring the severance of love, nothing that
her husband could do would be able to cause her any further pain. And in
this wise the story says that the trouble she took to regain him was for
the sake of her children--which I can well believe.”

“And do you think that it showed great patience on her part,” said
Nomerfide, “to kindle a fire beneath the bed on which her husband was
sleeping.”

“Yes,” said Longarine; “for when she saw the smoke she waked him, and
herein, perhaps, was she most to blame; for the ashes of such a husband
as hers would to my thinking have been good for the making of lye.”

“You are cruel, Longarine,” said Oisille, “but those are not the terms
on which you lived with your own husband.”

“No,” said Longarine, “for, God be thanked, he never gave me cause. I
have reason to regret him all my life long, not to complain of him.”

“But if he had behaved in such a manner towards you,” said Nomerfide,
“what would you have done?”

“I loved him so dearly,” said Longarine, “that I believe I should have
killed him, and myself as well. To die after taking such a vengeance
would have been sweeter to me than to live faithfully with the
faithless.”

“So far as I can see,” said Hircan, “you do not love your husbands
except for your own sakes. If they are what you want them to be, you
are very fond of them; but if they fall into the slightest error towards
you, they lose on a Saturday the toil of an entire week. Thus you are
minded to rule, and I for my part will consent to it provided, however,
that all other husbands agree.”

“It is reasonable,” said Parlamente, “that man should rule us as our
head, but not that he should forsake us or treat us ill.”

“God has provided so wisely,” said Oisille, “both for man and for woman,
that I hold marriage, if it be not abused, to be the goodliest and
securest condition imaginable, and I am sure that, whatever they may
seem to do, all here present think the same. And if the man claims to
be wiser than the woman, he will be the more severely blamed should the
fault come from him. But enough of such talk. Let us now see to whom
Dagoucin will give his vote.”

“I give it,” he said, “to Longarine.”

“You do me a great pleasure,” she replied, “for I have read a story that
is worthy to follow yours. Since we are set upon praising the virtuous
patience of ladies, I will show you one more worthy of praise than she
of whom we have just been speaking. And she is the more deserving of
esteem in that she was a city dame, and therefore one of those whose
breeding is less virtuous than that of others.”


[Illustration: 081.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 083a.jpg The Lady of Tours questioning her Husband’s Mistress]

[The Lady of Tours questioning her Husband’s Mistress]

[Illustration: 083.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XXXVIII_.

     _A towns-woman of Tours returned so much good for all the
     evil treatment she had received from her husband, that the
     latter forsook the mistress whom he was quietly maintaining,
     and returned to his wife_. (1)

     1  It is probable that the incidents related in this tale
     occurred between 1460 and 1470. They will be found recorded
     in the _Ménagier de Paris_. (See Baron Pichon’s edition,
     1847, vol. i. p. 237). A similar narrative figures in some
     editions of Morlini’s tales, notably the _Novello, Fabello,
     et Comedies, Neapoli_, 1520. We further find it in
     Gueudeville’s translation of Erasmus’s Colloquies (_Dialogue
     sur le mariage, collogues, &c., Leyden_, 1720, vol. i. p.
     87), and Mr. Walter Keily has pointed out (the _Heptameron_,
     Bohn, 1864) that William Warner worked the same incidents
     into his poem _Albion’s England_, his stanzas being
     reproduced in Percy’s _Reliques_ under the title of _The
     Patient Countess_.--L. and Ed.

In the city of Tours there dwelt a chaste and comely townswoman, who, by
reason of her virtues, was not only loved but feared also and respected
by her husband. Nevertheless, with all the fickleness of men who grow
weary of ever eating good bread, he fell in love with a farm tenant (2)
of his own, and would oft-time leave Tours to visit the farm, where he
always remained two or three days; and when he came back to Tours he was
always in so sorry a plight that his wife had much ado to cure him, yet,
as soon as he was whole again, he never failed to return to the place
where pleasure caused him to forget all his ills.

     2  The French word here is _métayère_. The _métayer_ (fem.
     métayère) was a farm tenant under the general control of his
     landlord, who supplied him with seed and took to himself a
     considerable portion of the produce. The system was done
     away with at the Revolution, but was revived here and there
     under the Restoration, when some of the nobles came to
     “their own” again, and there may even nowadays be a few
     instances of the kind.--Ed.

When his wife, who was anxious above all things for his life and health,
found him constantly return home in so evil a plight, she went to the
farm and found there the young woman whom her husband loved. Then,
without anger but with graceful courage, she told her that she knew her
husband often went to see her, but that she was ill-pleased to find him
always return home exhausted in consequence of her sorry treatment of
him. The poor woman, influenced as much by respect for her mistress
as by regard for the truth, was not able to deny the fact, and craved
forgiveness.

The lady asked to see the room and bed in which her husband was wont
to sleep, and found it so cold and dirty and ill-appointed that she was
moved to pity. Forthwith she sent for a good bed furnished with sheets,
blankets and counterpane such as her husband loved; she caused the room
to be made clean and neat and hung with tapestries; provided suitable
ware for his meat and drink, a pipe of good wine, sweetmeats and
confections, and begged the woman to send him back no more in so
miserable a state.

It was not long before the husband again went, as was his wont, to see
his tenant, and he was greatly amazed to find his poor lodging in such
excellent order. And still more was he surprised when the woman gave him
to drink in a silver cup; and he asked her whence all these good things
had come. The poor woman told him, weeping, that they were from his
wife, who had taken such great pity on his sorry treatment that she had
furnished the house in this way, and had charged her to be careful of
his health.

When the gentleman saw the exceeding generosity of his wife in returning
so much good for all the evil turns that he had done her, he looked upon
his own wrongdoing as no less great than her kindness; and, after giving
some money to his tenant, he begged her to live in future as an honest
woman. Then he went back to his wife, acknowledged his wrongdoing, and
told her that, but for her great gentleness and generosity, he
could never have forsaken the life that he had been leading. And
thenceforward, forgetting the past, they lived in all peacefulness
together.

“You may be sure, ladies, that there are but few husbands whom a wife’s
love and patience cannot win at last, unless they be harder even than
stone, which weak and yielding water will in time make hollow.”

“That woman,” said Parlamente, “had neither heart, gall nor liver.”

“What would you have had her do?” said Longarine. “She practised what
God commands, and returned good for evil.” (3)

     3  “Recompense to no man evil for evil.”--_Rom_. xii. 17.
     “Not rendering evil for evil, or railing for railing.”--1
     _Pet_. iii. 9.--Ed.

“I think,” said Hircan, “she must have been in love with some Grey
Friar, who had laid upon her the penance of having her husband well
treated in the country, so that, meantime, she might be free to
entertain herself well in the town.”

“Therein,” said Oisille, “you clearly show the wickedness of your own
heart, judging ill of a good deed. I rather believe her to have been so
subdued by the love of God that she cared for naught save the salvation
of her husband’s soul.”

“It seems to me,” said Simontault, “that he had more reason to return
to his wife when he was so cold at the farm than afterwards when he was
treated so well.”

“From what I can see,” said Saffredent, “you are not of the same opinion
as the rich man of Paris who, when he lay with his wife, could not put
off his gear without being chilled, but who never felt the worse when
he went without cap or shoes, in the depth of winter, to see his
servant-maid in the cellar. Yet his wife was very beautiful and the maid
very ugly.”

“Have you not heard,” said Geburon, “that God always aids lunatics,
lovers and sots? Perhaps he was all three in one.”

“Do you thence conclude,” said Pariamente, “that God recks not of the
wise, the chaste and the temperate? Help is not needed by those who can
help themselves. He who said that He had come for the sick and not for
the whole, (4) came by the law of His mercy to succour our infirmities,
thereby annulling the decrees of His rigorous justice; and he that deems
himself wise is a fool in the sight of God. But, to end the sermon, to
whom will Longarine give her vote?”

     4  “They that are whole have no need of the physician, but
     they that are sick.”--_St. Mark_ ii. 17. See also _St.
     Luke_ v. 31.--Ed.

“I give it,” she said, “to Saffredent.”

“Then I hope,” said Saffredent, “to prove to you that God does not
favour lovers. For although it has already been said, ladies, that vice
is common to men and women alike, yet will a subtle artifice be more
readily and adroitly devised by a woman than by a man Of this I am now
about to give you an instance.”


[Illustration: 088.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 089a.jpg The Lord of Grignaulx catching the Pretended Ghost]

[The Lord of Grignaulx catching the Pretended Ghost]

[Illustration: 089.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XXXIX_.

     _The Lord of Grignaulx freed his house from a ghost which
     had so tormented his wife that for the space of two years
     she had dwelt elsewhere_.

A certain Lord of Grignaulx (1) who was gentleman of honour to the Queen
of France, Anne, Duchess of Brittany, on returning to his house whence
he had been absent during more than two years, found his wife at another
estate, near by, and when he inquired the reason of this, she told him
that a ghost was wont to haunt the house, and tormented them so much
that none could dwell there. (2) Monsieur de Grig-naulx, who had no
belief in such absurdities, replied that were it the devil himself he
was not afraid of him, and so brought his wife home again.

At night he caused many candles to be lighted that he might see the
ghost more clearly, and, after watching for a long time without hearing
anything, he fell asleep; but immediately afterwards he was awaked by a
buffet upon the cheek, and heard a voice crying, “Brenigne, Brenigne,”
 which had been the name of his grandmother. (3) Then he called to the
serving-woman, who lay near them, (4) to light the candle, for all were
now extinguished, but she durst not rise. And at the same time the Lord
of Grig-naulx felt the covering pulled from off him, and heard a great
noise of tables, trestles and stools falling about the room; and this
lasted until morning. However, the Lord of Grignaulx was more displeased
at losing his rest than afraid of the ghost, for indeed he never
believed it to be any such thing.

     1  This is John de Talleyrand, knight, lord of Grignols and
     Fouquerolles, Prince of Chalais, Viscount of Fronsac, mayor
     and captain of Bordeaux, chamberlain of Charles VIII., first
     majordomo and gentleman of honour in turn to two French
     Queens, Anne of Brittany and Mary of England. His wife was
     Margaret de la Tour, daughter of Anne de la Tour, Viscount
     of Turenne, and Mary de Beaufort. She bore him several
     children. It was John de Talleyrand who warned Louise of
     Savoy that her son Francis, then Count of Angoulême, was
     paying court to the young Queen, Mary of England, wife to
     Louis XII. Apprehensive lest this intrigue should destroy
     her son’s prospects, Louise prevailed on him to relinquish
     it (Brantôme’s _Dames Illustres_).--L. 4 89

     2  The house haunted by the ghost would probably be
     Talleyrand’s château at Grignols, in the department of the
     Gironde. His lordship of Fouquerolles was only a few miles
     distant, in the Dordogne, and this would be the estate to
     which his wife had retired.--Ed.

     3  Talleyrand’s grandmother on the paternal side was Mary of
     Brabant; the reference may be to his maternal grandmother,
     whose Christian name was possibly “Bénigne.” On the other
     hand, Boaistuau gives the name as Revigne, and among the old
     French _noblesse_ were the Revigné and Revigny families.--
     Ed.

     4  See _ante_, note 2 to Tale XXXVII.

On the following night he resolved to capture this ghost, and so, when
he had been in bed a little while, he pretended to snore very loudly,
and placed his open hand close to his face. Whilst he was in this wise
waiting for the ghost, he felt that something was coming near him, and
accordingly snored yet louder than before, whereat the ghost was
so encouraged as to deal him a mighty blow. Forthwith, the Lord of
Grignaulx caught the ghost’s hand as it rested on his face, and cried
out to his wife--

“I have the ghost!”

His wife immediately rose up and lit the candle, and found that it was
the serving-woman who slept in their room; and she, throwing herself
upon her knees, entreated forgiveness and promised to confess the truth.
This was, that she had long loved a serving-man of the house, and
had taken this fine mystery in hand in order to drive both master and
mistress away, so that she and her lover, having sole charge of the
house, might be able to make good cheer as they were wont to do when
alone. My Lord of Grignaulx, who was a somewhat harsh man, commanded
that they should be soundly beaten so as to prevent them from ever
forgetting the ghost, and this having been done, they were driven away.
In this fashion was the house freed from the plaguy ghosts who for two
years long had played their pranks in it. (5)

     5  Talleyrand, who passes for having been the last of the
     “Rois des Ribauds” (see the Bibliophile Jacob’s historical
     novel of that title), was, like his descendant the great
     diplomatist, a man of subtle and caustic humour. Brantôme,
     in his article on Anne of Brittany in _Les Dames Illustres_,
     repeatedly refers to him, and relates that on an occasion
     when the Queen wished to say a few words in Spanish to the
     Emperor’s ambassador--there was a project of marrying her
     daughter Claude to Charles V.--she applied to Grignols to
     teach her a sentence or two of the Castilian language. He,
     however, taught her some dirty expression, but was careful
     to warn Louis XII., who laughed at it, telling his wife on
     no account to use the Spanish words she had learnt. On
     discovering the truth, Anne was so greatly vexed, that
     Grignols was obliged to withdraw from Court for some time,
     and only with difficulty obtained the Queen’s forgiveness.--
     L. and Ed.

“It is wonderful, ladies, to think of the effects wrought by the mighty
god of Love. He causes women to put aside all fear, and teaches them to
give every sort of trouble to man in order to work their own ends. But
if the purpose of the serving-woman calls for blame, the sound sense
of the master is no less worthy of praise. He knew that when the spirit
departs, it returns no more.” (6)

     6 “A wind that passeth away, and cometh not again.”--_Psalm_
     lxxviii. 39.--M.

“In sooth,” said Geburon, “love showed little favour to the man and
the maid, but I agree that the sound sense of the master was of great
advantage to him.”

“Nevertheless,” said Ennasuite, “the maid through her cunning lived for
a long time at her ease.”

“‘Tis but a sorry ease,” said Oisille, “that is founded upon sin and
that ends in shame and chastisement.”

“That is true, madam,” said Ennasuite, “but many persons reap pain
and sorrow by living righteously, and lacking wit enough to procure
themselves in all their lives as much pleasure as these two.”

“It is nevertheless my opinion,” said Oisille, “that there can be no
perfect pleasure unless the conscience be at rest.”

“Nay,” said Simontault, “the Italian maintains that the greater the sin
the greater the pleasure.” (7)

     7  This may be a reference to Boccaccio or Castiglione, but
     the expression is of a proverbial character in many
     languages.--Ed.

“In very truth,” said Oisille, “he who invented such a saying must be
the devil himself. Let us therefore say no more of him, but see to whom
Saffredent will give his vote.”

“To whom?” said he. “Only Parlamente now remains; but if there were a
hundred others, she should still receive my vote, as being the one from
whom we shall certainly learn something.”

“Well, since I am to end the day,” said Parlamente, “and since I
promised yesterday to tell you why Rolandine’s father built the castle
in which he kept her so long a prisoner, I will now relate it to you.”


[Illustration: 094.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 095a.jpg The Count of Jossebelin murdering his Sister’s Husband]

[The Count of Jossebelin murdering his Sister’s Husband]

[Illustration: 095.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XL_.

     _The sister of the Count of Jossebelin, after marrying
     unknown to her brother a gentleman whom he caused to be put
     to death (albeit except for his lowlier rank he had often
     desired him for his brother-in-law) did, with great patience
     and austerity of life, spend the remainder of her days in a
     hermitage_. (1)

This lord, who was the father of Rolandine and was called the Count of
Jossebelin, had several sisters, some of whom were married to wealthy
husbands, others becoming nuns, whilst one, who was beyond comparison
fairer than all the rest, dwelt unwedded in his house. (2)

     1  The events here narrated would have occurred in or about
     1479.--L.

     2  The so-called Count of Jossebelin is John II., Viscount
     de Rohan, previously referred to in Tale XXI. He was the son
     of Alan IX., Vicount of Rohan, by his second wife, Mary of
     Lorraine. Alan, by a first marriage with Margaret of
     Brittany, had three daughters, Jane, Margaret and Catherine,
     all three of whom were married advantageously. Contrary to
     Queen Margaret’s assertion above, none of them became nuns;
     Alan may, however, have had illegitimate daughters who took
     the veil. By his second wife he had a son, John II., and a
     daughter christened Catherine, like her half-sister. She
     died unmarried, says Anselme’s _Histoire Généalogique_ (vol.
     iv. p. 57), and would appear to be the heroine of Queen
     Margaret’s tale.--L. and B. J.

And so dearly did she love her brother that he, for his part, preferred
her even to his wife and children.

She was asked in marriage by many of good estate, but her brother would
never listen to them through dread of losing her, and also because he
loved his money too well. She therefore spent a great part of her life
un-wedded, living very virtuously in her brother’s house. Now there was
a young and handsome gentleman who had been reared from childhood in
this same house, and who, growing in comeliness and virtue as well as in
years, had come to have a complete and peaceful rule over his master,
in such sort that whenever the latter desired to give any charge to his
sister he always did so by means of this young gentleman, (3) and he
allowed him so much influence and intimacy, sending him morning and
evening to his sister, that at last a great love sprang up between the
two.

     3  This is possibly a Count of Keradreux, whom John II. is
     known to have put to death, though the Breton and French
     chroniclers do not relate the circumstances of the crime.--
     See_post_, p. 100, note 4.--Ed.

But as the gentleman feared for his life if he should offend his master,
and the lady feared also for her honour, their love found gladness in
speech alone, until the Lord of Jossebelin had often said to his sister
that he wished the gentleman were rich and of as good a house as her
own, for he had never known a man whom he would so gladly have had for
his brother-in-law.

He repeated these sayings so often that, after debating them together,
the lovers concluded that if they wedded one another they would readily
be forgiven. Love, which easily believes what it desires, persuaded them
that nothing but good could come of it; and in this hope they celebrated
and consummated the marriage without the knowledge of any save a priest
and certain women.

After they had lived for a few years in the delight that man and woman
can have together in marriage, and as one of the handsomest and most
loving couples in Christendom, Fate, vexed to find two persons so
much at their ease, would no longer suffer them to continue in it, but
stirred up against them an enemy, who, keeping watch upon the lady, came
to a knowledge of her great happiness, and, ignorant the while of her
marriage, went and told the Lord of Jossebelin that the gentleman in
whom he had so much trust, went too often to his sister’s room, and that
moreover at hours when no man should enter it. This the Count would
not at first believe for the trust that he had in his sister and in the
gentleman.

But the other, like one careful for the honour of the house, repeated
the charge so often that a strict watch was set, and the poor folk,
who suspected nothing, were surprised. For one evening the Lord of
Jossebelin was advised that the gentleman was with his sister, and,
hastening thither, found the poor love-blinded pair lying in bed
together. His anger at the sight robbed him of speech, and, drawing
his sword, he ran after the gentleman to kill him. But the other, being
nimble of body, fled in nothing but his shirt, and, being unable to
escape by the door, leaped through a window into the garden.

Then the poor lady, clad only in her chemise, threw herself upon her
knees before her brother and said to him--

“Sir, spare the life of my husband, for I have indeed married him;
and if you are offended punish only me, for what he did was done at my
request.”

Her brother, beside himself with wrath, could only reply--

“Even if he be your husband one hundred thousand times over, yet will I
punish him as a rascally servant who has deceived me.”

So saying, he went to the window and called out loudly to kill him,
which was speedily done before the eyes of himself and his sister. The
latter, on beholding the pitiful sight which no prayers on her part
had been able to prevent, spoke to her brother like a woman bereft of
reason.

“Brother,” she said, “I have neither father nor mother, and I am old
enough to marry according to my own pleasure. I chose one whom many a
time you said you would gladly have me marry, and for doing by your own
counsels that which the law permits me to do without them, you have put
to death the man whom you loved best of all the world. Well, since my
prayers have been of no avail to preserve his life, I implore you, by
all the love you have ever borne me, to make me now a sharer in his
death even as I have been a sharer in all his living fortunes. In this
way, while sating your unjust and cruel anger, you will give repose
to the body and soul of one who cannot and will not live without him.”
 Although her brother was almost distracted with passion, (4) he had
pity upon his sister, and so, without granting or denying her request,
withdrew. After weighing well what he had done, and hearing that the
gentleman had in fact married his sister, he would gladly have undone
his grievous crime. Nevertheless, being afraid that his sister would
seek justice or vengeance for it, he caused a castle to be built in the
midst of a forest, (5) and, placing her therein, forbade that any should
have speech with her.

     4  John II. of Rohan was a man of the most passionate,
     resentful disposition, and the greater part of his life was
     spent in furthering ambitious schemes, stirring up feuds and
     factions, and desolating Brittany with civil war. In 1470 we
     find him leaving the service of the Duke, his master, to
     enter that of Louis XI., on whose side he fought till the
     peace of Senlis in 1475. Four years later the Duke of
     Brittany caused him to be arrested on the charge of
     murdering the Count of Keradreux, and he appears to have
     remained in prison till 1484, when it is recorded that he
     fled to France, and thence to Lorraine. In 1487 he leagued
     himself with several discontented nobles to drive away the
     Chancellor of Brittany and various foreign favourites around
     the Duke, and carried civil war into several parts of the
     duchy. Then for a brief space he made his peace with the
     Duke, but again took up arms for the French King, fought at
     St. Aubin du Cormier, captured Dinan and besieged and
     pillaged Guingamp. Charles VIII. appointed him Lieutenant-
     general of Lower Brittany in 1491, and he was first
     commissary of the King of France at the States of Brittany
     held at Vannes in 1491 and 1501. In 1507 he witnessed the
     marriage contract of the Princess Claude with Francis, Duke
     of Valois, afterwards Francis I. (Anselme’s _Histoire
     Généalogique_, vol. iv. p. 57). When Anne became Duchess of
     Brittany, John II. vainly strove to compel her to marry his
     son, James, and this was one of the causes of their life-
     long enmity (_ante_ vol. iii. Tale XXI.) John II. died in
     1516.--L. and Ed.

     5  If this be the chateau of Josselin, as some previous
     commentators think, Queen Margaret is in error here, for
     records subsist which prove that Josselin, now classed among
     the historical monuments of France, was built not by John
     II., but by his father, Alan IX. It rises on a steep rock on
     the bank of the Oust, at nine miles from Ploèrmel, and on
     the sculptured work, both inside and out, the letters A. V.
     (Alan, Viscount) are frequently repeated, with the arms of
     Rohan and Brittany quartered together, and bearing the proud
     device _A plus_. It seems to us evident that the incidents
     recorded in the early part of Queen Margaret’s tale took
     place at Josselin, and that Catherine de Rohan was
     imprisoned in some other chateau expressly erected by her
     brother.--D. and Ed.

Some time afterwards he sought, for the satisfaction of his conscience,
to win her back again, and spoke to her of marriage; but she sent him
word that he had given her too sorry a breakfast to make her willing to
sup off the same dish, and that she looked to live in such sort that he
should never murder a second husband of hers; for, she added, she could
scarcely believe that he would forgive another man after having so
cruelly used the one whom he had loved best of all the world.

And although weak and powerless for revenge, she placed her hopes in Him
who is the true Judge, and who suffers no wickedness to go unpunished;
and, relying upon His love alone, was minded to spend the rest of her
life in her hermitage. And this she did, for she never stirred from
that place so long as she lived, but dwelt there with such patience and
austerity that her tomb was visited by every one as that of a saint.

From the time that she died, her brother’s house came to such a ruinous
state, that of his six sons not one was left, but all died miserably;
(6) and at last the inheritance, as you heard in the former story,
passed into the possession of Rolandine, who succeeded to the prison
that had been built for her aunt.

     6  Queen Margaret is in error here. Instead of six sons,
     John II., according to the most reliable genealogical
     accounts of the Rohan family, had but two, James, Viscount
     of Rohan and Lord of Leon, who died childless in 1527, and
     Claud, Bishop of Cornouailles, who succeeded him as Viscount
     of Rohan (Anselme). These had two sisters, Anne, the
     Rolandine of Tale XXI., and Mary, who died in June 1542
     (Dillaye).--Ed.

“I pray God, ladies, that this example may be profitable to you, and
that none among you will seek to marry for her own pleasure without the
consent of those to whom obedience is due; for marriage is a state of
such long continuance that it should not be entered upon lightly and
without the advice of friends and kin. And, indeed, however wisely
one may act, there is always at least as much pain in it as there is
pleasure.”

“In good faith,” said Oisille, “were there neither God nor law to
teach maidens discretion, this example would suffice to give them more
reverence for their kindred, and not to seek marriage according to their
own pleasure.”

“Still, madam,” said Nomerfide, “whoso has but one good day in the year,
is not unhappy her whole life long. She had the pleasure of seeing and
speaking for a long time with him whom she loved better than herself,
and she moreover enjoyed the delights of marriage with him without
scruple of conscience. I consider such happiness so great, that in my
opinion it surpassed the sorrow that she bore.”

“You maintain, then,” said Saffredent, “that a woman has more pleasure
in lying with a husband, than pain in seeing him put to death before her
eyes.”

“That is not my meaning,” said Nomerfide, “for it would be contrary to
my experience of women. But I hold that an unwonted pleasure such as
that of marrying the man whom one loves best of all the world, must be
greater than that of losing him by death, which is common to all.”

“Yes,” said Geburon, “if the death be a natural one, but that in the
story was too cruel. And I think it very strange, considering he was
neither her father nor her husband but only her brother, and she had
reached an age when the law suffers maidens to marry according to their
own pleasure, that this lord should have had the daring to commit so
cruel a deed.”

“I do not think it at all strange,” said Hircan, “for he did not kill
his sister whom he dearly loved, and who was not subject to his control,
but dealt with the gentleman whom he had bred as his son and loved as
his brother. He had bestowed honour and wealth upon him in his service,
and in return for all this the other sought his sister in marriage, a
thing which was in nowise fitting for him to do.”

“Moreover,” said Nomerfide, “it was no ordinary or wonted pleasure for a
lady of such high lineage to marry a gentleman servant for love. If the
death was extraordinary, the pleasure also was novel, and it was the
greater seeing that it had against it the opinions of all wise folk, for
it was the happiness of a loving heart with tranquillity of soul, since
God was in no wise offended by it And as for the death that you call
cruel, it seems to me that, since death is unavoidable, the swifter it
comes the better; for we know that it is a road by which all of us must
travel. I deem those fortunate who do not long linger on the outksirts
of death, but who take a speedy flight from all that can be termed
happiness in this world to the happiness that is eternal.”

“What do you mean by the outskirts of death?” said Simontault.

“Such as have deep tribulation of spirit,” replied Nomerfide, “such,
too, as have long been ill, and in their extreme bodily or spiritual
pain have come to think lightly of death and find its approach too slow,
such, I say, as these have passed through the outskirts of death and
will tell you of the hostels where they knew more lamentation than rest.
The lady of the story could not help losing her husband through death,
but her brother’s wrath preserved her from seeing him a long time sick
or distressed in mind. And turning the gladness that she had had with
him to the service of Our Lord, she might well esteem herself happy.”

“Do you make no account,” said Longarine, “of the shame that she
endured, or of her imprisonment?”

“I consider,” said Nomerfide, “that a woman who lives perfectly, with a
love that is in keeping with the commands of her God, has no knowledge
of shame or dishonour except when they impair or lessen the perfection
of her love; for the glory of truly loving knows no shame. As for her
imprisonment, I imagine that, with her heart at large and devoted to God
and her husband, she thought nothing of it, but deemed her solitude
the greatest freedom. When one cannot see what one loves, the greatest
happiness consists in thinking constantly upon it, and there is no
prison so narrow that thought cannot roam in it at will.”

“Nothing can be truer than what Nomerfide says,” observed Simontault,
“but the man who in his passion brought this separation to pass must
have deemed himself unhappy indeed, seeing that he offended God, Love
and Honour.”

“In good sooth,” said Geburon, “I am amazed at the diversity of woman’s
love. I can see that those who have most love have most virtue; but
those who have less love conceal it in their desire to appear virtuous.”

“It is true,” said Parlamente, “that a heart which is virtuous towards
God and man loves more deeply than a vicious one, and fears not to have
its inmost purpose known.”

“I have always heard,” said Simontault, “that men should not be blamed
if they seek the love of women, for God has put into the heart of man
desire and boldness for asking, and in that of woman fear and chastity
for refusal. If, then, a man be punished for using the powers that have
been given him, he suffers wrong.”

“But it must be remembered,” said Longarine, “that he had praised this
gentleman for a long time to his sister. It seems to me that it would be
madness or cruelty in the keeper of a fountain to praise its fair waters
to one fainting with thirst, and then to kill him when he sought to
taste them.”

“The brother,” thereupon said Parlamente, “did indeed so kindle the
flame by gentle words of his own, that it was not meet he should beat it
out with the sword.”

“I am surprised,” said Saffredent, “to find it taken ill that a simple
gentleman should by dint of love alone, and without deceit, have come to
marry a lady of high lineage, seeing that the wisdom of the philosophers
accounts the least of men to be of more worth than the greatest and most
virtuous of women.”

“The reason is,” said Dagoucin, “that in order to preserve the
commonwealth in peace, account is only taken of the rank of families,
the age of persons, and the provisions of the laws, without regard to
the love and virtue of individuals, and all this so that the kingdom may
not be disturbed. Hence it comes to pass that, in marriages made between
equals and according to the judgment of kinsfolk and society, the
husband and wife often journey to the very outskirts of hell.”

“Indeed it has been seen,” said Geburon, “that those who, being alike in
heart, character and temperament, have married for love and paid no heed
to diversity of birth and lineage, have ofttime sorely repented of it;
for a deep unreasoning love is apt to turn to jealousy and rage.”

“It seems to me,” said Parlamente, “that neither course is worthy of
praise, but that folks should submit themselves to the will of God, and
pay no heed to glory, avarice or pleasure, and loving virtuously and
with the approval of their kinsfolk, seek only to live in the married
state as God and nature ordain. And although no condition be free from
tribulation, I have nevertheless seen such persons live together without
regret; and we of this company are not so unfortunate as to have none of
these married ones among the number.”

Hircan, Geburon, Simontault and Saffredent swore that they had wedded
after this sort, and had never repented since. Whatever the truth of
this declaration may have been, the ladies concerned were exceedingly
content with it, and thinking that they could hear nothing to please
them better, they rose up to go and give thanks for it to God, and found
the monks at the church, ready for vespers.

When the service was over they went to supper, but not without much
discourse concerning their marriages; and this lasted all the evening,
each one relating the fortune that had befallen him whilst he was wooing
his wife.

As it happened, however, that one was interrupted by another, it is not
possible to set down these stories in full, albeit they would have been
as pleasant to write as those which had been told in the meadow.
Such great delight did they take in the converse, and so well did it
entertain them, that, before they were aware of it, the hour for rest
had come.

The Lady Oisille made the company separate, and they betook themselves
to bed so joyously that, what with recounting the loves of the past,
and proving those of the present, the married folk, methinks, slept no
longer than the others.

And so the night was pleasantly spent until the morning.

[Illustration: 109.jpg Tailpiece]




FIFTH DAY.

_On the Fifth Day Tales are told of the virtue of those
maids and matrons who held their honour in
more consideration than their pleasure,
also of those who did the contrary,
and of the simplicity of
certain others_.




PROLOGUE.

When morning was come, the Lady Oisille made ready for them a spiritual
breakfast of such excellent flavour that it sufficed to strengthen both
body and mind. The whole company was very attentive to it; it seemed to
them that they had never harkened to a sermon with such profit before.
Then, when the last bell rang for mass, they went to meditate upon the
pious discourse which they had heard.

After listening to mass, and walking for a little while, they went to
table feeling assured that the present day would prove as agreeable
as any of the past. Saffredent even said that he would gladly have the
bridge building for another month, so great was the pleasure that he
took in their entertainment; but the Abbot was pressing the work with
all speed, for it was no pleasure to him to live in the company of so
many honourable persons, among whom he could not bring his wonted female
pilgrims.

Having rested for a time after dinner, they returned to their accustomed
diversion. When all were seated in the meadow, they asked Parlamente to
whom she gave her vote.

“I think,” she replied, “that Saffredent might well begin this day, for
his face does not look as though he wished us to weep.”

“Then, ladies, you will needs be very hard-hearted,” said Saffredent,
“if you take no pity on the Grey Friar whose story I am going to relate
to you. You may perhaps think, from the tales that some among us have
already told of the monks, that misadventures have befallen hapless
damsels simply because ease of execution induced the attempt to be
fearlessly begun, but, so that you may know that it is the blindness of
wanton lust which deprives the friars of all fear and prudence, I will
tell you of what happened to one of them in Flanders.”


[Illustration: 115a.jpg The Beating of the Wicked Grey Friar]

[The Beating of the Wicked Grey Friar]

[Illustration: 115.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XLI_.

     _A Grey Friar to whom a maiden had presented herself on
     Christmas night that he might confess her, laid upon her so
     strange a penance that she would not submit to it, but rose
     from before him without having received absolution; but her
     mistress, hearing of the matter, caused the Grey Friar to be
     flogged in her kitchen, and then sent him back, bound and
     gagged, to his Warden_.

In the year when my Lady Margaret of Austria came to Cambray on behalf
of her nephew the Emperor, to treat of peace between him and the Most
Christian King, who on his part was represented by his mother, my
Lady Louise of Savoy, (1) the said Lady Margaret had in her train the
Countess of Aiguemont, (2) who won, among this company, the renown of
being the most beautiful of all the Flemish ladies.

     1  It was in June 1529 that Margaret of Austria came to
     Cambrai to treat for peace, on behalf of Charles V. Louise
     of Savoy, who represented Francis I., was accompanied on
     this occasion by her daughter, Queen Margaret, who appears
     to have taken part in the conferences. The result of these
     was that the Emperor renounced his claims on Burgundy, but
     upheld all the other stipulations of the treaty of Madrid.
     Having been brought about entirely by feminine negotiators,
     the peace of Cambrai acquired the name of “La Paix des
     Dames,” or “the Ladies’ Peace.” Some curious particulars of
     the ceremonies observed at Cambrai on this occasion will be
     found in Leglay’s _Notice sur les fêles et cérémonies à
     Cambray depuis le XIe siècle_, Cambrai, 1827.--L. and B. J.

     2  This is Frances of Luxemburg, Baroness of Fiennes and
     Princess of Gavre, wife of John IV., Count of Egmont,
     chamberlain to the Emperor Charles V. They were the parents
     of the famous Lamoral Count of Egmont, Prince of Gavre and
     Baron of Fiennes, born in 1522 and put to death by the Duke
     of Alba on June 5, 1568.--B.J.

When this great assembly separated, the Countess of Aiguemont returned
to her own house, and, Advent being come, sent to a monastery of Grey
Friars to ask for a clever preacher and virtuous man, as well to preach
as to confess herself and her whole household. The Warden, remembering
the great benefits that the Order received from the house of Aiguemont
and that of Fiennes, to which the Countess belonged, sought out the man
whom he thought most worthy to fill the said office.

Accordingly, as the Grey Friars more than any other order desire to
obtain the esteem and friendship of great houses, they sent the most
important preacher of their monastery, and throughout Advent he did his
duty very well, and the Countess was well pleased with him.

On Christmas night, when the Countess desired to receive her Creator,
she sent for her confessor, and after making confession in a carefully
closed chapel, she gave place to her lady of honour, who in her turn,
after being shriven, sent her daughter to pass through the hands of this
worthy confessor. When the maiden had told all that was in her mind, the
good father knew something of her secrets, and this gave him the desire
and the boldness to lay an unwonted penance upon her.

“My daughter,” said he, “your sins are so great that to atone for them I
command you the penance of wearing my cord upon your naked flesh.”

The maiden, who was unwilling to disobey him, made answer--

“Give it to me, father, and I will not fail to wear it.”

“My daughter,” said the good father, “it will be of no avail from your
own hand. Mine, from which you shall receive absolution, must first bind
it upon you; then shall you be absolved of all your sins.”

The maiden replied, weeping, that she would not suffer it.

“What?” said the confessor. “Are you a heretic, that you refuse the
penances which God and our holy mother Church have ordained?”

“I employ confession,” said the maiden, “as the Church commands, and I
am very willing to receive absolution and do penance. But I will not be
touched by your hands, and I refuse this mode of penance.”

“Then,” said the confessor, “I cannot give you absolution.”

The maiden rose from before him greatly troubled in conscience, for,
being very young, she feared lest she had done wrong in thus refusing to
obey the worthy father.

When mass was over and the Countess of Aiguemont had received the
“Corpus Domini,” her lady of honour, desiring to follow her, asked her
daughter whether she was ready. The maiden, weeping, replied that she
was not shriven.

“Then what were you doing so long with the preacher?” asked her mother.

“Nothing,” said the maiden, “for, as I refused the penance that he laid
upon me, he on his part refused me absolution.”

Making prudent inquiry, the mother learnt the extraordinary penance that
the good father had chosen for her daughter; and then, having caused her
to be confessed by another, they received the sacrament together. When
the Countess was come back from the church, the lady of honour made
complaint to her of the preacher, whereupon the Countess was the
more surprised and grieved, since she had thought so well of him.
Nevertheless, despite her anger, she could not but feel very much
inclined to laugh at the unwonted nature of the penance.

Still her laughter did not prevent her from having the friar taken and
beaten in her kitchen, where he was brought by the strokes of the rod
to confess the truth; and then she sent him bound hand and foot to his
Warden, begging the latter for the future to commission more virtuous
men to preach the Word of God.

“Consider, ladies, if the monks be not afraid to display their
wantonness in so illustrious a house, what may they not do in the
poor places where they commonly make their collections, and where
opportunities are so readily offered to them, that it is a miracle if
they are quit of them without scandal. And this, ladies, leads me to beg
of you to change your ill opinion into compassion, remembering that
he (3) who blinds the Grey Friars is not sparing of the ladies when he
finds an opportunity.”

     3  The demon.--B. J.

“Truly,” said Oisille, “this was a very wicked Grey Friar. A monk, a
priest and a preacher to work such wickedness, and that on Christmas
day, in the church and under the cloak of the confessional--all these
are circumstances which heighten the sin.”

“It would seem from your words,” said Hircan, “that the Grey Friars
ought to be angels, or more discreet than other men, but you have heard
instances enough to show you that they are far worse. As for the monk
in the story, I think he might well be excused, seeing that he found
himself shut up all alone at night with a handsome girl.”

“True,” said Oisille, “but it was Christmas night.”

“That makes him still less to blame,” said Simontault, “for, being in
Joseph’s place beside a fair virgin, he wished to try to beget an infant
and so play the Mystery of the Nativity to the life.”

“In sooth,” said Parlamente, “if he had thought of Joseph and the Virgin
Mary, he would have had no such evil purpose. At all events, he was
a wickedly-minded man to make so evil an attempt upon such slight
provocation.”

“I think,” said Oisille, “that the Countess punished him well enough to
afford an excellent example to his fellows.”

“But ‘tis questionable,” said Nomerfide, “whether she did well in thus
putting her neighbour to shame, or whether ‘twould not have been better
to have quietly shown him his faults, rather than have made them so
publicly known.”

“That would, I think, have been better,” said Geburon, “for we are
commanded to rebuke our neighbour in secret, before we speak of the
matter to any one else or to the Church. When a man has been brought to
public disgrace, he will hardly ever be able to mend his ways, but fear
of shame withdraws as many persons from sin as conscience does.”

“I think,” said Parlamente, “that we ought to observe the teaching of
the Gospel towards all except those that preach the Word of God and act
contrary to it. We should not be afraid to shame such as are accustomed
to put others to shame; indeed I think it a very meritorious thing to
make them known for what they really are, so that we take not a mock
stone (4) for a fine ruby. But to whom will Saffredent give his vote?”

     4  The French word here is _doublet_. The doublet was a
     piece of crystal, cut after the fashion of a diamond, and
     backed with red wax so as to give it somewhat the colour of
     a ruby.--B. J.

“Since you ask me,” he replied, “I will give it to yourself, to whom no
man of understanding should refuse it.”

“Then, since you give it to me, I will tell you a story to the truth of
which I can myself testify. I have always heard that when virtue abides
in a weak and feeble vessel, and is assailed by its strong and puissant
opposite, it especially deserves praise, and shows itself to be what
it really is. If strength withstand strength, it is no very wonderful
thing; but if weakness win the victory, it is lauded by every one.
Knowing, as I do, the persons of whom I desire to speak, I think that
I should do a wrong to virtue, (which I have often seen hidden under so
mean a covering that none gave it any heed), if I did not tell of her
who performed the praiseworthy actions that I now feel constrained to
relate.”


[Illustration: 122.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 123a.jpg The Girl refusing the Gift of the Young Prince]

[The Girl refusing the Gift of the Young Prince]

[Illustration: 123.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XLII_.

     _A young Prince set his affections upon a young girl, and
     although she was of low and poor parentage, he could not, in
     spite of all his efforts, obtain from her what he had hoped
     to have. Accordingly, recognising her virtue and honour, the
     Prince desisted from his attempt, esteemed her highly all
     his life, and, marrying her to a follower of his own,
     bestowed great benefits upon her_.

In one of the best towns in Touraine there dwelt a lord of illustrious
family, who had there been brought up from early youth. Of the
perfections, graces, beauty and great virtues of this young Prince (1) I
will say nothing, except that in his time his equal could not be found.
Being fifteen years of age, he had more pleasure in hunting and hawking
than in looking at beautiful ladies.

     1  This is undoubtedly Francis I., then Count of Angoulême.
     M. de Lincy thinks that the scene of the story must be
     Amboise, where Louise of Savoy went to live with her
     children in 1499, and remained for several years; Louis XII.
     having placed the château there at her disposal. Francis,
     however, left Amboise to join the Court at Blois in August
     1508, when less than fourteen years old (see Memoir of Queen
     Margaret, vol. i. p. xxiii.), and in the tale, above, he is
     said to have been fifteen at the time of the incidents
     narrated. These, then, would have occurred in the autumn of
     1509. It will be seen that in the tale the young Prince’s
     sister (Margaret) is described as residing at the castle.
     Now Margaret married Charles of Alençon at Blois, in October
     1509, and forthwith removed to Alençon. Possibly Francis,
     who was very precocious, especially in matters of gallantry,
     engaged in the love affair narrated by his sister at a yet
     earlier age than she asserts, in which case the town she
     refers to would undoubtedly be Amboise.--Ed.

One day in a church he beheld a young maiden who formerly, during her
childhood, had been bred in the castle where he dwelt; but after her
mother’s death, her father having married again, she had withdrawn into
Poitou with her brother. This maiden, who was called Frances, had a
bastard sister whom her father dearly loved, and whom he had married
to the young Prince’s butler, who maintained her in as excellent a
condition as that of any of her family. It came to pass that the father
died and left to Frances as her portion what he possessed near the town
aforementioned, and thither she returned after his death; nevertheless,
being unmarried and only sixteen years of age, she would not live alone
in her house, but went to lodge with her sister, the butler’s wife.

On perceiving this girl, who was passably beautiful for a light
brunette, and possessed a grace beyond her condition (for, indeed, she
seemed rather a lady or princess than a towns-woman), the young Prince
gazed at her for a long time, and he, who never yet had loved, now
felt in his heart an unwonted delight. On returning to his apartment
he inquired concerning the maiden he had seen in the church, and then
recollected that formerly in her youth she had come to the castle to
have dolls’ play with his sister. He reminded the latter of her; and his
sister sent for her, received her kindly, and begged her to come often
to see her. This she did whenever there was a feast or entertainment;
and the young Prince was so pleased to see her that he had in mind to
be deeply in love with her, and, knowing her to be of low and poor
parentage, hoped easily to obtain what he sought.

Having no means of speaking with her, he sent a gentleman of his chamber
to her to conduct his intrigue. But she, being discreet and fearing God,
told the gentleman that she did not believe so handsome and honourable a
Prince as his master could have pleasure in looking upon one so ugly as
herself, since he had so many beautiful ladies in the castle where he
lived, that he had no need to search through the town; and she added
that in her opinion the gentleman was speaking of his own authority, and
without his master’s command.

When the young Prince received this reply, love, which becomes the
more eager the more it meets with resistance, caused him to pursue his
enterprise more hotly than before, and to write her a letter in which he
begged that she would believe all the gentleman had told her.

Being well able to read and write, she read the letter through, but, in
spite of all the gentleman’s entreaties, she would never send an answer
to it. It was not for one of such low degree, she said, to write to so
noble a Prince, and she begged the gentleman not to deem her foolish
enough to believe that the Prince had so much love for her. Moreover, he
was deceived if he thought that he could have her at his will by reason
of her humble condition; for her heart was as virtuous as that of the
greatest Princess in Christendom, and she looked upon all the treasures
in the world as naught in comparison with honour and a good conscience.
She therefore entreated him not to try to hinder her from keeping these
treasures safe her whole life long, for she would never change her mind
even were she threatened with death.

The young Prince did not find this reply to his liking, nevertheless he
loved her dearly for it, and never failed to have his chair set in the
church to which she went to hear mass, where, during the service, he
would ever turn his eyes upon the same image. When she perceived this,
she changed her place and went to another chapel--not indeed to flee the
sight of him, for she would not have been a reasonable being had she not
found pleasure in beholding him--but because she dreaded to be seen by
him. She did not deem herself worthy to be loved by him in honour or
marriage, and, on the other hand, she would not be loved wantonly and
for pleasure. When she found that, in whatever part of the church she
placed herself, the Prince heard mass close by, she would no longer
go to the same church, but repaired every day to the remotest that she
could find. And when there was feasting at the castle, although the
Prince’s sister often sent for her, she would no longer go thither, but
excused herself on the plea of sickness.

Finding that he could not have speech with her, the Prince had
recourse to his butler, and promised him great rewards if he would lend
assistance in the matter. This the butler, for the sake both of pleasing
his master and of the gain that he expected, readily promised to do.
Every day he would relate to the Prince what she said or did, telling
him that she was especially careful to shun all opportunities of seeing
him. However, the great desire that the Prince had of speaking with her
at his ease, prompted him to devise the following plan.

One day he took his chargers, which he was beginning to manage
excellently well, to a large open space in the town opposite to his
butler’s house, in which Frances lived. After making many courses and
leaps which she could easily see, he let himself fall from his horse
into some deep mire, but so softly that he was not hurt. Nevertheless he
uttered passably loud groans, and asked whether there was a house near
in which he might change his dress. Every one offered his own, but on
some one saying that the butler’s was the nearest and worthiest, it was
chosen before all the others.

He found the room well furnished, and, as all his garments were soiled
with the mud, he stripped himself to his shirt, and got into a bed.
Then, when he saw that, except the gentleman aforementioned, every one
was gone to bring him some clothes, he called his host and hostess and
asked them where Frances was. They had much ado to find her, for, as
soon as she had seen the young Prince coming in, she had gone to hide
herself in the most retired nook in the house. Nevertheless her sister
found her, and begged her not to be afraid to speak to so worshipful and
virtuous a Prince.

“What! sister,” said Frances, “do you, whom I look upon as my mother,
advise me to go and speak with a young lord, of whose purpose, as you
are aware, I cannot be ignorant?”

However, her sister addressed so many remonstrances to her, and promised
so often not to leave her alone, that she at last went with her, showing
so pale and sorry a face that she seemed more likely to beget compassion
than desire.

When the young Prince saw her by his bedside, he took hold of her hand,
which was cold and trembling, and said to her--

“Frances, do you deem me so wicked a man, and so strange and cruel, that
I eat the women I look upon? Why have you come to be so afraid of me who
seek only your honour and profit? You know that I have sought to hold
converse with you in all possible places, but all in vain; and, to
grieve me still more, you have even shunned the places where I had
been wont to see you at mass, so that my eyes might bring me as little
gladness as my tongue. But all this has availed you naught, for I have
never rested until I came hither in the manner you have seen, and I have
risked my neck, in allowing myself to fall, in order that I might have
the joy of speaking to you without hindrance. I therefore entreat you,
Frances, that the opportunity gained by so much toil may not be thrown
away, and that my deep love may avail to win your own.”

After waiting a long time for her reply, and seeing that her eyes were
full of tears and fixed upon the ground, he drew her to him as closely
as he could, and tried to embrace and kiss her. But she said to him--

“No, my lord, no; what you desire cannot be, for although I am but a
worm of the earth compared with you, I hold my honour dear, and would
rather die than lessen it for any pleasure that the world can give. And
the dread I have lest those who have seen you come in should suspect the
truth, makes me tremble and be afraid as you see. And, since it pleases
you to do me the honour of speaking to me, you will also forgive me if
I answer you according as my honour requires. I am not so foolish, my
lord, nor so blind as not to perceive and recognise the comeliness and
grace that God has given you, or not to consider that she who shall
possess the person and love of such a Prince must be the happiest woman
alive. But what does all this avail me, since it is not for me or any
woman of my condition, and since even to long for it would, in me,
be utter folly? What reason can I believe to be yours in addressing
yourself to me except that the ladies in your house, whom you must love
if you have any love for beauty and grace, are so virtuous that you dare
not seek or expect from them what the lowliness of my condition has led
you to expect from me? I am sure that if you obtained your desire from
one such as I, it would afford matter for entertainment to your mistress
during two good hours, to hear you tell her of your conquests over the
weak. But, my lord, be pleased to bear in mind that I shall never be of
their number. I have been brought up in your house, where I have learned
what it is to love; my father and my mother were your faithful servants.
Since, therefore, God has not made me a Princess to marry you, nor of
sufficient rank to be your mistress and love, you will be pleased not to
try to number me with the unfortunate, seeing that I deem and would have
you to be one of the happiest Princes in Christendom. If for diversion
you would have women of my condition, you will find in this town many
who are beyond compare more beautiful than I, and who will spare you the
pains of so many entreaties. Content yourself, then, with those to whom
you will give pleasure by the purchase of their honour, and cease to
trouble one who loves you more than she loves herself. For, indeed, if
either your life or mine were required of God this day, I should esteem
myself fortunate in offering mine to save yours. It is no lack of love
that makes me shun your presence, but rather too great a love for your
conscience and mine; for I hold my honour dearer than life. I will
continue, my lord, if it please you, in your good grace, and will all my
life pray God for your health and prosperity. And truly the honour that
you have done me will lend me consideration among those of my own rank,
for, after seeing you, where is the man of my own condition upon whom
I could deign to look? So my heart will continue free save for the duty
which shall always be mine of praying to God on your behalf. But no
other service can you ever have of me.”

On hearing this virtuous reply, contrary though it was to his desires,
the young Prince could not but esteem her as she deserved. He did all
that he could to persuade her that he would never love another woman,
but she was too prudent to suffer so unreasonable a thought to enter her
mind. While they were talking together, word was often brought that his
clothes were come from the castle, but such was his present pleasure and
comfort, that he caused answer to be given that he was asleep. And this
continued until the hour for supper was come, when he durst not fail
to appear before his mother, who was one of the discreetest ladies
imaginable.

Accordingly, the young man left his butler’s house thinking more highly
than ever of the maiden’s virtue. He often spoke of her to the gentleman
that slept in his room, and the latter, who deemed money to be more
powerful than love, advised his master to offer her a considerable sum
if she would yield to his wishes. The young Prince, whose mother was his
treasurer, had but little money for his pocket, but, borrowing as much
as he was able, he made up the sum of five hundred crowns, which he sent
by the gentleman to the girl, begging her to change her mind.

But, when she saw the gift, she said to the gentleman--

“I pray you tell my lord that I have a good and virtuous heart, and that
if it were meet to obey his commands his comeliness and grace would
ere now have vanquished me; but, since these have no power against my
honour, all the money in the world can have none. Take it, therefore,
back to him again, for I would rather enjoy virtuous poverty than all
the wealth it were possible to desire.”

On beholding so much stubbornness, the gentleman thought that violence
must needs be used to win her, and threatened her with his master’s
authority and power. But she laughed, and said--

“Make those fear him who have no knowledge of him. For my part, I know
him to be so discreet and virtuous that such discourse cannot come from
him, and I feel sure that he will disown it when you repeat it to him.
But even though he were what you say, there is neither torment nor death
that would make me change my mind; for, as I have told you, since love
has not turned my heart, no imaginable evil or good can divert me one
step from the path that I have chosen.”

The gentleman, who had promised his master to win her, brought him back
this reply in wondrous anger, and counselled him to persevere in every
possible way, telling him that it was not to his honour to be unable to
win a woman of her sort.

The young Prince was unwilling to employ any means but such as honour
enjoins, and was also afraid that if the affair made any noise, and so
came to his mother’s ears, she would be greatly angered with him. He
therefore durst make no attempt, until at last the gentleman proposed to
him so simple a plan that he could already fancy her to be in his power.
In order to carry it into execution he spoke to the butler; and he,
being anxious to serve his master in any way that might be, begged his
wife and sister-in-law one day to go and visit their vintages at a house
he had near the forest. And this they promised to do.

When the day was come, he informed the Prince, who resolved to go
thither alone with the gentleman, and caused his mule to be secretly
held in readiness, that they might set out at the proper time. But God
willed it that his mother should that day be garnishing a most beautiful
cabinet, (2) and needed all her children with her to help her, and thus
the young Prince lingered there until the hour was past.

There was, however, no hindrance to the departure of the butler, who had
brought his sister-in-law to his house, riding behind him, (3) and
had made his wife feign sickness, so that when they were already on
horseback she had come and said that she could not go with them. But
now, seeing that the hour at which the Prince should have come was gone
by, he said to his sister-in-law--

“I think we may now return to the town.”

     2  The French word here is _cabinet_, which some English
     translators have rendered as “little room.” We think,
     however, with the Bibliophile Jacob, that the allusion is to
     an article of furniture, such as we ourselves still call a
     cabinet in England, though in France the word has virtually
     lost that sense.--Ed.

     3  The MSS. do not say whether she rode on a pillion, or
     simply bestrode the horse. This last fashion was still
     common at this period and long afterwards, even among women
     of high degree. See, for instance, several of the enamels in
     the Louvre, notably one which depicts Henry II. of France
     with Diana of Poitiers riding behind him. The practice is
     also referred to in a sixteenth century ballad. “La
     Superfluity des habitz des Dames” (_Anciennes Poésies
     Françaises_. Bib. Elzev. 1858, p. 308).--M.

“What is there to hinder us from doing so?” asked Frances.

“Why,” said the butler, “I was waiting here for my lord, who had
promised me that he would come.”

When his sister-in-law heard this wickedness, she replied--

“Do not wait for him, brother, for I know that he will not come to-day.”

The brother-in-law believed her and brought her back again, and when she
had reached home she let him know her extreme anger, telling him that he
was the devil’s servant, and did yet more than he was commanded, for she
was sure that the plan had been devised by him and the gentleman and not
by the young Prince, whose money he would rather earn by aiding him in
his follies, than by doing the duty of a good servant. However, now that
she knew his real nature, she would remain no longer in his house,
and thereupon indeed she sent for her brother to take her to his own
country, and immediately left her sister’s dwelling.

Having thus failed in his attempt, the butler went to the castle to
learn what had prevented the arrival of the young Prince, and he had
scarcely come thither when he met the Prince himself sallying forth
on his mule, and attended only by the gentleman in whom he put so much
trust.

“Well,” the Prince asked of him, “is she still there?”

Thereupon the butler related all that had taken place.

The young Prince was deeply vexed at having failed in his plan, which he
looked upon as the very last that he could devise, but, seeing that it
could not be helped, he sought out Frances so diligently that at last
he met her in a gathering from which she could not escape. He then
upbraided her very harshly for her cruelty towards him, and for having
left her brother-in-law, but she made answer that the latter was, in
regard to herself, the worst and most dangerous man she had ever known,
though he, the Prince, was greatly beholden to him, seeing that he
was served by him not only with body and substance, but with soul and
conscience as well.

When the Prince perceived by this that the case was a hopeless one, he
resolved to urge her no more, and esteemed her highly all his life.

Seeing this maiden’s goodness, one of the said Prince’s attendants
desired to marry her, but to this she would not consent without the
command and license of the young Prince, upon whom she had set all her
affection; and this she caused to be made known to him, and with his
approval the marriage was concluded. And so she lived all her life in
good repute, and the young Prince bestowed great benefits upon her. (4)

     4  We take this concluding paragraph from MS. 1520; it is
     deficient in ours.--L.

“What shall we say to this, ladies? Have we hearts so base as to make
our servants our masters--seeing that this woman was not to be subdued
either by love or torment? Let us, I pray you, take example by her
conduct and conquer ourselves, for this is the most meritorious conquest
that we can make.”

“I see but one thing to be regretted,” said Oisille, “which is that
these virtuous actions did not take place in the days of the old
historians. Those who gave so much praise to their Lucretia would have
neglected her to set down at length the virtues of this maiden.”

“They are indeed so great,” said Hircan, “that, were it not for the
solemn vow that we have taken to speak the truth, I could not believe
her to have been what you describe. We have often seen sick persons
turn in disgust from good and wholesome meats to eat such as are bad and
hurtful, and in the same way this girl may have had some gentleman of
her own estate for whose sake she despised all nobility.”

But to this Parlemente replied that the girl’s whole life showed that
she had never loved any living man save him whom she loved more than her
very life, though not more than her honour.

“Put that notion out of your head,” said Saffredent, “and learn the
origin of the term ‘honour’ as used among women; for perhaps those
that speak so much of it are ignorant of how the name was devised. Know
then that in the earliest times, when there was but little wickedness
among men, love was so frank and strong that it was never concealed, and
he who loved the most perfectly received most praise. But when greed and
sinfulness fastened upon heart and honour, they drove out God and love,
and in their place set up selfishness, hypocrisy and deceit. Then, when
some ladies found that they fostered in their hearts the virtue of true
love but that the word ‘hypocrisy’ was hateful among men, they adopted
instead the word ‘honour.’ At last, too, even those who could feel no
honourable love said that ‘honour’ forbade them, and cruelly made this a
law for all, so that now even those who love perfectly use concealment,
holding virtue for a vice. But such as have an excellent understanding
and a sound judgment never fall into any such error. They know the
difference between darkness and light, and are aware that true honour
consists in manifesting the purity of their hearts, (which should
live upon love alone), and not in priding themselves on the vice of
dissimulation.”

“Yet,” said Dagoucin, “it is said that the most secret love is the most
worthy of praise.”

“Ay, secret,” said Simontault, “from the eyes of those who might
misjudge it, but open and manifest at least to the two persons whom it
concerns.”

“So I take it,” said Dagoucin, “but it would be better to have one of
the two ignorant of it rather than have it known to a third. I believe
that the love of the woman in the story was all the deeper for not being
declared.”

“Be that as it may,” said Longarine, “virtue should be esteemed, and
the highest virtue is to subdue one’s own heart. Considering the
opportunities that the maiden had of forgetting conscience and honour,
and the virtue she displayed in all these opportunities and temptations
by subduing her heart, will, and even him whom she loved better than
herself, I say that she might well be called a strong woman. And, since
you measure virtue by the mortification of self, I say that the lord
deserved higher praise than she, if we remember the greatness of his
love, his opportunities, and his power. Yet he would not offend against
that rule of true love which renders prince and peasant equal, but
employed only such means as honour allows.”

“There are many,” said Hircan, “who would not have acted in the same
way.”

“So much the more is he to be esteemed,” said Longarine, “in having
subdued the common craftiness of men. He who can do evil and yet does it
not is happy indeed.”

“Your words,” said Geburon, “remind me of one who was more afraid of
doing wrong in the eyes of men than of offending against God, her honour
and love.”

“Then I pray you tell us the story,” said Parlamente, “for I give you my
vote.”

“There are some persons,” said Geburon, “who have no God, or, if they
believe in one, think Him so far away that He can neither see nor know
the wicked acts that they commit; or, if He does, imagine that He pays
no heed to things here below, and is too careless to punish them. Of
this opinion was a lady, whose name I will alter for the sake of her
family, and whom I will call Jambicque.( 5) She used often to say that a
woman who had only God to deal with was very fortunate, if for the rest
she was able to maintain her honour among men. But you will see, ladies,
that her prudence and her hypocrisy did not prevent her secret from
being discovered, as will appear from her story, wherein the truth shall
be set forth in full, except that the names of persons and places will
be changed.”

     5  Some of the MSS. give the name as Camele or Camille,
     which is also that adopted by Boaistuau.--L.


[Illustration: 142.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 143a.jpg Jambicque repudiating her Lover]

[Jambicque repudiating her Lover]

[Illustration: 143.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XLIII_.

     _Jambicque, preferring the praise of the world to a good
     conscience, strove to appear before men other than site
     really was; but her friend and lover discovered her
     hypocrisy by means of a little chalk-mark, and made known to
     everybody the wickedness that she was at such pains to
     hide_.

There dwelt in a very handsome castle a high and mighty Princess, who
had in her train a very haughty lady called Jambicque. (1) The latter
had so deceived her mistress that the Princess did nothing save by her
advice, deeming her the discreetest and most virtuous lady of her day.

     1  There are no means of positively identifying this woman.
     Brantôme, who refers at length to the above tale in his
     _Vies des Dames Galantes_ (Lalanne’s edition, pp. 236-8),
     implies that he knew her name but would not tell it. He
     says, however, that “she was a widow and lady of honour to a
     very great Princess, and knew better how to play the prude
     than any other lady at Court.”--M.

This Jambicque used greatly to inveigh against wanton passion, and
whenever she perceived any gentleman in love with one of her companions,
she would chide them with much harshness, and, by making ill report
of them to her mistress, often cause them to be rebuked; hence she was
feared far more than she was loved by all the household. As for
herself, she never spoke to a man except in a loud voice, and with
much haughtiness, and was therefore reputed a deadly enemy to all love.
Nevertheless, it was quite otherwise with her heart, for there was a
gentleman in her mistress’s service towards whom she entertained so
strong a passion that, at last, she could no longer endure it. (2)

     2  Brantôme writes as follows concerning the gentleman
     referred to above: “According to what I have heard from my
     mother, [Anne de Vivonne, wife of Francis de Bourdeille],
     who was in the Queen of Navarre’s service and knew some of
     her secrets, and was herself one of the narrators [of the
     _Heptameron_, i.e., Ennasuite], this gentleman was my late
     uncle La Chastàigneraye, who was brusque, hasty, and rather
     fickle. The tale, however, is so disguised as to hide this,
     for my said uncle was never in the service of the great
     Princess, who was mistress of the lady [Jambicque], but in
     that of the King her brother.” This shows the Princess to
     have been Queen Margaret herself; and Jambicque, being
     described by Brantôme as a widow and lady of honour to the
     Princess, might possibly be Blanche de Tournon ( Madame de
     Chastillon), concerning whom see vol. i. of the present
     work, p. 84 (note 7) and pp. 122-4. Her successor as lady of
     honour to Margaret was Brantôme’s own grandmother, of whom
     he says that she was not so shrewd, artful, or ready-witted
     in love matters as her predecessor. On the other hand,
     Blanche de Tournon must have been over forty when La
     Chastàigneraye engaged in this adventure, even allowing that
     he was only a youth at the time.--Ed.

The regard which she had for honour and good name caused her to conceal
her affection, but after she had been consumed by this passion for a
full year, being unwilling to find relief as other lovers do in look and
speech, she felt her heart so aflame that, in the end, she sought the
final cure. And she resolved that it were better to satisfy her desire
with none but God in the secret of her heart, rather than speak of it to
a man who might some time make it known.

After taking this resolve, she chanced to be one day in her mistress’s
apartment, when, looking out upon a terrace, she perceived walking there
the man whom she so dearly loved. She gazed upon him until the falling
darkness was hiding him from her sight, when she called a little page of
hers, and pointing to the gentleman, said--

“Do you see yonder that gentleman who wears a crimson satin doublet and
cloak of lynx fur? Go and tell him that one of his friends would speak
with him in the garden gallery.”

As soon as the page was gone, she herself passed through her mistress’s
wardrobe and into the gallery, having first put on her low hood and
half-mask. (3)

     3  See _ante_, vol. iii. p. 27.

When the gentleman was come to where she was waiting, she immediately
shut the two doors by which they might have been surprised, and then,
without taking off her mask, embraced him very closely, and in the
softest whisper imaginable said--

“For a long time, sweetheart, the love I bear you has made me desire
time and place for speaking with you, but fearfulness for my honour was
for a while so strong as to oblige me, in my own despite, to conceal my
passion. Albeit, in the end, the strength of love has vanquished fear,
and, in the knowledge that I have of your honour, I protest to you that
if you will promise to love me without ever speaking of the matter to
any one, or asking of me who I am, I will be your true and faithful
sweetheart, and will never love any man but you. But I would rather die
than that you should know who I am.”

The gentleman promised her what she asked, which made her very ready
to do as much for him, namely, to refuse him nothing he might desire
to have. It was between five and six o’clock in winter-time, so that
he could see nothing of the lady, but by the touch of her dress he
perceived that it was of velvet, which at that time was not worn every
day except by ladies of high and mighty lineage. And so far as his hand
could let him judge of what was beneath, there was nothing there that
was not excellent, trim, and plump. Accordingly, he was at pains to
entertain her as well as he was able. She on her part did no less, and
the gentleman readily perceived that she was a married woman.

She desired afterwards to return immediately to the place whence she had
come, but the gentleman said to her--

“I esteem greatly the undeserved favour that you have shown me, but I
shall esteem still more that which you may bestow at my request. So well
pleased am I by this your kindness, that I would fain learn whether I
may not look for more of the same sort, and, also, in what manner you
would have me act; for, knowing you not, I shall be powerless to woo.”

“Have no concern,” said the lady, “about that. You may rest assured that
every evening, before my mistress sups, I shall not fail to send for
you, and do you be in readiness on the terrace where you were just now.
I shall merely send you word to remember what you have promised, and in
this way you will know that I am waiting for you here in the gallery.
But if you hear talk of going to table, you may withdraw for that day
or else come into our mistress’s apartment. Above all things, I pray
you will never seek to know me, if you would not forthwith bring our
friendship to an end.”

So the lady and the gentleman went their several ways. And although
their love affair lasted for a great while, he could never learn who she
was. He pondered much upon the matter, wondering within himself who she
might be. He could not imagine that any woman in the world would fain be
unseen and unloved; and, having heard some foolish preacher say that no
one who had looked upon the face of the devil could ever love him, he
suspected that his mistress might be some evil spirit.

In this perplexity he resolved to try and find out who it was that
entertained him so well, and when next she sent for him he brought some
chalk, and, while embracing her, marked the back of her shoulder without
her knowledge. Then, as soon as she was gone, the gentleman went with
all speed to his mistress’s apartment, and stood beside the door in
order to look from behind at the shoulders of those ladies that might go
in.

He saw Jambicque enter among the rest, but with so haughty a bearing
that he feared to look at her as keenly as at the others, and felt quite
sure that it could not have been she. Nevertheless, when her back
was turned, he perceived the chalk mark, whereat he was so greatly
astonished that he could hardly believe his eyes.

However, after considering both her figure, which was just such a one as
his hands had known, and her features, which he recognised in the same
way, he perceived that it was indeed none other than herself. And he was
well pleased to think that a woman who had never been reputed to have a
lover, and who had refused so many worthy gentlemen, should have chosen
himself alone.

But Love, which is ever changeful of mood, could not suffer him to live
long in such repose, but, filling him with self-conceit and hope, led
him to make known his love, in the expectation that she would then hold
him still more dear.

One day, when the Princess was in the garden, the lady Jambicque went to
walk in a pathway by herself. The gentleman, seeing that she was alone,
went up to converse with her, and, as though he had never elsewhere met
her, spoke as follows--

“Mistress, I have long borne towards you in my heart an affection which,
through dread of displeasing you, I have never ventured to reveal. But
now my pain has come to be such that I can no longer endure it and live,
for I think that no man could ever have loved you as I do.”

The Lady Jambicque would not allow him to finish his discourse, but said
to him in great wrath--

“Did you ever hear or see that I had sweetheart or lover? I trow not,
and am indeed astonished to find you bold enough to address such words
to a virtuous woman like me. You have lived in the same house long
enough to know that I shall never love other than my husband; beware,
then, of speaking further after this fashion.”

At this hypocrisy the gentleman could not refrain from laughing and
saying to her--

“You are not always so stern, madam, as you are now. What boots it to
use such concealment towards me? Is it not better to have a perfect than
an imperfect love?”

“I have no love for you,” replied Jambicque, “whether perfect or
imperfect, except such as I bear to the rest of my mistress’s servants.
But if you speak further to me as you have spoken now, I shall perhaps
have such hatred for you as may be to your hurt.”

However, the gentleman persisted in his discourse.

“Where,” said he, “is the kindness that you show me when I cannot see
you? Why do you withhold it from me now when the light suffers me to
behold both your beauty and your excellent and perfect grace?”

Jambicque, making a great sign of the cross, replied--

“Either you have lost your understanding or you are the greatest liar
alive. Never in my life have I to my knowledge shown you more kindness
or less than I do at this moment, and I pray you therefore tell me what
it is you mean.”

Then the unhappy gentleman, thinking to better his fortune with her,
told her of the place where he had met her, and of the chalk-mark which
he had made in order to recognise her, on hearing which she was so
beside herself with anger as to tell him that he was the wickedest of
men, and that she would bring him to repent of the foul falsehood that
he had invented against her.

The gentleman, knowing how well she stood with her mistress, sought to
soothe her, but he found it impossible to do so; for, leaving him where
he stood, she furiously betook herself to her mistress, who, loving
Jambicque as she did herself, left all the company to come and speak
with her, and, on finding her in such great wrath, inquired of her what
the matter was. Thereupon Jambicque, who had no wish to hide it, related
all the gentleman’s discourse, and this she did so much to the unhappy
man’s disadvantage, that on the very same evening his mistress commanded
him to withdraw forthwith to his own home without speaking with anyone
and to stay there until he should be sent for. And this he did right
speedily, for fear of worse. (4)

     4  It has been mentioned in note 2 that the gentleman in
     question was Brantôme’s uncle La Chastaigneraye. Born,
     according to most accounts, in 1520, Francis de Vivonne,
     Lord of La Chastaigneraye, was a godson of Francis I., and
     early displayed marked skill and prowess in all bodily
     exercises and feats of arms. He was, however, of a very
     quarrelsome disposition, and had several duels. A dispute
     arising between him and Guy de Chabot, Lord of Jarnac, they
     solicited permission to fight, but Francis I. would not
     accord it, and it was only after the accession of Henry II.
     that the encounter took place. The spot fixed upon was the
     park of St. Germain-en-Laye, and the King and the whole
     Court were present (July 10, 1547)--In the result, La
     Chastaigneraye was literally ham-strung by a back-thrust
     known to this day as the _coup de Jarnac_. The victor
     thereupon begged the King to accept his adversary’s life and
     person, and Henry, after telling Jamac that “he had fought
     like Cæsar and spoken like Cicero,” caused La Chastaigneraye
     to be carried to his tent that his wound might be dressed.
     Deeply humiliated by his defeat, however, the vanquished
     combatant tore off his bandages and bled to death.--Ed.

So long as Jambicque dwelt with her mistress, the gentleman returned
not to the Princess’s house, nor did he ever have tidings of her who had
vowed to him that he should lose her as soon as he might seek her out.
(5)

     5  After referring to this tale Brantôme adds that he had
     heard tell of another Court lady who was minded to imitate
     Jambicque, but who, “every time she returned from her
     assignation, went straight to her room, and let one of her
     serving maids examine her on all sides to see if she were
     marked. By this means she guarded herself against being
     surprised and recognised, and indeed was never marked until
     at her ninth assignation, when the mark was at once
     discovered by her women. And thereupon, for fear of scandal
     and opprobrium, she broke off her intrigue and never more
     returned to the appointed spot. Some one said ‘twould have
     been better if she had let her lover mark her as often as he
     liked, and each time have had his marks effaced, for in this
     wise she would have reaped a double pleasure--contentment in
     love and satisfaction at duping her lover, who, like he who
     seeks the Philosopher’s Stone, would have toiled hard to
     discover and identify her, without ever succeeding in doing
     so.”--(Lalanne’s _OEuvres de Brantôme_, pp. 236-8).--M.

“By this tale, ladies, you may see how one who preferred the world’s
esteem to a good conscience lost both the one and the other. For now
may the eyes of all men read what she strove to hide from those of her
lover, and so, whilst fleeing the derision of one, she has incurred the
derision of all. Nor can she be held excused on the score of simplicity
and artless love, for which all men should have pity, but she must
be condemned twice over for having concealed her wickedness with the
twofold cloak of honour and glory, and for making herself appear before
God and man other than she really was. He, however, who gives not His
glory to another, took this cloak from off her and so brought her to
double shame.”

“Her wickedness,” said Oisille, “was without excuse. None can defend her
when God, Honour, and even Love are her accusers.”

“Nay,” said Hircan, “Pleasure and Folly may; they are the true chief
advocates of the ladies.”

“If we had no other advocates,” said Parlamente, “than those you name,
our cause would indeed be ill supported; but those who are vanquished
by pleasure ought no longer to be called women but rather men, whose
reputation is merely exalted by frenzy and lust. When a man takes
vengeance upon his enemy and slays him for giving him the lie, he is
deemed all the more honourable a gentleman for it; and so, too, when he
loves a dozen women besides his own wife. But the reputation of women
has a different foundation, that, namely, of gentleness, patience and
chastity.”

“You speak of the discreet,” said Hircan.

“Yes,” returned Parlamente, “because I will know none others.”

“If none were wanton,” said Nomerfide, “those who would fain be believed
by all the world must often have lied.”

“Pray, Nomerfide,” said Geburon, “receive my vote, and forget that you
are a woman, in order that we may learn what some men that are accounted
truthful say of the follies of your sex.”

“Since virtue compels me to it, and you have made it my turn, I will
tell you what I know. I have not heard any lady or gentleman present
speak otherwise than to the disadvantage of the Grey Friars, and out of
pity I have resolved to speak well of them in the story that I am now
about to relate.”


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_TALE XLIV.(A)_.

     _In reward for not having concealed the truth, the Lord of
     Sedan doubled the alms of a Grey Friar, who thus received
     two pigs instead of one_. (1)

To the castle of Sedan once came a Grey Friar to ask my Lady of Sedan,
who was of the house of Crouy, (2) for a pig, which she was wont to give
to his Order every year as alms.

     1  This tale, though it figures in all the MSS., does not
     appear in Gruget’s edition of the _Heptameron_, but is there
     replaced by the one that follows, XLIV. (B).--Ed.

     2  This Lady of Sedan is Catherine de Croï, daughter of
     Philip VI. de Croï, Count of Chimay. In 1491 she married
     Robert II. do la Marck, Duke of Bouillon, Lord of Sedan,
     Fleuranges, &c., who was long the companion in arms of
     Bayard and La Trémoïlle. Robert II. lost the duchy of
     Bouillon through the conquests of Charles V., and one of the
     clauses of the treaty of Cambrai (the “Ladies’ Peace”) was
     that Francis I. would in no wise assist him to regain it.
     His eldest son by Catherine de Croï was the celebrated
     Marshal de Fleuranges, “the young adventurer,” who left such
     curious memoirs behind him. Robert II. died in 1535, his son
     surviving him a couple of years.--Anselme’s _Histoire
     Généalogique_, vol. vii. p. 167.--L. and B. J.

My Lord of Sedan, who was a prudent man and a merry talker, had the good
father to eat at his table, and in order to put him on his mettle said
to him, among other things--

“Good father, you do well to make your collection while you are yet
unknown. I greatly fear that, if once your hypocrisy be found out, you
will no longer receive the bread of poor children, earned by the sweat
of their fathers.”

The Grey Friar was not abashed by these words, but replied--

“Our Order, my lord, is so securely founded that it will endure as long
as the world exists. Our foundation, indeed, cannot fail so long as
there are men and women on the earth.”

My Lord of Sedan, being desirous of knowing on what foundation the
existence of the Grey Friars was thus based, urgently begged the father
to tell him.

After making many excuses, the Friar at last replied--

“Since you are pleased to command me to tell you, you shall hear. Know,
then, my lord, that our foundation is the folly of women, and that so
long as there be a wanton or foolish woman in the world we shall not die
of hunger.”

My Lady of Sedan, who was very passionate, was in such wrath on hearing
these words, that, had her husband not been present, she would have
dealt harshly with the Grey Friar; and indeed she swore roundly that
he should not have the pig that she had promised him; but the Lord of
Sedan, finding that he had not concealed the truth, swore that he should
have two, and caused them to be sent to his monastery.

“You see, ladies, how the Grey Friar, being sure that the favour of
the ladies could not fail him, contrived, by concealing nothing of the
truth, to win the favour and alms of men. Had he been a flatterer and
dissembler, he would have been more pleasing to the ladies, but not so
profitable to himself and his brethren.”

The tale was not concluded without making the whole company laugh,
and especially such among them as knew the Lord and Lady of Sedan. And
Hircan said--“The Grey Friars, then, should never preach with intent to
make women wise, since their folly is of so much service to the Order.”

“They do not preach to them,” said Parlamente, “with intent to make
them wise, but only to make them think themselves so. Women who are
altogether worldly and foolish do not give them much alms; nevertheless,
those who think themselves the wisest because they go often to
monasteries, and carry paternosters marked with a death’s head, and wear
caps lower than others, must also be accounted foolish, for they rest
their salvation on their confidence in the holiness of wicked men, whom
they are led by a trifling semblance to regard as demigods.”

“But who could help believing them,” said Enna-suite, “since they have
been ordained by our prelates to preach the Gospel to us and rebuke our
sins?”

“Those who have experienced their hypocrisy,” said Parlamente, “and who
know the difference between the doctrine of God and that of the devil.”

“Jesus!” said Ennasuite. “Can you think that these men would dare to
preach false doctrine?”

“Think?” replied Parlamente. “Nay, I am sure that they believe anything
but the Gospel. I speak only of the bad among them; for I know many
worthy men who preach the Scriptures in all purity and simplicity, and
live without reproach, ambition, or covetousness, and in such chastity
as is unfeigned and free. However, the streets are not paved with such
as these, but are rather distinguished by their opposites; and the good
tree is known by its fruit.”

“In very sooth,” said Ennasuite, “I thought we were bound on pain of
mortal sin to believe all they tell us from the pulpit as truth, that
is, when they speak of what is in the Holy Scriptures, or cite the
expositions of holy doctrines divinely inspired.”

“For my part,” said Parlamente, “I cannot but see that there are men of
very corrupt faith among them. I know that one of them, a Doctor of
Theology and a Principal in their Order, (3) sought to persuade many of
the brethren that the Gospel was no more worthy of belief than Cæsar’s
Commentaries or any other histories written by learned men of authority;
and from the hour I heard that I would believe no preacher’s word unless
I found it in harmony with the Word of God, which is the true touchstone
for distinguishing between truth and falsehood.”

     3  In MS. No. 1520 this passage runs, “a Doctor of Theology
     named Colimant, a great preacher and a Principal in their
     Order.” However, none of the numerous works on the history
     of the Franciscans makes any mention of a divine called
     Colimant.--B. J.

“Be assured,” said Oisille, “that those who read it constantly and with
humility will never be led into error by deceits or human inventions;
for whosoever has a mind filled with truth cannot believe a lie.”

“Yet it seems to me,” said Simontault, “that a simple person is more
readily deceived than another.”

“Yes,” said Longarine, “if you deem foolishness to be the same thing as
simplicity.”

“I affirm,” replied Simontault, “that a good, gentle and simple woman is
more readily deceived than one who is wily and wicked.”

“I think,” said Nomerfide, “that you must know of one overflowing with
such goodness, and so I give you my vote that you may tell us of her.”

“Since you have guessed so well,” said Simontault, “I will indeed tell
you of her, but you must promise not to weep. Those who declare, ladies,
that your craftiness surpasses that of men would find it hard to bring
forward such an instance as I am now about to relate, wherein I propose
to show you not only the exceeding craftiness of a husband, but also the
simplicity and goodness of his wife.”



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[Illustration: 163a.jpg The Lovers returning from their Meeting in the Garden]

[The Lovers returning from their Meeting in the Garden]

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_TALE XLIV. (B)_.

     _Concerning the subtlety of two lovers in the enjoyment of
     their love, and the happy issue of the latter_. (1)

     1  This is the tale given by Gruget in his edition of the
     _Heptameron_, in lieu of the preceding one.--Ed.

In the city of Paris there lived two citizens of middling condition, of
whom one had a profession, while the other was a silk mercer. These two
were very old friends and constant companions, and so it happened that
the son of the former, a young man, very presentable in good company,
and called James, used often by his father’s favour to visit the
mercer’s house. This, however, he did for the sake of the mercer’s
beautiful daughter named Frances, whom he loved; and so well did James
contrive matters with her, that he came to know her to be no less loving
than loved.

Whilst matters were in this state, however, a camp was formed in
Provence in view of withstanding the descent of Charles of Austria, (2)
and James, being called upon the list, was obliged to betake himself to
the army. At the very beginning of the campaign his father passed from
life into death, the tidings whereof brought him double sorrow, on the
one part for the loss of his father, and on the other for the difficulty
he should have on his return in seeing his sweetheart as often as he had
hoped.

     2  Charles V. entered Provence by way of Piedmont in the
     summer of 1536, and invested Marseilles. A scarcity of
     supplies and much sickness among his troops compelled him,
     however, to raise the siege.--M.

As time went on, the first of these griefs was forgotten and the other
increased. Since death is a natural thing, and for the most part
befalls the father before the children, the sadness it causes gradually
disappears; but love, instead of bringing us death, brings us life
through the procreation of children, in whom we have immortality, and
this it is which chiefly causes our desires to increase.

James, therefore, when he had returned to Paris, thought or cared for
nothing save how he might renew his frequent visits to the mercer’s
house, and so, under cloak of pure friendship for him, traffic in his
dearest wares. On the other hand, during his absence, Frances had been
urgently sought by others, both because of her beauty and of her wit,
and also because she was long since come to marriageable years; but
whether it was that her father was avaricious, or that, since she was
his only daughter, he was over anxious to establish her well, he failed
to perform his duty in the matter. This, however, tended but little to
her honour, for in these days people speak ill of one long before they
have any reason to do so, and particularly in aught that concerns the
chastity of a beautiful woman or maid. Her father did not shut his ears
or eyes to the general gossip, nor seek resemblance with many others
who, instead of rebuking wrongdoing, seem rather to incite their wives
and children to it, for he kept her with such strictness that even those
who sought her with offers of marriage could see her but seldom, and
then only in presence of her mother.

It were needless to ask whether James found all this hard of endurance.
He could not conceive that such rigour should be without weighty reason,
and therefore wavered greatly between love and jealousy. However, he
resolved at all risks to learn the cause, but wished first of all to
know whether her affection was the same as before; he therefore set
about this, and coming one morning to church, he placed himself near her
to hear mass, and soon perceived by her countenance that she was no less
glad to see him than he was to see her. Accordingly, knowing that the
mother was less stern than the father, he was sometimes, when he met
them on their way to church, bold enough to accost them as though by
chance, and with a familiar and ordinary greeting; all, however, being
done expressly so that he might the better work his ends.

To be brief, when the year of mourning for his father was drawing to an
end, he resolved, on laying aside his weeds, to cut a good figure and
do credit to his forefathers; and of this he spoke to his mother, who
approved his design; for having but two children, himself and a daughter
already well and honourably mated, she greatly desired to see him
suitably married. And, indeed, like the worthy lady that she was, she
still further incited his heart in the direction of virtue by countless
instances of other young men of his own age who were making their way
unaided, or at least were showing themselves worthy of those from whom
they sprang.

It now only remained to determine where they should equip themselves,
and the mother said--

“I am of opinion, James, that we should go to our friend Master
Peter,”--that is, to the father of Frances--“for, knowing us, he will
not cheat us.”

His mother was indeed tickling him where he itched; however, he held
firm and replied--

“We will go where we may find the cheapest and the best. Still,” he
added, “for the sake of his friendship with my departed father, I am
willing that we should visit him first.”

Matters being thus contrived, the mother and son went one morning to see
Master Peter, who made them welcome; for traders, as you know, are never
backward in this respect. They caused great quantities of all kinds of
silk to be displayed before them, and chose what they required; but they
could not agree upon the price, for James haggled on purpose, because
his sweetheart’s mother did not come in. So at last they went away
without buying anything, in order to see what could be done elsewhere.
But James could find nothing so handsome as in his sweetheart’s house,
and thither after a while they returned.

The mercer’s wife was now there and gave them the best reception
imaginable, and after such bargaining as is common in shops of the kind,
during which Peter’s wife proved even harder than her husband, James
said to her--

“In sooth, madam, you are very hard to deal with. I can see how it is;
we have lost my father, and our friends recognise us no longer.”

So saying, he pretended to weep and wipe his eyes at thought of his
departed father; but ‘twas done in order to further his design.

The good widow, his mother, took the matter in perfect faith, and on her
part said--

“We are as little visited since his death as if we had never been known.
Such is the regard in which poor widows are held!”

Upon this the two women exchanged fresh declarations of affection,
and promised to see each other oftener than ever. While they were thus
discoursing, there came in other traders, whom the master himself led
into the back shop. Then the young man perceived his opportunity, and
said to his mother--

“I have often on feast days seen this good lady going to visit the holy
places in our neighbourhood, and especially the convents. Now if, when
passing, she would sometimes condescend to take wine with us, she would
do us at once pleasure and honour.”

The mercer’s wife, who suspected no harm, replied that for more than a
fortnight past she had intended to go thither, that, if it were fair,
she would probably do so on the following Sunday, and that she would
then certainly visit the lady at her house. This affair being concluded,
the bargain for the silk quickly followed, since, for the sake of a
little money, ‘twould have been foolish to let slip so excellent an
opportunity.

When matters had been thus contrived, and the merchandise taken
away, James, knowing that he could not alone achieve so difficult an
enterprise, was constrained to make it known to a faithful friend
named Oliver, and they took such good counsel together that nothing now
remained but to put their plan into execution.

Accordingly, when Sunday was come, the mercer’s wife and her daughter,
on returning from worship, failed not to visit the widow, whom they
found talking with a neighbour in a gallery that looked upon the garden,
while her daughter was walking in the pathways with James and Oliver.

When James saw his sweetheart, he so controlled himself that his
countenance showed no change, and in this sort went forward to receive
the mother and her daughter. Then, as the old commonly seek the old,
the three ladies sat down together on a bench with their backs to the
garden, whither the lovers gradually made their way, and at last reached
the place where were the other two. Thus meeting, they exchanged some
courtesies and then began to walk about once more, whereupon the young
man related his pitiful case to Frances, and this so well that, while
unwilling to grant, she yet durst not refuse what he sought; and he
could indeed see that she was in a sore strait. It must, however, be
understood that, while thus discoursing, they often, to take away all
ground for suspicion, passed and repassed in front of the shelter-place
where the worthy dames were seated--talking the while on commonplace and
ordinary matters, and at times disporting themselves through the garden.

At last, in the space of half-an-hour, when the good women had become
well accustomed to this behaviour, James made a sign to Oliver, who
played his part with the girl that was with him so cleverly, that she
did not perceive the two lovers going into a close rilled with cherry
trees, and well shut in by tall rose trees and gooseberry bushes. (3)
They made show of going thither in order to gather some almonds which
were in a corner of the close, but their purpose was to gather plums.

     3  Large gardens and enclosures were then plentiful in the
     heart of Paris. Forty years ago, when the Boulevard
     Sebastopol was laid out, it was found that many of the
     houses in the ancient Rues St. Martin and St. Denis had, in
     their rear, gardens of considerable extent containing
     century-old trees, the existence of which had never been
     suspected by the passers-by in those then cramped and dingy
     thoroughfares.--M.

Accordingly, James, instead of giving his sweetheart a green gown, gave
her a red one, and its colour even came into her face through finding
herself surprised sooner than she had expected. And these plums of
theirs being ripe, they plucked them with such expedition that Oliver
himself had not believed it possible, but that he perceived the girl to
droop her gaze and look ashamed. This taught him the truth, for she had
before walked with head erect, with no fear lest the vein in her eye,
which ought to be red, should take an azure hue. However, when James
perceived her perturbation, he recalled her to herself by fitting
remonstrances.

Nevertheless, while making the next two or three turns about the garden,
she would not refrain from tears and sighs, or from saying again
and again--“Alas! was it for this you loved me? If only I could have
imagined it! Heavens! what shall I do? I am ruined for life. What will
you now think of me? I feel sure you will respect me no longer, if, at
least, you are one of those that love but for their own pleasure. Alas,
why did I not die before falling into such an error?”

She shed many tears while uttering these words, but James comforted her
with many promises and oaths, and so, before they had gone thrice again
round the garden, or James had signalled to his comrade, they once more
entered the close, but by another path. And there, in spite of all, she
could not but receive more delight from the second green gown than from
the first; from which moment her satisfaction was such that they took
counsel together how they might see each other with more frequency and
convenience until her father should see fit to consent.

In this matter they were greatly assisted by a young woman, who was
neighbour to Master Peter; she had some kinship with James, and was a
good friend to Frances. And in this way, from what I can understand,
they continued without scandal until the celebration of the marriage,
when Frances, being an only child, proved to be very rich for a trader’s
daughter. James had, however, to wait for the greater part of his
fortune until the death of his father-in-law, for the latter was so
grasping a man that he seemed to think one hand capable of robbing him
of that which he held in the other. (4)

     4  This reminds one of Moliere’s Harpagon, when he requires
     La Flèche to show him his hands. See _L’Avare_, act i. sc.
     iii.--M.

“In this story, ladies, you see a love affair well begun, well carried
on, and better ended. For although it is a common thing among you men to
scorn a girl or woman as soon as she has freely given what you chiefly
seek in her, yet this young man was animated by sound and sincere love;
and finding in his sweetheart what every husband desires in the girl he
weds, and knowing, moreover, that she was of good birth, and discreet in
all respects, save for the error into which he himself had led her,
he would not act the adulterer or be the cause of an unhappy marriage
elsewhere. And for this I hold him worthy of high praise.”

“Yet,” said Oisille, “they were both to blame, ay, and the third party
also who assisted or at least concurred in a rape.”

“Do you call that a rape,” said Saffredent, “in which both parties are
agreed? Is there any marriage better than one thus resulting from secret
love? The proverb says that marriages are made in heaven, but this does
not hold of forced marriages, nor of such as are made for money or are
deemed to be completely sanctioned as soon as the parents have given
their consent.”

“You may say what you will,” said Oisille, “but we must recognise that
obedience is due to parents, or, in default of them, to other kinsfolk.
Otherwise, if all were permitted to marry at will, how many horned
marriages should we not find? Is it to be presumed that a young man and
a girl of twelve or fifteen years can know what is good for them? If we
examined into the happiness of marriages on the whole, we should find
that at least as many love-matches have turned out ill as those that
were made under compulsion. Young people, who do not know what is good
for them, attach themselves heedlessly to the first that comes; then by
degrees they find out their error and fall into others that are still
greater. On the other hand, most of those who act under compulsion
proceed by the advice of people who have seen more and have more
judgment than the persons concerned, and so when these come to feel the
good that was before unknown to them, they rejoice in it and embrace it
with far more eagerness and affection.”

“True, madam,” said Hircan, “but you have forgotten that the girl was
of full age and marriageable, and that she was aware of her father’s
injustice in letting her virginity grow musty rather than rub the rust
off his crown pieces. And do you not know that nature is a jade? She
loved and was loved; she found her happiness close to her hand, and she
may have remembered the proverb, ‘She that will not when she may, when
she will she shall have nay.’ All these things, added to her wooer’s
despatch, gave her no time to resist. Further, you have heard that
immediately afterwards her face showed that some noteworthy change had
been wrought in her. She was perhaps annoyed at the shortness of the
time afforded her to decide whether the thing were good or bad, for no
great pressing was needed to make her try a second time.”

“Now, for my part,” said Longarine, “I can find no excuse for such
conduct, except that I approve the good faith shown by the youth who,
comporting himself like an honest man, would not forsake her, but took
her such as he had made her. In this respect, considering the corruption
and depravity of the youth of the present day, I deem him worthy of high
praise. I would not for all that seek to excuse his first fault, which,
in fact, amounted to rape in respect to the daughter, and subornation
with regard to the mother.”

“No, no,” said Dagoucin, “there was neither rape nor subornation.
Everything was done by mere consent, both on the part of the mothers,
who did not prevent it (though, indeed, they were deceived), and on that
of the daughter, who was pleased by it, and so never complained.”

“It was all the result,” said Parlamente, “of the great kindliness and
simplicity of the mercer’s wife, who unwittingly led the maiden to the
slaughter.”

“Nay, to the wedding,” said Simontault, “where such simplicity was no
less profitable to the girl than it once was hurtful to one who suffered
herself to be readily duped by her husband.”

“Since you know such a story,” said Nomerfide, “I give you my vote that
you may tell it to us.”

“I will indeed do so,” said Simontault, “but you must promise not to
weep. Those who declare, ladies, that your craftiness surpasses that of
men, would find it hard to bring forward such an instance as I will now
relate, wherein I propose to show you not only the great craftiness of a
husband, but the exceeding simplicity and goodness of his wife.”


[Illustration: 176.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 177a.jpg The Man of Tours and his Serving-maid in the Snow]

[The Man of Tours and his Serving-maid in the Snow]

[Illustration: 177.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XLV_.

     _At his wife’s request, an upholsterer of Tours gave the
     Innocents to his serving-maid, with whom he was in love; but
     he did so after such a fashion as to let her have what
     belonged by right only to his wife, who, for her part, was
     such a simpleton that she could never believe her husband
     had so wronged her, albeit she had abundant warning thereof
     from a neighbour_.

In the city of Tours dwelt a man of shrewd and sound understanding, who
was upholsterer to the late Duke of Orleans, (1) son of King Francis the
First; and although this upholsterer had, through sickness, become deaf,
he had nevertheless lost nothing of his wit, which, in regard both to
his trade and to other matters, was as shrewd as any man’s. And how he
was able to avail himself of it you shall hear.

     1  Charles of France, Duke of Orleans, Bourbonnais,
     Angoumois and Châtelherault, Count of Clermont, La Marche,
     and Civray, Governor and Lieutenant-General of Champagne and
     Brie. He has been referred to in the Memoir of Queen
     Margaret, _ante_, vol. i. pp. xxxvi., xlvii.-viii. Born at
     St. Germain in January 1521, the Duke of Orleans took part
     in several military expeditions, and gave proof of much
     ability as a commander. He died, according to some accounts,
     of a pleurisy, and, according to others, of the plague, in
     1545. The above story was evidently written subsequent to
     that date, as Queen Margaret refers to him as “the late Duke
     of Orleans.”--L.

He had married a virtuous and honourable woman, with whom he lived
in great peace and quietness. He was very fearful of displeasing her,
whilst she, on her part, sought in all things to obey him. But, for all
the affection that he bore her, he was so charitably inclined that he
would often give to his female neighbours that which by right belonged
to his wife, though this he did as secretly as he was able.

There was in their house a very plump serving-maid with whom the
upholsterer fell in love. Nevertheless, dreading lest his wife should
know this, he often made show of scolding and rebuking her, saying that
she was the laziest wench he had ever known, though this was no wonder,
seeing that her mistress never beat her. And thus it came to pass that
one day, while they were speaking about giving the Innocents, (2) the
upholsterer said to his wife--

“It were a charity to give them to that lazy wench of yours, but it
should not be with your hand, for it is too feeble, and in like way your
heart is too pitiful for such a task. If, however, I were to make use of
mine, she would serve us better than she now does.”

     2  Prior to the Reformation it was the custom, not only in
     France but throughout Europe, to whip children on the
     morning of Innocents’ Day (December 28), in order, says
     Gregory in his treatise on the _Boy Bishop_, “that the
     memory of Herod’s murder of the Innocents might stick the
     closer.” This custom (concerning which see Haspinian, _De
     Orig. Festor, Christianor_. fol. 160) subsequently
     degenerated into a jocular usage, so far as the children
     were concerned, and town-gallants and country-swains
     commonly sought to surprise young women in bed, and make
     them play the part of the Innocents, more frequently than
     otherwise to the loss of their virtue. A story is told of a
     French nobleman who in taking leave of some ladies to join a
     hunting party, heard one of them whisper, “We shall sleep at
     our ease, and pass the Innocents without receiving them.”
      This put the nobleman, a certain Seigneur du Rivau, on his
     mettle. “He kept his appointment,” we are told, “galloped
     back twenty leagues at night, arrived at the lady’s house at
     dawn on Innocents’ Day, surprised her in bed, and used the
     privilege of the season.” (Bonn’s _Heptameron_, p. 301).
     Verses illustrative of the custom will be found in the works
     of Clement Marot, Jannet’s edition, 1868, vol iii. p. 7, and
     in those of Cholières, Jouaust’s edition, 1879, vol. i. p.
     224-6.--L. and Ed.

The poor woman, suspecting no harm, begged him to do execution upon the
girl, confessing that she herself had neither strength nor heart for
beating her.

The husband willingly accepted this commission, and, playing the part of
a stern executioner, had purchase made of the finest rods that could be
found. To show, moreover, how anxious he was not to spare the girl, he
caused these rods to be steeped in pickle, so that his poor wife felt
far more pity for her maid than suspicion of her husband.

Innocents’ Day being come, the upholsterer rose early in the morning,
and, going up to the room where the maid lay all alone, he gave her the
Innocents in a different fashion to that which he had talked of with
his wife. The maid wept full sore, but it was of no avail. Nevertheless,
fearing lest his wife should come upon them, he fell to beating the
bed-post with the rods which he had with him in such wise that he barked
and broke them; and in this condition he brought them back to his wife,
saying--

“Methinks, sweetheart, your maid will remember the Innocents.”

When the upholsterer was gone out of the house, the poor servant threw
herself upon her knees before her mistress, telling her that her husband
had done her the greatest wrong that was ever done to a serving-maid.
The mistress, however, thinking that this merely had reference to the
flogging which she believed to have been given, would not suffer the
girl to finish, but said to her--

“My husband did well, and only what I have for more than a month been
urging him to do. If you were hurt I am very glad to hear it. You may
lay it all at my door, and, what is more, he did not even do as much as
he ought to have done.”

The serving-maid, finding that her mistress approved of the matter,
thought that it could not be so great a sin as she had imagined, the
more so as it had been brought to pass by a woman whose virtue was held
in such high repute. Accordingly she never afterwards ventured to speak
of it.

Her master, however, seeing that his wife was as content to be deceived
as he was to deceive her, resolved that he would frequently give her
this contentment, and so practised on the serving-maid, that she wept no
more at receiving the Innocents.

He continued this manner of life for a great while, without his wife
being any the wiser, until there came a time of heavy snow, when, having
already given the girl the Innocents on the grass in his garden, he was
minded to do the same in the snow. Accordingly, one morning before any
one in the house was awake, he took the girl clad in nothing but her
shift to make the crucifix in the snow, and while they were pelting each
other in sport, they did not forget the game of the Innocents.

This sport, however, was observed by one of their female neighbours who
had gone to her window, which overlooked the garden, to see what manner
of weather it was, and so wrathful was she at the evil sight, that she
resolved to tell her good gossip of it, to the end that she might no
longer suffer herself to be deceived by a wicked husband or served by a
wanton jade.

After playing these fine pranks, the upholsterer looked about him to
see whether any one could perceive him, and to his exceeding annoyance
observed his neighbour at her window. But just as he was able to give
any colour to his tapestry, so he bethought him to give such a colour to
what he had done, that his neighbour would be no less deceived than his
wife. Accordingly, as soon as he had gone back to bed again, he made his
wife rise in nothing but her shift, and taking her into the garden as
he had taken his serving-maid, he played with her for a long time in
the snow even as he had played with the other. And then he gave her
the Innocents in the same way as he had given them to the maid, and
afterwards they returned to bed together.

When the good woman went to mass, her neighbour and excellent friend
failed not to be there, and, while unwilling to say anything further,
zealously begged of her to dismiss her serving-maid, who was, she said,
a very wicked and dangerous wench. This, however, the other would not
do without knowing why she thought so ill of the girl, and at last her
neighbour related how she had seen the wench that morning in the garden
with her husband.

At this the good woman fell to laughing heartily, and said--

“Eh! gossip dear, ‘twas myself!”

“What, gossip? Why she wore naught but her shift, and it was only five
o’clock in the morning.”

“In faith, gossip,” replied the good woman, “‘twas myself.”

“They pelted each other with snow,” the other went on, “on the breasts
and elsewhere, as familiarly as could be.”

“Eh! gossip, eh!” the good woman replied, “‘twas myself.”

“Nay, gossip,” said the other, “I saw them afterwards doing something in
the snow that to my mind is neither seemly nor right.”

“Gossip,” returned the good woman, “I have told you, and I tell you
again, that it was myself and none other who did all that you say, for
my good husband and I play thus familiarly together. And, I pray you,
be not scandalised at this, for you know that we are bound to please our
husbands.”

So the worthy gossip went away, more wishful to possess such a husband
for herself than she had been to talk about the husband of her friend;
and when the upholsterer came home again his wife told him the whole
story.

“Now look you, sweetheart,” replied the upholsterer, “if you were not
a woman of virtue and sound understanding we should long ago have been
separated the one from the other. But I hope that God will continue to
preserve us in our mutual love, to His own glory and our happiness.”

“Amen to that, my dear,” said the good woman, “and I hope that on my
part you will never find aught to blame.” (3)

     3  This tale is accounted by most critics and commentators
     to be the best in the _Heptameron_. Dunlop thinks it may
     have been borrowed from a _fabliau_ composed by some
     _Trouvère_ who had travelled in the East, and points out
     that it corresponds with the story of the _Shopkeeper s
     Wife_ in Nakshebi’s Persian Tales (_Tooti Nameh_). Had it
     been brought to France, however, in the manner suggested it
     would, like other tales, have found its way into the works
     of many sixteenth-century story-writers besides Queen
     Margaret. Such, however, is not the case, and curiously
     enough, so far as we can find, the tale, as given in the
     _Heptameron_, was never imitated until La Fontaine wrote his
     _Servante Justifiée (Contes, livre_ ii. No. vi.), in the
     opening lines of which he expressly acknowledges his
     indebtedness to the Queen of Navarre.--Ed.

“Unbelieving indeed, ladies, must be the man who, after hearing this
true story, should hold you to be as crafty as men are; though, if we
are not to wrong either, and to give both man and wife the praise they
truly deserve, we must needs admit that the better of the two was worth
naught.”

“The man,” said Parlamente, “was marvellously wicked, for he deceived
his servant on the one side and his wife on the other.”

“Then you cannot have understood the story,” said Hircan. “We are told
that he contented them both in the same morning, and I consider it a
highly virtuous thing, both for body and mind, to be able to say and do
that which may make two opposites content.”

“It was doubly wicked,” said Parlamente, “to satisfy the simplicity of
one by falsehood and the wickedness of the other by vice. But I am
aware that sins, when brought before such judges as you, will always be
forgiven.”

“Yet I promise you,” said Hircan, “that for my own part I shall never
essay so great and difficult a task, for if I but render _you_ content
my day will not have been ill spent.”

“If mutual love,” said Parlamente, “cannot content the heart, nothing
else can.”

“In sooth,” said Simontault, “I think there is no greater grief in the
world than to love and not be loved.”

“To be loved,” said Parlamente, “it were needful to turn to such as
love. Very often, however, those women who will not love are loved the
most, while those men who love most strongly are loved the least.”

“You remind me,” said Oisille, “of a story which I had not intended to
bring forward among such good ones.”

“Still I pray you tell it us,” said Simontault. “That will I do right
willingly,” replied Oisille.


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_TALE XLVI. (A)_.

     _A Grey Friar named De Vale, being bidden to dinner at the
     house of the Judge of the Exempts in Angoulême, perceived
     that the Judge’s wife (with whom he was in love) went up
     into the garret alone; thinking to surprise her, he followed
     her thither; but she dealt him such a kick in the stomach
     that he fell from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and
     fled out of the town to the house of a lady that had such
     great liking for those of his Order (foolishly believing
     them possessed of greater virtues than belong to them), that
     she entrusted him with the correction of her daughter, whom
     he lay with by force instead of chastising her for the sin
     of sloth-fulness, as he had promised her mother he would
     do_. (1)

     1  Boaistuau and Gruget omit this tale, and the latter
     replaces it by that numbered XLVI. (B). Count Charles of
     Angoulême having died on January i, 1496, the incidents
     related above must have occurred at an earlier date.--L.

In the town of Angoulême, where Count Charles, father of King Francis,
often abode, there dwelt a Grey Friar named De Vale, the same being held
a learned man and a great preacher. One Advent this Friar preached in
the town in presence of the Count, whereby he won such renown that those
who knew him eagerly invited him to dine at their houses. Among others
that did this was the Judge of the Exempts (2) of the county, who had
wedded a beautiful and virtuous woman. The Friar was dying for love of
her, yet lacked the hardihood to tell her so; nevertheless she perceived
the truth, and held him in derision.

     2  The _Exempt_ was a police officer, and the functions of
     the _Juge des Exempts_ were akin to those of a police
     magistrate.--Ed.

After he had given several tokens of his wanton purpose, he one day
espied her going up into the garret alone. Thinking to surprise her, he
followed, but hearing his footsteps she turned and asked whither he was
going. “I am going after you,” he replied, “to tell you a secret.”

“Nay, good father,” said the Judge’s wife. “I will have no secret
converse with such as you. If you come up any higher, you will be sorry
for it.”

Seeing that she was alone, he gave no heed to her words, but hastened
up after her. She, however, was a woman of spirit, and when she saw the
Friar at the top of the staircase, she gave him a kick in the stomach,
and with the words, “Down! down! sir,” (3) cast him from the top to the
bottom. The poor father was so greatly ashamed at this, that, forgetting
the hurt he had received in falling, he fled out of the town as fast
as he was able. He felt sure that the lady would not conceal the matter
from her husband; and indeed she did not, nor yet from the Count and
Countess, so that the Friar never again durst come into their presence.

     3  The French words here are “_Dévaliez, dévaliez,
     monsieur_,” whilst MS. No. 1520 gives, “_Monsieur de Vale,
     dévalés_.” In either case there is evidently a play upon the
     friar’s name, which was possibly pronounced Vallès or
     Vallès. Adrien de Valois, it maybe pointed out, rendered his
     name in Latin as _Valesius_; the county of Valois and that
     of Valais are one and the same; we continue calling the old
     French kings Valois, as their name was written, instead of
     Valais as it was pronounced, as witness, for instance, the
     nickname given to Henry III. by the lampooners of the
     League, “_Henri dévalé_.” See also _post_, Tale XLVI. (B),
     note 2.--M. and Ed.

To complete his wickedness, he repaired to the house of a lady who
preferred the Grey Friars to all other folk, and, after preaching a
sermon or two before her, he cast his eyes upon her daughter, who was
very beautiful. And as the maiden did not rise in the morning to hear
his sermon, he often scolded her in presence of her mother, whereupon
the latter would say to him--“Would to God, father, that she had some
taste of the discipline which you monks receive from one another.”

The good father vowed that if she continued to be so slothful, he would
indeed give her some of it, and her mother earnestly begged him to do
so.

A day or two afterwards, he entered the lady’s apartment, and, not
seeing her daughter there, asked her where she was.

“She fears you so little,” replied the lady, “that she is still in bed.”

“There can be no doubt,” said the Grey Friar, “that it is a very evil
habit in young girls to be slothful. Few people think much of the sin
of sloth, but for my part, I deem it one of the most dangerous there is,
for the body as for the soul. You should therefore chastise her for it,
and if you will give me the matter in charge, I will take good care that
she does not lie abed at an hour when she ought to be praying to God.”

The poor lady, believing him to be a virtuous man, begged him to be
kind enough to correct her daughter, which he at once agreed to do, and,
going up a narrow wooden staircase, he found the girl all alone in bed.
She was sleeping very soundly, and while she slept he lay with her by
force. The poor girl, waking up, knew not whether he were man or devil,
but began to cry out as loudly as she could, and to call for help to her
mother. But the latter, standing at the foot of the staircase, cried
out to the Friar--“Have no pity on her, sir. Give it to her again, and
chastise the naughty jade.”

When the Friar had worked his wicked will, he came down to the lady and
said to her with a face all afire--“I think, madam, that your daughter
will remember my discipline.”

The mother thanked him warmly and then went upstairs, where she found
her daughter making such lamentation as is to be expected from a
virtuous woman who has suffered from so foul a crime. On learning the
truth, the mother had search made everywhere for the Friar, but he was
already far away, nor was he ever afterwards seen in the kingdom of
France.

“You see, ladies, with how much security such commissions may be given
to those that are unfit for them. The correction of men pertains to men
and that of women to women; for women in the correction of men would be
as pitiful as men in the correction of women would be cruel.”

“Jesus! madam,” said Parlamente, “what a base and wicked Friar!”

“Say rather,” said Hircan, “what a foolish and witless mother to be led
by hypocrisy into allowing so much familiarity to those who ought never
to be seen except in church.”

“In truth,” said Parlamente, “I acknowledge that she was the most
foolish mother imaginable; had she been as wise as the Judge’s wife, she
would rather have made him come down the staircase than go up. But what
can you expect? The devil that is half-angel is the most dangerous of
all, for he is so well able to transform himself into an angel of light,
that people shrink from suspecting him to be what he really is; and it
seems to me that persons who are not suspicious are worthy of praise.”

“At the same time,” said Oisille, “people ought to suspect the evil that
is to be avoided, especially those who hold a trust; for it is better to
suspect an evil that does not exist than by foolish trustfulness to fall
into one that does. I have never known a woman deceived through being
slow to believe men’s words, but many are there that have been deceived
through being over prompt in giving credence to falsehood. Therefore I
say that possible evil cannot be held in too strong suspicion by those
that have charge of men, women, cities or states; for, however good the
watch that is kept, wickedness and treachery are prevalent enough, and
the shepherd who is not vigilant will always be deceived by the wiles of
the wolf.”

“Still,” said Dagoucin, “a suspicious person cannot have a perfect
friend, and many friends have been divided by suspicion.”

“If you know any such instance,” said Oisille, “I give you my vote that
you may relate it.”

“I know one,” said Dagoucin, “which is so strictly true that you will
needs hear it with pleasure. I will tell you, ladies, when it is that
a close friendship is most easily severed; ‘tis when the security of
friendship begins to give place to suspicion. For just as trust in a
friend is the greatest honour that can be shown him, so is doubt of him
a still greater dishonour. It proves that he is deemed other than we
would have him to be, and so causes many close friendships to be broken
off, and friends to be turned into foes. This you will see from the
story that I am minded to relate.”


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[Illustration: 195a.jpg The Young Man beating his Wife]

[The Young Man beating his Wife]

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_TALE XLVI.(B)_.

     _Concerning a Grey Friar who made it a great crime on the
     part of husbands to beat their wives_. (1)

In the town of Angoulême, where Count Charles, father of King Francis,
often abode, there dwelt a Grey Friar named De Vallès, (2) the same
being a learned man and a very great preacher. At Advent time this Friar
preached in the town in presence of the Count, whereby his reputation
was still further increased.

     1  This is the tale inserted in Gruget’s edition in lieu of
     the previous one.--Ed.

     2  We had thought that Friar Vallès might possibly be Robert
     de Valle, who at the close of the fifteenth century wrote a
     work entitled _Explanatio in Plinium_, but find that this
     divine was a Bishop of Rouen, and never belonged to the Grey
     Friars. In Gessner’s _Biographia Universalis_, continued by
     Frisius, mention is made of three learned ecclesiastics of
     the name of Valle living in or about Queen Margaret’s time:
     Baptiste de Valle, who wrote on war and duelling; William de
     Valle, who penned a volume entitled _De Anima Sorbono_; and
     Amant de Valle, a Franciscan minorité born at Toulouse, who
     was the author of numerous philosophical works, the most
     important being _Elucidationes Scoti_.--B. J.

It happened also that during Advent a hare-brained young fellow, who had
married a passably handsome young woman, continued none the less to
run at the least as dissolute a course as did those that were still
bachelors. The young wife, being advised of this, could not keep silence
upon it, so that she very often received payment after a different and
a prompter fashion than she could have wished. For all that, she ceased
not to persist in lamentation, and sometimes in railing as well; which
so provoked the young man that he beat her even to bruises and blood.
Thereupon she cried out yet more loudly than before; and in a like
fashion all the women of the neighbourhood, knowing the reason of this,
could not keep silence, but cried out publicly in the streets, saying--

“Shame, shame on such husbands! To the devil with them!”

By good fortune the Grey Friar De Vallès was passing that way and
heard the noise and the reason of it. He resolved to touch upon it the
following day in his sermon, and did so. Turning his discourse to the
subject of marriage and the affection which ought to subsist in it, he
greatly extolled that condition, at the same time censuring those that
offended against it, and comparing wedded to parental love. Among other
things, he said that a husband who beat his wife was in more danger, and
would have a heavier punishment, than if he had beaten his father or his
mother.

“For,” said he, “if you beat your father or your mother you will be sent
for penance to Rome; but if you beat your wife, she and all the women of
the neighbourhood will send you to the devil, that is, to hell. Now look
you what a difference there is between these two penances. From Rome a
man commonly returns again, but from hell, oh! from that place, there is
no return: _nulla est redemptio_” (3)

After preaching this sermon, he was informed that the women were making
a triumph of it, (4) and that their husbands could no longer control
them. He therefore resolved to set the husbands right just as he had
previously assisted their wives.

     3  This was the Pope’s expression apropos of Messer Biagio,
     whom Michael Angelo had introduced into his “Last
     Judgment.”--M.

     4  The French expression is _faisaient leur Achilles_, the
     nearest equivalent to which in English would probably be
     “Hectoring” It is curious that the French should have taken
     the name of Achilles and we that of Hector to express the
     same idea of arrogance and bluster.--Ed.

With this intent, in one of his sermons he compared women and devil
together, saying that these were the greatest enemies that man had, that
they tempted him without ceasing, and that he could not rid himself of
them, especially of women.

“For,” said he, “as far as devils are concerned, if you show them the
cross they flee away, whereas women, on the contrary, are tamed by
it, and are made to run hither and thither and cause their husbands
countless torments. But, good people, know you what you must do? When
you find your wives afflicting you thus continually, as is their wont,
take off the handle of the cross and with it drive them away. You will
not have made this experiment briskly three or four times before you
will find yourselves the better for it, and see that, even as the devil
is driven off by the virtue of the cross, so can you drive away and
silence your wives by virtue of the handle, provided only that it be not
attached to the cross aforesaid.”

“You have here some of the sermons by this reverend De Vallès, of whose
life I will with good reason relate nothing more. However, I will tell
you that, whatever face he put upon the matter--and I knew him--he was
much more inclined to the side of the women than to that of the men.”

“Yet, madam,” said Parlamente, “he did not show this in his last sermon,
in which he instructed the men to ill-treat them.”

“Nay, you do not comprehend his artifice,” said Hircan. “You are not
experienced in war and in the use of the stratagems that it requires;
among these, one of the most important is to kindle strife in the camp
of the enemy, whereby he becomes far easier to conquer. This master
monk well knew that hatred and wrath between husband and wife most
often cause a loose rein to be given to the wife’s honour. And when that
honour frees itself from the guardianship of virtue, it finds itself in
the power of the wolf before it knows even that it is astray.”

“However that may be,” said Parlamente, “I could not love a man who had
sown such division between my husband and myself as would lead even to
blows; for beating banishes love. Yet, by what I have heard, they [the
friars] can be so mincing when they seek some advantage over a woman,
and so attractive in their discourse, that I feel sure there would be
more danger in hearkening to them in secret than in publicly receiving
blows from a husband in other respects a good one.”

“Truly,” said Dagoucin, “they have so revealed their plottings in all
directions, that it is not without reason that they are to be feared;
(5) although in my opinion persons who are not suspicious are worthy of
praise.”

     5  From this point the dialogue is almost word for word the
     same as that following Tale XLVI. (A).--Ed.

“At the same time,” said Oisille, “people ought to suspect the evil
that is to be avoided, for it is better to suspect an evil that does not
exist than by foolish trustfulness to fall into one that does. For my
part, I have never known a woman deceived by being slow to believe
men’s words, but many are through being too prompt in giving credence
to falsehood. Therefore I say that possible evil cannot be too strongly
suspected by those that have charge of men, women, cities or states;
for, however good may be the watch that is kept, wickedness and
treachery are prevalent enough, and for this reason the shepherd who is
not vigilant will always be deceived by the wiles of the wolf.”

“Still,” said Dagoucin, “a suspicious person cannot have a perfect
friend, and many friends have been parted by bare suspicion.”

“If you should know any such instance,” thereupon said Oisille, “I will
give you my vote that you may relate it.”

“I know one,” said Dagoucin, “which is so strictly true that you will
hear it with pleasure. I will tell you, ladies, when it is that close
friendship is most readily broken off; it is when the security of
friendship begins to give place to suspicion. For just as to trust a
friend is the greatest honour one can do him, so is doubt of him the
greatest dishonour, inasmuch as it proves that he is deemed other than
one would have him to be, and in this wise many close friendships are
broken off and friends turned into foes. This you will see from the
story that I am now about to relate.”


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[Illustration: 203a.jpg The Gentleman reproaching his Friend for his Jealousy]

[The Gentleman reproaching his Friend for his Jealousy]

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_TALE XLVII_.

     _Two gentlemen lined in such perfect friendship that for a
     great while they had everything excepting a wife in common,
     until one was married, when without cause he began to
     suspect his companion, who, in vexation at being wrongfully
     suspected, withdrew his friendship, and did not rest till he
     had made the other a cuckold_.

Not far from the province of Le Perche (1) there dwelt two gentlemen who
from the days of their childhood had lived in such perfect friendship
that they had but one heart, one house, one bed, one table, and one
purse. They continued living in this perfect friendship for a long time,
without there ever being between them any wish or word such as might
betray that they were different persons; so truly did they live not
merely like two brothers but like one individual man.

     1  Between Normandy and Maine. Its chief town was Mortagne.

Of the two one married, yet did not on that account abate his friendship
for his fellow or cease to live with him as had been his wont. And
whenever they chanced to lodge where room was scanty, he failed not to
make him sleep with himself and his wife; (2) though he did, in truth,
himself lie in the middle. Their goods were all in common, so that
neither the marriage nor aught else that might betide could impair their
perfect friendship.

     2  To do honour to a guest it was then a common practice to
     invite him to share the same bed as one’s self and one’s
     wife. In this wise, long after Queen Margaret s time, we
     find Louis XIII. sharing the bed of the Duke and Duchess of
     Luynes. Tale vii. of the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_
     (imitated in Malespini’s _Ducento Novelle_ and the _Joyeuses
     Adventures et nouvelles récréations_) relates what befell a
     Paris goldsmith who took a carter to bed with him and his
     spouse, and neglected to follow the usual custom of sleeping
     in the middle. In Queen Margaret’s time, it may be added,
     the so-called “beds of honour” in the abodes of noblemen and
     gentlemen were large enough to accommodate four or five
     persons.--B. J. and Ed.

But after some time, worldly happiness, which is ever changeful in its
nature, could no longer abide in this too happy household. The husband,
without cause, lost the confidence that he had in his friend and in his
wife, and, being unable to conceal the truth from the latter, spoke to
her with angry words. At this she was greatly amazed, for he had charged
her in all things save one to treat his friend as she did himself, and
now he forbade her to speak with him except it were before others. She
made the matter known to her husband’s friend, who did not believe her,
knowing as he well did that he had never purposed doing aught to grieve
his comrade. And as he was wont to hide nothing from him, he told him
what he had heard, begging him not to conceal the truth, for neither in
this nor in any other matter had he any desire to occasion the severance
of the friendship which had so long subsisted between them.

The married gentleman assured him that he had never thought of such a
thing, and that those who had spread such a rumour had foully lied.

Thereupon his comrade replied--

“I well know that jealousy is a passion as insupportable as love, and
were you inclined to jealousy even with regard to myself, I should not
blame you, for you could not help it. But there is a thing that is in
your power of which I should have reason to complain, and that is the
concealment of your distemper from me, seeing that never before was
thought, feeling or opinion concealed between us. If I were in love with
your wife, you should not impute it to me as a crime, for love is not
a fire that I can hold in my hand to do with it what I will; but if it
were so and I concealed it from you, and sought by demonstration to
make it known to your wife, I should be the wickedest comrade that ever
lived.

“As far as I myself am concerned, I can truly assure you that, although
she is an honourable and virtuous woman, she is the last of all the
women I have ever seen upon whom, even though she were not yours, my
fancy would light. But even though there be no occasion to do so, I ask
you, if you have the smallest possible feeling of suspicion, to tell me
of it, that I may so act as to prevent a friendship that has lasted so
long from being severed for the sake of a woman. For, even if I loved
her more dearly than aught in the world beside, I would never speak to
her of it, seeing that I set your honour before aught else.”

His comrade swore to him the strongest oaths he could muster, that he
had never thought of such a thing, and begged him to act in his house as
he had been used to do.

“That will I,” the other replied, “but if after this should you harbour
an evil opinion of me and conceal it or bear me ill-will, I will
continue no more in fellowship with you.”

Some time afterwards, whilst they were living together as had been their
wont, the married gentleman again fell into stronger suspicion than
ever, and commanded his wife to no longer show the same countenance
to his friend as before. This she at once made known to her husband’s
comrade, and begged that he would of his own motion abstain from holding
speech with her, since she had been charged to do the like towards him.

The gentleman perceived from her words and from divers tokens on the
part of his comrade that the latter had not kept his promise, and so
said to him in great wrath--

“If, comrade, you are jealous, ‘tis a natural thing, but, after the
oaths you swore to me, I must needs be angered that you have used such
concealment towards me. I had always thought that neither obstacle nor
mean intervened between your heart and mine, but to my exceeding sorrow,
and with no fault on my part, I see that the reverse is true. Not only
are you most jealous of your wife and of me, but you seek to hide your
distemper from me, until at last it must wholly turn to hate, and the
dearest love that our time has known become the deadliest enmity.

“I have done all I could to avoid this mishap, but since you suspect me
of being so wicked and the opposite of what I have always proved towards
you, I give you my oath and word that I will indeed be such a one as you
deem me, and that I will never rest until I have had from your wife
that which you believe I seek from her. So I bid you beware of me
henceforward, for, since suspicion has destroyed your friendship for me,
resentment will destroy mine for you.”

Although his comrade tried to persuade him of the contrary, he would no
longer believe him, but removed his portion of the furniture and goods
that had been in common between them. And so their hearts were as widely
sundered as they had before been closely united, and the unmarried
gentleman never rested until, as he had promised, he had made his
comrade a cuckold. (3)

     3  The idea developed in this tale, that of bringing to pass
     by one’s own actions the thing one fears and seeks to avoid
     or prevent, has much analogy with that embodied in the
     “novel of the Curious Impertinent” which Cervantes
     introduces into _Don Quixote_ (Part I. chaps, xxviii.,
     xxix). In this tale it will be remembered Anselmo and
     Lothario are represented as being two such close friends as
     the gentlemen who figured in Queen Margaret’s tale. Anselmo
     marries, however, and seized with an insane desire to test
     the virtue of his wife, Camilla, by exposing her to
     temptation, urges Lothario to pay court to her. Lothario at
     first resists these solicitations, pointing out the folly of
     such an enterprise, but his friend entreats him so
     pressingly that he finally consents, and in the sequel the
     passion which he at first simulates for Camilla becomes a
     real one and leads to his seducing her and carrying her
     away, with the result that both the wretched Anselmo and his
     wife soon die of grief, whilst Lothario betakes himself to
     the wars and perishes in battle.--M. & Ed.

“Thus, ladies, may it fare with those who wrongfully suspect their
wives of evil. Many men make of them what they suspect them to be, for
a virtuous woman is more readily overcome by despair than by all the
pleasures on earth. And if any one says that suspicion is love, I give
him nay, for although it results from love as do ashes from fire, it
kills it nevertheless in the same way.”

“I do not think,” said Hircan, “that anything can be more grievous to
either man or woman than to be suspected of that which is contrary to
fact. For my own part, nothing could more readily prompt me to sever
fellowship with my friends than such suspicion.”

“Nevertheless,” said Oisille, “woman is without rational excuse who
revenges herself for her husband’s suspicion by her own shame. It is
as though a man should thrust his sword through his own body, because
unable to slay his foe, or should bite his own fingers because he cannot
scratch him. She would have done better had she spoken to the gentleman
no more, and so shown her husband how wrongly he had suspected her; for
time would have softened them both.”

“Still ‘twas done like a woman of spirit,” said Ennasuite. “If many
women acted in the same way, their husbands would not be so outrageous
as they are.”

“For all that,” said Longarine, “patience gives a woman the victory in
the end, and chastity brings her praise, and more we should not desire.”

“Nevertheless,” said Ennasuite, “a woman may be unchaste and yet commit
no sin.”

“How may that be?” said Oisille.

“When she mistakes another man for her husband.”

“And who,” said Parlamente, “is so foolish that she cannot clearly tell
the difference between her husband and another man, whatever disguise
the latter may wear?”

“There have been and still will be,” said Ennasuite, “a few deceived in
this fashion, and therefore still innocent and free from sin.”

“If you know of such a one,” said Dagoucin, “I give you my vote that you
may tell us about her, for I think it very strange that innocence and
sin can go together.”

“Listen, then,” said Ennasuite. “If, ladies, the foregoing tales have
not sufficiently warned you of the danger of lodging in our houses those
who call us worldly and consider themselves as something holy and far
worthier than we, I will give you yet a further instance of it, that you
may see by the errors into which those fall who trust them too much
that not only are they human like others, but that there is something
devilish in their nature, passing the ordinary wickedness of men. This
you will learn from the following story.”


[Illustration: 211.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 213a.jpg The Grey Friars Caught and Punished]

[The Grey Friars Caught and Punished]

[Illustration: 213.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XLVIII_.

     _The older and wickeder of two Grey Friars, who were lodged
     in an inn where the marriage of the host’s daughter was
     being celebrated, perceived the bride being led away,
     whereupon he went and took the place of the bridegroom
     whilst the latter was still dancing with the company_. (1)

     1  We have already had an instance of a friar stealing into
     a wife’s bed at night-time, in the husband’s absence (see
     _ante_, vol. iii., tale xxili.). For a similar incident see
     the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_, No. xxx.--Ed.

At an inn, in a village of the land of Perigort, there was celebrated
the marriage of a maiden of the house, at which all the kinsfolk and
friends strove to make as good cheer as might be. On the day of the
wedding there arrived at the inn two Grey Friars, to whom supper was
given in their own room, since it was not meet for those of their
condition to be present at a wedding. However, the chief of the two, who
had the greater authority and craft, resolved that, since he was shut
out from the board, he would share the bed, and in this way play them
one of the tricks of his trade.

When evening was come, and the dances were begun, the Grey Friar
continued to observe the bride for a long time, and found her
very handsome and to his taste. Then, inquiring carefully of the
serving-woman concerning the room in which she was to lie, he found that
it was close to his own, at which he was well pleased; and so good a
watch did he keep in order to work his end, that he perceived the bride
being led from the hall by the old women, as is the custom. As it was
yet very early, the bridegroom would not leave the dance, in which he
was so greatly absorbed that he seemed to have altogether forgotten his
wife.

Not so the Friar, for, as soon as his ears told him that the bride was
in bed, he put off his grey robe and went and took the husband’s place.
Being fearful of discovery, however, he stayed but a very short time,
and then went to the end of a passage where his comrade, who was keeping
watch for him, signed to him that the husband was dancing-still.

The Friar, who had not yet satisfied his wicked lust, thereupon went
back to bed with the bride, until his comrade gave him a signal that it
was time to leave.

The bridegroom afterwards came to bed, and his wife, who had been so
tormented by the Friar that she desired naught but rest, could not help
saying to him--

“Have you resolved never to sleep or do anything but torment me?”

The unhappy husband, who had but just come in, was greatly astonished
at this, and asked what torment he had given her, seeing that he had not
left the dance.

“A pretty dance!” said the poor girl. “This is the third time that you
have come to bed. I think you would do better to sleep.”

The husband was greatly astonished on hearing these words, and set aside
thought of everything else in order that he might learn the truth of
what had passed.

When his wife had told him the story, he at once suspected the Grey
Friars who were lodged in the house, and forthwith rising, he went into
their room, which was close beside his own.

Not finding them there, he began to call out for help in so loud a voice
that he speedily drew together all his friends, who, when they had heard
the tale, assisted him with candles, lanterns, and all the dogs of the
village to hunt for the Grey Friars.

Not finding them in the house, they made all diligence, and so caught
them among the vines, where they treated them as they deserved; for,
after soundly beating them, they cut off their arms and legs, and left
them among the vines to the care of Bacchus and Venus, of whom they had
been better disciples than of St. Francis.

“Be not amazed, ladies, if such folk, being cut off from our usual
mode of life, do things of which adventurers (2) even would be ashamed.
Wonder rather that they do no worse when God withdraws his hand from
them, for so little does the habit make the monk, that it often unmakes
him through the pride it lends him. For my own part, I go not beyond the
religion that is taught by St. James, who has told us to ‘keep the
heart pure and unspotted toward God, and to show all charity to our
neighbours.’”(3)

     2 This is an allusion to the dismissed French Swiss, and
     German lansquenets who roamed about France in little bands,
     kidnapping, plundering, and at times hiring themselves out
     as spadassins. These men, the pests of the country, were
     commonly known by the name of adventurers.--B. J.

     3  “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is
     this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction
     and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”--_James_ i.
     27.--Ed.

“Heavens!” said Oisille, “shall we never have done with tales about
these tiresome Grey Friars?”

Then said Ennasuite--

“If, ladies, princes and gentlemen are not spared, the Grey Friars, it
seems to me, are highly honoured by being noticed. They are so useless
that, were it not that they often do evil things worthy of remembrance,
they would never even be mentioned; and, as the saying goes, it is
better to do evil than to do nothing at all. Besides, the more varied
the flowers the handsomer will our posy be.”

“If you will promise not to be angry with me,” said Hircan, “I will tell
you the story of a great lady whose wantonness was so extreme that you
will forgive the poor friar for having taken what he needed, where
he was able to find it, seeing that she, who had enough to eat,
nevertheless sought for dainties in too monstrous a fashion.”

“Since we have sworn to speak the truth,” said Oisille, “we have also
sworn to hear it. You may therefore speak with freedom, for the evil
things that we tell of men and women are not uttered to shame those
that are spoken of in the story, but to take away all trust in created
beings, by revealing the trouble to which these are liable, and this to
the end that we may fix and rest our hope on Him alone who is perfect,
and without whom every man is only imperfection.”

“Well then,” said Hircan, “I will relate my story without fear.”


[Illustration: 218.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 219a.jpg The Countess facing her Lovers]

[The Countess facing her Lovers]

[Illustration: 219.jpg Page Image]




_TALE XLIX_.

     _Same French gentlemen, perceiving that the King their
     master was exceedingly well treated by a foreign Countess
     whom he loved, ventured to speak to her, and sought her with
     such success, that one after another they had from her what
     they desired, each, however, believing that he alone
     possessed the happiness in which all the others shared. And
     this being discovered by one of their number, they all
     plotted together to be revenged on her; but, as she showed a
     fair countenance and treated them no worse than before, they
     brought away in their own bosoms the shame which they had
     thought to bring upon her_. (1)

At the Court of King Charles--which Charles I shall not mention, for the
sake of the lady of whom I wish to speak, and whom I shall not call
by her own name--there was a Countess of excellent lineage, (2) but
a foreigner. And as novelties ever please, this lady, both for the
strangeness of her attire and for its exceeding richness, was observed
by all. Though she was not to be ranked among the most beautiful, she
possessed gracefulness, together with a noble assurance that could not
be surpassed; and, moreover, her manner of speech and her seriousness
were to match, so that there was none but feared to accost her excepting
the King, who loved her exceedingly. That he might have still more
intimate converse with her, he gave some mission to the Count, her
husband, which kept him away for a long time, and meanwhile the King
made right good cheer with his wife.

     1  The incidents here related must have occurred during the
     reign of Charles VIII., probably in or about 1490.--L.

     2  This Countess cannot be identified. She was probably the
     wife of one of the many Italian noblemen, like the
     Caraccioli and San Severini, who entered the French service
     about the time of the conquest of Naples. Brantôme alludes
     to the story in his _Dames Galantes_ (Fourth Discourse) but
     gives no names.--Ed.

Several of the King’s gentlemen, knowing that their master was well
treated by her, took courage to speak to her, and among the rest was one
called Astillon, (3) a bold man and graceful of bearing.

     3  This is James de Chastillon, not, however, J. Gaucher de
     Chastillon, “King of Yvetot,” as M. de Lincy supposes, but
     J. de Coligny-Chastillon, as has been pointed out by M.
     Frank. Brantôme devotes the Nineteenth Discourse of his
     _Capitaines françois_ to this personage, and says: “He had
     been one of the great favourites and _mignons_ of King
     Charles VIII., even at the time of the journey to the
     kingdom of Naples; and ‘twas then said, ‘Chastillon,
     Bourdillon and Bonneval [see post, note 5] govern the royal
     blood.’” Wounded in April 1512 at the battle of Ravenna,
     “the most bloody battle of the century,” he was removed to
     Ferrara, where he died (May 25). He was the second husband
     of Blanche de Tournon, Lady of Honour to Queen Margaret,
     respecting whom see _ante_, vol. i. pp. 84-5, 122-4, and
     vol. iv. p. 144, note 2.--L., F. and Ed.

At first she treated him so seriously, threatening to tell of him to the
King his master, that he well-nigh became afraid of her. However, as
he had not been wont to fear the threats even of the most redoubtable
captains, he would not suffer himself to be moved by hers, but pressed
her so closely that she at last consented to speak with him in private,
and taught him the manner in which he should come to her apartment.
This he failed not to do, and, in order that the King might be without
suspicion of the truth, he craved permission to go on a journey, and
set out from the Court. On the very first day, however, he left all his
following and returned at night to receive fulfilment of the promises
that the Countess had made him. These she kept so much to his
satisfaction, that he was content to remain shut up in a closet for five
or six days, without once going out, and living only on restoratives.

During the week that he lay in hiding, one of his companions called
Durassier (4) made love to the Countess. At the beginning she spoke to
this new lover, as she had spoken to the first, with harsh and haughty
speech that grew milder day by day, insomuch that when the time was come
for dismissing the first prisoner, she put the second into his place.
While he was there, another companion of his, named Valnebon, (5) did
the same as the former two, and after these there came yet two or three
more to lodge in the sweet prison.

     4  This in all probability is the doughty James Galliot de
     Genouillac, who--much in the same way as in our own times
     the names of the “Iron Duke” and the “Man of Iron” have been
     bestowed on Wellington and Bismarck--was called by his
     contemporaries the “Seigneur d’Acier” or “Steel Lord,”
      whence “Durassier”--hard steel. Born in Le Quercy in or
     about 1466, Genouillac accompanied Charles VIII. on his
     Italian expeditions, and, according to Brantôme, surpassed
     all others in valour and influence. He greatly distinguished
     himself at the battle of Fornova (1495), and in 1515 we find
     him one of the chief commanders of the French artillery. For
     the great skill he displayed at Marignano he was appointed
     Grand Master of the Artillery and Seneschal of Armagnac, and
     he subsequently became Grand Equerry of France. At Pavia,
     where he again commanded the artillery, he would have swept
     away the Spaniards had not the French impetuously charged
     upon them, preventing him from firing his pieces. Most of
     the latter he contrived to save, severe as was the defeat,
     and he effectually protected the retreat of the Duke of
     Alençon and the Count of Clermont into France. Genouillac
     died in 1546, a year after he had been appointed Governor of
     Languedoc.--B. J. and Ed.

     5  Valnebon is an anagram of the name Bonneval, and Queen
     Margaret evidently refers here to a member of the Bonneval
     family. In the time of Charles VIII. this illustrious
     Limousin house had two principal members, Anthony, one of
     the leading counsellors of that king (as of his predecessor
     Louis XI. and his successor Louis XII.), and Germain, also a
     royal counsellor and chamberlain. The heroes of the above
     story being military men and old friends and comrades, it is
     probable that the reference is to Germain de Bonneval, he,
     like Chastillon and Genouillac, having accompanied Charles
     VIII. on his expedition into Italy. Germain de Bonneval,
     moreover, was one of the seven noblemen who fought at the
     battle of Fornova, clad and armed exactly like the French
     king. He perished at the memorable defeat of Pavia in 1525.
     From him descended, in a direct line, the famous eighteenth
     century adventurer, Claud Alexander, Count de Bonneval.--B.
     J. and Ed.

This manner of life continued for a long time, and was so skilfully
contrived that none of the lovers knew aught of the others; and although
they were aware of the love that each of them bore the lady, there
was not one but believed himself to be the only successful suitor, and
laughed at his comrades who, as he thought, had failed to win such great
happiness.

One day when the gentlemen aforesaid were at a banquet where they made
right good cheer, they began to speak of their several fortunes and of
the prisons in which they had lain during the wars. Valnebon, however,
who found it a hard task to conceal the great good fortune he had met
with, began saying to his comrades--

“I know not what prisons have been yours, but for my own part, for love
of one wherein I once lay, I shall all my life long give praise and
honour to the rest. I think that no pleasure on earth comes near that of
being kept a prisoner.”

Astillon, who had been the first captive, had a suspicion of the prison
that he meant, and replied--

“What gaoler, Valnebon, man or woman, treated you so well that you
became so fond of your prison?”

“Whoever the gaoler may have been,” said Valnebon, “my prisonment was
so pleasant that I would willingly have had it last longer. Never was I
better treated or more content.”

Durassier, who was a man of few words, clearly perceived that they were
discussing the prison in which he had shared like the rest; so he said
to Valnebon--

“On what meats were you fed in the prison that you praise so highly?”

“What meats?” said Valnebon. “The King himself has none better or more
nourishing.”

“But I should also like to know,” said Durassier, “whether your keeper
made you earn your bread properly?”

Valnebon, suspecting that he had been understood, could not hold from
swearing.

“God’s grace!” said he. “Had I indeed comrades where I believed myself
alone?”

Perceiving this dispute, wherein he had part like the rest, Astillon
laughed and said--

“We all serve one master, and have been comrades and friends from
boyhood; if, then, we are comrades in the same good fortune, we can but
laugh at it. But, to see whether what I imagine be true, pray let me
question you, and do you confess the truth to me; for if that which I
fancy has befallen us, it is as amusing an adventure as could be found
in any book.”

They all swore to tell the truth if the matter were such as they could
not deny.

Then said he to them--

“I will tell you my own fortune, and you will tell me, ay or nay, if
yours has been the same.”

To this they all agreed, whereupon he said--

“I asked leave of the King to go on a journey.”

“So,” they replied, “did we.”

“When I was two leagues from the Court, I left all my following and went
and yielded myself up prisoner.”

“We,” they replied, “did the same.”

“I remained,” said Astillon, “for seven or eight days, and lay in a
closet where I was fed on nothing but restoratives and the choicest
viands that I ever ate. At the end of a week, those who held me
captive suffered me to depart much weaker in body than I had been on my
arrival.”

They all swore that the like had happened to them.

“My imprisonment,” said Astillon, “began on such a day and finished on
such another.”

“Mine,” thereupon said Durassier, “began on the very day that yours
ended, and lasted until such a day.”

Valnebon, who was losing patience, began to swear.

“‘Sblood!” said he, “from what I can see, I, who thought myself the
first and only one, was the third, for I went in on such a day and came
out on such another.”

Three others, who were at the table, swore that they had followed in
like order.

“Well, since that is so,” said Astillon, “I will mention the condition
of our gaoler. She is married, and her husband is a long way off.”

“‘Tis even she,” they all replied.

“Well, to put us out of our pain,” said Astillon, “I, who was first
enrolled, shall also be the first to name her. It was my lady the
Countess, she who was so extremely haughty that in conquering her
affection I felt as though I had conquered Cæsar.”

[Said Valnebon--(6)]

     6  It is probable that the angry Valnebon is speaking here,
     and that his name has been accidentally omitted from the
     MSS. At all events the three subsequent paragraphs show that
     these remarks are not made by Astillon, who declines the
     other speaker’s advice, and proposes a scheme of his own.--
     Ed.

“To the devil with the jade, who gave us so much toil, and made us
believe ourselves so fortunate in winning her! Never was there such
wantonness, for while she kept one in hiding she was practising upon
another, so that she might never be without diversion. I would rather
die than suffer her to go unpunished.”

Each thereupon asked him what he thought ought to be done to her, saying
that they were all ready to do it.

“I think,” said he, “that we ought to tell the King our master, who
prizes her as though she were a goddess.

“By no means,” said Astillon; “we are ourselves able to take vengeance
upon her, without calling in the aid of our master. Let us all be
present to-morrow when she goes to mass, each of us wearing an iron
chain about his neck. Then, when she enters the church, we will greet
her as shall be fitting.”

This counsel was highly approved by the whole company, and each provided
himself with an iron chain. The next morning they all went, dressed in
black and with their iron chains twisted like collars round their necks,
to meet the Countess as she was going to church. And as soon as she saw
them thus attired, she began to laugh and asked them--

“Whither go such doleful folk?”

“Madam,” said Astillon, “we are come to attend you as poor captive
slaves constrained to do your service.”

The Countess, feigning not to understand, replied--

“You are not my captives, and I cannot understand that you have more
occasion than others to do me service.”

Thereupon Valnebon stepped forward and said to her--

“After eating your bread for so long a time, we should be ungrateful
indeed if we did not serve you.”

She made excellent show of not understanding the matter, thinking by
this seriousness to confound them; but they pursued their discourse
in such sort that she saw that all was discovered. So she immediately
devised a means of baffling them, for, having lost honour and
conscience, she would in no wise take to herself the shame that they
thought to bring upon her. On the contrary, like one who set her
pleasure before all earthly honour, she neither changed her countenance
nor treated them worse than before, whereat they were so confounded,
that they carried away in their own bosoms the shame they had thought to
bring upon her.

“If, ladies, you do not consider this story enough to prove that women
are as bad as men, I will seek out others of the same kind to relate to
you. Nevertheless I think that this one will suffice to show you that a
woman who has lost shame is far bolder to do evil than a man.”

There was not a woman in the company that heard this story, who did not
make as many signs of the cross as if all the devils in hell were before
her eyes. However, Oisille said--

“Ladies, let us humble ourselves at hearing of so terrible a
circumstance, and the more so as she who is forsaken by God becomes like
him with whom she unites; for even as those who cleave to God have His
spirit within them, so is it with those that cleave to His opposite,
whence it comes that nothing can be more brutish than one devoid of the
Spirit of God.”

“Whatever the poor lady may have done,” said Ennasuite, “I nevertheless
cannot praise the men who boasted of their imprisonment.”

“It is my opinion,” said Longarine, “that a man finds it as troublesome
to conceal his good fortune as to pursue it. There is never a hunter but
delights to wind his horn over his quarry, nor lover but would fain have
credit for his conquest.”

“That,” said Simontault, “is an opinion which I would hold to be
heretical in presence of all the Inquisitors of the Faith, for there are
more men than women that can keep a secret, and I know right well that
some might be found who would rather forego their happiness than have
any human being know of it. For this reason has the Church, like a wise
mother, ordained men to be confessors and not women, seeing that the
latter can conceal nothing.”

“That is not the reason,” said Oisille; “it is because women are such
enemies of vice that they would not grant absolution with the same
readiness as is shown by men, and would be too stern in their penances.”

“If they were as stern in their penances,” said Dagoucin, “as they are
in their responses, they would reduce far more sinners to despair than
they would draw to salvation; and so the Church has in every sort well
ordained. But, for all that, I will not excuse the gentlemen who thus
boasted of their prison, for never was a man honoured by speaking evil
of a woman.”

“Since they all fared alike,” said Hircan, “it seems to me that they did
well to console one another.”

“Nay,” said Geburon, “they should never have acknowledged it for the
sake of their own honour. The books of the Round Table (7) teach us that
it is not to the honour of a worthy knight to overcome one that is good
for naught.”

     7  Queen Margaret was well acquainted with these (see
     _ante_, vol. iii. p. 48). In a list drawn up after her
     father’s death, of the two hundred volumes of books in his
     library, a most remarkable one for the times, we find
     specified several copies of “Lancelot,” “Tristan,” &c, some
     in MS. with miniatures and illuminated letters, and others
     printed on parchment. Besides numerous religious writings,
     volumes of Aristotle, Ovid, Mandeville, Dante, the
     Chronicles of St. Denis, and the “Book of the Great Khan,
     bound in cloth of gold,” the library contained various works
     of a character akin to that of the _Heptameron_. For
     instance, a copy of the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_ in print;
     a French translation of Poggio’s _Facetio_, also in print,
     and two copies of Boccaccio in MS., one of them bound in
     purple velvet, and richly illuminated, each page having a
     border of blue and silver. This last if still in existence
     would be very valuable.--Eu.

“I am amazed,” said Longarine, “that the unhappy woman did not die of
shame in presence of her captives.”

“Those who have lost shame,” said Oisille, “can hardly ever recover it,
excepting, however, she that has forgotten it through deep love. Of such
have I seen many return.”

“I think,” said Hircan, “that you must have seen the return of as many
as went, for deep love in a woman is difficult to find.”

“I am not of your opinion,” said Longarine; “I think that there are some
women who have loved to death.”

“So exceedingly do I desire to hear a tale of that kind,” said Hircan,
“that I give you my vote in order to learn of a love in women that I had
never deemed them to possess.”

“Well, if you hearken,” said Longarine, “you will believe, and will see
that there is no stronger passion than love. But while it prompts one
to almost impossible enterprises for the sake of winning some portion
of happiness in this life, so does it more than any other passion reduce
that man or woman to despair, who loses the hope of gaining what is
longed for. This indeed you will see from the following story.”


[Illustration: 232.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 233a.jpg The Lady killing herself on the Death of her Lover]

[The Lady killing herself on the Death of her Lover]

[Illustration: 233.jpg Page Image]




_TALE L_.

     _Messire John Peter for a long time wooed in vain a
     neighbour of his by whom he was sorely smitten, and to
     divert his humour withdrew for a few days from the sight of
     her; but this brought so deep a melancholy upon him that the
     doctors ordered him to be bled. The lady, who knew whence
     his distemper proceeded, then thought to save his life, but
     did indeed hasten his death, by granting him that which she
     had always refused. Then, reflecting that she was herself
     the cause of the loss of so perfect a lover, she dealt
     herself a sword-thrust that made her a partner in his fate_.
     (1)

In the town of Cremona not long ago there lived a gentleman called
Messire John Peter, (2) who had long loved a lady that dwelt near to his
own house; but strive as he might he was never able to have of her the
reply that he desired, albeit he loved her with his whole heart. Being
greatly grieved and troubled at this, the poor gentleman withdrew into
his lodging with the resolve that he would no longer vainly pursue the
happiness the quest of which was devouring his life; and accordingly, to
divert his humour, he passed a few days without seeing her. This caused
him to fall into deep sadness, so that his countenance was no longer the
same. His kinsfolk summoned the doctors, who, finding that his face was
growing yellow, thought that he had some obstruction of the liver and
ordered a blood-letting.

     1  The incidents here narrated probably occurred in or about
     1544.--L.

     2  “Jehan Piètre” (Pietro) in the MSS.--Ed.

The lady, who had dealt so sternly with him, knew very well that his
sickness was caused by her refusal alone, and she sent to him an old
woman in whom she trusted, to tell him that, since she saw his love to
be genuine and unfeigned, she was now resolved to grant him all that
which she had refused him so long. She had therefore devised a means to
leave her house and go to a place where he might privately see her.

The gentleman, who that same morning had been bled in the arm,
found himself better cured by this message than by any medicine or
bloodletting he could have had, and he sent word that he would be at the
place without fail at the hour she had appointed. He added that she had
wrought an evident miracle, since with one word she had cured a man of a
sickness for which all the doctors were not able to find a remedy.

The longed-for evening being come, the gentleman repaired to the
appointed place with such extreme joy as must needs come soon to an end,
since increase of it were not possible. He had waited but a short time
after his arrival, when she whom he loved more dearly than his own soul
came to meet him. He did not occupy himself with making long speeches,
for the fire that consumed him prompted him to seek with all speed that
which he could scarcely believe to be at last within his power. But
whilst, intoxicated beyond measure with love and joy, he was in one
direction seeking a cure that would give him life, he brought to pass
in another the hastening of his death; for, heedless of himself for his
sweetheart’s sake, he perceived not that his arm became unbound, and
that the newly-opened wound discharged so much blood that he was, poor
gentleman, completely bathed in it. Thinking, however, that his weakness
had been caused by his excess, he bethought himself of returning home.

Then love, which had too closely united them, so dealt with him that, as
he was parting from his sweetheart, his soul parted from his body, and,
by reason of his great loss of blood, he fell dead at his lady’s feet.

She, on her side, stood there in astonishment, contemplating the loss of
so perfect a lover, of whose death she had herself been the sole cause.
Reflecting, on the other hand, on the shame and sorrow that would be
hers if the dead body were found in her house, she carried it, with a
serving-woman whom she trusted, into the street in order that the matter
might not be known. Nevertheless, she felt that she could not leave it
there alone. Taking up the dead man’s sword, she was fain to share his
fate, and, indeed, to punish her heart, which had been the cause of all
his woe, she pierced it through and through, so that her dead body fell
upon that of her lover.

When her father and mother came out of their house in the morning,
they found this pitiful sight, and, after making such mourning as was
natural, they buried the lovers together.

“Thus, ladies, may it be seen that excessive love brings with it other
woe.”

“This is what I like to see,” said Simontault, “a love so equal that
when one died the other could not live. Had I, by the grace of God,
found such a mistress, I think that none could ever have ioved her more
perfectly than I.”

“Yet am I of opinion,” said Parlamente, “that you would not have been so
blinded by love as not to bind up your arm better than he did. The days
are gone when men were wont to forget their lives for the ladies’ sake.”

“But those are not gone,” said Simontault, “when ladies are apt to
forget their lovers’ lives for their pleasure’s sake.”

“I think,” said Ennasuite, “that there is no living woman that can take
pleasure in the death of a man, no, not even though he were her enemy.
Still, if men will indeed kill themselves, the ladies cannot prevent
them.”

“Nevertheless,” said Saffredent, “she that denies the gift of bread to a
poor starving man is held to be a murderess.”

“If your requests,” said Oisille, “were as reasonable as those of a poor
man seeking to supply his needs, it would be over cruel of the ladies to
refuse you. God be thanked, however, your sickness kills none but such
as must of necessity die within the year.”

“I do not understand, madam,” said Saffredent, “that there can be any
greater need than that which causes all others to be forgotten. When
love is deep, no bread and no meat whatsoever can be thought of save the
glance and speech of the woman whom one loves.”

“If you were allowed to fast,” said Oisille, “with no other meat but
that, you would tell a very different tale.”

“I acknowledge,” he replied, “that the body might fail, but not so the
heart and will.”

“Then,” said Parlamente, “God has dealt very mercifully with you in
leading you to have recourse to a quarter where you find such little
contentment that you must needs console yourself with eating and
drinking. Methinks in these matters you acquit yourself so well, that
you should praise God for the tenderness of His cruelty.”

“I have been so nurtured in torment,” he replied, “that I am beginning
to be well pleased with woes of which other men complain.”

“Perhaps,” said Longarine, “our complaints debar you from company where
your gladness makes you welcome; for nothing is so vexatious as an
importunate lover.”

“Say, rather,” answered Simontault, “as a cruel lady ------’”

“I clearly see,” said Oisille, “now that the matter touches Simontault,
that, if we stay until he brings his reasonings to an end, we shall find
ourselves at complines (3) rather than vespers. Let us, therefore, go
and praise God that this day has passed without graver dispute.”

     3  The last division in the Roman Catholic breviary.--Ed.

She was the first to rise, and all the others followed her, but
Simontault and Longarine ceased not to carry on their quarrel, yet so
gently that, without drawing of sword, Simontault won the victory, and
proved that the strongest passion was the sorest need.

At this point they entered the church, where the monks were waiting for
them.

Having heard vespers, they went to sup as much off words as meat, for
their converse lasted as long as they were at table, and throughout the
evening also, until Oisille told them that they might well retire and
give some rest to their minds. The five days that were past had been
filled with such brave stories, that she had great fear lest the sixth
should not be equal to them; for, even if they were to invent their
tales, it was not possible to tell any better than those true ones which
had already been related in the company.

Geburon, however, told her that, so long as the world lasted, things
would happen worthy of remembrance.

“For,” said he, “the wickedness of wicked men is always what it has been,
as also is the goodness of the good. So long as wickedness and good
reign upon earth, they will ever fill it with fresh actions, although it
be written that there is nothing new under the sun. (4) But we, who have
not been summoned to the intimate counsels of God, and who are ignorant
of first causes, deem all new things noteworthy in proportion as we
would not or could not ourselves accomplish them. So, be not afraid that
the days to come will not be in keeping with those that are past, and be
sure that on your own part you perform well your duty.”

     4  _Ecclesiastes_ i. 9, 10.--M.

Oisille replied that she commended herself to God, and in His name she
bade them good-night.

So all the company withdrew, thus bringing to an end the Fifth Day.

[Illustration: 240.jpg Tailpiece]




APPENDIX.




A. (Tale XXXVI., Page 63.)

The following are the more important particulars, supplied by M. Jules
Roman, with reference to President Charles of Grenoble:--

Jeffroy Charles was an Italian, born in the marquisate of Saluzza, where
his father, Constant, had been a distinguished jurisconsult. The hero
of Queen Margaret’s xxxvith tale always signed his name Jeffroy Charles,
but his descendants adopted the spelling Carles. Doubtless the name had
originally been Caroli. Before fixing himself in France, Jeffroy Charles
had been in the service of Luigi II., Marquis of Saluzza, who had
appointed him to the office of “Podesta” and entrusted him with
various diplomatic missions to the French Court (see _Discorsi sopre
alame famiglie nobili del Piemonte_ by Francesco Agostini della Chiesa,
in MS. in the State Archives, at Turin). At the time when Charles VIII.
was planning his expedition to Naples, he gave a cordial greeting to all
the Italians who presented themselves at his Court, and, securing
the services of Jeffroy Charles, he appointed him counsellor of the
Parliament of Grenoble (October 5, 1493), and entrusted him with various
secret missions, the result being that he sojourned but unfrequently in
Dauphiné. On the death of Charles VIII., Jeffroy secured the good
graces of his successor, Louis XII., and was appointed (June 16, 1500)
President of the Senate of Turin, and some months later Chief President
of the Parliament of Grenoble. Charles spent the greater part of that
year on missions, both to the Court of the Emperor Maximilian and that
of the Pope. It was he who obtained from the former the investiture of
Louis XII. as Duke of Milan, which afterwards led to so much warfare.
Most of the following years he spent at Milan, seeking to organise the
government of the duchy, and contending against the rapacity of both
the French and the Italian nobles. In 1508 he was sent by Louis XII.
to Cambrai, in company with Cardinal d’Amboise, to conclude an alliance
with the Emperor against Venice, and he also repaired the same year
to Rome with Marshal Trivulzio to negotiate the Pope’s entry into this
league.

On war being declared, he set aside his judicial robes, and took an
active part in the campaign against Venice, fighting so bravely at
Agnadel that Louis XII. knighted him on the battlefield. His last
diplomatic mission was to the Court of Leo X. in 1515, in which year he
was, on account of his great learning, appointed to direct the education
of the King’s younger daughter, the celebrated Renée of Ferrara. But
it is doubtful whether he ever even entered upon these duties, since he
died soon after he had been entrusted with them. His family remained in
Dauphiné, where it died out, obscurely, during the seventeenth century.
Only one of his sons, Anthony, evinced any talent, becoming counsellor
of the Rouen Parliament (1519), and ambassador at Milan (1530). Lancelot
de Carles, Bishop of Riez, was not, as some biographers assert, a son
of Jeffroy Charles, nor was he, it would seem, in any way connected with
the Saluzza family.

Jeffroy Charles’s wife, Margaret du Mottet, had borne him eight children
before he surprised her in adultery. After the tragical ending of his
conjugal mishaps he adopted as his crest the figure of an angel holding
the forefinger of one hand to his mouth as if to enjoin secrecy. (1) In
the seventeenth century this “angel of silence” was to be seen, carved
in stone, and serving as a support of the Charles escutcheon, on the
house where the President had resided in the Rue des Clercs at Grenoble
(Guy Allard’s _Dictionnaire du Dauphiné, &c_, Grenoble 1695). Escutcheon
and support have nowadays disappeared, but on certain of Charles’s
seals, as well as in books that belonged to him, now in the Bibliothèque
Nationale, Paris, the emblem of the angel will still be found. The
earliest seal on which we find it is one affixed to a receipt dated from
Milan, July 31, 1506. Assuming that he adopted this crest in memory of
the events narrated by Queen Margaret, it is probable that the latter
occurred in the earlier part of 1506 or the latter part of the previous
year. (2)

     1 The suggestion here presents itself that, apart from the
     question of any crime, this emblem of secrecy was a very
     fitting one for a diplomatist to assume.--Ed.

     2  That is, twenty years after the _Cent Nouvelles
     Nouvelles_, from which some commentators think the
     _Heptameron_ story to have been borrowed, was first printed.
     --Ed.

Three copies of a medal showing Charles’s energetic, angular profile,
with the inscription _Jafredus Karoli jurisconsultus preses Delphinatus
et Mediolani_, are known to exist; one in the Grenoble museum, one in
that of Milan, and one in my (M. Roman’s) collection. Three MS. works
from the President’s library are in the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris.
The frontispiece of one of these (MSS. Lat. No. 4801) is a miniature
painting of his escutcheon, surmounted by the half-length figure of the
“angel of silence,” who is clad in dark blue, with wings of red, green
and blue feathers. On folio 74 of the same MS. is a full-length figure
of the angel, clad in light blue and supporting Charles’s escutcheon
with one hand, whilst the forefinger of the other is pressed to
his lips. In the libraries of Lyons, Grenoble and Turin are other
richly-illuminated works that belonged to the President, who was a
distinguished bibliophilist and great patron of letters, several learned
Italian writers, and among others, J. P. Parisio, J. M. Cattaneo and
P’ranchino Gafforio, having dedicated their principal works to him.
He it was, moreover, who saved the life of Aldo Manuzio, the famous
Venetian printer, when he was arrested by the French as a spy in 1506.

     From the foregoing particulars it will be seen that
     President Charles was alike learned, brave and skilful. But
     for the Queen of Navarre’s circumstantial narrative it would
     be hard to believe that a man with so creditable a public
     record killed his wife by means of a salad of poisonous
     herbs.--Ed.


THE END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME