The Tales Of The Heptameron, Vol. III. (of V.)

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Title: The Tales Of The Heptameron, Vol. III. (of V.)
Author: Marguerite, Queen, consort of Henry II, King of Navarre
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Tales Of The Heptameron, Vol. III. (of V.)" ***

THE TALES OF

THE HEPTAMERON

Margaret, Queen of Navarre

_Newly Translated into English from the Authentic Text_

OF M. LE ROUX DE LINCY WITH

AN ESSAY UPON THE HEPTAMERON

GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A.

Also the Original Seventy-three Full Page Engravings

And One Hundred and Fifty Head and Tail Pieces

By DUNKER

_IN FIVE VOLUMES_

VOLUME THE THIRD

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 III.

SECOND DAY--Continued.

Tale XIX. The honourable love of a gentleman, who, when his sweetheart
is forbidden to speak with him, in despair becomes a monk of the
Observance, while the lady, following in his footsteps, becomes a nun of
St. Clara

Tale XX. How the Lord of Riant is cured of his love fora beautiful widow
through surprising her in the arms of a groom

THIRD DAY.

Prologue

Tale XXI. The affecting history of Rolandine, who, debarred from
marriage by her father’s greed, betrothes herself to a gentleman to
whom, despite his faithlessness, she keeps her plighted word, and does
not marry until after his death

Tale XXII. How Sister Marie Heroet virtuously escapes the attempts of
the Prior of St. Martin in-the-Fields

Tale XXIII. The undeserved confidence which a gentleman of Perigord
places in the monks of the Order of St. Francis, causes the death of
himself, his wife and their little child

Tale XXIV. Concerning the unavailing love borne to the Queen of Castile
by a gentleman named Elisor, who in the end becomes a hermit

Tale XXV. How a young Prince found means to conceal his intrigue with
the wife of a lawyer of Paris

Tale XXVI. How the counsels of a discreet lady happily withdrew the
young Lord of Avannes from the perils of his foolish love for a lady of
Pampeluna

Tale XXVII. How the wife of a man who was valet to a Princess rid
herself of the solicitations of one who was among the same Princess’s
servants, and at the same time her husband’s guest

Tale XXVIII. How a Gascon merchant, named Bernard du Ha, while
sojourning at Paris, deceived a Secretary to the Queen of Navarre who
had thought to obtain a pasty from him

Tale XXIX. How the Priest of Carrelles, in Maine, when surprised with
the wife of an old husbandman, gets out of the difficulty by pretending
to return him a winnowing fan

Tale XXX. How a gentleman marries his own daughter and sister unawares

Appendix to Vol. III.

PAGE ENGRAVINGS CONTAINED IN VOLUME III.

Tale XIX. The Parting between Pauline and The Gentlemen.

Tale XX. The Lord de Riant finding the Widow with her Groom.

Tale XXI. Rolandine Conversing With Her Husband.

Tale XXII. Sister Marie and the Prior.

Tale XXIII. The Grey Friar deceiving the Gentleman Of Périgord.

Tale XXIV. Elisor showing the Queen her own Image.

Tale XXV. The Advocate’s Wife attending on the Prince.

Tale XXVI. The Lord of Avannes paying His Court in Disguise.

Tale XXVII. The Secretary imploring the Lady not To Tell Of His
Wickedness.

Tale XXVIII. The Secretary Opening the Pasty.

Tale XXIX. The Husbandman surprised by the Fall of the Winnowing Fan.

Tale XXX. The Young Gentleman embracing his Mother.

[Illustration: 001a.jpg The Parting between Pauline and The Gentlemen]

[The Parting between Pauline and The Gentlemen]

[Illustration: 001.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XIX_.

_Pauline, being in love with a gentleman no less than he was with her,
and finding that he, because forbidden ever again to speak with her, had
entered the monastery of the Observance, gained admittance for her
own part into the convent of St. Clara, where she took the veil; thus
fulfilling the desire she had conceived to bring the gentleman’s love
and her own to a like ending in respect of raiment, condition and manner
of life. (1)_

In the time of the Marquis of Mantua, (2) who had married the sister
of the Duke of Ferrara, there lived in the household of the Duchess
a damsel named Pauline, who was greatly loved by a gentleman in the
Marquis’s service, and this to the astonishment of every one; for being
poor, albeit handsome and greatly beloved by his master, he ought, in
their estimation, to have wooed some wealthy dame, but he believed that
all the world’s treasure centred in Pauline, and looked to his marriage
with her to gain and possess it.

1 The incidents related in this tale appear to have taken
place at Mantua and Ferrara. M. de Montaiglon, however,
believes that they happened at Lyons, and that Margaret laid
the scene of her story in Italy, so that the personages she
refers to might not be identified. The subject of the tale
is similar to that of the poem called _L’Amant rendu
Cordelier à l’Observance et Amour_, which may perhaps have
supplied the Queen of Navarre with the plot of her
narrative.--M. and Ed.

2 This was John Francis II. of Gonzaga, who was born in
1466, and succeeded his father, Frederic I., in 1484. He
took an active part in the wars of the time, commanding the
Venetian troops when Charles VIII. invaded Italy, and
afterwards supporting Ludovico Sforza in the defence of
Milan. When Sforza abandoned the struggle against France,
the Marquis of Mantua joined the French king, for whom he
acted as viceroy of Naples. Ultimately, however, he espoused
the cause of the Emperor Maximilian, when the latter was at
war with Venice in 1509, and being surprised and defeated
while camping on the island of La Scala, he fled in his
shirt and hid himself in a field, where, by the treachery of
a peasant who had promised him secrecy, he was found and
taken prisoner. By the advice of Pope Julius II., the
Venetians set him at liberty after he had undergone a year’s
imprisonment. In 1490 John Francis married Isabella d’Esté,
daughter of Hercules I. Duke of Ferrara, by whom he had
several children. He died at Mantua in March 1519, his widow
surviving him until 1539. Among the many dignities acquired
by the Marquis in the course of his singularly chequered
life was that of gonfalonier of the Holy Church, conferred
upon him by Julius II.--L. and En.

The Marchioness, who desired that Pauline should through her favour
make a more wealthy marriage, discouraged her as much as she could from
wedding the gentleman, and often hindered the two lovers from talking
together, pointing out to them that, should the marriage take place,
they would be the poorest and sorriest couple in all Italy. But such
argument as this was by no means convincing to the gentleman, and though
Pauline, on her side, dissembled her love as well as she could, she none
the less thought about him as often as before.

With the hope that time would bring them better fortune, this love of
theirs continued for a long while, during which it chanced that a war
broke out (3) and that the gentleman was taken prisoner along with a
Frenchman, whose heart was bestowed in France even as was his own in
Italy.

3 This would be the expedition which Louis XII. made into
Italy in 1503 in view of conquering the Kingdom of Naples,
and which was frustrated by the defeats that the French army
sustained at Seminara, Cerignoles, and the passage of the
Garigliano.--D.

Finding themselves comrades in misfortune, they began to tell their
secrets to one another, the Frenchman confessing that his heart was a
fast prisoner, though he gave not the name of its prison-house. However,
as they were both in the service of the Marquis of Mantua, this French
gentleman knew right well that his companion loved Pauline, and in all
friendship for him advised him to lay his fancy aside. This the Italian
gentleman swore was not in his power, and he declared that if the
Marquis of Mantua did not requite him for his captivity and his faithful
service by giving him his sweetheart to wife, he would presently turn
friar and serve no master but God. This, however, his companion could
not believe, perceiving in him no token of devotion, unless it were that
which he bore to Pauline.

At the end of nine months the French gentleman obtained his freedom, and
by his diligence compassed that of his comrade also, who thereupon used
all his efforts with the Marquis and Marchioness to bring about his
marriage with Pauline. But all was of no avail; they pointed out to him
the poverty wherein they would both be forced to live, as well as the
unwillingness of the relatives on either side; and they forbade him
ever again to speak with the maiden, to the end that absence and lack of
opportunity might quell his passion.

Finding himself compelled to obey, the gentleman begged of the
Marchioness that he might have leave to bid Pauline farewell, promising
that he would afterwards speak to her no more, and upon his request
being granted, as soon as they were together he spoke to her as
follows:--

“Heaven and earth are both against us, Pauline, and hinder us not only
from marriage but even from having sight and speech of one another. And
by laying on us this cruel command, our master and mistress may well
boast of having with one word broken two hearts, whose bodies, perforce,
must henceforth languish; and by this they show that they have never
known love or pity, and although I know that they desire to marry each
of us honourably and to worldly advantage,--ignorant as they are that
contentment is the only true wealth,--yet have they so afflicted and
angered me that never more can I do them loyal service. I feel sure that
had I never spoken of marriage they would not have shown themselves so
scrupulous as to forbid me from speaking to you; but I would have you
know that, having loved you with a pure and honourable love, and wooed
you for what I would fain defend against all others, I would rather die
than change my purpose now to your dishonour. And since, if I continued
to see you, I could not accomplish so harsh a penance as to restrain
myself from speech, whilst, if being here I saw you not, my heart,
unable to remain void, would fill with such despair as must end in woe,
I have resolved, and that long since, to become a monk. I know, indeed,
full well that men of all conditions may be saved, but would gladly have
more leisure for contemplating the Divine goodness, which will, I trust,
forgive me the errors of my youth, and so change my heart that it may
love spiritual things as truly as hitherto it has loved temporal things.
And if God grant me grace to win His grace, my sole care shall be to
pray to Him without ceasing for you; and I entreat you, by the true and
loyal love that has been betwixt us both, that you will remember me
in your prayers, and beseech Our Lord to grant me as full a measure
of steadfastness when I see you no more, as he has given me of joy
in beholding you. Finally, I have all my life hoped to have of you in
wedlock that which honour and conscience allow, and with this hope have
been content; but now that I have lost it and can never have you
to wife, I pray you at least, in bidding me farewell, treat me as a
brother, and suffer me to kiss you.”

When the hapless Pauline, who had always treated him somewhat
rigorously, beheld the extremity of his grief and his uprightness,
which, amidst all his despair, would suffer him to prefer but this
moderate request, her sole answer was to throw her arms around his neck,
weeping so bitterly that speech and strength alike failed her, and
she swooned away in his embrace. Thereupon, overcome by pity, love
and sorrow, he must needs swoon also, and one of Pauline’s companions,
seeing them fall one on one side and one on the other, called aloud for
aid, whereupon remedies were fetched and applied, and brought them to
themselves.

Then Pauline, who had desired to conceal her love, was ashamed at having
shown such transports; yet were her pity for the unhappy gentleman a
just excuse. He, unable to utter the “Farewell for ever!” hastened away
with heavy heart and set teeth, and, on entering his apartment, fell
like a lifeless corpse upon his bed. There he passed the night in such
piteous lamentations that his servants thought he must have lost all his
relations and friends, and whatsoever he possessed on earth.

In the morning he commended himself to Our Lord, and having divided
among his servants what little worldly goods he had, save a small sum
of money which he took, he charged his people not to follow him, and
departed all alone to the monastery of the Observance, (4) resolved to
take the cloth there and never more to quit it his whole life long.

4 The monastery of the Observance here referred to would
appear to be that at Ferrara, founded by Duke Hercules I.,
father of the Marchioness of Mantua. The name of
“Observance” was given to those conventual establishments
where the rules of monastic life were scrupulously observed,
however rigorous they might be. The monastery of the
Observance at Ferrara belonged to the Franciscan order,
reformed by the Pope in 1363.--D. and L.

The Warden, who had known him in former days, at first thought he was
being laughed at or was dreaming, for there was none in all the land
that less resembled a Grey Friar than did this gentleman, seeing that
he was endowed with all the good and honourable qualities that one
would desire a gentleman to possess. Albeit, after hearing his words and
beholding the tears that flowed (from what cause he knew not) down his
face, the Warden compassionately took him in, and very soon afterwards,
finding him persevere in his desire, granted him the cloth: whereof
tidings were brought to the Marquis and Marchioness, who thought it all
so strange that they could scarcely believe it.

Pauline, wishing to show herself untrammelled by any passion, strove as
best she might to conceal her sorrow, in such wise that all said she had
right soon forgotten the deep affection of her faithful lover. And so
five or six months passed by without any sign on her part, but in the
meanwhile some monk had shown her a song which her lover had made a
short time after he had taken the cowl. The air was an Italian one and
pretty well known; as for the words, I have put them into our own tongue
as nearly as I can, and they are these:--

What word shall be
Hers unto me,
When I appear in convent guise
Before her eyes?

Ah! sweet maiden,
Lone, heart-laden,
Dumb because of days that were;
When the streaming
Tears are gleaming
‘Mid the streaming of thy hair,
Ah! with hopes of earth denied thee,
Holiest thoughts will heavenward guide thee
To the hallowing cloister’s door.
What word shall be, &c.

What shall they say,
Who wronged us, they
Who have slain our heart’s desire,
Seeing true love
Doth flawless prove,
Thus tried as gold in fire?
When they see my heart is single,
Their remorseful tears shall mingle,
Each and other weeping sore.
What word shall be, &c.

And should they come
To will us home,
How vain were all endeavour!
“Nay, side by side,
“We here shall bide
“Till soul from soul shall sever.
“Though of love your hate bereaves us
“Yet the veil and cowl it leaves us,
“We shall wear till life be o’er.”
What word shall be, &c.

And should they move
Our flesh to love
Once more the mockers, singing
Of fruits and flowers
In golden hours
For mated hearts upspringing;
We shall say: “Our lives are given,
Flower and fruit, to God in Heaven,
Who shall hold them evermore.”
What word shall be, &c.

O victor Love!
Whose might doth move
My wearied footsteps hither,
Here grant me days
Of prayer and praise,
Grant faith that ne’er shall wither;
Love of each to either given,
Hallowed by the grace of Heaven,
God shall bless for evermore.
What word shall be, &c.

Avaunt Earth’s weal!
Its bands are steel
To souls that yearn for Heaven;
Avaunt Earth’s pride!
Deep Hell shall hide
Hearts that for fame have striven.
Far be lust of earthly pleasure,
Purity, our priceless treasure,
Christ shall grant us of His store.
What word shall be, &c.

Swift be thy feet,
My own, my sweet,
Thine own true lover follow;
Fear not the veil,
The cloister’s pall
Keeps far Earth’s spectres hollow.
Sinks the fire with fitful flashes,
Soars the Phoenix from his ashes,
Love yields Life for evermore.
What word shall be, &c.

Love, that no power
Of dreariest hour,
Could change, no scorn, no rage,
Now heavenly free
From Earth shall be,
In this, our hermitage.
Winged of love that upward, onward,
Ageless, boundless, bears us sunward,
To the heavens our souls shall soar.
What word shall be, &c.

On reading these verses through in a chapel where she was alone, Pauline
began to weep so bitterly that all the paper was wetted with her tears.
Had it not been for her fear of showing a deeper affection than was
seemly, she would certainly have withdrawn forthwith to some hermitage,
and never have looked upon a living being again; but her native
discretion moved her to dissemble for a little while longer. And
although she was now resolved to leave the world entirely, she feigned
the very opposite, and so altered her countenance, that in company she
was altogether unlike her real self. For five or six months did she
carry this secret purpose in her heart, making a greater show of mirth
than had ever been her wont.

But one day she went with her mistress to the Observance to hear high
mass, and when the priest, the deacon and the sub-deacon came out of the
vestry to go to the high altar, she saw her hapless lover, who had not
yet fulfilled his year of novitiate, acting as acolyte, carrying the
two vessels covered with a silken cloth, and walking first with his
eyes upon the ground. When Pauline saw him in such raiment as did rather
increase than diminish his comeliness, she was so exceedingly moved and
disquieted, that to hide the real reason of the colour that came into
her face, she began to cough. Thereupon her unhappy lover, who knew this
sound better than that of the cloister bells, durst not turn his head;
still on passing in front of her he could not prevent his eyes from
going the road they had so often gone before; and whilst he thus
piteously gazed on Pauline, he was seized in such wise by the fire which
he had considered well-nigh quelled, that whilst striving to conceal it
more than was in his power, he fell at full length before her. However,
for fear lest the cause of his fall should be known, he was led to say
that it was by reason of the pavement of the church being broken in that
place.

When Pauline perceived that the change in his dress had not wrought any
change in his heart, and that so long a time had gone by since he had
become a monk, that every one believed her to have forgotten him, she
resolved to fulfil the desire she had conceived to bring their love to
a like ending in respect of raiment, condition and mode of life, even
as these had been akin at the time when they abode together in the
same house, under the same master and mistress. More than four months
previously she had carried out all needful measures for taking the veil,
and now, one morning she asked leave of the Marchioness to go and hear
mass at the convent of Saint Clara, (5) which her mistress granted her,
not knowing the reason of her request. But in passing by the monastery
of the Grey Friars, she begged the Warden to summon her lover, saying
that he was her kinsman, and when they met in a chapel by themselves,
she said to him:--

5 There does not appear to have been a church of St. Clara
at Mantua, but there was one attached to a convent of that
name at Ferrara.--M. and D.

“Had my honour suffered me to seek the cloister as soon as you, I should
not have waited until now; but having at last by my patience baffled
the slander of those who are more ready to think evil than good, I am
resolved to take the same condition, raiment and life as you have taken.
Nor do I inquire of what manner they are; if you fare well, I shall
partake of your welfare, and if you fare ill, I would not be exempt. By
whatsoever path you are journeying to Paradise I too would follow; for I
feel sure that He who alone is true and perfect, and worthy to be called
Love, has drawn us to His service by means of a virtuous and reasonable
affection, which He will by His Holy Spirit turn wholly to Himself. Let
us both, I pray you, put from us the perishable body of the old Adam,
and receive and put on the body of our true Spouse, who is the Lord
Jesus Christ.”

The monk-lover was so rejoiced to hear of this holy purpose, that he
wept for gladness and did all that he could to strengthen her in her
resolve, telling her that since the pleasure of hearing her words was
the only one that he might now seek, he deemed himself happy to dwell in
a place where he should always be able to hear them. He further declared
that her condition would be such that they would both be the better for
it; for they would live with one love, with one heart and with one mind,
guided by the goodness of God, whom he prayed to keep them in His hand,
wherein none can perish. So saying, and weeping for love and gladness,
he kissed her hands; but she lowered her face upon them, and then,
in all Christian love, they gave one another the kiss of hallowed
affection.

And so, in this joyful mood Pauline left him, and came to the convent of
Saint Clara, where she was received and took the veil, whereof she sent
tidings to her mistress, the Marchioness, who was so amazed that she
could not believe it, but came on the morrow to the convent to see
Pauline and endeavour to turn her from her purpose. But Pauline replied
that she, her mistress, had had the power to deprive her of a husband in
the flesh, the man whom of all men she had loved the best, and with
that she must rest content, and not seek to sever her from One who was
immortal and invisible, for this Was neither in her power nor in that of
any creature upon earth.

The Marchioness, finding her thus steadfast in her resolve, kissed her
and left her, with great sorrow.

And thenceforward Pauline and her lover lived such holy and devout
lives, observing all the rules of their order, that we cannot doubt that
He whose law is love told them when their lives were ended, as He had
told Mary Magdalene: “Your sins are forgiven, for ye have loved
much;” and doubtless He removed them in peace to that place where the
recompense surpasses all the merits of man.

“You cannot deny, ladies, that in this case the man’s love was the
greater of the two; nevertheless, it was so well requited that I would
gladly have all lovers equally rewarded.”

“Then,” said Hircan, “there would be more manifest fools among men and
women than ever there were.”

“Do you call it folly,” said Oisille, “to love virtuously in youth and
then to turn this love wholly to God?”

“If melancholy and despair be praiseworthy,” answered Hircan, laughing,
“I will acknowledge that Pauline and her lover are well worthy of
praise.”

“True it is,” said Geburon, “that God has many ways of drawing us to
Himself, and though they seem evil in the beginning, yet in the end they
are good.”

“Moreover,” said Parlamente, “I believe that no man can ever love God
perfectly that has not perfectly loved one of His creatures in this
world.”

“What do you mean by loving perfectly?” asked Saffredent. “Do you
consider that those frigid beings who worship their mistresses in
silence and from afar are perfect lovers?”

“I call perfect lovers,” replied Parlamente, “those who seek perfection
of some kind in the objects of their love, whether beauty, or goodness,
or grace, ever tending to virtue, and who have such noble and upright
hearts that they would rather die than do base things, contrary and
repugnant to honour and conscience. For the soul, which was created for
nothing but to return to its sovereign good, is, whilst enclosed in the
body, ever desirous of attaining to it. But since the senses, through
which the soul receives knowledge, are become dim and carnal through the
sin of our first parent, they can show us only those visible things that
approach towards perfection; and these the soul pursues, thinking to
find in outward beauty, in a visible grace and in the moral virtues, the
supreme, absolute beauty, grace and virtue. But when it has sought and
tried these external things and has failed to find among them that which
it really loves, the soul passes on to others; wherein it is like a
child, which, when very young, will be fond of dolls and other trifles,
the prettiest its eyes can see, and will heap pebbles together in the
idea that these form wealth; but as the child grows older he becomes
fond of living dolls, and gathers together the riches that are needful
for earthly life. And when he learns by greater experience that in all
these earthly things there is neither perfection nor happiness, he
is fain to seek Him who is the Creator and Author of happiness and
perfection. Albeit, if God should not give him the eye of Faith, he will
be in danger of passing from ignorance to infidel philosophy, since it
is Faith alone that can teach and instil that which is right; for this,
carnal and fleshly man can never comprehend.” (6)

6 The whole of this mystical dissertation appears to have
been inspired by some remarks in Castiglione’s _Libro del
Cortegiano_--which Margaret was no doubt well acquainted
with, as it was translated into French in 1537 by Jacques
Colin, her brother’s secretary. This work, which indeed
seems to have suggested several passages in the
_Heptameron_, was at that time as widely read in France as
in Italy and Spain.--B. J. and D.

“Do you not see,” said Longarine, “that uncultivated ground which bears
plants and trees in abundance, however useless they may be, is valued by
men, because it is hoped that it will produce good fruit if this be sown
in it? In like manner, if the heart of man has no feeling of love for
visible things, it will never arrive at the love of God by the sowing of
His Word, for the soul of such a heart is barren, cold and worthless.”

“That,” said Saffredent, “is the reason why most of the doctors are
not spiritual. They never love anything but good wine and dirty,
ill-favoured serving-women, without making trial of the love of
honourable ladies.”

“If I could speak Latin well,” said Simontault, “I would quote you St.
John’s words: ‘He that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can
he love God whom he hath not seen?’ (7) From visible things we are led
on to love those that are invisible.”

“If,” said Ennasuite, “there be a man as perfect as you say, _quis est
ille et laudabimus eum?_” (8)

7 I St. John, iv. 20.

8 We have been unable to find this anywhere in the
Scriptures.--Ed.

“There are men,” said Dagoucin, “whose love is so strong and true that
they would rather die than harbour a wish contrary to the honour and
conscience of their mistress, and who at the same time are unwilling
that she or others should know what is in their hearts.”

“Such men,” said Saffredent, “must be of the nature of the chameleon,
which lives on air. (9) There is not a man in the world but would fain
declare his love and know that it is returned; and further, I believe
that love’s fever is never so great, but it quickly passes off when one
knows the contrary. For myself, I have seen manifest miracles of this
kind.”

9 A popular fallacy. The chameleon undoubtedly feeds upon
small insects.--D.

“I pray you then,” said Ennasuite, “take my place and tell us about some
one that was recalled from death to life by having discovered in his
mistress the very opposite of his desire.”

“I am,” said Saffredent, “so much afraid of displeasing the ladies,
whose faithful servant I have always been and shall always be, that
without an express command from themselves I should never have dared to
speak of their imperfections. However, in obedience to them, I will hide
nothing of the truth.”

[Illustration: 020.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 021a.jpg The Lord de Riant finding the Widow with her Groom]

[The Lord de Riant finding the Widow with her Groom]

[Illustration: 021.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XX_.

_The Lord of Riant, being greatly in love with a widow lady and finding
her the contrary of what he had desired and of what she had often
declared herself to be, was so affected thereby that in a moment
resentment had power to extinguish the flame which neither length of
time nor lack of opportunity had been able to quench._ (1)

1 The unpleasant discovery related in this tale is
attributed by Margaret to a gentleman of Francis I.’s
household, but a similar incident figures in the
introduction to the _Arabian Nights_. Ariosto also tells
much the same tale in canto xxviii. of his _Rolando
Furioso_, and another version of it will be found in No. 24
of Morlini’s _Novella_, first issued at Naples in 1520.
Subsequent to the _Heptameron_ it supplied No. 29 of the
_Comptes du Monde Adventureux_, figured in a rare imitation
of the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_ printed at Rouen early in
the seventeenth century, and was introduced by La Fontaine
into his well-known tale _Joconde_. On the other hand, there
is certainly a locality called Rians in Provence, just
beyond the limits of Dauphiné, and moreover among Francis
I.’s “equerries of the stable” there was a Monsieur dc Rian
who received a salary of 200 livres a year from 1522 to
1529.--See the roll of the officers of the King’s Household
in the French National Archives, _Sect. Histor_., K. 98.
Some extracts from Brantôme bearing on the story will be
found in the Appendix to this vol. (A).--L. and En.

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

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

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

He was more than ever beginning to hope that some good fortune awaited
him, and continued searching for her as carefully and as quietly as he
could, desiring above all things to find her alone. He came in this way
to a summer-house formed of bended boughs, the fairest and pleasantest
place imaginable, (2) and impatient to see the object of his love, he
went in; and there beheld the lady lying on the grass in the arms of a
groom in her service, who was as ill-favoured, foul and disreputable as
the Lord of Riant was handsome, virtuous and gentle.

2 For a description of a summer-house of the kind referred
to, see Cap’s edition of Palissy’s _Dessein du Jardin
Délectable_, p. 69. Palissy there describes some summer-
houses formed of young elmtrees, with seats, columns,
friezes, and a roofing so cunningly contrived of bent boughs
that the rain could not penetrate into the interior. It is
to some such construction that Queen Margaret refers.--M.

I will not try to depict to you his resentment, but it was so great that
in a moment it had power to extinguish the flame which neither length of
time nor lack of opportunity had been able to impair.

“Madam,” he said to her, being now as full of indignation as once he
had been of love, “much good may this do you! (3) The revelation of your
wickedness has to-day cured me, and freed me from the continual anguish
that was caused by the virtue I believed to be in you.” (4)

3 The French words here are “prou face,” which in Margaret’s
time were very generally used in lieu of “Amen” or “So be
it.”--M.

4 In _Joconde_ La Fontaine gives the end of the adventure as
follows:--

“Sans rencontrer personne et sans etre entendu
Il monte dans sa chambre et voit près de la dame
Un lourdaud de valet sur son sein étendu.
Tous deux dormaient. Dans cet abord Joconde
Voulut les envoyer dormir en l’autre monde,
Mais cependant il n’en fit rien
Et mon avis est qu’il fit bien.”

Both in La Fontaine’s _Conte_ and in Ariosto’s _Rolando_ the
lady is the Queen, and the favoured lover the King’s dwarf.
--Ed.

And with this farewell he went back again more quickly than he had come.

The unhappy woman made him no other reply than to put her hand to her
face; for being unable to hide her shame, she covered her eyes that she
might not see him who in spite of her deceit now perceived it only too
clearly.

“And so, ladies, if you are not minded to love perfectly, do not, I
pray you, seek to deceive and annoy an honest man for vanity’s sake; for
hypocrites are rewarded as they deserve, and God favours those who love
with frankness.”

“Truly,” said Oisille, “you have kept us a proper tale for the end of
the day. But that we have all sworn to speak the truth, I could not
believe that a woman of that lady’s condition could be so wicked both
in soul and in body, and leave so gallant a gentleman for so vile a
muleteer.”

“Ah, madam,” said Hircan, “if you knew what a difference there is
between a gentleman who has worn armour and been at the wars all his
life, and a well-fed knave that has never stirred from home, you would
excuse the poor widow.”

“I do not believe,” said Oisille, “whatever you may say, that you could
admit any possible excuse for her.”

“I have heard,” said Simontault, “that there are women who like to
have apostles to preach of their virtue and chastity, and treat them as
kindly and familiarly as possible, saying that but for the restraints of
honour and conscience they would grant them their desire. And so these
poor fools, when speaking in company of their mistresses, swear that
they would thrust their fingers into the fire without fear of burning in
proof that these ladies are virtuous women, since they have themselves
thoroughly tested their love. Thus are praised by honourable men, those
who show their true nature to such as are like themselves; and they
choose such as would not have courage to speak, or, if they did, would
not be believed by reason of their low and degraded position.”

“That,” said Longarine, “is an opinion which I have before now heard
expressed by jealous and suspicious men, but it may indeed be called
painting a chimera. And even although it be true of one wretched woman,
the same suspicion cannot attach to all.”

“Well,” said Parlamente, “the longer we talk in this way, the longer
will these good gentlemen play the critics over Simontault’s tale, and
all at our own expense. So in my opinion we had better go to vespers,
and not cause so much delay as we did yesterday.”

The company agreed to this proposal, and as they were going Oisille
said:--

“If any one gives God thanks for having told the truth to-day,
Saffredent ought to implore His forgiveness for having raked up so vile
a story against the ladies.”

“By my word,” replied Saffredent, “what I told you was true, albeit I
only had it upon hearsay. But were I to tell you all that I have myself
seen of women, you would have need to make even more signs of the cross
than the priests do in consecrating a church.”

“Repentance is a long way off,” said Geburon, “when confession only
increases the sin.”

“Since you have so bad an opinion of women,” said Parlamente, “they
ought to deprive you of their honourable society and friendship.”

“There are some women,” he returned, “who have acted towards me so much
in accordance with your advice, in keeping me far away from things that
are honourable and just, that could I do and say worse to them, I should
not neglect doing so, in order that I might stir them up to revenge me
on her who does me so much wrong.”

Whilst he spoke these words, Parlamente put on her mask (5) and went
with the others into the church, where they found that although the bell
had rung for vespers, there was not a single monk, present to say them.

5 Little masks hiding only the upper part of the face, and
called _tourets-de-nez_, were then frequently worn by ladies
of rank. Some verses by Christine de Pisan show them to have
been in vogue already in the fourteenth century. In the MS.
copy of Margaret’s poem of _La Coche_ presented to the
Duchess of Etampes, the ladies in the different miniatures
are frequently shown wearing masks of the kind referred to.
Some curious particulars concerning these _tourets_ will be
found in M. Léon do Laborde’s _Le Palais Mazarin et les
grandes habitations de ville et de campagne au XVIIe
Siècle_, Paris, 1846, 8vo, p. 314.--L.

The monks, indeed, had heard that the company assembled in the meadow to
tell the pleasantest tales imaginable, and being fonder of pleasure than
of their prayers, they had gone and hidden themselves in a ditch, where
they lay flat on their bellies behind a very thick hedge; and they had
there listened so eagerly to the stories that they had not heard the
ringing of the monastery bell, as was soon clearly shown, for they
returned in such great haste that they almost lacked breath to begin the
saying of vespers.

After the service, when they were asked why they had been so late and
had chanted so badly, they confessed that they had been to listen to the
tales; whereupon, since they were so desirous of hearing them, it was
granted that they might sit and listen at their ease every day behind
the hedge.

Supper-time was spent joyously in discoursing of such matters as they
had not brought to an end in the meadow. And this lasted through the
evening, until Oisille begged them to retire so that their minds might
be the more alert on the morrow, after a long, sound sleep, one hour
of which before midnight was, said she, better than three after it.
Accordingly the company parted one from another, betaking themselves to
their respective rooms; and in this wise ended the Second Day.

[Illustration: 029.jpg Tailpiece]

THIRD DAY.

_On the Third Day are recounted Tales of the
Ladies who have only sought what was
honourable in Love, and of the
hypocrisy and wickedness
of the Monks_.

PROLOGUE.

Though it was yet early when the company entered the hall on the morrow,
they found Madame Oisille there before them. She had been meditating for
more than half-an-hour upon the lesson that she was going to read; and
if she had contented them on the first and second days, she assuredly
did no less on the third; indeed, but that one of the monks came in
search of them they would not have heard high mass, for so intent were
they upon listening to her that they did not even hear the bell.

When they had piously heard mass, and had dined with temperance to
the end that the meats might in no sort hinder the memory of each from
acquitting itself as well as might be when their several turns came,
they withdrew to their apartments, there to consult their note-books
until the wonted hour for repairing to the meadow was come. When it had
arrived they were not slow to make the pleasant excursion, and those who
were prepared to tell of some merry circumstance already showed mirthful
faces that gave promise of much laughter. When they were seated, they
asked Saffredent to whom he would give his vote for the beginning of the
Third Day.

“I think,” said he, “that since my offence yesterday was as you say very
great, and I have knowledge of no story that might atone for it, I ought
to give my vote to Parlamente, who, with her sound understanding, will
be able to praise the ladies sufficiently to make you forget such truth
as you heard from me.”

“I will not undertake,” said Parlamente, “to atone for your offences,
but I will promise not to imitate them. Wherefore, holding to the truth
that we have promised and vowed to utter, I propose to show you that
there are ladies who in their loves have aimed at nought but virtue. And
since she of whom I am going to speak to you came of an honourable line,
I will just change the names in my story but nothing more; and I pray
you, ladies, believe that love has no power to change a chaste and
virtuous heart, as you will see by the tale I will now begin to tell.”

[Illustration: 035a.jpg Rolandine Conversing With Her Husband]

[Rolandine Conversing With Her Husband]

[Illustration: 035.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXI_.

_Having remained unmarried until she was thirty years of
age, Rolandine, recognising her father’s neglect and her
mistress’s disfavour, fell so deeply in love with a bastard
gentleman that she promised him marriage; and this being
told to her father he treated her with all the harshness
imaginable, in order to make her consent to the dissolving
of the marriage; but she continued steadfast in her love
until she had received certain tidings of the Bastard’s
death, when she was wedded to a gentleman who bore the same
name and arms as did her own family_.

There was in France a Queen (1) who brought up in her household several
maidens belonging to good and noble houses. Among others there was one
called Rolandine, (2) who was near akin to the Queen; but the latter,
being for some reason unfriendly with the maiden’s father, showed her no
great kindness.

Now, although this maiden was not one of the fairest--nor yet indeed was
she of the ugliest--she was nevertheless so discreet and virtuous that
many persons of great consequence sought her in marriage. They had,
however, but a cold reply; for the father (3) was so fond of his money
that he gave no thought to his daughter’s welfare, while her mistress,
as I have said, bore her but little favour, so that she was sought by
none who desired to be advanced in the Queen’s good graces.

1 This is evidently Anne of Brittany, elder daughter of Duke
Francis II. and wife in turn of Charles VIII. and Louis XII.
Brantôme says: “She was the first to form that great Court
of ladies which we have seen since her time until now; she
always had a very great suite of ladies and maids, and never
refused fresh ones; far from it, indeed, for she would
inquire of the noblemen at Court if they had daughters, and
would ask that they might be sent to her.”--Lalanne’s
_OEuvres de Brantôme_, vol. vii. p. 314--L.

2 This by the consent of all the commentators is Anne de
Rohan, elder daughter of John II. Viscount de Rohan, Count
of Porhoët, Léon and La Garnache, by Mary of Brittany,
daughter of Duke Francis I. The date of Anne de Rohan’s
birth is not exactly known, but she is said to have been
about thirty years of age at the time of the tale, though
the incidents related extend over a somewhat lengthy period.
However, we know that Anne was ultimately married to Peter
de Rohan in 1517, when, according to her marriage contract,
she was over thirty-six years old (_Les Preuves de Histoire
ecclésiastique et civile de Bretagne_, 1756, vol. v. col.
940). From this we may assume that she was thirty in or
about 1510. The historical incidents alluded to in the tale
would, however, appear to have occurred (as will be shown by
subsequent notes) between 1507 and 1509, and we are of
opinion that the Queen of Navarre has made her heroine
rather older than she really was, and that the story indeed
begins in or about 1505, when Rolandine can have been little
more than five or six and twenty.--Ed.

3 See notes to Tale XL. (vol. iv).

Thus, owing to her father’s neglect and her mistress’s disdain, the poor
maiden continued unmarried for a long while; and this at last made her
sad at heart, not so much because she longed to be married as because
she was ashamed at not being so, wherefore she forsook the vanities and
pomps of the Court and gave herself up wholly to the worship of God. Her
sole delight consisted in prayer or needlework, and thus in retirement
she passed her youthful years, living in the most virtuous and holy
manner imaginable.

Now, when she was approaching her thirtieth year, there was at Court a
gentleman who was a Bastard of a high and noble house; (4) he was one of
the pleasantest comrades and most worshipful men of his day, but he was
wholly without fortune, and possessed of such scant comeliness that no
lady would have chosen him for her lover.

4 One cannot absolutely identify this personage; but judging
by what is said of him in the story--that he came of a great
house, that he was very brave but poor, neither rich enough
to marry Rolandine nor handsome enough to be made a lover
of, and that a lady, who was a near relative of his, came to
the Court after his intrigue had been going on for a couple
of years--he would certainly appear to be John, Bastard of
Angoulôme, a natural son of Count John the Good, and
consequently half-brother to Charles of Angoulôme ( who
married Louise of Savoy) and uncle to Francis I. and Queen
Margaret. In Père Anselme’s _Histoire Généalogique de la
Maison de France_, vol. i. p. 210 B. there is a record of
the letters of legitimisation granted to the Bastard of
Angoulême at his father’s request in June 1458, and M. Paul
Lacroix points out that if Rolandine’s secret marriage to
him took place in or about 1508, he would then have been
about fifty years old, hardly the age for a lover. The
Bastard is, however, alluded to in the tale as a man of
mature years, and as at the outset of the intrigue (1505) he
would have been but forty-seven, we incline with M. de Lincy
to the belief that he is the hero of it.--Eu.

Thus this poor gentleman had continued unmated, and as one unfortunate
often seeks out another, he addressed himself to Rolandine, whose
fortune, temper and condition were like his own. And while they were
engaged in mutually lamenting their woes, they became very fond of each
other, and finding that they were companions in misfortune, sought out
one another everywhere, so that they might exchange consolation, in this
wise setting on foot a deep and lasting attachment.

Those who had known Rolandine so very retiring that she would speak
to none, were now greatly shocked on seeing her unceasingly with the
well-born Bastard, and told her governess that she ought not to suffer
their long talks together. The governess, therefore, remonstrated with
Rolandine, and told her that every one was shocked at her conversing so
freely with a man who was neither rich enough to marry her nor handsome
enough to be her lover.

To this Rolandine, who had always been rebuked rather for austereness
than for worldliness, replied--

“Alas, mother, you know that I cannot have a husband of my own
condition, and that I have always shunned such as are handsome and
young, fearing to fall into the same difficulties as others. And since
this gentleman is discreet and virtuous, as you yourself know, and tells
me nothing that is not honourable and right, what harm can I have done
to you and to those that have spoken of the matter, by seeking from him
some consolation in my grief?”

The poor old woman, who loved her mistress more than she loved herself,
replied--

“I can see, my lady, that you speak the truth, and know that you are not
treated by your father and mistress as you deserve to be. Nevertheless,
since people are speaking about your honour in this way, you ought to
converse with him no longer, even were he your own brother.”

“Mother,” said Rolandine, “if such be your counsel I will observe it;
but ‘tis a strange thing to be wholly without consolation in the world.”

The Bastard came to talk with her according to his wont, but she told
him everything that her governess had said to her, and, shedding tears,
besought him to have no converse with her for a while, until the rumour
should be past and gone; and to this he consented at her request.

Being thus cut off from all consolation, they both began, however, to
feel such torment during their separation as neither had ever known
before. For her part she did not cease praying to God, journeying and
fasting; for love, heretofore unknown to her, caused her such exceeding
disquiet as not to leave her an hour’s repose. The well-born Bastard was
no better off; but, as he had already resolved in his heart to love
her and try to wed her, and had thought not only of his love but of
the honour that it would bring him if he succeeded in his design, he
reflected that he must devise a means of making his love known to her
and, above all, of winning the governess to his side. This last he did
by protesting to her the wretchedness of her poor mistress, who was
being robbed of all consolation. At this the old woman, with many tears,
thanked him for the honourable affection that he bore her mistress, and
they took counsel together how he might speak with her. They planned
that Rolandine should often feign to suffer from headache, to which
noise is exceedingly distressful; so that, when her companions went into
the Queen’s apartment, she and the Bastard might remain alone, and in
this way hold converse together.

The Bastard was overjoyed at this, and, guiding himself wholly by the
governess’s advice, had speech with his sweetheart whensoever he would.
However, this contentment lasted no great while, for the Queen, who had
but little love for Rolandine, inquired what she did so constantly
in her room. Some one replied that it was on account of sickness, but
another, who possessed too good a memory for the absent, declared that
the pleasure she took in speaking with the Bastard must needs cause her
headache to pass away.

The Queen, who deemed the venial sins of others to be mortal ones in
Rolandine, sent for her and forbade her ever to speak to the Bastard
except it were in the royal chamber or hall. The maiden gave no sign,
but replied--

“Had I known, madam, that he or any one beside were displeasing to you,
I should never have spoken to him.”

Nevertheless she secretly cast about to find some other plan of which
the Queen should know nothing, and in this she was successful. On
Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays she was wont to fast, and would then
stay with her governess in her own room, where, while the others were
at supper, she was free to speak with the man whom she was beginning to
love so dearly.

The more they were compelled to shorten their discourse, the more
lovingly did they talk; for they stole the time even as a robber steals
something that is of great worth. But, in spite of all their secrecy, a
serving-man saw the Bastard go into the room one fast day, and reported
the matter in a quarter where it was not concealed from the Queen. The
latter was so wroth that the Bastard durst enter the ladies’ room no
more. Yet, that he might not lose the delight of converse with his love,
he often made a pretence of going on a journey, and returned in the
evening to the church or chapel of the castle (5) dressed as a Grey
Friar or a Jacobin, or disguised so well in some other way that none
could know him; and thither, attended by her governess, Rolandine would
go to have speech with him.

5 This would be either the château of Amboise or that of
Blois, we are inclined to think the latter, as Louis XII.
more frequently resided there.--Ed.

Then, seeing how great was the love she bore him, he feared not to say--

“You see, fair lady, what risk I run in your service, and how the Queen
has forbidden you to speak with me. You see, further, what manner of
man is your father, who has no thought whatsoever of bestowing you in
marriage. He has rejected so many excellent suitors, that I know of
none, whether near or far, that can win you. I know that I am poor, and
that you could not wed a gentleman that were not richer than I; yet,
if love and good-will were counted wealth, I should hold myself for the
richest man on earth. God has given you great wealth, and you are like
to have even more. Were I so fortunate as to be chosen for your husband,
I would be your husband, lover and servant all my life long; whereas,
if you take one of equal consideration with yourself--and such a one
it were hard to find--he will seek to be the master, and will have
more regard for your wealth than for your person, and for the beauty
of others than for your virtue; and, whilst enjoying the use of your
wealth, he will fail to treat you, yourself, as you deserve. And now my
longing to have this delight, and my fear that you will have none such
with another, impel me to pray that you will make me a happy man, and
yourself the most contented and best treated wife that ever lived.”

When Rolandine heard the very words that she herself had purposed
speaking to him, she replied with a glad countenance--

“I am well pleased that you have been the first to speak such words as
I had a long while past resolved to say to you. For the two years that
I have known you I have never ceased to turn over in my mind all the
arguments for you and against you that I was able to devise; but now
that I am at last resolved to enter into the married state, it is time
that 1 should make a beginning and choose some one with whom I may look
to dwell with tranquil mind. And I have been able to find none, whether
handsome, rich, or nobly born, with whom my heart and soul could agree
excepting yourself alone. I know that in marrying you I shall not offend
God, but rather do what He enjoins, while as to his lordship my father,
he has regarded my welfare so little, and has rejected so many offers,
that the law suffers me to marry without fear of being disinherited;
though, even if I had only that which is now mine, I should, in marrying
such a husband as you, account myself the richest woman in the world. As
to the Queen, my mistress, I need have no qualms in displeasing her
in order to obey God, for never had she any in hindering me from any
blessing that I might have had in my youth. But, to show you that the
love I bear you is founded upon virtue and honour, you must promise that
if I agree to this marriage, you will not seek its consummation until my
father be dead, or until I have found a means to win his consent.”

To this the Bastard readily agreed, whereupon they exchanged rings in
token of marriage, and kissed each other in the church in the presence
of God, calling upon Him to witness their promise; and never afterwards
was there any other familiarity between them save kissing only.

This slender delight gave great content to the hearts of these two
perfect lovers; and, secure in their mutual affection, they lived for
some time without seeing each other. There was scarcely any place where
honour might be won to which the Bastard did not go, rejoicing that he
could not now continue a poor man, seeing that God had bestowed on him
a rich wife; and she during his absence steadfastly cherished their
perfect love, and made no account of any other living man. And although
there were some who asked her in marriage, the only answer they had of
her was that, since she had remained unwedded for so long a time, she
desired to continue so for ever. (6)

6 The speeches of Rolandine and the Bastard should be
compared with some of Clement Marot’s elegies, notably with
one in which he complains of having been surprised while
conversing with his mistress in a church.--B. J.

This reply came to the ears of so many people, that the Queen heard of
it and asked her why she spoke in that way. Rolandine replied that it
was done in obedience to herself, who had never been pleased to marry
her to any man who would have well and comfortably provided for her;
accordingly, being taught by years and patience to be content with her
present condition, she would always return a like answer whensoever any
one spoke to her of marriage.

When the wars were over, (7) and the Bastard had returned to Court, she
never spoke to him in presence of others, but always repaired to
some church and there had speech with him under pretence of going to
confession; for the Queen had forbidden them both, under penalty of
death, to speak together except in public. But virtuous love, which
recks naught of such a ban, was more ready to find them means of speech
than were their enemies to spy them out; the Bastard disguised himself
in the habit of every monkish order he could think of, and thus their
virtuous intercourse continued, until the King repaired to a pleasure
house he had near Tours. (8)

7 The wars here referred to would be one or another of Louis
XII.’s Italian expeditions, probably that of 1507, when the
battle of Aignadel was fought.--Ed.

8 This would no doubt be the famous château of Plessis-lez-
Tours, within a mile of Tours, and long the favourite
residence of Louis XI. Louis XII. is known to have sojourned
at Plessis in 1507, at the time when the States-general
conferred upon him the title of “Father of the People.”
English tourists often visit Plessis now adays in memory of
Scott’s “Quentin Durward,” but only a few shapeless ruins of
the old structure are left.--M. and Ed.

This, however, was not near enough for the ladies to go on foot to any
other church but that of the castle, which was built in such a fashion
that it contained no place of concealment in which the confessor would
not have been plainly recognised.

But if one opportunity failed them, love found them another and an
easier one, for there came to the Court a lady to whom the Bastard
was near akin. This lady was lodged, together with her son, (9) in the
King’s abode; and the young Prince’s room projected from the rest of the
King’s apartments in such a way that from his window it was possible to
see and to speak to Rolandine, for his window and hers were just at the
angle made by the two wings of the house.

9 This lady would be Louise of Savoy. She first came to the
Court at Amboise in 1499, a circumstance which has led some
commentators to place the incidents of this story at that
date. But she was at Blois on various occasions between 1507
and 1509, to negotiate and attend the marriage of her
daughter Margaret with the Duke of Alençon. Louis XII.
having gone from Blois to Plessis in 1507, Louise of Savoy
may well have followed him thither. Her son was, of course,
the young Duke de Valois, afterwards Francis I.--Ed.

In this room of hers, which was over the King’s presence-chamber, all
the noble damsels that were Rolandine’s companions were lodged with her.
She, having many times observed the young Prince at his window, made
this known to the Bastard through her governess; and he, having made
careful observation of the place, feigned to take great pleasure in
reading a book about the Knights of the Round Table (10) which was in
the Prince’s room.

10 Romances of chivalry were much sought after at this time.
Not merely were there MS. copies of these adorned with
miniatures, but we find that _L’Histoire du Saint Gréai, La
Vie et les Prophéties de Merlin, and Les Merveilleux Faits
et Gestes du Noble Chevalier Lancelot du Lac_ were printed
in France in the early years of the sixteenth century.--B.J.

And when every one was going to dinner, he would beg a valet to let him
finish his reading, shut up in the room, over which he promised to keep
good guard. The servants knew him to be a kinsman of his master and one
to be trusted, let him read as much as he would. Rolandine, on her part,
would then come to her window; and, so that she might be able to make
a long stay at it, she pretended to have an infirmity in the leg, and
accordingly dined and supped so early that she no longer frequented the
ladies’ table. She likewise set herself to work a coverlet of crimson
silk, (11) and fastened it at the window, where she desired to be alone;
and, when she saw that none was by, she would converse with her husband,
who contrived to speak in such a voice as could not be overheard; and
whenever any one was coming, she would cough and make a sign, so that
the Bastard might withdraw in good time.

11 In the French, “_Ung lût de reseul:” reticella--i.e._, a
kind of open work embroidery very fashionable in those days,
and the most famous designers of which were Frederic
Vinciolo, Dominic de Sara, and John Cousin the painter.
Various sixteenth and seventeenth century books on
needlework, still extant, give some curious information
concerning this form of embroidery.--M.

Those who kept watch upon them felt sure that their love was past, for
she never stirred from the room in which, as they thought, he could
assuredly never see her, since it was forbidden him to enter it.

One day, however, the young Prince’s mother, (12) being in her son’s
room, placed herself at the window where this big book lay, and had
not long been there when one of Rolandine’s companions, who was at the
window in the opposite room, greeted her and spoke to her. The lady
asked her how Rolandine did; whereon the other replied that she might
see her if she would, and brought her to the window in her nightcap.
Then, when they had spoken together about her sickness, they withdrew
from the window on either side.

12 Louise of Savoy.

The lady, observing the big book about the Round Table, said to the
servant who had it in his keeping--

“I am surprised that young folk can waste their time in reading such
foolishness.”

The servant replied that he marvelled even more that people accounted
sensible and of mature age should have a still greater liking for it
than the young; and he told her, as matter for wonderment, how her
cousin the Bastard would spend four or five hours each day in reading
this fine book. Straightway there came into the lady’s mind the
reason why he acted thus, and she charged the servant to hide himself
somewhere, and take account of what the Bastard might do. This the man
did, and found that the Bastard’s book was the window to which Rolandine
came to speak with him, and he, moreover, heard many a love-speech which
they had thought to keep wholly secret.

On the morrow he related this to his mistress, who sent for the Bastard,
and after chiding him forbade him to return to that place again; and in
the evening she spoke of the matter to Rolandine, and threatened, if she
persisted in this foolish love, to make all these practices known to the
Queen.

Rolandine, whom nothing could dismay, vowed that in spite of all that
folks might say she had never spoken to him since her mistress had
forbidden her to do so, as might be learned both from her companions and
from her servants and attendants. And as for the window, she declared
that she had never spoken at it to the Bastard. He, however, fearing
that the matter had been discovered, withdrew out of harm’s way, and was
a long time without returning to Court, though not without writing to
Rolandine, and this in so cunning a manner that, in spite of the Queen’s
vigilance, never a week went by but she twice heard from him.

When he no longer found it possible to employ monks as messengers, as
he had done at first, he would send a little page, dressed now in one
colour and now in another; and the page used to stand at the doorways
through which the ladies were wont to pass, and deliver his letters
secretly in the throng. But one day, when the Queen was going out into
the country, it chanced that one who was charged to look after this
matter recognised the page, and hastened after him; but he, being
keen-witted and suspecting that he was being pursued, entered the house
of a poor woman who was boiling her pot on the fire, and there forthwith
burned his letters. The gentleman who followed him stripped him naked
and searched through all his clothes; but he could find nothing, and so
let him go. And the boy being gone, the old woman asked the gentleman
why he had so searched him.

“To find some letters,” he replied, “which I thought he had upon him.”

“You could by no means have found them,” said the old woman, “they were
too well hidden for that.”

“I pray you,” said the gentleman, in the hope of getting them before
long, “tell me where they were.”

However, when he heard that they had been thrown into the fire, he
perceived that the page had proved more crafty than himself, and
forthwith made report of the matter to the Queen.

From that time, however, the Bastard no longer employed the page or any
other child, but sent an old servant of his, who, laying aside all fear
of the death which, as he well knew, was threatened by the Queen against
all such as should interfere in this matter, undertook to carry his
master’s letters to Rolandine. And having come to the castle where she
was, he posted himself on the watch at the foot of a broad staircase,
beside a doorway through which all the ladies were wont to pass. But a
serving-man, who had aforetime seen him, knew him again immediately and
reported the matter to the Queen’s Master of the Household, who quickly
came to arrest him. However, the discreet and wary servant, seeing that
he was being watched from a distance, turned towards the wall as
though he desired to make water, and tearing the letter he had into
the smallest possible pieces, threw them behind a door. Immediately
afterwards he was taken and thoroughly searched, and nothing being found
on him, they asked him on his oath whether he had not brought letters,
using all manner of threats and persuasions to make him confess the
truth; but neither by promises nor threats could they draw anything from
him.

Report of this having been made to the Queen, some one in the company
bethought him that it would be well to look behind the door near which
the man had been taken. This was done, and they found what they sought,
namely the pieces of the letter. Then the King’s confessor was sent for,
and he, having put the pieces together on a table, read the whole of the
letter, in which the truth of the marriage, that had been so carefully
concealed, was made manifest; for the Bastard called Rolandine nothing
but “wife.” The Queen, who was in no mind, as she should have been, to
hide her neighbour’s transgressions, made a great ado about the matter,
and commanded that all means should be employed to make the poor man
confess the truth of the letter. And indeed, when they showed it to him,
he could not deny it; but for all they could say or show, he would say
no more than at first. Those who had him in charge thereupon brought him
to the brink of the river, and put him into a sack, declaring that he
had lied to God and to the Queen, contrary to proven truth. But he was
minded to die rather than accuse his master, and asked for a confessor;
and when he had eased his conscience as well as might be, he said to
them--

“Good sirs, I pray you tell the Bastard, my master, that I commend the
lives of my wife and children to him, for right willingly do I yield up
my own in his service. You may do with me what you will, for never shall
you draw from me a word against my master.”

Thereupon, all the more to affright him, they threw him in the sack into
the water, calling to him--

“If you will tell the truth, you shall be saved.”

Finding, however, that he answered nothing, they drew him out again, and
made report of his constancy to the Queen, who on hearing of it declared
that neither the King nor herself were so fortunate in their followers
as was this gentleman the Bastard, though he lacked even the means to
requite them. She then did all that she could to draw the servant into
her own service, but he would by no means consent to forsake his master.
However, by the latter’s leave, he at last entered the Queen’s service,
in which he lived in happiness and contentment.

The Queen, having learnt the truth of the marriage from the Bastard’s
letter, sent for Rolandine, whom with a wrathful countenance she several
times called “wretch” instead of “cousin,” reproaching her with the
shame that she had brought both upon her father’s house and her mistress
by thus marrying without her leave or commandment.

Rolandine, who had long known what little love her mistress bore her,
gave her but little in return. Moreover, since there was no love between
them, neither was there fear; and as Rolandine perceived that this
reprimand, given her in presence of several persons, was prompted less
by affection than by a desire to put her to shame, and that the Queen
felt more pleasure in chiding her than grief at finding her in fault,
she replied with a countenance as glad and tranquil as the Queen’s was
disturbed and wrathful--

“If, madam, you did not know your own heart, such as it is, I would set
forth to you the ill-will that you have long borne my father (13) and
myself; but you do, indeed, know this, and will not deem it strange that
all the world should have an inkling of it too. For my own part, madam,
I have perceived it to my dear cost, for had you been pleased to favour
me equally as you favour those who are not so near to you as myself, I
were now married to your honour as well as to my own; but you passed
me over as one wholly a stranger to your favour, and so all the good
matches I might have made passed away before my eyes, through my
father’s neglect and the slenderness of your regard. By reason of this
treatment I fell into such deep despair, that, had my health been strong
enough in any sort to endure a nun’s condition, I would have willingly
entered upon it to escape from the continual griefs your harshness
brought me.

13 Of all those with pretensions to the Duchy of Brittany,
the Viscount de Rohan had doubtless the best claim, though
he met with the least satisfaction. It was, however, this
reason that led the Queen [Anne of Brittany] to treat him
with such little regard. It was with mingled grief and
resentment that this proud princess realised how real were
the Viscount’s rights; moreover, she never forgave him for
having taken up arms against her in favour of France; and
seeking an opportunity to avenge herself, she found one in
giving the Viscount but little satisfaction in the matter of
his pretensions.”--Dora Morice’s _Histoire ecclésiastique et
civile de Bretagne_, Paris, 1756, vol. ii. p. 231.--L.

“Whilst in this despair I was sought by one whose lineage would be as
good as my own if mutual love were rated as high as a marriage ring; for
you know that his father would walk before mine. He has long wooed and
loved me; but you, madam, who have never forgiven me the smallest fault
nor praised me for any good deed, you--although you knew from experience
that I was not wont to speak of love or worldly things, and that I led a
more retired and religious life than any other of your maids--forthwith
deemed it strange that I should speak with a gentleman who is as
unfortunate in this life as I am myself, and one, moreover, in whose
friendship I thought and looked to have nothing save comfort to my soul.
When I found myself wholly baffled in this design, I fell into great
despair, and resolved to seek my peace as earnestly as you longed to rob
me of it; whereupon we exchanged words of marriage, and confirmed them
with promise and ring. Wherefore, madam, methinks you do me a grievous
wrong in calling me wicked, seeing that in this great and perfect love,
wherein opportunity, had I so desired, would not have been lacking, no
greater familiarity has passed between us than a kiss. I have waited in
the hope that, before the consummation of the marriage, I might by the
grace of God win my father’s heart to consent to it. I have given no
offence to God or to my conscience, for I have waited till the age of
thirty to see what you and my father would do for me, and have kept my
youth in such chastity and virtue that no living man can bring up aught
against me. But when I found that I was old and without hope of being
wedded suitably to my birth and condition, I used the reason that God
has given me, and resolved to marry a gentleman after my own heart. And
this I did not to gratify the lust of the eye, for you know that he is
not handsome; nor the lust of the flesh, for there has been no carnal
consummation of our marriage; nor the ambition and pride of life, for he
is poor and of small rank; but I took account purely and simply of the
worth that is in him, for which every one is constrained to praise him,
and also of the great love that he bears me, and that gives me hope
of having a life of quietness and kindness with him. Having carefully
weighed all the good and the evil that may come of it, I have done what
seems to me best, and, after considering the matter in my heart for two
years, I am resolved to pass the remainder of my days with him. And so
firm is my resolve that no torment that may be inflicted upon me, nor
even death itself, shall ever cause me to depart from it. Wherefore,
madam, I pray you excuse that which is indeed very excusable, as you
yourself must realise, and suffer me to dwell in that peace which I hope
to find with him.”

The Queen, finding her so steadfast of countenance and so true of
speech, could make no reply in reason, but continued wrathfully rebuking
and reviling her, bursting into tears and saying--

“Wretch that you are! instead of humbling yourself before me, and
repenting of so grievous a fault, you speak hardily with never a tear
in your eye, and thus clearly show the obstinacy and hardness of your
heart. But if the King and your father give heed to me, they will put
you into a place where you will be compelled to speak after a different
fashion.”

“Madam,” replied Rolandine, “since you charge me with speaking too
hardily, I will e’en be silent if you give me not permission to reply to
you.”

Then, being commanded to speak, she went on--

“‘Tis not for me, madam, to speak to you, my mistress and the greatest
Princess in Christendom, hardily and without the reverence that I owe to
you, nor have I purposed doing so; but I have no defender to speak for
me except the truth, and as this is known to me alone, I am forced to
utter it fearlessly in the hope that, when you know it, you will not
hold me for such as you have been pleased to name me. I fear not that
any living being should learn how I have comported myself in the matter
that is laid to my charge, for I know that I have offended neither
against God nor against my honour. And this it is that enables me to
speak without fear; for I feel sure that He who sees my heart is on my
side, and with such a Judge in my favour, I were wrong to fear such as
are subject to His decision. Why should I weep? My conscience and my
heart do not at all rebuke me, and so far am I from repenting of this
matter, that, were it to be done over again, I should do just the same.
But you, madam, have good cause to weep both for the deep wrong that you
have done me throughout my youth, and for that which you are now doing
me, in rebuking me publicly for a fault that should be laid at your door
rather than at mine. Had I offended God, the King, yourself, my kinsfolk
or my conscience, I were indeed obstinate and perverse if I did
not greatly repent with tears; but I may not weep for that which
is excellent, just and holy, and which would have received only
commendation had you not made it known before the proper time. In
doing this, you have shown that you had a greater desire to compass my
dishonour than to preserve the honour of your house and kin. But, since
such is your pleasure, madam, I have nothing to say against it; command
me what suffering you will, and I, innocent though I am, will be as
glad to endure as you to inflict it. Wherefore, madam, you may charge
my father to inflict whatsoever torment you would have me undergo, for
I well know that he will not fail to obey you. It is pleasant to know
that, to work me ill, he will wholly fall in with your desire, and that
as he has neglected my welfare in submission to your will, so will he
be quick to obey you to my hurt. But I have a Father in Heaven, and He
will, I am sure, give me patience equal to all the evils that I foresee
you preparing for me, and in Him alone do I put my perfect trust.”

The Queen, beside herself with wrath, commanded that Rolandine should
be taken from her sight and put into a room alone, where she might have
speech with no one. However, her governess was not taken from her, and
through her Rolandine acquainted the Bastard with all that had befallen
her, and asked him what he would have her do. He, thinking that his
services to the King might avail him something, came with all speed to
the Court. Finding the King at the chase, he told him the whole truth,
entreating him to favour a poor gentleman so far as to appease the Queen
and bring about the consummation of the marriage.

The King made no reply except to ask--

“Do you assure me that you have wedded her?”

“Yes, sire,” said the Bastard, “but by word of mouth alone; however, if
it please you, we’ll make an ending of it.”

The King bent his head, and, without saying anything more, returned
straight towards the castle, and when he was nigh to it summoned the
Captain of his Guard, and charged him to take the Bastard prisoner.

However, a friend who knew and could interpret the King’s visage, warned
the Bastard to withdraw and betake himself to a house of his that was
hard by, saying that if the King, as he expected, sought for him, he
should know of it forthwith, so that he might fly the kingdom; whilst
if, on the other hand, things became smoother, he should have word to
return. The Bastard followed this counsel, and made such speed that the
Captain of the Guards was not able to find him.

The King and Queen took counsel together as to what they should do with
the hapless lady who had the honour of being related to them, and by
the Queen’s advice it was decided that she should be sent back to her
father, and that he should be made acquainted with the whole truth.

But before sending her away they caused many priests and councillors to
speak with her and show her that, since her marriage consisted in words
only, it might by mutual agreement readily be made void; and this, they
urged, the King desired her to do in order to maintain the honour of the
house to which she belonged.

She made answer that she was ready to obey the King in all such things
as were not contrary to her conscience, but that those whom God had
brought together man could not put asunder. She therefore begged them
not to tempt her to anything so unreasonable; for if love and goodwill
founded on the fear of God were the true and certain marriage ties, she
was linked by bonds that neither steel nor flame nor water could sever.
Death alone might do this, and to death alone would she resign her ring
and her oath. She therefore prayed them to gainsay her no more; for so
strong of purpose was she that she would rather keep faith and die than
break it and live.

This steadfast reply was repeated to the King by those whom he had
appointed to speak with her, and when it was found that she could by no
means be brought to renounce her husband, she was sent to her father,
and this in so pitiful a plight that all who beheld her pass wept to see
her. And although she had done wrong, her punishment was so grievous and
her constancy so great, that her wrongdoing was made to appear a virtue.

When her father heard the pitiful tale, he would not see her, but sent
her away to a castle in a forest, which he had aforetime built for a
reason well worthy to be related. (14) There he kept her in prison for a
long time, causing her to be told that if she would give up her husband
he would treat her as his daughter and set her free.

14 The famous château of Josselin in Morbihan. See notes to
Tale XL., vol. lv.--Ed.

Nevertheless she continued firm, for she preferred the bonds of prison
together with those of marriage, to all the freedom in the world without
her husband. And, judging from her countenance, all her woes seemed but
pleasant pastimes to her, since she was enduring them for one she loved.

And now, what shall I say of men? The Bastard, who was so deeply
beholden to her, as you have seen, fled to Germany where he had many
friends, and there showed by his fickleness that he had sought Rolandine
less from true and perfect love than from avarice and ambition; for he
fell deeply in love with a German lady, and forgot to write to the woman
who for his sake was enduring so much tribulation. However cruel Fortune
might be towards them, they were always able to write to each other,
until he conceived this foolish and wicked love. And Rolandine’s heart
gaining an inkling of it, she could no longer rest.

And afterwards, when she found that his letters were colder and
different from what they had been before, she suspected that some new
love was separating her from her husband, and doing that which all the
torments and afflictions laid upon herself had been unable to effect.
Nevertheless, her perfect love would not pass judgment on mere
suspicion, so she found a means of secretly sending a trusty servant,
not to carry letters or messages to him, but to watch him and discover
the truth. When this servant had returned from his journey, he told her
that the Bastard was indeed deeply in love with a German lady, and that
according to common report he was seeking to marry her, for she was very
rich.

These tidings brought extreme and unendurable grief to Rolandine’s
heart, so that she fell grievously sick. Those who knew the cause of
her sickness, told her on behalf of her father that, with this great
wickedness on the part of the Bastard before her eyes, she might now
justly renounce him. They did all they could to persuade her to that
intent, but, notwithstanding her exceeding anguish, she could not be
brought to change her purpose, and in this last temptation again gave
proof of her great love and surpassing virtue. For as love grew less and
less on his part, so did it grow greater on hers, and in this way make
good that which was lost. And when she knew that the entire and perfect
love that once had been shared by both remained but in her heart alone,
she resolved to preserve it there until one or the other of them should
die. And the Divine Goodness, which is perfect charity and true love,
took pity upon her grief and long suffering, in such wise that a few
days afterwards the Bastard died while occupied in seeking after another
woman. Being advised of this by certain persons who had seen him laid in
the ground, she sent to her father and begged that he would be pleased
to speak with her.

Her father, who had never spoken to her since her imprisonment, came
without delay. He listened to all the pleas that she had to urge, and
then, instead of rebuking her or killing her as he had often threatened,
he took her in his arms and wept exceedingly.

“My daughter,” he said, “you are more in the right than I, for if there
has been any wrongdoing in this matter, I have been its principal cause.
But now, since God has so ordered it, I would gladly atone for the
past.”

He took her home and treated her as his eldest daughter. A gentleman
who bore the same name and arms as did her own family sought her in
marriage; he was very sensible and virtuous, (15) and he thought so much
of Rolandine, whom he often visited, that he gave praise to what
others blamed in her, perceiving that virtue had been her only aim.
The marriage, being acceptable both to Rolandine and to her father, was
concluded without delay.

It is true, however, that a brother she had, the sole heir of their
house, would not grant her a portion, for he charged her with having
disobeyed her father. And after his father’s death he treated her so
harshly that she and her husband (who was a younger son) had much ado to
live. (16)

15 Peter de Rohan-Gié, Lord of Frontenay, third son of
Peter de Rohan, Lord of Gié, Marshal of Prance and preceptor
to Francis I. As previously stated, the marriage took place
in 1517, and eight years later the husband was killed at
Pavia.--Ed.

16 Anne de Rohan (Rolandine) had two brothers, James and
Claud. Both died without issue. Some particulars concerning
them will be found in the notes to Tale XL. The father’s
death, according to Anselme, took place in 1516, that is,
prior to Anne’s marriage.--Ed.

However, God provided for them, for the brother that sought to keep
everything died suddenly one day, leaving behind him both her wealth,
which he was keeping back, and his own.

Thus did she inherit a large and rich estate, whereon she lived piously
and virtuously and in her husband’s love. And after she had brought up
the two sons that God gave to them, (17) she yielded with gladness her
soul to Him in whom she had at all times put her perfect trust.

17 Anne’s sons were René and Claud. Miss Mary Robinson (_The
Fortunate Lovers_, London, 1887) believes René to be
“Saffredent,” and his wife Isabel d’Albret, sister of Queen
Margaret’s husband Henry of Navarre, to be “Nomerfide.”--Ed.

“Now, ladies, let the men who would make us out so fickle come forward
and point to an instance of as good a husband as this lady was a good
wife, and of one having like faith and steadfastness. I am sure they
would find it so difficult to do this, that I will release them from
the task rather than put them to such exceeding toil. But as for you,
ladies, I would pray you, for the sake of maintaining your own fair
fame, either to love not at all, or else to love as perfectly as she
did. And let none among you say that this lady offended against her
honour, seeing that her constancy has served to heighten our own.”

“In good sooth, Parlamente,” said Oisille, “you have indeed told us
the story of a woman possessed of a noble and honourable heart; but her
constancy derives half its lustre from the faithlessness of a husband
that could leave her for another.”

“I think,” said Longarine, “that the grief so caused must have been
the hardest to bear. There is none so heavy that the love of two united
lovers cannot support it; but when one fails in his duty, and leaves
the whole of the burden to the other, the load becomes too heavy to be
endured.”

“Then you ought to pity us,” said Geburon, “for we have to bear the
whole burden of love, and you will not put out the tip of a finger to
relieve us.”

“Ah, Geburon,” said Parlamente, “the burdens of men and of women are
often different enough. The love of a woman, being founded on godliness
and honour, is just and reasonable, and any man that is false to it must
be reckoned a coward, and a sinner against God and man. On the other
hand, most men love only with reference to pleasure, and women, being
ignorant of their ill intent, are sometimes ensnared; but when God shows
them how vile is the heart of the man whom they deemed good, they may
well draw back to save their honour and reputation, for soonest ended is
best mended.”

“Nay, that is a whimsical idea of yours,” said Hircan, “to hold that an
honourable woman may in all honour betray the love of a man; but that
a man may not do as much towards a woman. You would make out that the
heart of the one differs from that of the other; but for my part, in
spite of their differences in countenance and dress, I hold them to
be alike in inclination, except indeed that the guilt which is best
concealed is the worst.”

Thereto Parlamente replied with some heat--

“I am well aware that in your opinion the best women are those whose
guilt is known.”

“Let us leave this discourse,” said Simontault; “for whether we take
the heart of man or the heart of woman, the better of the twain is worth
nothing. And now let us see to whom Parlamente is going to give her
vote, so that we may hear some fine tale.”

“I give it,” she said, “to Geburon.”

“Since I began,” (18) he replied, “by talking about the Grey friars, I
must not forget those of Saint Benedict, nor an adventure in which they
were concerned in my own time. Nevertheless, in telling you the story of
a wicked monk, I do not wish to hinder you from having a good opinion of
such as are virtuous; but since the Psalmist says ‘all men are liars,’
and in another place, ‘there is none that doeth good, no not one,’ (19)
I think we are bound to look upon men as they really are. If there be
any virtue in them, we must attribute it to Him who is its source, and
not to the creature. Most people deceive themselves by giving overmuch
praise or glory to the latter, or by thinking that there is something
good in themselves. That you may not deem it impossible for exceeding
lust to exist under exceeding austerity, listen to what befel in the
days of King Francis the First.”

18 See the first tale he tells, No. 5, vol. i.--Ed.

19 Psalms cxvi. 11 and xiv. 3.

[Illustration: 071.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 073a.jpg Sister Marie and the Prior]

[Sister Marie and the Prior]

[Illustration: 073.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXII_.

_Sister Marie Heroet, being unchastely solicited by a Prior
of Saint-Martin-in-the-Fields, was by the grace of God
enabled to overcome his great temptations, to the Prior’s
exceeding confusion and her own glory_. (1)

1 This story is historical, and though M. Frank indicates
points of similarity between it and No. xxvii. of St. Denis’
_Comptes du Monde Adventureux_, and No. vi. of Masuccio de
Solerac’s _Novellino_, these are of little account when one
remembers that the works in question were written posterior
to the _Heptameron_. The incidents related in the tale must
have occurred between 1530 and 1535. The Abbey of Saint-
Martin-in-the-Fields stood on the site of the present
Conservatoire des Arts et Métiers, Paris.--Ed.

In the city of Paris there was a Prior of Saint-Martin-in-the-Fields,
whose name I will keep secret for the sake of the friendship I bore him.
Until he reached the age of fifty years, his life was so austere that
the fame of his holiness was spread throughout the entire kingdom, and
there was not a prince or princess but showed him high honour when he
came to visit them. There was further no monkish reform that was not
wrought by his hand, so that people called him the “father of true
monasticism.” (2)

He was chosen visitor to the illustrious order of the “Ladies of
Fontevrault,” (3) by whom he was held in such awe that, when he visited
any of their convents, the nuns shook with very fear, and to soften his
harshness towards them would treat him as though he had been the King
himself in person. At first he would not have them do this, but at last,
when he was nearly fifty-five years old, he began to find the treatment
he had formerly contemned very pleasant; and reckoning himself the
mainstay of all monasticism, he gave more care to the preservation of
his health than had heretofore been his wont. Although the rules of
his order forbade him ever to partake of flesh, he granted himself a
dispensation (which was more than he ever did for another), declaring
that the whole burden of conventual affairs rested upon him; for which
reason he feasted himself so well that, from being a very lean monk he
became a very fat one.

2 This prior was Stephen Gentil, who succeeded Philip
Bourgoin on December 15, 1508, and died November 6, 1536.
The _Gallia Christiana_ states that in 1524 he reformed an
abbey of the diocese of Soissons, but makes no mention of
his appointment as visitor to the abbey of Fontevrault.
Various particulars concerning him will be found in Manor’s
_Monasterii Regalis S. Martini de Campis, &c. Parisiis_,
1636, and in _Gallia Christiana_, vol. vii. col. 539.--L.

3 The abbey of Fontevrault, near Saumur, Maine-et-Loire, was
founded in 1100 by Robert d’Arbrissel, and comprised two
conventual establishments, one for men and the other for
women. Prior to his death, d’Arbrissel abdicated his
authority in favour of Petronilla de Chemillé, and from her
time forward monks and nuns alike were always under the sway
of an abbess--this being the only instance of the kind in
the history of the Roman Catholic Church. Fourteen of the
abbesses were princesses, and several of these were of the
blood royal of France. In the abbey church were buried our
Henry II., Eleanor of Guienne, Richard Coeur-de-Lion, and
Isabella of Angoulême; their tombs are still shown, though
the abbey has become a prison, and its church a refectory.--
Ed.

Together with this change of life there was wrought also a great change
of heart, so that he now began to cast glances upon countenances which
aforetime he had looked at only as a duty; and, contemplating charms
which were rendered even more desirable by the veil, he began to hanker
after them. Then, to satisfy this longing, he sought out such cunning
devices that at last from being a shepherd he became a wolf, so that in
many a convent, where there chanced to be a simple maiden, he failed
not to beguile her. But after he had continued this evil life for a
long time, the Divine Goodness took compassion upon the poor, wandering
sheep, and would no longer suffer this villain’s triumph to endure, as
you shall hear.

One day he went to visit the convent of Gif, (4) not far from Paris,
and while he was confessing all the nuns, it happened that there was one
among them called Marie Heroet, whose speech was so gentle and pleasing
that it gave promise of a countenance and heart to match.

4 Gif, an abbey of the Benedictine order, was situated at
five leagues from Paris, in the valley of Chevreuse, on the
bank of the little river Yvette. A few ruins of it still
remain. It appears to have been founded in the eleventh
century.--See Le Beuf s _Histoire du Diocèse de Paris_, vol.
viii. part viii. p. 106, and _Gallia Christiana_, vol. vii.
col. 596.--L. and D.

The mere sound of her voice moved him with a passion exceeding any that
he had ever felt for other nuns, and, while speaking to her, he bent
low to look at her, and perceiving her rosy, winsome mouth, could not
refrain from lifting her veil to see whether her eyes were in keeping
therewith. He found that they were, and his heart was filled with so
ardent a passion that, although he sought to conceal it, his countenance
became changed, and he could no longer eat or drink. When he returned
to his priory, he could find no rest, but passed his days and nights in
deep disquiet, seeking to devise a means whereby he might accomplish his
desire, and make of this nun what he had already made of many others.
But this, he feared, would be difficult, seeing that he had found her
to be prudent of speech and shrewd of understanding; moreover, he knew
himself to be old and ugly, and therefore resolved not to employ words
but to seek to win her by fear.

Accordingly, not long afterwards, he returned to the convent of Gif
aforesaid, where he showed more austerity than he had ever done before,
and spoke wrathfully to all the nuns, telling one that her veil was not
low enough, another that she carried her head too high, and another
that she did not do him reverence as a nun should do. So harsh was he in
respect of all these trifles, that they feared him as though he had been
a god sitting on the throne of judgment.

Being gouty, he grew very weary in visiting all the usual parts of the
convent, and it thus came to pass that about the hour for vespers, an
hour which he had himself fixed upon, he found himself in the dormitory,
when the Abbess said to him--

“Reverend father, it is time to go to vespers.”

“Go, mother,” he replied, “do you go to vespers. I am so weary that I
will remain here, yet not to rest but to speak to Sister Marie, of
whom I have had a very bad report, for I am told that she prates like a
worldly-minded woman.”

The Abbess, who was aunt to the maiden’s mother, begged him to
reprove her soundly, and left her alone with him and a young monk who
accompanied him.

When he found himself alone with Sister Marie, he began to lift up her
veil, and to tell her to look at him. She answered that the rule of her
order forbade her to look at men.

“It is well said, my daughter,” he replied, “but you must not consider
us monks as men.”

Then Sister Marie, fearing to sin by disobedience, looked him in the
face; but he was so ugly that she though it rather a penance than a sin
to look at him.

The good father, after telling her at length of his goodwill towards
her, sought to lay his hand upon her breasts; but she repulsed him, as
was her duty; whereupon, in great wrath, he said to her--

“Should a nun know that she has breasts?”

“I know that I have,” she replied, “and certes neither you nor any other
shall ever touch them. I am not so young and ignorant that I do not know
the difference between what is sin and what is not.”

When he saw that such talk would not prevail upon her, he adopted a
different plan, and said--

“Alas, my daughter, I must make known to you my extreme need. I have an
infirmity which all the physicians hold to be incurable unless I have
pleasure with some woman whom I greatly love. For my part, I would
rather die than commit a mortal sin; but, when it comes to that, I know
that simple fornication is in no wise to be compared with the sin of
homicide. So, if you love my life, you will preserve it for me, as well
as your own conscience from cruelty.”

She asked him what manner of pleasure he desired to have. He replied
that she might safely surrender her conscience to his own, and that he
would do nothing that could be a burden to either.

Then, to let her see the beginning of the pastime that he sought, he
took her in his arms and tried to throw her upon a bed. She, recognising
his evil purpose, defended herself so well with arms and voice that he
could only touch her garments. Then, when he saw that all his devices
and efforts were being brought to naught, he behaved like a madman and
one devoid not only of conscience but of natural reason, for, thrusting
his hand under her dress, he scratched wherever his nails could reach
with such fury that the poor girl shrieked out, and fell swooning at
full length upon the floor.

Hearing this cry, the Abbess came into the dormitory; for while at
vespers she had remembered that she had left her niece’s daughter alone
with the good father, and feeling some scruples of conscience, she had
left the chapel and repaired to the door of the dormitory in order to
learn what was going on. On hearing her niece’s voice, she pushed open
the door, which was being held by the young monk.

And when the Prior saw the Abbess coming, he pointed to her niece as she
lay in a swoon, and said--

“Assuredly, mother, you are greatly to blame that you did not inform me
of Sister Marie’s condition. Knowing nothing of her weakness, I caused
her to stand before me, and, while I was reproving her, she swooned away
as you see.”

They revived her with vinegar and other remedies, and found that she had
wounded her head in her fall. When she was recovered, the Prior, fearing
that she would tell her aunt the reason of her indisposition, took her
aside and said to her--

“I charge you, my daughter, if you would be obedient and hope for
salvation, never to speak of what I said to you just now. You must know
that it was my exceeding love for you that constrained me, but since
I see that you do not wish to love me, I will never speak of it to you
again. However, if you be willing, I promise to have you chosen Abbess
of one of the three best convents in the kingdom.”

She replied that she would rather die in perpetual imprisonment than
have any lover save Him who had died for her on the cross, for she
would rather suffer with Him all the evils the world could inflict than
possess without Him all its blessings. And she added that he must never
again speak to her in such a manner, or she would inform the Abbess;
whereas, if he kept silence, so would she.

Thereupon this evil shepherd left her, and in order to make himself
appear quite other than he was, and to again have the pleasure of
looking upon her he loved, he turned to the Abbess and said--

“I beg, mother, that you will cause all your nuns to sing a _Salve
Regina_ in honour of that virgin in whom I rest my hope.”

While this was being done, the old fox did nothing but shed tears, not
of devotion, but of grief at his lack of success. All the nuns, thinking
that it was for love of the Virgin Mary, held him for a holy man, but
Sister Marie, who knew his wickedness, prayed in her heart that one
having so little reverence for virginity might be brought to confusion.

And so this hypocrite departed to St. Martin’s, where the evil fire that
was in his heart did not cease burning night and day alike, prompting
him to all manner of devices in order to compass his ends. As he above
all things feared the Abbess, who was a virtuous woman, he hit upon a
plan to withdraw her from the convent, and betook himself to Madame de
Vendôme, who was at that time living at La Fère, where she had founded
and built a convent of the Benedictine order called Mount Olivet. (5)

5 This is Mary of Luxemburg, Countess of St. Paul-de-
Conversan, Marie and Soissons, who married, first, James of
Savoy, and secondly, Francis de Bourbon, Count of Vendôme.
The latter, who accompanied Charles VIII. to Italy, was
killed at Vercelli in October 1495, when but twenty-five
years old. His widow did not marry again, but retired to her
château of La Fère near Laon (Aisne), where late in 1518 she
founded a convent of Benedictine nuns, which, according to
the _Gallia Christiana_, she called the convent of Mount
Calvary. This must be the establishment alluded to by Queen
Margaret, who by mistake has called it Mount Olivet, i.e.,
the Mount of Olives. Madame de Vendôme died at a very
advanced age on April 1, 1546.--See Anselme’s _Histoire
Généalogique_, vol. i. p. 326.--L.

Speaking in the quality of a prince of reformers, he gave her to
understand that the Abbess of the aforesaid Mount Olivet lacked the
capacity to govern such a community. The worthy lady begged him to
give her another that should be worthy of the office, and he, who asked
nothing better, counselled her to have the Abbess of Gif, as being the
most capable in France. Madame de Vendôme sent for her forthwith, and
set her over the convent of Mount Olivet.

As the Prior of St. Martin’s had every monastic vote at his disposal, he
caused one who was devoted to him to be chosen Abbess of Gif, and this
being accomplished, he went to Gif to try once more whether he might win
Sister Marie Heroet by prayers or honied words. Finding that he could
not succeed, he returned in despair to his priory of St. Martin’s, and
in order to achieve his purpose, to revenge himself on her who was so
cruel to him, and further to prevent the affair from becoming known, he
caused the relics of the aforesaid convent of Gif to be secretly stolen
at night, and accusing the confessor of the convent, a virtuous and
very aged man, of having stolen them, he cast him into prison at St.
Martin’s.

Whilst he held him captive there, he stirred up two witnesses who in
ignorance signed what the Prior commanded them, which was a statement
that they had seen the confessor in a garden with Sister Marie, engaged
in a foul and wicked act; and this the Prior sought to make the old monk
confess. But he, who knew all the Prior’s misdoings, entreated him to
bring him before the Chapter, saying that there, in presence of all the
monks, he would tell the truth of all that he knew. The Prior, fearing
that the confessor’s justification would be his own condemnation, would
in no wise grant this request; and, finding him firm of purpose, he
treated him so ill in prison that some say he brought about his death,
and others that he forced him to lay aside his robe and betake himself
out of the kingdom of France. Be that as it may, the confessor was never
seen again.

The Prior, thinking that he had now a sure hold upon Sister Marie,
repaired to the convent, where the Abbess, chosen for this purpose,
gainsaid him in nothing. There he began to exercise his authority as
visitor, and caused all the nuns to come one after the other into a room
that he might hear them, as is the fashion at a visitation. When the
turn of Sister Marie, who had now lost her good aunt, had come, he began
speaking to her in this wise--

“Sister Marie, you know of what crime you are accused, and that your
pretence of chastity has availed you nothing, since you are well known
to be the very contrary of chaste.”

“Bring here my accuser,” replied Sister Marie, with steadfast
countenance, “and you will see whether in my presence he will abide by
his evil declaration.”

“No further proof is needed,” he said, “since the confessor has been
found guilty.”

“I hold him for too honourable a man,” said Sister Marie, “to have
confessed so great a lie; but even should he have done so, bring him
here before me, and I will prove the contrary of what he says.”

The Prior, finding that he could in no wise move her, thereupon said--

“I am your father, and seek to save your honour. For this reason I will
leave the truth of the matter to your own conscience, and will believe
whatever it bids you say. I ask you and conjure you on pain of mortal
sin to tell me truly whether you were indeed a virgin when you were
placed in this house?”

“My father,” she replied, “I was then but five years old, and that age
must in itself testify to my virginity.”

“Well, my daughter,” said the Prior, “have you not since that time lost
this flower?”

She swore that she had kept it, and that she had had no hindrance in
doing so except from himself. Whereto he replied that he could not
believe it, and that the matter required proof.

“What proof,” she asked, “would you have?”

“The same as from the others,” said the Prior; “for as I am visitor of
souls, even so am I visitor of bodies also. Your abbesses and prioresses
have all passed through my hands, and you need have no fear if I visit
your virginity. Wherefore throw yourself upon the bed, and lift the
forepart of your garments over your face.”

“You have told me so much of your wicked love for me,” Sister Marie
replied in wrath, “that I think you seek rather to rob me of my
virginity than to visit it. So understand that I shall never consent.”

Thereupon he said to her that she was excommunicated for refusing him
the obedience which Holy Church commanded, and that, if she did not
consent, he would dishonour her before the whole Chapter by declaring
the evil that he knew of between herself and the confessor.

But with fearless countenance she replied--

“He that knows the hearts of His servants shall give me as much honour
in His presence as you can give me shame in the presence of men; and
since your wickedness goes so far, I would rather it wreaked its cruelty
upon me than its evil passion; for I know that God is a just judge.”

Then the Prior departed and assembled the whole Chapter, and, causing
Sister Marie to appear on her knees before him, he said to her with
wondrous malignity--

“Sister Marie, it grieves me to see that the good counsels I have given
you have been of no effect, and to find you fallen into such evil ways
that, contrary to my wont, I must needs lay a penance upon you. I have
examined your confessor concerning certain crimes with which he is
charged, and he has confessed to me that he has abused your person in
the place where the witnesses say that they saw him. And so I command
that, whereas I had formerly raised you to honourable rank as Mistress
of the Novices, you shall now be the lowest placed of all, and further,
shall eat only bread and water on the ground, and in presence of all
the Sisters, until you have shown sufficient penitence to receive
forgiveness.”

Sister Marie had been warned by one of her companions, who was
acquainted with the whole matter, that if she made any reply displeasing
to the Prior, he would put her _in pace_--that is, in perpetual
imprisonment--and she therefore submitted to this sentence, raising her
eyes to heaven, and praying Him who had enabled her to withstand sin,
to grant her patience for the endurance of tribulation. The Prior of St.
Martin’s further commanded that for the space of three years she should
neither speak with her mother or kinsfolk when they came to see her, nor
send any letters save such as were written in community.

The miscreant then went away and returned no more, and for a long time
the unhappy maiden continued in the tribulation that I have described.
But her mother, who loved her best of all her children, was much
astonished at receiving no tidings from her; and told one of her sons,
who was a prudent and honourable gentleman, (6) that she thought her
daughter was dead, and that the nuns were hiding it from her in order
that they might receive the yearly payment. She, therefore, begged him
to devise some means of seeing his sister.

6 It is conjectured by M. Lacroix that this “prudent and
honourable gentleman,” Mary Heroet’s brother, was Antoine
Heroet or Hérouet, alias La Maisonneuve, who at one time was
a valet and secretary to Queen Margaret, and so advanced
himself in life that he died Bishop of Digne in 1544. He was
the author of _La Parfaite Amie, L’Androgyne, and De n’aimer
point sans être aimé_, poems of a semi-metaphysical, semi-
amorous character such as might have come from Margaret’s
own pen. Whether he was Mary Heroet’s brother or not, it is
at least probable that he was her relative.-B. J. and L.

He went forthwith to the convent, where he met with the wonted excuses,
being told that for three years his sister had not stirred from her bed.
But this did not satisfy him, and he swore that, if he did not see
her, he would climb over the walls and force his way into the convent.
Thereupon, being in great fear, they brought his sister to him at the
grating, though the Abbess stood so near that she could not tell her
brother aught that was not heard. But she had prudently set down in
writing all that I have told you, together with a thousand others of the
Prior’s devices to deceive her, which ‘twould take too long to relate.

Yet I must not omit to mention that at the time when her aunt was
Abbess, the Prior, thinking that his ugliness was the cause of her
refusal, had caused Sister Marie to be tempted by a handsome young monk,
in the hope that if she yielded to this man through love, he himself
might afterwards obtain her through fear. The young monk aforesaid spoke
to her in a garden with gestures too shameful to be mentioned, whereat
the poor maiden ran to the Abbess, who was talking with the Prior, and
cried out--

“Mother, they are not monks, but devils, who visit us here!”

Thereupon the Prior, in great fear of discovery, began to laugh, and
said--

“Assuredly, mother, Sister Marie is right.”

Then, taking Sister Marie by the hand, he said to her in presence of the
Abbess--

“I had heard that Sister Marie spoke very well, and so constantly that
she was deemed to be worldly-minded. For this reason I constrained
myself, contrary to my natural inclination, to speak to her in the way
that worldly men speak to women--at least in books, for in point
of experience I am as ignorant as I was on the day when I was born.
Thinking, however, that only my years and ugliness led her to discourse
in so virtuous a fashion, I commanded my young monk to speak to her as
I myself had done, and, as you see, she has virtuously resisted him.
So highly, therefore, do I think of her prudence and virtue, that
henceforward she shall rank next after you and shall be Mistress of the
Novices, to the intent that her excellent disposition may ever increase
in virtue.”

This act, with many others, was done by this worthy monk during the
three years that he was in love with the nun. She, however, as I have
said, gave her brother in writing, through the grating, the whole story
of her pitiful fortunes; and this her brother brought to her mother, who
came, overwhelmed with despair, to Paris. Here she found the Queen of
Navarre, only sister to the King, and showing her the piteous story,
said--

“Madam, trust no more in these hypocrites. I thought that I had placed
my daughter within the precincts of Paradise, or on the high road
thither, whereas I have placed her in the precincts of Hell, and in the
hands of the vilest devils imaginable. The devils, indeed, do not tempt
us unless temptation be our pleasure, but these men will take by force
when they cannot win by love.”

The Queen of Navarre was in great concern, for she trusted wholly in
the Prior of St. Martin’s, to whose care she had committed her
sisters-inlaw, the Abbesses of Montivilliers and Caen. (7) On the
other hand, the enormity of the crime so horrified her and made her
so desirous of avenging the innocence of this unhappy maiden, that she
communicated the matter to the King’s Chancellor, who happened also to
be Legate in France. (8)

7 The abbess of Montivilliers was Catherine d’Albret,
daughter of John d’Albret, King of Navarre and sister of
Queen Margaret’s husband, Henry. At first a nun at the abbey
of St. Magdalen at Orleans, she became twenty-eighth abbess
of Montivilliers near Havre. She was still living in 1536.
(_Gallia Christ_., vol. xi. col. 285). The abbess of Caen
was Magdalen d’Albret, Catherine’s sister. She took the veil
at Fontevrault in 1527, subsequently became thirty-third
abbess of the Trinity at Caen, and died in November 1532.
(_Gallia Christ_., vol. xi. col. 436).--L.

8 This is the famous Antony Duprat, Francis I.’s favourite
minister. Born in 1463, he became Chancellor in 1515, and
his wife dying soon afterwards, he took orders, with the
result that he was made Archbishop of Sens and Cardinal. It
was in 1530 that he was appointed Papal Legate in France, so
that the incidents related in this tale cannot have occurred
at an earlier date. Duprat died in July 1535, of grief, it
is said, because Francis I. would not support him in his
ambitious scheme to secure possession of the papal see, as
successor to Clement VII.-B. J. and Ed.

The Prior was sent for, but could find nothing to plead except that he
was seventy years of age, and addressing himself to the Queen of Navarre
he begged that, for all the good she had ever wished to do him, and in
token of all the services he had rendered or had desired to render her,
she would be pleased to bring these proceedings to a close, and he would
acknowledge that Sister Marie was a pearl of honour and chastity.

On hearing this, the Queen of Navarre was so astonished that she could
make no reply, but went off and left him there. The unhappy man then
withdrew in great confusion to his monastery, where he would suffer
none to see him, and where he lived only one year afterwards. And Sister
Marie Heroet, now reputed as highly as she deserved to be, by reason of
the virtues that God had given her, was withdrawn from the convent of
Gif, where she had endured so much evil, and was by the King made Abbess
of the the convent of Giy (9) near Montargis.

9 Giy-les-Nonains, a little village on the river Ouanne, at
two leagues and a half from Montargis, department of the
Loiret.--L.

This convent she reformed, and there she lived like one filled with the
Spirit of God, whom all her life long she ever praised for having of His
good grace restored to her both honour and repose.

“There, ladies, you have a story which clearly proves the words of the
Gospel, that ‘God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound
the things which are mighty, and things which are despised of men hath
God chosen to bring to nought the glory of those who think themselves
something but are in truth nothing.’ (10) And remember, ladies, that
without the grace of God there is no good at all in man, just as there
is no temptation that with His assistance may not be overcome. This
is shown by the abasement of the man who was accounted just, and the
exaltation of her whom men were willing to deem a wicked sinner. Thus
are verified Our Lord’s words, ‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be
abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’” (11)

10 I Corinthians i. 27, 28, slightly modified.

11 St. Luke xiv. 11 and xviii. 14.

“Alas,” said Oisille, “how many virtuous persons did that Prior deceive!
For I saw people put more trust in him than even in God.”

“_I_ should not have done so,” said Nomerfide, “for such is my horror of
monks that I could not confess to one. I believe they are worse than
all other men, and never frequent a house without leaving disgrace or
dissension behind them.”

“There are good ones among them,” said Oisille, “and they ought not
to be judged by the bad alone; but the best are those that least often
visit laymen’s houses and women.”

“You are right,” said Ennasuite. “The less they are seen, the less
they are known, and therefore the more highly are they esteemed; for
companionship with them shows what they really are.”

“Let us say no more about them,” said Nomerfide, “and see to whom
Geburon will give his vote.”

“I shall give it,” said he, “to Madame Oisille, that she may tell us
something to the credit of Holy Church.” (12)

12 In lieu of this phrase, the De Thou MS. of the
_Heptameron_ gives the following: “To make amends for his
fault, if fault there were in laying bare the wretched and
abominable life of a wicked Churchman, so as to put others
on their guard against the hypocrisy of those resembling
him, Geburon, who held Madame Oysille in high esteem, as one
should hold a lady of discretion, who was no less reluctant
to speak evil than prompt to praise and publish the worth
which she knew to exist in others, gave her his vote,
begging her to tell something to the honour of our holy
religion.”--L.

“We have sworn,” said Oisille, “to speak the truth, and I cannot
therefore undertake such a task. Moreover, in telling your tale you have
reminded me of a very pitiful story which I feel constrained to relate,
seeing that I am not far from the place where, in my own time, the
thing came to pass. I shall tell it also, ladies, to the end that the
hypocrisy of those who account themselves more religious than their
neighbours, may not so beguile your understanding as to turn your faith
out of the right path, and lead you to hope for salvation from any other
than Him who has chosen to stand alone in the work of our creation and
redemption. He is all powerful to save us unto life eternal, and,
in this temporal life, to comfort us and deliver us from all our
tribulations. And knowing that Satan often transforms himself into an
angel of light so that the outward eye, blinded by the semblance of
holiness and devotion, cannot apprehend that from which we ought to
flee, I think it well to tell you this tale, which came to pass in our
own time.”

[Illustration: 095.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 097a.jpg The Grey Friar deceiving the Gentleman Of Périgord]

[The Grey Friar deceiving the Gentleman Of Périgord]

[Illustration: 097.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXIII_.

_The excessive reverence shown by a gentleman of Périgord to
the Order of St. Francis, brought about the miserable death
of his wife, his little child and himself_. (1)

1 Etienne introduces this tale into his _Apologie pour
Hérodote_, ch. xxi.--B. J.

In the county of Périgord dwelt a gentleman whose devotion to St.
Francis was such that in his eyes all who wore the saint’s robe must
needs be as holy as the saint himself. To do honour to the latter,
he had caused rooms and closets to be furnished in his house for the
lodgment of the brethren, and he regulated all his affairs by their
advice, even to the most trifling household matters, believing that he
must needs pursue the right path if he followed their good counsels.

Now it happened that this gentleman’s wife, who was a beautiful woman
and as discreet as she was virtuous, was brought to bed of a fine boy,
whereat the love which her husband bore her was increased twofold.
One day, in order to entertain his dear, he sent for one of his
brothers-in-law, and just as the hour for supper was drawing nigh, there
arrived also a Grey Friar, whose name I will keep secret out of regard
for his Order. The gentleman was well pleased to see his spiritual
father, from whom he had no secrets, and after much talk among his wife,
his brother-in-law and the monk, they sat down to supper. While they
were at table the gentleman cast his eyes upon his wife, who was indeed
beautiful and graceful enough to be desired of a husband, and thereupon
asked this question aloud of the worthy father--

“Is it true, father, that a man commits mortal sin if he lies with his
wife at the time of her lying-in?” (2)

2 Meaning the period between her delivery and her
churching.--Ed.

The worthy father, whose speech and countenance belied his heart,
answered with an angry look--

“Undoubtedly, sir, I hold this to be one of the very greatest sins that
can be committed in the married state. The blessed Virgin Mary would not
enter the temple until the days of her purification were accomplished,
although she had no need of these; and if she, in order to obey the law,
refrained from going to the temple wherein was all her consolation,
you should of a surety not fail to abstain from such slight pleasure.
Moreover, physicians say that there is great risk to the offspring so
begotten.”

When the gentleman heard these words, he was greatly downcast, for he
had hoped that the good Friar would give him the permission he sought;
however, he said no more. Meanwhile the worthy father, who had drunk
more than was needful, looked at the lady, (3) thinking to himself that,
if he were her husband, he would ask no Friar’s advice before lying
with her; and just as a fire kindles little by little until at last it
envelops the whole house, so this monk began to burn with such exceeding
lust that he suddenly resolved to satisfy a desire which for three years
he had carried hidden in his heart.

3 The French word here is _damoiselle_, by which
appellation the lady is called throughout the story. Her
husband, being a petty nobleman, was a _damoiseau_, whence
the name given to his wife. The word _damoiselle_ is
frequently employed in the _Heptameron_, and though
sometimes it merely signifies an attendant on a lady, the
reference is more frequently to a woman of gentle birth,
whether she be spinster, wife or widow. Only women of high
nobility and of the blood royal were at that time called
_Madame_.--Ed.

After the tables had been withdrawn, he took the gentleman by the
hand, and, leading him to his wife’s bedside, (4) said to him in her
presence--

“It moves my pity, sir, to see the great love which exists between you
and this lady, and which, added to your extreme youth, torments you so
sore. I have therefore determined to tell you a secret of our sacred
theology which is that, although the rule be made thus strict by reason
of the abuses committed by indiscreet husbands, it does not suffer
that such as are of good conscience like you should be balked of all
intercourse. If then, sir, before others I have stated in all its
severity the command of the law, I will now reveal to you, who are a
prudent man, its mildness also. Know then, my son, that there are women
and women, just as there are men and men. In the first place, my
lady here must tell us whether, three weeks having gone by since her
delivery, the flow of blood has quite ceased?”

4 The supper would appear to have been served in the
bedroom, and the tables were taken away as soon as the
repast was over. It seems to us very ridiculous when on the
modern stage we see a couple of lackeys bring in a table
laden with viands and carry it away again as soon as the
_dramatis personæ_ have dined or supped. Yet this was the
common practice in France in Queen Margaret’s time.--Ed.

The lady replied that it had.

“Then,” said the Friar, “I permit you to lie with her without scruple,
provided that you are willing to promise me two things.”

The gentleman replied that he was willing.

“The first,” said the good father, “is that you speak to no one
concerning this matter, but come here in secret. The second is that
you do not come until two hours after midnight, so that the good lady’s
digestion be not hindered.”

These things the gentleman promised; and he confirmed his promise with
so strong an oath that the other, knowing him to be foolish rather than
false, was quite satisfied.

After much converse the good father withdrew to his chamber, giving them
good-night and an abundant blessing. But, as he was going, he took the
gentleman by the hand, and said to him--

“You too, sir, i’ faith must come, nor keep your poor lady longer
awake.”

Thereupon the gentleman kissed her. “Sweetheart,” said he, and the good
father heard him plainly, “leave the door of your room open for me.”

And so each withdrew to his own chamber.

On leaving them the Friar gave no heed to sleep or to repose, and, as
soon as all the noises in the house were still, he went as softly as
possible straight to the lady’s chamber, at about the hour when he was
wont to go to matins, and finding the door open in expectation of the
master’s coming, he went in, cleverly put out the light, and speedily
got into bed with the lady, without speaking a single word.

The lady, believing him to be her husband, said--

“How is this, love? you have kept but poorly the promise you gave
last evening to our confessor that you would not come here before two
o’clock.”

The Friar, who was more eager for action than for contemplation, and
who, moreover, was fearful of being recognised, gave more thought to
satisfying the wicked desires that had long poisoned his heart than to
giving her any reply; whereat the lady wondered greatly. When the friar
found the husband’s hour drawing near, he rose from the lady’s side and
returned with all speed to his own chamber.

Then, just as the frenzy of lust had robbed him of sleep, so now the
fear that always follows upon wickedness would not suffer him to rest.
Accordingly, he went to the porter of the house and said to him--

“Friend, your master has charged me to go without delay and offer up
prayers for him at our convent, where he is accustomed to perform his
devotions. Wherefore, I pray you, give me my horse and open the door
without letting any one be the wiser; for the mission is both pressing
and secret.”

The porter knew that obedience to the Friar was service acceptable to
his master, and so he opened the door secretly and let him out.

Just at that time the gentleman awoke. Finding that it was close on the
hour which the good father had appointed him for visiting his wife, he
got up in his bedgown and repaired swiftly to that bed whither by God’s
ordinance, and without need of the license of man, it was lawful for him
to go.

When his wife heard him speaking beside her, she was greatly astonished,
and, not knowing what had occurred, said to him--

“Nay, sir, is it possible that, after your promise to the good father to
be heedful of your own health and of mine, you not only come before the
hour appointed, but even return a second time? Think on it, sir, I pray
you.”

On hearing this, the gentleman was so much disconcerted that he could
not conceal it, and said to her--

“What do these words mean? I know of a truth that I have not lain with
you for three weeks, and yet you rebuke me for coming too often. If you
continue to talk in this way, you will make me think that my company is
irksome to you, and will drive me, contrary to my wont and will, to seek
elsewhere that pleasure which, by the law of God, I should have with
you.”

The lady thought that he was jesting, and replied--

“I pray you, sir, deceive not yourself in seeking to deceive me; for
although you said nothing when you came, I knew very well that you were
here.”

Then the gentleman saw that they had both been deceived, and solemnly
vowed to her that he had not been with her before; whereat the lady,
weeping in dire distress, besought him to find out with all despatch
who it could have been, seeing that besides themselves only his
brother-in-law and the Friar slept in the house.

Impelled by suspicion of the Friar, the gentleman forthwith went in
all haste to the room where he had been lodged, and found it empty;
whereupon, to make yet more certain whether he had fled, he sent for the
man who kept the door, and asked him whether he knew what had become of
the Friar. And the man told him the whole truth.

The gentleman, being now convinced of the Friar’s wickedness, returned
to his wife’s room, and said to her--

“Of a certainty, sweetheart, the man who lay with you and did such fine
things was our Father Confessor.”

The lady, who all her life long had held her honour dear, was
overwhelmed with despair, and laying aside all humanity and womanly
nature, besought her husband on her knees to avenge this foul wrong;
whereupon the gentleman immediately mounted his horse and went in
pursuit of the Friar.

The lady remained all alone in her bed, with no counsel or comfort near
her but her little newborn child. She reflected upon the strange and
horrible adventure that had befallen her, and, without making any excuse
for her ignorance, deemed herself guilty as well as the unhappiest woman
in the world. She had never learned aught of the Friars, save to have
confidence in good works, and seek atonement for sins by austerity of
life, fasting and discipline; she was wholly ignorant of the pardon
granted by our good God through the merits of His Son, the remission of
sins by His blood, the reconciliation of the Father with us through His
death, and the life given to sinners by His sole goodness and mercy; and
so, assailed by despair based on the enormity and magnitude of her sin,
the love of her husband and the honour of her house, she thought that
death would be far happier than such a life as hers. And, overcome by
sorrow, she fell into such despair that she was not only turned aside
from the hope which every Christian should have in God, but she forgot
her own nature, and was wholly bereft of common sense.

Then, overpowered by grief, and driven by despair from all knowledge of
God and herself, this frenzied, frantic woman took a cord from the bed
and strangled herself with her own hands.

And worse even than this, amidst the agony of this cruel death, whilst
her body was struggling against it, she set her foot upon the face
of her little child, whose innocence did not avail to save it from
following in death its sorrowful and suffering mother. While dying,
however, the infant uttered so piercing a cry that a woman who slept
in the room rose in great haste and lit the candle. Then, seeing her
mistress hanging strangled by the bed-cord, and the child stifled and
dead under her feet, she ran in great affright to the apartment of her
mistress’s brother, and brought him to see the pitiful sight.

The brother, after giving way to such grief as was natural and fitting
in one who loved his sister with his whole heart, asked the serving-woman
who it was that had committed this terrible crime.

She replied that she did not know; but that no one had entered the room
excepting her master, and he had but lately left it. The brother then
went to the gentleman’s room, and not finding him there, felt sure that
he had done the deed. So, mounting his horse without further inquiry,
he hastened in pursuit and met with him on the road as he was returning
disconsolate at not having been able to overtake the Grey Friar.

As soon as the lady’s brother saw his brother-in-law, he cried out to
him--

“Villain and coward, defend yourself, for I trust that God will by this
sword avenge me on you this day.”

The gentleman would have expostulated, but his brother-in-law’s sword
was pressing so close upon him that he found it of more importance to
defend himself than to inquire the reason of the quarrel; whereupon
each dealt the other so many wounds that they were at last compelled by
weariness and loss of blood to sit down on the ground face to face.

And while they were recovering breath, the gentleman asked--

“What cause, brother, has turned our deep and unbroken friendship to
such cruel strife as this?”

“Nay,” replied the brother-in-law, “what cause has moved you to slay
my sister, the most excellent woman that ever lived, and this in so
cowardly a fashion that under pretence of sleeping with her you have
hanged and strangled her with the bed-cord?”

On hearing these words the gentleman, more dead than alive, came to his
brother, and putting his arms around him, said--

“Is it possible that you have found your sister in the state you say?”

The brother-in-law assured him that it was indeed so.

“I pray you, brother,” the gentleman thereupon replied, “hearken to the
reason why I left the house.”

Forthwith he told him all about the wicked Grey Friar, whereat his
brother-in-law was greatly astonished, and still more grieved that he
should have unjustly attacked him.

Entreating pardon, he said to him--

“I have wronged you; forgive me.”

“If you were ever wronged by me,” replied the gentleman, “I have
been well punished, for I am so sorely wounded that I cannot hope to
recover.”

Then the brother-in-law put him on horseback again as well as he might,
and brought him back to the house, where on the morrow he died. And the
brother-in-law confessed in presence of all the gentleman’s relatives
that he had been the cause of his death.

However, for the satisfaction of justice, he was advised to go and
solicit pardon from King Francis, first of the name; and accordingly,
after giving honourable burial to husband, wife and child, he departed
on Good Friday to the Court in order to sue there for pardon, which
he obtained through the good offices of Master Francis Olivier, then
Chancellor of Alençon, afterwards chosen by the King, for his merits, to
be Chancellor of France. (5)

5 M. de Montaiglon has vainly searched the French Archives
for the letters of remission granted to the gentleman. There
is no mention of them in the registers of the Trésor des
Chartes. Francis Olivier, alluded to above, was one of the
most famous magistrates of the sixteenth century. Son of
James Olivier, First President of the Parliament of Paris
and Bishop of Angers, he was born in 1493 and became
successively advocate, member of the Grand Council,
ambassador, Chancellor of Alençon, President of the Paris
Parliament, Keeper of the Seals and Chancellor of France.
This latter dignity was conferred upon him through Queen
Margaret’s influence in April 1545. The above tale must have
been written subsequent to that date. Olivier’s talents were
still held in high esteem under both Henry II. and Francis
II.; he died in 1590, aged 67.--(Blanchard’s _Éloges de tous
les Présidents du Parlement, &c_., Paris, 1645, in-fol. p.
185.)

Ste. Marthe, in his funeral oration on Queen Margaret,
refers to Olivier in the following pompous strain: “When
Brinon died Chancellor of this duchy of Alençon, Francis
Olivier was set in his place, and so greatly adorned this
dignity by his admirable virtues, and so increased the
grandeur of the office of Chancellor, that, like one of
exceeding merit on whom Divine Providence, disposing of the
affairs of France, has conferred a more exalted office, he
is today raised to the highest degree of honour, and, even
as Atlas upholds the Heavens upon his shoulders, so he by
his prudence doth uphold the entire Gallic commonwealth.”--
M. L. and Ed.

“I am of opinion, ladies, that after hearing this true story there is
none among you but will think twice before lodging such knaves in her
house, and will be persuaded that hidden poison is always the most
dangerous.”

“Remember,” said Hircan, “that the husband was a great fool to bring
such a gallant to sup with his fair and virtuous wife.”

“I have known the time,” said Geburon, “when in our part of the country
there was not a house but had a room set apart for the good fathers; but
now they are known so well that they are dreaded more than bandits.”

“It seems to me,” said Parlamente, “that when a woman is in bed
she should never allow a priest to enter the room, unless it be to
administer to her the sacraments of the Church. For my own part, when I
send for them, I may indeed be deemed at the point of death.”

“If every one were as strict as you are,” said Ennasuite, “the poor
priests would be worse than excommunicated, in being wholly shut off
from the sight of women.”

“Have no such fear on their account,” said Saffredent; “they will never
want for women.”

“Why,” said Simontault, “‘tis the very men that have united us to our
wives by the marriage tie that wickedly seek to loose it and bring about
the breaking of the oath which they have themselves laid upon us.”

“It is a great pity,” said Oisille, “that those who administer the
sacraments should thus trifle with them. They ought to be burned alive.”

“You would do better to honour rather than blame them,” said Saffredent,
“and to flatter rather than revile them, for they are men who have it in
their power to burn and dishonour others. Wherefore ‘_sinite eos_,’ and
let us see to whom Oisille will give her vote.”

“I give it,” said she, “to Dagoucin, for he has become so thoughtful
that I think he must have made ready to tell us something good.”

“Since I cannot and dare not reply as I would,” said Dagoucin, “I will
at least tell of a man to whom similar cruelty at first brought hurt but
afterwards profit. Although Love accounts himself so strong and powerful
that he will go naked, and finds it irksome, nay intolerable, to
go cloaked, nevertheless, ladies, it often happens that those who,
following his counsel, are over-quick in declaring themselves, find
themselves the worse for it. Such was the experience of a Castilian
gentleman, whose story you shall now hear.”

[Illustration: 112.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 113a.jpg Elisor showing the Queen her own Image]

[Elisor showing the Queen her own Image]

[Illustration: 113.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXIV_.

_Elisor, having unwisely ventured to discover his love to
the Queen of Castile, was by her put to the test in so cruel
a fashion that he suffered sorely, yet did he reap advantage
therefrom_.

In the household of the King and Queen of Castile, (1) whose names
shall not be mentioned, there was a gentleman of such perfection in all
qualities of mind and body, that his like could not be found in all the
Spains. All wondered at his merits, but still more at the strangeness of
his temper, for he had never been known to love or have connection with
any lady. There were very many at Court that might have set his icy
nature afire, but there was not one among them whose charms had power to
attract Elisor; for so this gentleman was called.

1 M. Lacroix conjectures that the sovereigns referred to
are Ferdinand and Isabella, but this appears to us a
baseless supposition. The conduct of the Queen in the story
is in no wise in keeping with what we know of Isabella’s
character. Queen Margaret doubtless heard this tale during
her sojourn in Spain in 1525. We have consulted many Spanish
works, and notably collections of the old ballads, in the
hope of being able to throw some light on the incidents
related, but have been no more successful than previous
commentators.--Ed.

The Queen, who was a virtuous woman but by no means free from that
flame which proves all the fiercer the less it is perceived, was much
astonished to find that this gentleman loved none of her ladies; and one
day she asked him whether it were possible that he could indeed love as
little as he seemed to do.

He replied that if she could look upon his heart as she did his face,
she would not ask him such a question. Desiring to know his meaning, she
pressed him so closely that he confessed he loved a lady whom he deemed
the most virtuous in all Christendom. The Queen did all that she could
by entreaties and commands to find out who the lady might be, but in
vain; whereupon, feigning great wrath, she vowed that she would never
speak to him any more if he did not tell her the name of the lady he so
dearly loved. At this he was greatly disturbed, and was constrained to
say that he would rather die, if need were, than name her.

Finding, however, that he would lose the Queen’s presence and favour in
default of telling her a thing in itself so honourable that it ought not
to be taken in ill part by any one, he said to her in great fear--

“I cannot and dare not tell you, madam, but the first time you go
hunting I will show her to you, and I feel sure that you will deem her
the fairest and most perfect lady in the world.”

This reply caused the Queen to go hunting sooner than she would
otherwise have done.

Elisor, having notice of this, made ready to attend her as was his wont,
and caused a large steel mirror after the fashion of a corselet to be
made for him, which he placed upon his breast and covered with a cloak
of black frieze, bordered with purflew and gold braid. He was mounted
on a coal-black steed, well caparisoned with everything needful to the
equipment of a horse, and such part of this as was metal was wholly of
gold, wrought with black enamel in the Moorish style. (2)

2 Damascened.--Ed.

His hat was of black silk, and to it was fastened a rich medal on which
by way of device was engraved the god of Love subdued by Force, the
whole enriched with precious stones. His sword and dagger were no
less handsomely and choicely ordered. In a word, he was most bravely
equipped, while so skilled was his horsemanship that all who saw him
left the pleasures of the chase to watch the leaps and paces of his
steed.

After bringing the Queen in this fashion to the place where the nets
were spread, he dismounted from his noble horse and went to assist the
Queen to alight from her palfrey. And whilst she was stretching out her
hands to him, he threw his cloak back from before his breast, and taking
her in his arms, showed her his corselet-mirror, saying--

“I pray you, madam, look here.”

Then, without waiting for her reply, he set her down gently upon the
ground.

When the hunt was over, the Queen returned to the castle without
speaking to Elisor, but after supper she called him to her and told him
that he was the greatest liar she had ever seen; for he had promised to
show her at the hunt the lady whom he loved the best, but had not done
so, for which reason she was resolved to hold him in esteem no more.

Elisor, fearing that the Queen had not understood the words he had
spoken to her, answered that he had indeed obeyed her, for he had shown
her not merely the woman but the thing also, that he loved best in all
the world.

Pretending that she did not understand him, she replied that he had not,
to her knowledge, shown her a single one among her ladies.

“That is true, madam,” said Elisor, “but what did I show you when I
helped you off your horse?”

“Nothing,” said the Queen, “except a mirror on your breast.”

“And what did you see in the mirror?” said Elisor.

“I saw nothing but myself,” replied the Queen.

“Then, madam,” said Elisor, “I have kept faith with you and obeyed your
command. There is not, nor ever will there be, another image in my heart
save that which you saw upon my breast. Her alone will I love, reverence
and worship, not as a woman merely, but as my very God on earth, in
whose hands I place my life or my death, entreating her withal that
the deep and perfect affection, which was my life whilst it remained
concealed, may not prove my death now that it is discovered. And though
I be not worthy that you should look on me or accept me for your lover,
at least suffer me to live, as hitherto, in the happy consciousness that
my heart has chosen so perfect and so worthy an object for its love,
wherefrom I can have no other satisfaction than the knowledge that my
love is deep and perfect, seeing that I must be content to love without
hope of return. And if, now knowing this great love of mine, you should
not be pleased to favour me more than heretofore, at least do not
deprive me of life, which for me consists wholly in the delight of
seeing you as usual. I now have from you nought but what my utmost need
requires, and should I have less, you will have a servant the less, for
you will lose the best and most devoted that you have ever had or could
ever look to have.”

The Queen--whether to show herself other than she really was, or to
thoroughly try the love he bore her, or because she loved another whom
she would not cast off, or because she wished to hold him in reserve to
put him in the place of her actual lover should the latter give her any
offence--said to him, with a countenance that showed neither anger nor
content--“Elisor, I will not feign ignorance of the potency of love, and
say aught to you concerning your foolishness in aiming at so high and
hard a thing as the love of me; for I know that man’s heart is so little
under his own control, that he cannot love or hate at will. But, since
you have concealed your feelings so well, I would fain know how long it
is since you first entertained them.”

Elisor, gazing at her beauteous face and hearing her thus inquire
concerning his sickness, hoped that she might be willing to afford him
a remedy. But at the same time, observing the grave and staid expression
of her countenance, he became afraid, feeling himself to be in the
presence of a judge whose sentence, he suspected, would be against him.
Nevertheless he swore to her that this love had taken root in his heart
in the days of his earliest youth, though it was only during the past
seven years that it had caused him pain,--and yet, in truth, not pain,
but so pleasing a sickness that its cure would be his death.

“Since you have displayed such lengthened steadfastness,” said the
Queen, “I must not show more haste in believing you, than you have shown
in telling me of your affection. If, therefore, it be as you say, I will
so test your sincerity that I shall never afterwards be able to doubt
it; and having proved your pain, I will hold you to be towards me such
as you yourself swear you are; and on my knowing you to be what you say,
you, for your part, shall find me to be what you desire.”

Elisor begged her to test him in any way she pleased, there being
nothing, he said, so difficult that it would not appear very easy
to him, if he might have the honour of proving his love to her; and
accordingly he begged her once more to command him as to what she would
to have him do.

“Elisor,” she replied, “if you love me as much as you say, I am sure
that you will deem nothing hard of accomplishment if only it may bring
you my favour. I therefore command you, by your desire of winning it and
your fear of losing it, to depart hence to-morrow morning without seeing
me again, and to repair to some place where, until this day seven years,
you shall hear nothing of me nor I anything of you. You, who have had
seven years’ experience of this love, know that you do indeed love me;
and when I have had a like experience, I too shall know and believe what
your words cannot now make me either believe or understand.”

When Elisor heard this cruel command, he on the one hand suspected that
she desired to remove him from her presence, yet, on the other, he hoped
that this proof would plead more eloquently for him than any words he
could utter. He therefore submitted to her command, and said--

“For seven years I have lived hopeless, bearing in my breast a hidden
flame; now, however, that this is known to you, I shall spend these
other seven years in patience and trust. But, madam, while I obey your
command, which robs me of all the happiness that I have heretofore had
in the world, what hope will you give me that at the end of the seven
years you will accept me as your faithful and devoted lover?”

“Here is a ring,” said the Queen, drawing one from her finger, “which we
will cut in two. I will keep one half, and you shall keep the other, (3)
so that I may know you by this token, if the lapse of time should cause
me to forget your face.”

3 This was a common practice at the time between lovers, and
even between husbands and wives. There is the familiar but
doubtful story of Frances de Foix, Countess of
Châteaubriant, who became Francis I.’s mistress, and who is
said to have divided a ring in this manner with her husband,
it being understood between them that she was not to repair
to Court, or even leave her residence in Brittany, unless
her husband sent her as a token the half of the ring which
he had kept. Francis I., we are told, heard of this, and
causing a ring of the same pattern to be made, he sent half
of it to the Countess, who thereupon came to Court,
imagining that it was her husband who summoned her. Whether
the story be true or not, it should be mentioned that the
sole authority for it is Varillas, whose errors and
inventions are innumerable.--Ed.

Elisor took the ring and broke it in two, giving one half of it to the
Queen, and keeping the other himself. Then, more corpse-like than those
who have given up the ghost, he took his leave, and went to his
lodging to give orders for his departure. In doing this he sent all his
attendants to his house, and departed alone with one servingman to
so solitary a spot that none of his friends or kinsfolk could obtain
tidings of him during the seven years.

Of the life that he led during this time, and the grief that he endured
through this banishment, nothing is recorded, but lovers cannot be
ignorant of their nature. At the end of the seven years, just as the
Queen was one day going to mass, a hermit with a long beard came to her,
kissed her hand, and presented her with a petition. This she did not
look at immediately, although it was her custom to receive in her own
hands all the petitions that were presented to her, no matter how poor
the petitioners might be.

When mass was half over, however, she opened the petition, and found in
it the half-ring which she had given to Elisor. At this she was not
less glad than astonished, and before reading the contents she instantly
commanded her almoner to bring her the tall hermit who had presented her
the petition.

The almoner looked for him everywhere, but could obtain no tidings of
him, except that some one said that he had seen him mount a horse, but
knew not what road he had taken.

Whilst she was waiting for the almoner’s return, the Queen read the
petition, which she found to be an epistle in verse, written in the best
style imaginable; and were it not that I would have you acquainted
with it, I should never have dared to translate it; for you must know,
ladies, that, for grace and expression, the Castilian is beyond compare
the tongue which is best fitted to set forth the passion of love. The
matter of the letter was as follows:--

“Time, by his puissance stern, his sov’reign might,
Hath made me learn love’s character aright;
And, bringing with him, in his gloomy train,
The speechless eloquence of bitter pain,
Hath caused the unbelieving one to know
What words of love were impotent to show.
Time made my heart, aforetime, meekly bow
Unto the mastery of love; but now
Time hath, at last, revealed love to be
Far other than it once appeared to me;
And Time the frail foundation hath made clear
Whereon I purposed, once, my love to rear--
To wit, your beauty, which but served as sheath
To hide the cruelty that lurked beneath.

Yea, Time hath shown me beauty’s nothingness
And taught me e’en your cruelty to bless,
That cruelty which banished me the place
Where I, at least, had gazed upon your face.
And when no more I saw your beauty beam
The harsher yet your cruelty did seem;
Yet in obedience failed I not, and this
Hath been the means of compassing my bliss.
For Time, love’s parent, pitiful at last,
Upon my woe commiserate eyes hath cast,
And done to me so excellent a turn,
That, if I now come back, think not I yearn
To sigh and dally, and renew the spell--
I only come to bid a last farewell.

Time, the revealer, hath not failed to prove
How base and sorry is all human love,
So that through Time, I now that time regret
When all my fancy upon love was set,
For then Time wasted was, lost in love’s chains,
Sorrow whereof is all that now remains.
And Time in teaching me _that_ love’s deceit
Hath brought another, far more pure and sweet,
To dwell within me, in the lonely spot
Where tears and silence long have been my lot.
Time, to my heart, that higher love hath brought
With which the lower can no more be sought;
Time hath the latter into exile driven,
And, to the first, myself hath wholly given,
And consecrated to its service true
The heart and hand I erst had given to you.

When I was yours you nothing showed of grace,
And I that nothing loved, for your fair face;
Then, death for loyalty, you sought to give,
And I, in fleeing it, have learnt to live.
For, by the tender love that Time hath brought
The other vanquished is, and turned to nought;
Once did it lure and lull me, but I swear
It now hath wholly vanished in thin air.
And so your love and you I gladly leave,
And, needing neither, will forbear to grieve;
The other perfect, lasting love is mine,
To it I turn, nor for the lost one pine.

My leave I take of cruelty and pain,
Of hatred, bitter torment, cold disdain,
And those hot flames which fill you, and which fire
Him, that beholds your beauty, with desire.
Nor can I better part from ev’ry throe,
From ev’ry evil hap, and stress of woe,
And the fierce passion of love’s awful hell,
Than by this single utterance: _Farewell_.
Learn therefore, that whate’er may be in store,
Each other’s faces we shall see no more.”

This letter was not read without many tears and much astonishment on the
Queen’s part, together with regret surpassing belief; for the loss of
a lover filled with so perfect a love must needs have been keenly felt;
and not all her treasures, nor even her kingdom itself, could hinder the
Queen from being the poorest and most wretched lady in the world, seeing
that she had lost that which all the world’s wealth could not replace.
And having heard mass to the end and returned to her apartment, she
there made such mourning as her cruelty had provoked. And there was not
a mountain, a rock or a forest to which she did not send in quest of the
hermit; but He who had withdrawn him out of her hands preserved him from
falling into them again, and took him away to Paradise before she could
gain tidings of him in this world.

“This instance shows that a lover should never acknowledge that which
may do him harm and in no wise help him. And still less, ladies, should
you in your incredulity demand so hard a test, lest in getting your
proof you lose your lover.”

“Truly, Dagoucin,” said Geburon, “I had all my life long deemed the lady
of your story to be the most virtuous in the world, but now I hold her
for the most cruel woman that ever lived.”

“Nevertheless,” said Parlamente, “it seems to me that she did him no
wrong in wishing to try him for seven years, in order to see whether
he did love her as much as he said. Men are so wont to speak falsely
in these matters that before trusting them, if indeed one trust them at
all, one cannot put them to the proof too long.”

“The ladies of our day,” said Hircan, “are far wiser than those of past
times, for they are as sure of a lover after a seven days’ trial as the
others were after seven years.”

“Yet there are those in this company,” said Longarine, “who have been
loved with all earnestness for seven years and more, and albeit have not
been won.”

“‘Fore God,” said Simontault, “you speak the truth; but such as they
ought to be ranked with the ladies of former times, for they cannot be
recognised as belonging to the present.”

“After all,” said Oisille, “the gentleman was much beholden to the lady,
for it was owing to her that he devoted his heart wholly to God.”

“It was very fortunate for him,” said Saffredent, “that he found God
upon the way, for, considering the grief he was in, I am surprised that
he did not give himself to the devil.”

“And did you give yourself to such a master,” asked Ennasuite, “when
your lady ill used you?”

“Yes, thousands of times,” said Saffredent, “but the devil, seeing that
all the torments of hell could bring me no more suffering than those
which she caused me to endure, never condescended to take me. He knew
full well that no devil is so bad as a lady who is deeply loved and will
make no return.”

“If I were you,” said Parlamente to Saffredent, “and held such an
opinion as that, I would never make love to woman.”

“My affection,” said Saffredent, “and my folly are always so great, that
where I cannot command I am well content to serve. All the ill-will of
the ladies cannot subdue the love that I bear them. But, I pray you,
tell me on your conscience, do you praise this lady for such great
harshness?”

“Ay,” said Oisille, “I do, for I think that she wished neither to
receive love nor to bestow it.”

“If such was her mind,” said Simontault, “why did she hold out to him
the hope of being loved after the seven years were past?”

“I am of your opinion,” said Longarine, “for ladies who are unwilling
to love give no occasion for the continuance of the love that is offered
them.”

“Perhaps,” said Nomerfide, “she loved some one else less worthy than
that honourable gentleman, and so forsook the better for the worse.”

“‘T faith,” said Saffredent, “I think that she meant to keep him in
readiness and take him whenever she might leave the other whom for the
time she loved the best.”

“I can see,” said Oisille, (4) “that the more we talk in this way, the
more those who would not be harshly treated will do their utmost to
speak ill of us. Wherefore, Dagoucin, I pray you give some lady your
vote.”

4 Prior to this sentence the following passage occurs in
the De Thou MS.: “When Madame Oysille saw that the men,
under pretence of censuring the Queen of Castille for
conduct which certainly cannot be praised either in her or
in any other, continued saying so much evil of women, that
the most discreet and virtuous were spared no more than the
most foolish and wanton, she could endure it no longer, but
spoke and said,” &c.--L.

“I give it,” he said, “to Longarine, for I feel sure that she will
tell us no melancholy story, and that she will speak the truth without
sparing man or woman.”

“Since you deem me so truthful,” said Longarine, “I will be so bold as
to relate an adventure that befel a very great Prince, who surpasses
in worth all others of his time. Lying and dissimulation are, indeed,
things not to be employed save in cases of extreme necessity; they are
foul and infamous vices, more especially in Princes and great lords,
on whose lips and features truth sits more becomingly than on those of
other men. But no Prince in the world however great he be, even though
he have all the honours and wealth he may desire, can escape being
subject to the empire and tyranny of Love; indeed it would seem that
the nobler and more high-minded the Prince, the more does Love strive to
bring him under his mighty hand. For this glorious God sets no store
by common things; his majesty rejoices solely in the daily working of
miracles, such as weakening the strong, strengthening the weak, giving
knowledge to the simple, taking intelligence from the most learned,
favouring the passions, and overthrowing the reason. In such
transformations as these does the Deity of Love delight. Now since
Princes are not exempt from love’s thraldom, so also are they not free
from its necessities, and must therefore perforce be permitted to employ
falsehood, hypocrisy and deceit, which, according to the teaching of
Master Jehan de Mehun, (5) are the means to be employed for vanquishing
our enemies. And, since such conduct is praiseworthy on the part of a
Prince in such a case as this (though in any other it were deserving
of blame), I will relate to you the devices to which a young Prince
resorted, and by which he contrived to deceive those who are wont to
deceive the whole world.”

5 John dc Melun, who continued the _Roman de la Rose_ begun
by Lorris.--D.

[Illustration: 130.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 131a.jpg The Advocate’s Wife attending on the Prince]

[The Advocate’s Wife attending on the Prince]

[Illustration: 131.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXV_.

_A young Prince, whilst pretending to visit his lawyer and
talk with him of his affairs, conversed so freely with the
lawyer’s wife, that he obtained from her what he desired_.

In the city of Paris there dwelt an advocate who was more highly thought
of than any other of his condition, (1) and who, being sought after by
every one on account of his excellent parts, had become the richest of
all those who wore the gown.

1 In five of the oldest MSS. of the _Heptameron_, and in
the original editions of 1558, 1559, and 1560, the words are
“than nine others of his condition.” The explanation of this
is, that the advocate’s name, as ascertained by Baron Jerome
Pichon, was Disome, which, written Dix-hommes, would
literally mean “ten men.” Baron Pichon has largely
elucidated this story, and the essential points of his
notice, contributed to the _Mélanges de la Société des
Bibliophiles Français_, will be found summarized in the
Appendix to this volume, B.--Ed.

Now, although he had had no children by his first wife, he was in hopes
of having some by a second; for, although his body was no longer hearty,
his heart and hopes were as much alive as ever. Accordingly, he made
choice of one of the fairest maidens in the city; she was between
eighteen and nineteen years of age, very handsome both in features and
complexion, and still more handsome in figure. He loved her and treated
her as well as could be; but he had no children by her any more than by
his first wife, and this at last made her unhappy. And as youth cannot
endure grief, she sought diversion away from home, and betook herself
to dances and feasts; yet she did this in so seemly a fashion that her
husband could not take it ill, for she was always in the company of
women in whom he had trust.

One day, when she was at a wedding, there was also present a Prince of
very high degree, who, when telling me the story, forbade me to discover
his name. I may, however, tell you that he was the handsomest and most
graceful Prince that has ever been or, in my opinion, ever will be in
this realm. (2)

2 Francis L, prior to his accession.--Ed.

The Prince, seeing this fair and youthful lady whose eyes and
countenance invited him to love her, came and spoke to her with such
eloquence and grace that she was well pleased with his discourse.

Nor did she seek to hide from him that she had long had in her heart the
love for which he prayed, but entreated that he would spare all pains to
persuade her to a thing to which love, at first sight, had brought her
to consent. Having, by the artlessness of love, so promptly gained what
was well worth the pains of being won by time, the young Prince thanked
God for His favour, and forthwith contrived matters so well that they
agreed together in devising a means for seeing each other in private.

The young Prince failed not to appear at the time and place that had
been agreed upon, and, that he might not injure his lady’s honour, he
went in disguise. On account, however, of the evil fellows (3) who were
wont to prowl at night through the city, and to whom he cared not
to make himself known, he took with him certain gentlemen in whom he
trusted.

3 The French expression here is _mauvais garsons_, a name
generally given to foot-pads at that time, but applied more
particularly to a large band of brigands who, in the
confusion prevailing during Francis I.’s captivity in Spain,
began to infest the woods and forests around Paris, whence
at night-time they descended upon the city. Several
engagements were fought between them and the troops of the
Queen-Regent, and although their leader, called King
Guillot, was captured and hanged, the remnants of the band
continued their depredations for several years.--B. J.

And on entering the street in which the lady lived, he parted from them,
saying--

“If you hear no noise within a quarter of an hour, go home again, and
come back here for me at about three or four o’clock.”

They did as they were commanded, and, hearing no noise, withdrew.

The young Prince went straight to his advocate’s house, where he found
the door open as had been promised him. But as he was ascending the
staircase he met the husband, carrying a candle in his hand, and was
perceived by him before he was aware. However Love, who provides wit and
boldness to contend with the difficulties that he creates, prompted the
young Prince to go straight up to him and say--

“Master advocate, you know the trust which I and all belonging to my
house have ever put in you, and how I reckon you among my best and
truest servants. I have now thought it well to visit you here in
private, both to commend my affairs to you, and also to beg you to give
me something to drink, for I am in great thirst. And, I pray you, tell
none that I have come here, for from this place I must go to another
where I would not be known.”

The worthy advocate was well pleased at the honour which the Prince paid
him in coming thus privately to his house, and, leading him to his
own room, he bade his wife prepare a collation of the best fruits and
confections that she had.

Although the garments she wore, a kerchief and mantle, made her appear
more beautiful than ever, the young Prince affected not to look at her
or notice her, but spoke unceasingly to her husband about his affairs,
as to one who had long had them in his hands. And, whilst the lady was
kneeling with the confections before the Prince, and her husband was
gone to the sideboard in order to serve him with drink, she told him
that on leaving the room he must not fail to enter a closet which he
would find on the right hand, and whither she would very soon come to
see him.

As soon as he had drunk, he thanked the advocate, who was all eagerness
to attend him; but the Prince assured him that in the place whither he
was going he had no need of attendance, and thereupon turning to the
wife, he said--

“Moreover, I will not do so ill as to deprive you of your excellent
husband, who is also an old servant of mine. Well may you render thanks
to God since you are so fortunate as to have such a husband, well may
you render him service and obedience. If you did otherwise, you would be
blameworthy indeed.”

With these virtuous words the young Prince went away, and, closing the
door behind him so that he might not be followed to the staircase,
he entered the closet, whither also came the fair lady as soon as her
husband had fallen asleep.

Thence she led the Prince into a cabinet as choicely furnished as might
be, though in truth there were no fairer figures in it than he and she,
no matter what garments they may have been pleased to wear. And here, I
doubt not, she kept word with him as to all that she had promised.

He departed thence at the hour which he had appointed with his
gentlemen, and found them at the spot where he had aforetime bidden them
wait.

As this intercourse lasted a fairly long time, the young Prince chose
a shorter way to the advocate’s house, and this led him through a
monastery of monks. (4) And so well did he contrive matters with the
Prior, that the porter used always to open the gate for him about
midnight, and do the like also when he returned. And, as the house which
he visited was hard by, he used to take nobody with him.

4 If at this period Jane Disome, the heroine of the story,
lived in the Rue de la Pauheminerie, where she is known to
have died some years afterwards, this monastery, in Baron
Jerome Pichon’s opinion, would be the Blancs-Manteaux, in
the Marais district of Paris. We may further point out that
in the Rue Barbette, near by, there was till modern times a
house traditionally known as the “hôtel de la belle
Féronnière.” That many writers have confused the heroine of
this tale with La Belle Féronnière (so called because her
husband was a certain Le Féron, an advocate) seems manifest;
the intrigue in which the former took part was doubtless
ascribed in error to the latter, and the proximity of their
abodes may have led to the mistake. It should be pointed
out, however, that the amour here recorded by Queen Margaret
took place in or about the year 1515, before Francis I.
ascended the throne, whereas La Féronnière was in all her
beauty between 1530 and 1540. The tradition that the King
had an intrigue with La Féronnière reposes on the flimsiest
evidence (see Appendix B), and the supposition, re-echoed by
the Bibliophile Jacob, that it was carried on in the Rue de
l’Hirondelle, is entirely erroneous. The house, adorned with
the salamander device and corneted initials of Francis I.,
which formerly extended from that street to the Rue Git-le-
Coeur, never had any connection with La Féronnière. It was
the famous so-called Palace of Love which the King built for
his acknowledged mistress, Anne de Pisseleu, Duchess of
Étampes.--Ed.

Although he led the life that I have described, he was nevertheless a
Prince that feared and loved God, and although he made no pause when
going, he never failed on his return to continue for a long time praying
in the church. And the monks, who when going to and fro at the hour of
matins used to see him there on his knees, were thereby led to consider
him the holiest man alive.

This Prince had a sister (5) who often visited this monastery, and as
she loved her brother more than any other living being, she used to
commend him to the prayers of all whom she knew to be good.

5 This of course is Queen Margaret, then Duchess of
Alençon. On account of her apparent intimacy with the prior,
M. de Montaiglon conjectures that the monastery may have
been that of St. Martin-in-the-Fields.--See ante, Tale
XXII.--Ed.

One day, when she was in this manner commending him lovingly to the
Prior of the monastery, the Prior said to her--

“Ah, madam, whom are you thus commending to me? You are speaking to me
of a man in whose prayers, above those of all others, I would myself
fain be remembered. For if he be not a holy man and a just”--here he
quoted the passage which says, “Blessed is he that can do evil and doeth
it not”--“_I_ cannot hope to be held for such.”

The sister, wishing to learn what knowledge this worthy father could
have of her brother’s goodness, questioned him so pressingly that he at
last told her the secret under the seal of the confessional, saying--

“Is it not an admirable thing to see a young and handsome Prince forsake
pleasure and repose in order to come so often to hear our matins? Nor
comes he like a Prince seeking honour of men, but quite alone, like a
simple monk, and hides himself in one of our chapels. Truly such piety
so shames both the monks and me, that we do not deem ourselves worthy of
being called men of religion in comparison with him.”

When the sister heard these words she was at a loss what to think. She
knew that, although her brother was worldly enough, he had a tender
conscience, as well as great faith and love towards God; but she had
never suspected him of a leaning towards any superstitions or rites save
such as a good Christian should observe. (6) She therefore went to him
and told him the good opinion that the monks had of him, whereat he
could not hold from laughing, and in such a manner that she, knowing
him as she did her own heart, perceived that there was something hidden
beneath his devotion; whereupon she rested not until she had made him
tell her the truth.

6 In Boaistuau’s edition this sentence ends, “But she had
never suspected him of going to church at such an hour as
this.”--L.

And she has made me here set it down in writing, for the purpose,
ladies, of showing you that there is no lawyer so crafty and no monk
so shrewd, but love, in case of need, gives the power of tricking them
both, to those whose sole experience is in truly loving. And since love
can thus deceive the deceivers, well may we, who are simple and ignorant
folk, stand in awe of him.

“Although,” said Geburon, “I can pretty well guess who the young Prince
is, I must say that in this matter he was worthy of praise. We meet with
few great lords who reck aught of a woman’s honour or a public scandal,
if only they have their pleasure; nay, they are often well pleased to
have men believe something that is even worse than the truth.”

“Truly,” said Oisille, “I could wish that all young lords would follow
his example, for the scandal is often worse than the sin.”

“Of course,” said Nomerfide, “the prayers he offered up at the monastery
through which he passed were sincere.”

“That is not a matter for you to judge,” said Parlamente, “for perhaps
his repentance on his return was great enough to procure him the pardon
of his sin.”

“‘Tis a hard matter,” said Hircan, “to repent of an offence so pleasing.
For my own part I have many a time confessed such a one, but seldom have
I repented of it.”

“It would be better,” said Oisille, “not to confess at all, if one do
not sincerely repent.”

“Well, madam,” said Hircan, “sin sorely displeases me, and I am grieved
to offend God, but, for all that, such sin is ever a pleasure to me.”

“You and those like you,” said Parlamente, “would fain have neither God
nor law other than your own desires might set up.”

“I will own to you,” said Hircan, “that I would gladly have God take as
deep a pleasure in my pleasures as I do myself, for I should then often
give Him occasion to rejoice.”

“However, you cannot set up a new God,” said Geburon, “and so we must
e’en obey the one we have. Let us therefore leave such disputes to
theologians, and allow Longarine to give some one her vote.”

“I give it,” she said, “to Saffredent, but I will beg him to tell us the
finest tale he can think of, and not to be so intent on speaking evil
of women as to hide the truth when there is something good of them to
relate.”

“In sooth,” said Saffredent, “I consent, for I have here in hand the
story of a wanton woman and a discreet one, and you shall take example
by her who pleases you best. You will see that just as love leads wicked
people to do wicked things, so does it lead a virtuous heart to do
things that are worthy of praise; for love in itself is good, although
the evil that is in those that are subject to it often makes it take a
new title, such as wanton, light, cruel or vile. However, you will see
from the tale that I am now about to relate that love does not change
the heart, but discovers it to be what it really is, wanton in the
wanton and discreet in the discreet.”

[Illustration: 142.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 143a.jpg The Lord of Avannes paying His Court in Disguise]

[The Lord of Avannes paying His Court in Disguise]

[Illustration: 143.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXVI_.

_By the counsel and sisterly affection of a virtuous lady,
the Lord of Avannes was drawn from the wanton love that he
entertained for a gentlewoman dwelling at Pampeluna_.

In the days of King Louis the Twelfth there lived a young lord called
Monsieur d’Avannes, (1) son of the Lord of Albret [and] brother to
King John of Navarre, with whom this aforesaid Lord of Avannes commonly
abode.

1 This is Gabriel d’Albret, Lord of Avesnes and Lesparre,
fourth son of Alan the Great, Sire d’Albret, and brother of
John d’Albret, King of Navarre, respecting whom see _post_,
note 4 to Tale XXX. Queen Margaret is in error in dating
this story from the reign of Louis XII. The incidents she
relates must have occurred between 1485 and 1490, under the
reign of Charles VIII., by whom Gabriel d’Albret, on
reaching manhood, was successively appointed counsellor and
chamberlain, Seneschal of Guyenne and Viceroy of Naples.
Under Louis XII. he took a prominent part in the Italian
campaigns of 1500-1503, in which latter year he is known to
have made his will, bequeathing all he possessed to his
brother, Cardinal d’Albret. He died a bachelor in 1504.--See
Anselme’s _Histoire Généalogique_, vol. vi. p. 214.--L. and
Ed.

Now this young lord, who was fifteen years of age, was so handsome and
so fully endowed with every excellent grace that he seemed to have been
made solely to be loved and admired, as he was indeed by all who saw
him, and above all by a lady who dwelt in the town of Pampeluna (2) in
Navarre. She was married to a very rich man, with whom she lived in all
virtue, inasmuch that, although her husband was nearly fifty years old
and she was only three and twenty, she dressed so plainly that she had
more the appearance of a widow than of a married woman. Moreover, she
was never known to go to weddings or feasts unless accompanied by her
husband, whose worth and virtue she prized so highly that she set them
before all the comeliness of other men. And her husband, finding her so
discreet, trusted her and gave all the affairs of his household into her
hands.

2 Pampeluna or Pamplona, the capital of Navarre, wrested
from King John in 1512 by the troops of Ferdinand the
Catholic.--Ed.

One day this rich man was invited with his wife to a wedding among their
kinsfolk; and among those who were present to do honour to the bridal
was the young Lord of Avannes, who was exceedingly fond of dancing, as
was natural in one who surpassed therein all others of his time. When
dinner was over and the dances were begun, the rich man begged the Lord
of Avannes to do his part, whereupon the said lord asked him with whom
he would have him dance.

“My lord,” replied the gentleman, “I can present to you no lady fairer
and more completely at my disposal than my wife, and I therefore beg you
to honour me so far as to lead her out.”

This the young Prince did; and he was still so young that he took far
greater pleasure in frisking and dancing than in observing the beauty
of the ladies. But his partner, on the contrary, gave more heed to his
grace and beauty than to the dance, though in her prudence she took good
care not to let this appear.

The supper hour being come, the Lord of Avannes bade the company
farewell, and departed to the castle, (3) whither the rich man
accompanied him on his mule. And as they were going, the rich man said
to him--

“My lord, you have this day done so much honour to my kinsfolk and to
me, that I should indeed be ungrateful if I did not place myself with
all that belongs to me at your service. I know, sir, that lords like
yourself, who have stern and miserly fathers, are often in greater need
of money than we, who, with small establishments and careful husbandry,
seek only to save up wealth. Now, albeit God has given me a wife after
my own heart, it has not pleased Him to give me all my Paradise in this
world, for He has withheld from me the joy that fathers derive from
having children. I know, my lord, that it is not for me to adopt you as
a son, but if you will accept me for your servant and make known to me
your little affairs, I will not fail to assist you in your need so far
as a hundred thousand crowns may go.”

3 Evidently the castle of Pampeluna, where Gabriel d’Albret
resided with his brother the King.--Ed.

The Lord of Avannes was in great joy at this offer, for he had just such
a father as the other had described; accordingly he thanked him, and
called him his adopted father.

From that hour the rich man evinced so much love towards the Lord of
Avannes, that morning and evening he failed not to inquire whether he
had need of anything, nor did he conceal this devotion from his wife,
who loved him for it twice as much as before. Thenceforward the Lord of
Avannes had no lack of anything that he desired. He often visited the
rich man, and ate and drank with him; and when he found the husband
abroad, the wife gave him all that he required, and further spoke to
him so sagely, exhorting him to live discreetly and virtuously, that he
reverenced and loved her above all other women.

Having God and honour before her eyes, she remained content with thus
seeing him and speaking to him, for these are sufficient for virtuous
and honourable love; and she never gave any token whereby he might have
imagined that she felt aught but a sisterly and Christian affection
towards him.

While this secret love continued, the Lord of Avannes, who, by the
assistance that I have spoken of, was always well and splendidly
apparelled, came to the age of seventeen years, and began to frequent
the company of ladies more than had been his wont. And although he would
fain have loved this virtuous lady rather than any other, yet his fear
of losing her friendship should she hear any such discourse from him,
led him to remain silent and to divert himself elsewhere.

He therefore addressed himself to a gentlewoman of the neighbourhood of
Pampeluna, who had a house in the town, and was married to a young man
whose chief delight was in horses, hawks and hounds. For her sake, he
began to set on foot a thousand diversions, such as tourneys, races,
wrestlings, masquerades, banquets, and other pastimes, at all of which
this young lady was present. But as her husband was very humorsome, and
her parents, knowing her to be both fair and frolicsome, were jealous of
her honour, they kept such strict watch over her that my Lord of Avannes
could obtain nothing from her save a word or two at the dance, although,
from the little that had passed between them, he well knew that time and
place alone were wanting to crown their loves.

He therefore went to his good father, the rich man, and told him that he
deeply desired to make a pilgrimage to our Lady of Montferrat, (4) for
which reason he begged him to house his followers, seeing that he wished
to go alone.

4 The famous monastery of Montserrate, at eight leagues
from Barcelona, where is preserved the ebony statue of the
Virgin carrying the Infant Jesus, which is traditionally
said to have been carved by St. Luke, and to have been
brought to Spain by St. Peter.--See _Libro de la historia y
milagros hechos à invocation de Nuestra Seilora de
Montserrate_, Barcelona, 1556, 8vo.--Ed.

To this the rich man agreed; but his wife, in whose heart was that great
soothsayer, Love, forthwith suspected the true nature of the journey,
and could not refrain from saying--

“My lord, my lord, the Lady you adore is not without the walls of
this town, so I pray that you will have in all matters a care for your
health.”

At this he, who both feared and loved her, blushed so deeply that,
without speaking a word, he confessed the truth; and so he went away.

Having bought a couple of handsome Spanish horses, he dressed himself
as a groom, and disguised his face in such a manner that none could know
him. The gentleman who was husband to the wanton lady, and who loved
horses more than aught beside, saw the two that the Lord of Avannes
was leading, and forthwith offered to buy them. When he had done so, he
looked at the groom, who was managing the horses excellently well, and
asked whether he would enter his service. The Lord of Avannes replied
that he would; saying that he was but a poor groom, who knew no trade
except the caring of horses, but in this he could do so well that he
would assuredly give satisfaction. At this the gentleman was pleased,
and having given him the charge of all his horses, entered his house,
and told his wife that he was leaving for the castle, and confided his
horses and groom to her keeping.

The lady, as much to please her husband as for her own diversion, went
to see the horses, and looked at the new groom, who seemed to her to be
well favoured, though she did not at all recognise him. Seeing that
he was not recognised, he came up to do her reverence in the Spanish
fashion and kissed her hand, and, in doing so, pressed it so closely
that she at once knew him, for he had often done the same at the dance.
From that moment, the lady thought of nothing but how she might speak
to him in private; and contrived to do so that very evening, for, being
invited to a banquet, to which her husband wished to take her, she
pretended that she was ill and unable to go.

The husband, being unwilling to disappoint his friends, thereupon said
to her--

“Since you will not come, my love, I pray you take good care of my
horses and hounds, so that they may want for nothing.”

The lady deemed this charge a very agreeable one, but, without showing
it, she replied that since he had nothing better for her to do, she
would show him even in these trifling matters how much she desired to
please him.

And scarcely was her husband outside the door than she went down to the
stable, where she found that something was amiss, and to set it right
gave so many orders to the serving-men on this side and the other, that
at last she was left alone with the chief groom, when, fearing that some
one might come upon them, she said to him--

“Go into the garden, and wait for me in a summer house that stands at
the end of the alley.”

This he did, and with such speed that he stayed not even to thank her.

When she had set the whole stable in order, she went to see the dogs,
and was so careful to have them properly treated, that from mistress she
seemed to have become a serving-woman. Afterwards she withdrew to her
own apartment, where she lay down weariedly upon the bed, saying that
she wished to rest. All her women left her excepting one whom she
trusted, and to whom she said--

“Go into the garden, and bring here the man whom you will find at the
end of the alley.”

The maid went and found the groom, whom she forthwith brought to the
lady, and the latter then sent her outside to watch for her husband’s
return. When the Lord of Avannes found himself alone with the lady, he
doffed his groom’s dress, took off his false nose and beard, and, not
like a timorous groom, but like the handsome lord he was, boldly got
into bed with her without so much as asking her leave; and he was
received as the handsomest youth of his time deserved to be by the
handsomest and gayest lady in the land, and remained with her until her
husband returned. Then he again took his mask and left the place which
his craft and artifice had usurped.

On entering the courtyard the gentleman heard of the diligence that his
wife had shown in obeying him, and he thanked her heartily for it.

“Sweetheart,” said the lady, “I did but my duty. Tis true that if we did
not keep watch upon these rogues of servants you would not have a dog
without the mange or a horse in good condition; but, now that I know
their slothfulness and your wishes, you shall be better served than ever
you were before.”

The gentleman, who thought that he had chosen the best groom in the
world, asked her what she thought of him.

“I will own, sir,” she replied, “that he does his work as well as
any you could have chosen, but he needs to be urged on, for he is the
sleepiest knave I ever saw.”

So the lord and his lady lived together more lovingly than before, and
he lost all the suspicion and jealousy with which he had regarded her,
seeing that she was now as careful of her house hold as she had formerly
been devoted to banquets, dances and assemblies. Whereas, also, she had
formerly been wont to spend four hours in attiring herself, she was now
often content to wear nothing but a dressing-gown over her chemise; and
for this she was praised by her husband and by every one else, for they
did not understand that a stronger devil had entered her and thrust out
a weaker one.

Thus did this young lady, under the guise of a virtuous woman, like
the hypocrite she was, live in such wantonness that reason, conscience,
order and moderation found no place within her. The youth and tender
constitution of the Lord of Avannes could not long endure this, and he
began to grow so pale and lean that even without his mask he might well
have passed unrecognised; yet the mad love that he had for this woman so
blunted his understanding that he imagined he had strength to accomplish
feats that even Hercules had tried in vain. However, being at last
constrained by sickness and advised thereto by his lady, who was not so
fond of him sick as sound, he asked his master’s leave to return home,
and this his master gave him with much regret, making him promise to
come back to service when he was well again.

In this wise did the Lord of Avannes go away, and all on foot, for he
had only the length of a street to travel. On arriving at the house
of his good father, the rich man, he there found only his wife, whose
honourable love for him had been in no whit lessened by his journey.
But when she saw him so colourless and thin, she could not refrain from
saying to him--

“I do not know, my lord, how your conscience may be, but your body has
certainly not been bettered by your pilgrimage. I fear me that your
journeyings by night have done you more harm than your journeyings by
day, for had you gone to Jerusalem on foot you would have come back more
sunburnt, indeed, but not so thin and weak. Pay good heed to this one,
and worship no longer such images as those, which, instead of reviving
the dead, cause the living to die. I would say more, but if your body
has sinned it has been well punished, and I feel too much pity for you
to add any further distress.”

When my Lord of Avannes heard these words, he was as sorry as he was
ashamed.

“Madam,” he replied, “I have heard that repentance follows upon sin, and
now I have proved it to my cost. But I pray you pardon my youth, which
could not have been punished save by the evil in which it would not
believe.”

Thereupon changing her discourse, the lady made him lie down in a
handsome bed, where he remained for a fortnight, taking nothing but
restoratives; and the lady and her husband constantly kept him company,
so that he always had one or the other beside him. And although he had
acted foolishly, as you have heard, contrary to the desire and counsel
of the virtuous lady, she, nevertheless, lost nought of the virtuous
love that she felt towards him, for she still hoped that, after spending
his early youth in follies, he would throw them off and bring himself to
love virtuously, and so be all her own.

During the fortnight that he was in her house, she held to him such
excellent discourse, all tending to the love of virtue, that he began to
loathe the folly that he had committed. Observing, moreover, the lady’s
beauty, which surpassed that of the wanton one, and becoming more and
more aware of the graces and virtues that were in her, he one day, when
it was rather dark, could not longer hold from speaking, but, putting
away all fear, said to her--

“I see no better means, madam, for becoming a virtuous man such as you
urge me and desire me to be, than by being heart and soul in love with
virtue. I therefore pray you, madam, to tell me whether you will give me
in this matter all the assistance and favour that you can.”

The lady rejoiced to find him speaking in this way, and replied--

“I promise you, my lord, that if you are in love with virtue as it
beseems a lord like yourself to be, I will assist your efforts with all
the strength that God has given me.”

“Now, madam,” said my Lord of Avannes, “remember your promise, and
consider also that God, whom man knows by faith alone, deigned to take
a fleshly nature like that of the sinner upon Himself, in order that, by
drawing our flesh to the love of His humanity, He might at the same time
draw our spirits to the love of His divinity, thus making use of visible
means to make us in all faith love the things which are invisible. In
like manner this virtue, which I would fain love all my life long, is
a thing invisible except in so far as it produces outward effects, for
which reason it must take some bodily shape in order to become known
among men. And this it has done by clothing itself in your form, the
most perfect it could find. I therefore recognise and own that you are
not only virtuous but virtue itself; and now, finding it shine beneath
the veil of the most perfect person that was ever known, I would fain
serve it and honour it all my life, renouncing for its sake every other
vain and vicious love.”

The lady, who was no less pleased than surprised to hear these words,
concealed her happiness and said--

“My lord, I will not undertake to answer your theology, but since I am
more ready to apprehend evil than to believe in good, I will entreat you
to address to me no more such words as lead you to esteem but lightly
those who are wont to believe them. I very well know that I am a woman
like any other and imperfect, and that virtue would do a greater thing
by transforming me into itself than by assuming my form--unless, indeed,
it would fain pass unrecognised through the world, for in such a garb as
mine its real nature could never be known. Nevertheless, my lord, with
all my imperfections, I have ever borne to you all such affection as
is right and possible in a woman who reverences God and her honour. But
this affection shall not be declared until your heart is capable of that
patience which a virtuous love enjoins. At that time, my lord, I shall
know what to say, but meanwhile be assured that you do not love your own
welfare, person and honour as I myself love them.”

The Lord of Avannes timorously and with tears in his eyes entreated her
earnestly to seal her words with a kiss, but she refused, saying that
she would not break for him the custom of her country.

While this discussion was going on the husband came in, and my Lord of
Avannes said to him--

“I am greatly indebted, father, both to you and to your wife, and I pray
you ever to look upon me as your son.”

This the worthy man readily promised.

“And to seal your love,” said the Lord of Avannes, “I pray you let me
kiss you.” This he did, after which the Lord of Avannes said--:

“If I were not afraid of offending against the law, I would do the same
to your wife and my mother.”

Upon this, the husband commanded his wife to kiss him, which she
did without appearing either to like or to dislike what her husband
commanded her. But the fire that words had already kindled in the poor
lord’s heart, grew fiercer at this kiss which had been so earnestly
sought for and so cruelly denied.

After this the Lord of Avannes betook himself to the castle to see his
brother, the King, to whom he told fine stories about his journey to
Montferrat. He found that the King was going to Oly and Taffares, (5)
and, reflecting that the journey would be a long one, he fell into deep
sadness, and resolved before going away to try whether the virtuous lady
were not better disposed towards him than she appeared to be.

5 Evidently Olite and Tafalla, the former at thirty and the
latter at twenty-seven miles from Pamplona. The two towns
were commonly called _la flor de Navarra_. King John
doubtless intended sojourning at the summer palaces which
his predecessor Carlos the Noble had built at either
locality, and which were connected, it is said, by a gallery
a league in length. Some ruins of these palaces still exist.
--Ed.

He therefore went to lodge in the street in which she lived, where he
hired an old house, badly built of timber. About midnight he set fire to
it, and the alarm, which spread through the whole town, reached the rich
man’s house. He asked from the window where the fire was, and hearing
that it was in the house of the Lord of Avannes, immediately hastened
thither with all his servants. He found the young lord in the street,
clad in nothing but his shirt, whereat in his deep compassion he took
him in his arms, and, covering him with his own robe, brought him home
as quickly as possible, where he said to his wife, who was in bed--

“Here, sweetheart, I give this prisoner into your charge. Treat him as
you would treat myself.”

As soon as he was gone, the Lord of Avannes, who would gladly have been
treated like a husband, sprang lightly into the bed, hoping that place
and opportunity would bring this discreet lady to a different mind; but
he found the contrary to be the case, for as he leaped into the bed on
one side, she got out at the other. Then, putting on her dressing-gown,
she came up to the head of the bed and spoke as follows--

“Did you think, my lord, that opportunity could influence a chaste
heart? Nay, just as gold is tried in the furnace, so a chaste heart
becomes stronger and more virtuous in the midst of temptation, and
grows colder the more it is assailed by its opposite. You may be sure,
therefore, that had I been otherwise minded than I professed myself to
be, I should not have wanted means, to which I have paid no heed solely
because I desire not to use them. So I beg of you, if you would have me
preserve my affection for you, put away not merely the desire but even
the thought that you can by any means whatever make me other than I am.”

While she was speaking, her women came in, and she commanded a collation
of all kinds of sweetmeats to be brought; but the young lord could
neither eat nor drink, in such despair was he at having failed in his
enterprise, and in such fear lest this manifestation of his passion
should cost him the familiar intercourse that he had been wont to have
with her.

Having dealt with the fire, the husband came back again, and begged the
Lord of Avannes to remain at his house for the night. This he did,
but in such wise that his eyes were more exercised in weeping than in
sleeping. Early in the morning he went to bid them farewell, while they
were still in bed; and in kissing the lady he perceived that she felt
more pity for the offence than anger against the offender, and thus was
another brand added to the fire of his love. After dinner, he set out
for Taffares with the King; but before leaving he went again to take
yet another farewell of his good father and the lady who, after her
husband’s first command, made no difficulty in kissing him as her son.

But you may be sure that the more virtue prevented her eyes and features
from testifying to the hidden flame, the fiercer and more intolerable
did that flame become. And so, being unable to endure the war between
love and honour, which was waging in her heart, but which she had
nevertheless resolved should never be made apparent, and no longer
having the comfort of seeing and speaking to him for whose sake alone
she cared to live, she fell at last into a continuous fever, caused by a
melancholic humour which so wrought upon her that the extremities of her
body became quite cold, while her inward parts burned without ceasing.
The doctors, who have not the health of men in their power, began to
grow very doubtful concerning her recovery, by reason of an obstruction
that affected the extremities, and advised her husband to admonish her
to think of her conscience and remember that she was in God’s hands--as
though indeed the healthy were not in them also.

The husband, who loved his wife devotedly, was so saddened by their
words that for his comfort he wrote to the Lord of Avannes entreating
him to take the trouble to come and see them, in the hope that the sight
of him might be of advantage to the patient. On receiving the letter,
the Lord of Avannes did not tarry, but started off post-haste to the
house of his worthy father, where he found the servants, both men and
women, assembled at the door, making such lament for their mistress as
she deserved.

So greatly amazed was he at the sight, that he remained on the threshold
like one paralysed, until he beheld his good father, who embraced him,
weeping the while so bitterly that he could not utter a word. Then he
led the Lord of Avannes to the chamber of the sick lady, who, turning
her languid eyes upon him, put out her hand and drew him to her with
all the strength she had. She kissed and embraced him, and made wondrous
lamentation, saying--

“O my lord, the hour has come when all dissimulation must cease, and I
must confess the truth which I have been at such pains to hide from you.
If your affection for me was great, know that mine for you has been no
less; but my grief has been greater than yours, because I have had the
anguish of concealing it contrary to the wish of my heart. God and my
honour have never, my lord, suffered me to make it known to you, lest
I should increase in you that which I sought to diminish; but you must
learn that the ‘no’ I so often said to you pained me so greatly in the
utterance that it has indeed proved the cause of my death.

“Nevertheless, I am glad it should be so, and that God in His grace
should have caused me to die before the vehemence of my love has stained
my conscience and my fair fame; for smaller fires have ere now destroyed
greater and stronger structures. And I am glad that before dying I have
been able to make known to you that my affection is equal to your own,
save only that men’s honour and women’s are not the same thing. And
I pray you, my lord, fear not henceforward to address yourself to the
greatest and most virtuous of ladies; for in such hearts do the deepest
and discreetest passions dwell, and moreover, your own grace and beauty
and worth will not suffer your love to toil without reward.

“I will not beg you, my lord, to pray God for me, because I know full
well that the gate of Paradise is never closed against true lovers, and
that the fire of love punishes lovers so severely in this life here
that they are forgiven the sharp torment of Purgatory. And now, my lord,
farewell; I commend to you your good father, my husband. Tell him the
truth as you have heard it from me, that he may know how I have loved
God and him. And come no more before my eyes, for I now desire to think
only of obtaining those promises made to me by God before the creation
of the world.”

With these words she kissed him and embraced him with all the strength
of her feeble arms. The young lord, whose heart was as nearly dead
through pity as hers was through pain, was unable to say a single word.
He withdrew from her sight to a bed that was in the room, and there
several times swooned away.

Then the lady called her husband, and, after giving him much virtuous
counsel, commended the Lord of Avannes to him, declaring that next to
himself she had loved him more than any one upon earth, and so, kissing
her husband, she bade him farewell. Then, after the extreme unction, the
Holy Sacrament was brought to her from the altar, and this she received
with the joy of one who is assured of her salvation. And finding that
her sight was growing dim and her strength failing her, she began to
utter the “In manus” aloud.

Hearing this cry, the Lord of Avannes raised himself up on the bed where
he was lying, and gazing piteously upon her, beheld her with a gentle
sigh surrender her glorious soul to Him from whom it had come. When he
perceived that she was dead, he ran to the body, which when alive he had
ever approached with fear, and kissed and embraced it in such wise that
he could hardly be separated from it, whereat the husband was greatly
astonished, for he had never believed he bore her so much affection; and
with the words, “Tis too much, my lord,” he led him away.

After he had lamented for a great while, the Lord of Avannes related all
the converse they had had together during their love, and how, until her
death, she had never given him sign of aught save severity. This, while
it gave the husband exceeding joy, also increased his grief and sorrow
at the loss he had sustained, and for the remainder of his days he
rendered service to the Lord of Avannes.

But from that time forward my Lord of Avannes, who was then only
eighteen years old, went to reside at Court, where he lived for many
years without wishing to see or to speak with any living woman by reason
of his grief for the lady he had lost; and he wore mourning for her sake
during more than ten years. (6)

6 Some extracts from Brantôme bearing on this story will be
found in the Appendix, C.

“You here see, ladies, what a difference there is between a wanton lady
and a discreet one. The effects of love are also different in each case;
for the one came by a glorious and praiseworthy death, while the other
lived only too long with the reputation of a vile and shameless woman.
Just as the death of a saint is precious in the sight of God, so is the
death of a sinner abhorrent.”

“In truth, Saffredent,” said Oisille, “you have told us the finest tale
imaginable, and any one who knew the hero would deem it better still.
I have never seen a handsomer or more graceful gentleman than was this
Lord of Avannes.”

“She was indeed a very virtuous woman,” said Saffredent. “So as to
appear outwardly more virtuous than she was in her heart, and to conceal
her love for this worthy lord which reason and nature had inspired,
she must needs die rather than take the pleasure which she secretly
desired.”

“If she had felt such a desire,” said Parlamente, “she would have lacked
neither place nor opportunity to make it known; but the greatness of her
virtue prevented her desire from exceeding the bounds of reason.”

“You may paint her as you will,” said Hircan, “but I know very well that
a stronger devil always thrusts out the weaker, and that the pride of
ladies seeks pleasure rather than the fear and love of God. Their robes
are long and well woven with dissimulation, so that we cannot tell what
is beneath, for if their honour were not more easily stained than ours,
(7) you would find that Nature’s work is as complete in them as in
ourselves. But not daring to take the pleasure they desire, they have
exchanged that vice for a greater, which they deem more honourable, I
mean a self-sufficient cruelty, whereby they look to obtain everlasting
renown.

7 This reading is borrowed from MS. No. 1520. In the MS.
mainly followed for this translation, the passage runs as
follows-“if their honour were not more easily stained than
their hearts.”--L.

By thus glorying in their resistance to the vice of Nature’s law--if,
indeed, anything natural be vicious--they become not only like inhuman
and cruel beasts, but even like the devils whose pride and subtility
they borrow.” (8)

8 This reading is borrowed from MS. No. 1520. In our MS.
the passage runs--“like the devils whose semblance and
subtility they borrow.”--L.

“Tis a pity,” said Nomerfide, “that you should have an honourable wife,
for you not only think lightly of virtue, but are even fain to prove
that it is vice.”

“I am very glad,” said Hircan, “to have a wife of good repute, just
as I, myself, would be of good repute. But as for chastity of heart, I
believe that we are both children of Adam and Eve; wherefore, when we
examine ourselves, we have no need to cover our nakedness with leaves,
but should rather confess our frailty.”

“I know,” said Parlamente, “that we all have need of God’s grace, being
all steeped in sin; but, for all that, our temptations are not similar
to yours, and if we sin through pride, no one is injured by it, nor
do our bodies and hands receive a stain. But your pleasure consists in
dishonouring women, and your honour in slaying men in war--two things
expressly contrary to the law of God.” (9)

“I admit what you say,” said Geburon, “but God has said, ‘Whosoever
looketh with lust, hath already committed adultery in his heart,’ and
further, ‘Whosoever hateth his neighbour is a murderer.’ (10) Do you
think that women offend less against these texts than we?”

9 This sentence, defective in our MS., is taken from No.
1520.--L.

10 1 St. John iii. 15.--M.

“God, who judges the heart,” said Longarine, “must decide that. But it
is an important thing that men should not be able to accuse us, for the
goodness of God is so great, that He will not judge us unless there
be an accuser. And so well, moreover, does He know the frailty of our
hearts, that He will even love us for not having put our thoughts into
execution.”

“I pray you,” said Saffredent, “let us leave this dispute, for it
savours more of a sermon than of a tale. I give my vote to Ennasuite,
and beg that she will bear in mind to make us laugh.”

“Indeed,” said she, “I will not fail to do so; for I would have you know
that whilst coming hither, resolved upon relating a fine story to you
to-day, I was told so merry a tale about two servants of a Princess,
that, in laughing at it, I quite forgot the melancholy story which I had
prepared, and which I will put off until to-morrow; for, with the merry
face I now have, you would scarce find it to your liking.”

[Illustration: 170.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 171a.jpg The Secretary imploring the Lady not To Tell Of His Wickedness]

[The Secretary imploring the Lady not To Tell Of His Wickedness]

[Illustration: 171.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXVII_.

_A secretary sought the wife of his host and comrade in
dishonourable and unlawful love, and as she made show of
willingly giving ear to him, he was persuaded that he had
won her. But she was virtuous, and, while dissembling
towards him, deceived his hopes and made known his
viciousness to her husband_. (1)

1 The incidents here related would have occurred at Amboise
between 1540 and 1545. The hero of the story would probably
be John Frotté, Queen Margaret’s First Secretary, who also
apparently figures in Tale XXVIII. The Sires de Frotté had
been in the service of the Dukes of Alençon since the early
part of the fifteenth century. Ste-Marthe says of John
Frotté that he was a man of great experience and good wit,
prudent, dutiful and diligent. He died secretary to Francis
I.--L. and B. J.

In the town of Amboise there lived one of this Princess’s servants, an
honest man who served her in the quality of valet-de-chambre, and who
used readily to entertain those that visited his house, more especially
his own comrades; and not long since one of his mistress’s servants came
to lodge with him, and remained with him ten or twelve days.

This man was so ugly that he looked more like a King of the cannibals
than a Christian, and although his host treated him as a friend and a
brother, and with all the courtesy imaginable, he behaved in return not
only like one who has forgotten all honour, but as one who has never had
it in his heart. For he sought, in dishonourable and unlawful love, his
comrade’s wife, who was in no sort attractive to lust but rather the
reverse, and was moreover as virtuous a woman as any in the town in
which she lived. When she perceived the man’s evil intent, she thought
it better to employ dissimulation in order to bring his viciousness to
light, rather than conceal it by a sudden refusal; and she therefore
made a pretence of approving his discourse. He then believed he had won
her, and, paying no heed to her age, which was that of fifty years, or
to her lack of beauty, or her reputation as a virtuous woman attached to
her husband, he urged his suit continually.

One day, the husband being in the house, the wife and her suitor were in
a large room together, when she pretended that he had but to find some
safe spot in order to have such private converse with her as he desired.
He immediately replied that it was only necessary to go up to the
garret. She instantly rose, and begged him to go first, saying that
she would follow. Smiling with as sweet a countenance as that of a big
baboon entertaining a friend, he went lightly up the stairway; and,
on the tip-toe of expectation with regard to that which he so greatly
desired, burning with a fire not clear, like that of juniper, but dense
like that of coal in the furnace, he listened whether she was coming
after him. But instead of hearing her footsteps, he heard her voice
saying--

“Wait, master secretary, for a little; I am going to find out whether it
be my husband’s pleasure that I should go up to you.”

His face when laughing was ugly indeed, and you may imagine, ladies, how
it looked when he wept; but he came down instantly, with tears in his
eyes, and besought her for the love of God not to say aught that would
destroy the friendship between his comrade and himself.

“I am sure,” she replied, “that you like him too well to say anything he
may not hear. I shall therefore go and tell him of the matter.”

And this, in spite of all his entreaties and threats, she did. And if
his shame thereat was great as he fled the place, the husband’s joy
was no less on hearing of the honourable deception that his wife had
practised; indeed, so pleased was he with his wife’s virtue that he
took no notice of his comrade’s viciousness, deeming him sufficiently
punished inasmuch as the shame he had thought to work in another’s
household had fallen upon his own head.

“I think that from this tale honest people should learn not to admit to
their houses those whose conscience, heart and understanding know nought
of God, honour and true love.”

“Though your tale be short,” said Oisille, “it is as pleasant as any I
have heard, and it is to the honour of a virtuous woman.”

“‘Fore God,” said Simontault, “it is no great honour for a virtuous
woman to refuse a man so ugly as you represent this secretary to have
been. Had he been handsome and polite, her virtue would then have been
clear. I think I know who he is, and, if it were my turn, I could tell
you another story about him that is no less droll.”

“Let that be no hindrance,” said Ennasuite, “for I give you my vote.”

Thereupon Simontault began as follows:--

“Those who are accustomed to dwell at Court or in large towns value
their own knowledge so highly that they think very little of all other
men in comparison with themselves; but, for all that, there are subtle
and crafty folk to be found in every condition of life. Still, when
those who think themselves the cleverest are caught tripping, their
pride makes the jest a particularly pleasant one, and this I will try to
show by telling you of something that lately happened.”

[Illustration: 175.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 177a.jpg The Secretary Opening the Pasty]

[The Secretary Opening the Pasty]

[Illustration: 177.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXVIII_.

_A secretary, thinking to deceive Bernard du Ha, was by him
cunningly deceived_. (1)

1 The incidents of this story must have occurred subsequent
to 1527. The secretary is doubtless John Frotté. We have
failed to identify the Lieutenant referred to.--M. and Ed.

It chanced that when King Francis, first of the name, was in the city of
Paris, and with him his sister, the Queen of Navarre, the latter had a
secretary called John. He was not one of those who allow a good thing to
lie on the ground for want of picking it up, and there was, accordingly,
not a president or a councillor whom he did not know, and not a merchant
or a rich man with whom he had not intercourse and correspondence.

At this time there also arrived in Paris a merchant of Bayonne, called
Bernard du Ha, who, both on account of the nature of his commerce and
because the Lieutenant for Criminal Affairs (2) was a countryman of his,
was wont to address himself to that officer for counsel and assistance
in the transaction of his business. The Queen of Navarre’s secretary
used also frequently to visit the Lieutenant as one who was a good
servant to his master and mistress.

2 The Provost of Paris, who, in the King’s name,
administered justice at the Châtelet court, and upon whose
sergeants fell the duty of arresting and imprisoning all
vagabonds, criminals and disturbers of the peace, was
assisted in his functions by three lieutenants, one for
criminal affairs, one for civil affairs, and one for
ordinary police duties.--Ed.

One feast-day the secretary went to the Lieutenant’s house, and found
both him and his wife abroad; but he very plainly heard Bernard du Ha
teaching the serving-women to foot the Gascon dances to the sound of a
viol or some other instrument. And when the secretary saw him, he
would have had him believe that he was committing the greatest offence
imaginable, and that if the Lieutenant and his wife knew of it they
would be greatly displeased with him. And after setting the fear of this
well before his eyes, until, indeed, the other begged him not to say
anything about it, he asked--

“What will you give me if I keep silence?”

Bernard du Ha, who was by no means so much afraid as he seemed to be,
saw that the secretary was trying to cozen him, and promised to give him
a pasty of the best Basque ham (3) that he had ever eaten. The secretary
was well pleased at this, and begged that he might have the pasty on the
following Sunday after dinner, which was promised him.

3 So-called Bayonne ham is still held in repute in France.
It comes really from Orthez and Salies in Beam.--D.

Relying upon this promise, he went to see a lady of Paris whom above all
things he desired to marry, and said to her--

“On Sunday, mistress, I will come and sup with you, if such be your
pleasure. But trouble not to provide aught save some good bread and
wine, for I have so deceived a foolish fellow from Bayonne that all the
rest will be at his expense; by my trickery you shall taste the best
Basque ham that ever was eaten in Paris.”

The lady believed his story, and called together two or three of the
most honourable ladies of her neighbourhood, telling them that she would
give them a new dish such as they had never tasted before.

When Sunday was come, the secretary went to look for his merchant, and
finding him on the Pont-au-Change, (4) saluted him graciously and said--

“The devil take you, for the trouble you have given me to find you.”

4 The oldest of the Paris bridges, spanning the Seine
between the Châtelet and the Palais. Originally called the
Grand-Pont, it acquired the name of Pont-au-Change through
Louis VII. allowing the money-changers to build their houses
and offices upon it in 1141.--Ed.

Bernard du Ha made reply that a good many men had taken more trouble
than he without being rewarded in the end with such a dainty dish. So
saying, he showed him the pasty, which he was carrying under his cloak,
and which was big enough to feed an army. The secretary was so glad to
see it that, although he had a very large and ugly mouth, he mincingly
made it so small that one would not have thought him capable of biting
the ham with it. He quickly took the pasty, and, without waiting for
the merchant to go with him, went off with it to the lady, who was
exceedingly eager to learn whether the fare of Gascony was as good as
that of Paris.

When supper-time was come and they were eating their soup, the secretary
said--

“Leave those savourless dishes alone, and let us taste this loveworthy
whet for wine.”

So saying, he opened the huge pasty, but, where he expected to find
ham, he found such hardness that he could not thrust in his knife. After
trying several times, it occurred to him that he had been deceived; and,
indeed, he found ‘twas a wooden shoe such as is worn in Gascony. It had
a burnt stick for knuckle, and was powdered upon the top with iron rust
and sweet-smelling spice.

If ever a man was abashed it was the secretary, not only because he had
been deceived by the man whom he himself had thought to deceive, but
also because he had deceived her to whom he had intended and thought
to speak the truth. Moreover, he was much put out at having to content
himself with soup for supper.

The ladies, who were well-nigh as vexed as he was, would have accused
him of practising this deception had they not clearly seen by his face
that he was more wroth than they.

After this slight supper, the secretary went away in great anger,
intending, since Bernard du Ha had broken his promise, to break also his
own. He therefore betook himself to the Lieutenant’s house, resolved to
say the worst he could about the said Bernard.

Quick as he went, however, Bernard was first afield and had already
related the whole story to the Lieutenant, who, in passing sentence,
told the secretary that he had now learnt to his cost what it was to
deceive a Gascon, and this was all the comfort that the secretary got in
his shame.

The same thing befalls many who, believing that they are exceedingly
clever, forget themselves in their cleverness; wherefore we should never
do unto others differently than we would have them do unto us.

“I can assure you,” said Geburon, “that I have often known similar
things to come to pass, and have seen men who were deemed rustic
blockheads deceive very shrewd people. None can be more foolish than
he who thinks himself shrewd, nor wiser than he who knows his own
nothingness.”

“Still,” said Parlamente, “a man who knows that he knows nothing, knows
something after all.”

“Now,” said Simontault, “for fear lest time should fail us for our
discourse, I give my vote to Nomerfide, for I am sure that her rhetoric
will keep us no long while.”

“Well,” she replied, “I will tell you a tale such as you desire.

“I am not surprised, ladies, that love should afford Princes the means
of escaping from danger, for they are bred up in the midst of so many
well-informed persons that I should marvel still more if they were
ignorant of anything. But the smaller the intelligence the more clearly
is the inventiveness of love displayed, and for this reason I will
relate to you a trick played by a priest through the prompting of love
alone. In all other matters he was so ignorant that he could scarcely
read his mass.”

[Illustration: 183.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 185a.jpg The Husbandman surprised by the Fall of the Winnowing Fan]

[The Husbandman surprised by the Fall of the Winnowing Fan]

[Illustration: 185.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXIX_.

_A parson, surprised by the sudden return of a husbandman
with whose wife he was making good cheer, quickly devised a
means for saving himself at the expense of the worthy man,
who was never any the wiser_. (1)

1 Etienne brings this story into his _Apologie pour
Hérodote_, ch xv.--B. J.

At a village called Carrelles, (2) in the county of Maine, there dwelt
a rich husbandman who in his old age had married a fair young wife. She
bore him no children, but consoled herself for this disappointment with
several lovers.

2 Carrelles is at six leagues from Mayenne, in the canton of
Gorron. Margaret’s first husband, the Duke of Alençon, held
various fiefs in this part of Maine, which would account for
the incident related in the story coming to her knowledge.--
M. and Ed.

When gentlemen and persons of consequence failed her, she turned as a
last resource to the Church, and took for companion in her sin him who
could absolve her of it--that is to say, the parson, who often came to
visit his pet ewe. The husband, who was dull and old, had no suspicion
of the truth; but, as he was a stern and sturdy man, his wife played
her game as secretly as she was able, fearing that, if it came to her
husband’s knowledge, he would kill her.

One day when he was abroad, his wife, thinking that he would not soon
return, sent for his reverence the parson, who came to confess her; and
while they were making good cheer together, her husband arrived, and
this so suddenly that the priest had not the time to escape out of the
house.

Looking about for a means of concealment, he mounted by the woman’s
advice into a loft, and covered the trap-door through which he passed
with a winnowing fan.

The husband entered the house, and his wife, fearing lest he might
suspect something, regaled him exceedingly well at dinner, never sparing
the liquor, of which he drank so much, that, being moreover wearied with
his work in the fields, he at last fell asleep in his chair in front of
the fire.

The parson, tired with waiting so long in the loft, and hearing no noise
in the room beneath, leaned over the trap-door, and, stretching out his
neck as far as he was able, perceived the goodman to be asleep. However,
whilst he was looking at him, he leaned by mischance so heavily upon the
fan, that both fan and himself tumbled down by the side of the sleeper.
The latter awoke at the noise, but the priest was on his feet before the
other had perceived him, and said--

“There is your fan, my friend, and many thanks to you for it.”

With these words he took to flight. The poor husbandman was in utter
bewilderment.

“What is this?” he asked of his wife. “‘Tis your fan, sweetheart,” she
replied, “which the parson had borrowed, and has just brought back.”

Thereupon in a grumbling fashion the goodman rejoined--

“‘Tis a rude way of returning what one has borrowed, for I thought the
house was coming down.”

In this way did the parson save himself at the expense of the goodman,
who discovered nothing to find fault with except the rudeness with which
the fan had been returned.

“The master, ladies, whom the parson served, saved him that time so that
he might afterwards possess and torment him the longer.”

“Do not imagine,” said Geburon, “that simple folk are more devoid of
craft than we are; (3) nay, they have a still larger share. Consider the
thieves and murderers and sorcerers and coiners, and all the people of
that sort, whose brains are never at rest; they are all poor and of the
class of artisans.”

“I do not think it strange,” said Parlamente, “that they should have
more craft than others, but rather that love should torment them amid
their many toils, and that so gentle a passion should lodge in hearts so
base.”

“Madam,” replied Saffredent, “you know what Master Jehan de Mehun has
said--

“Those clad in drugget love no less
Than those that wear a silken dress.” (4)

3 In MS. No. 1520 this passage runs--“that simple and
humble people are,” &c.--L.

4 This is a free rendering of lines 4925-6 of Méon’s
edition of the _Roman de la Rose_:--

“Aussy bien sont amourettes
Soubz bureau que soubz brunettes.”

_Bureau_, the same as _dure_, is a kind of drugget;
_brunette_ was a silken stuff very fashionable among the
French lords and ladies at the time of St. Louis. It was
doubtless of a brown hue.--B, J. and M.

Moreover, the love of which the tale speaks is not such as makes one
carry harness; for, while poor folk lack our possessions and honours,
on the other hand they have their natural advantages more at their
convenience than we. Their fare is not so dainty as ours, but their
appetites are keener, and they live better on coarse bread than we do on
delicacies. Their beds are not so handsome or so well appointed as ours,
but their sleep is sounder and their rest less broken. They have no
ladies pranked out and painted like those whom we idolise, but they take
their pleasure oftener than we, without fear of telltale tongues, save
those of the beasts and birds that see them. What we have they lack, and
what we lack they possess in abundance.”

“I pray you,” said Nomerfide, “let us now have done with this peasant
and his wife, and let us finish the day’s entertainment before vespers.
‘Tis Hircan shall bring it to an end.”

“Truly,” said he, “I have kept in reserve as strange and pitiful a tale
as ever you heard. And although it grieves me greatly to relate anything
to the discredit of a lady, knowing, as I do, that men are malicious
enough to blame the whole sex for the fault of one, yet the strangeness
of the story prompts me to lay aside my fear. Perhaps, also, the
discovery of one woman’s ignorance will make others wiser. And so I will
fearlessly tell you the following tale.”

[Illustration: 190.jpg Tailpiece]

[Illustration: 191a.jpg The Young Gentleman embracing his Mother]

[The Young Gentleman embracing his Mother]

[Illustration: 191.jpg Page Image]

_TALE XXX_.

_A young gentleman, of from fourteen to fifteen years of
age, thought to lie with one of his mother’s maids, but lay
with his mother herself; and she, in consequence thereof,
was, nine months afterwards, brought to bed of a daughter,
who, twelve or thirteen years later, was wedded by the son;
he being ignorant that she was his daughter and sister, and
she, that he was her father and brother_.(1)

In the time of King Louis the Twelfth, the Legate at Avignon being then
a scion of the house of Amboise, nephew to George, Legate of France, (2)
there lived in the land of Languedoc a lady who had an income of more
than four thousand ducats a year, and whose name I shall not mention for
the love I bear her kinsfolk.

1 This story is based on an ancient popular tradition
common to many parts of France, and some particulars of
which, with a list of similar tales in various European
languages, will be found in the Appendix, D.--En.

2 The Papal Legate in France here alluded to is the famous
George, Cardinal d’Amboise, favourite minister of Louis XII.
His nephew, the Legate at Avignon, is Louis d’Amboise,
fourth son of Peter d’Amboise, Lord of Chaumont, and brother
of the Grand-Master of Chaumont. Louis d’Amboise became
bishop of Albi, and lieutenant-general of the King of France
in Burgundy, Languedoc and Roussillon, and played an
important part in the public affairs of his time. He died in
1505.--See _Gallia Christiana_, vol. i. p. 34.--L. and R. J.

While still very young, she was left a widow with one son; and, both
by reason of her regret for her husband and her love for her child, she
determined never to marry again. To avoid all opportunity of doing
so, she had fellowship only with the devout, for she imagined that
opportunity makes the sin, not knowing that sin will devise the
opportunity.

This young widow, then, gave herself up wholly to the service of God,
and shunned all worldly assemblies so completely that she scrupled to
be present at a wedding, or even to listen to the organs playing in a
church. When her son was come to the age of seven years, she chose for
his schoolmaster a man of holy life, so that he might be trained up in
all piety and devotion.

When the son was reaching the age of fourteen or fifteen, Nature, who is
a very secret schoolmaster, finding him in good condition and very idle,
taught him a different lesson to any he had learned from his tutor.
He began to look at and desire such things as he deemed beautiful, and
among others a maiden who slept in his mother’s room. No one had
any suspicion of this, for he was looked upon as a mere child, and,
moreover, in that household nothing save godly talk was ever heard.

This young gallant, however, began secretly soliciting the girl, who
complained of it to her mistress. The latter had so much love for her
son and so high an opinion of him, that she thought the girl spoke as
she did in order to make her hate him; but, being strongly urged by the
other, she at last said--

“I shall find out whether it is true, and will punish him if it be
as you say. But if, on the other hand, you are bringing an untruthful
accusation against him, you shall suffer for it.”

Then, in order to test the matter, she bade the girl make an appointment
with her son that he might come and lie with her at midnight, in the bed
in which she slept alone, beside the door of his mother’s room.

The maid obeyed her mistress, who, when night came, took the girl’s
place, resolved, if the story were true, to punish her son so severely
that he would never again lie with a woman without remembering it.

While she was thinking thus wrathfully, her son came and got into the
bed, but although she beheld him do so, she could not yet believe that
he meditated any unworthy deed. She therefore refrained from speaking
to him until he had given her some token of his evil intent, for no
trifling matters could persuade her that his desire was actually a
criminal one. Her patience, however, was tried so long, and her nature
proved so frail that, forgetting her motherhood, her anger became
transformed into an abominable delight. And just as water that has been
restrained by force rushes onward with the greater vehemence when it is
released, so was it with this unhappy lady who had so prided herself on
the constraint she had put upon her body. After taking the first step
downwards to dishonour, she suddenly found herself at the bottom, and
thus that night she became pregnant by him whom she had thought to
restrain from acting in similar fashion towards another.

No sooner was the sin accomplished than such remorse of conscience began
to torment her as filled the whole of her after-life with repentance.
And so keen was it at the first, that she rose from beside her son--who
still thought that she was the maid--and entered a closet, where,
dwelling upon the goodness of her intention and the wickedness of its
execution, she spent the whole night alone in tears and lamentation.

But instead of humbling herself, and recognising the powerlessness
of our flesh, without God’s assistance, to work anything but sin, she
sought by her own tears and efforts to atone for the past, and by her
own prudence to avoid mischief in the future, always ascribing her sin
to circumstances and not to wickedness, for which there is no remedy
save the grace of God. Accordingly she sought to act so as never again
to fall into such wrongdoing; and as though there were but one sin that
brought damnation in its train, she put forth all her strength to shun
that sin alone.

But the roots of pride, which acts of sin ought rather to destroy,
grew stronger and stronger within her, so that in avoiding one evil she
wrought many others. Early on the morrow, as soon as it was light, she
sent for her son’s preceptor, and said--

“My son is beginning to grow up, it is time to send him from home. I
have a kinsman, Captain Monteson, (3) who is beyond the mountains with
my lord the Grand-Master of Chaumont, and he will be very glad to admit
him into his company. Take him, therefore, without delay, and to spare
me the pain of parting do not let him come to bid me farewell.”

3 Monteson was one of the bravest captains of his time; as
the comrade of Bayard, he greatly distinguished himself by
his intrepidity in Louis XII.’s Italian campaigns. Some
particulars concerning him will be found in M. Lacroix’s
edition of _Les Chroniques de Jean d’Anton_.--B. J.
Respecting the Grand-Master of Chaumont, also mentioned
above, see _ante_, vol ii., notes to Tale XIV.

So saying, she gave him money for the journey, and that very morning
sent the young man away, he being right glad of this, for, after
enjoying his sweetheart, he asked nothing better than to set off to the
wars.

The lady continued for a great while in deep sadness and melancholy,
and, but for the fear of God, had many a time longed that the unhappy
fruit of her womb might perish. She feigned sickness, in order that she
might wear a cloak and so conceal her condition; and having a bastard
brother, in whom she had more trust than in any one else, and upon whom
she had conferred many benefits, she sent for him when the time of
her confinement was drawing nigh, told him her condition (but without
mentioning her son’s part in it), and besought him to help her save her
honour. This he did, and, a few days before the time when she expected
to be delivered, he begged her to try a change of air and remove to his
house, where she would recover her health more quickly than at home.
Thither she went with but a very small following, and found there a
midwife who had been summoned as for her brother’s wife, and who one
night, without recognising her, delivered her of a fine little girl. The
gentleman gave the child to a nurse, and caused it to be cared for as
his own.

After continuing there for a month, the lady returned in sound health
to her own house, where she lived more austerely than ever in fasts and
disciplines. But when her son was grown up, he sent to beg his mother’s
permission to return home, as there was at that time no war in Italy.
She, fearing lest she should fall again into the same misfortune, would
not at first allow him, but he urged her so earnestly that at last she
could find no reason for refusing him. However, she instructed him that
he was not to appear before her until he was married to a woman whom he
dearly loved; but to whose fortune he need give no heed, for it would
suffice if she were of gentle birth.

Meanwhile her bastard brother, finding that the daughter left in his
charge had grown to be a tall maiden of perfect beauty, resolved to
place her in some distant household where she would not be known, and
by the mother’s advice she was given to Catherine, Queen of Navarre. (4)
The maiden thus came to the age of twelve or thirteen years, and was so
beautiful and virtuous that the Queen of Navarre had great friendship
for her, and much desired to marry her to one of wealth and station.
Being poor, however, she found no husband, though she had lovers enough
and to spare.

4 This is Catherine, daughter of Gaston and sister of
Francis Phoebus de Foix. On her brother’s death, in 1483,
she became Queen of Navarre, Duchess of Nemours and Countess
of Foix and Bigorre, and in the following year espoused
John, eldest son of Alan, Sire d’Albret. Catherine at this
time was fourteen years old, and her husband, who by the
marriage became King of Navarre, was only one year her
senior. Their title to the crown was disputed by a dozen
pretenders, for several years they exercised but a
precarious authority, and eventually, in July 1512,
Ferdinand the Catholic despatched the Duke of Alva to
besiege Pamplona. On the fourth day of the siege John and
Catherine succeeded in escaping from their capital, which,
three days later, surrendered. Ferdinand, having sworn to
maintain the _fueros_, was thereupon acknowledged as
sovereign. However, it was only in 1516 that the former
rulers were expelled from Navarrese territory. “Had I been
Don Juan and you Donna Catherine,” said the Queen to her
pusillanimous husband, as they crossed the Pyrenees, “we
should not have lost our kingdom.” From this time forward
the d’Albrets, like their successors the Bourbons, were
sovereigns of Navarre in name only, for an attempt made in
1521 to reconquer the kingdom resulted in total failure, and
their dominions were thenceforth confined to Beam, Bigorre,
and Foix on the French side of the Pyrenees. Queen Catherine
died in 1517, aged 47, leaving several children, the eldest
of whom was Henry, Queen Margaret’s second husband.--M., B.
J., D. and Ed.

Now it happened one day that the gentleman who was her unknown father
came to the house of the Queen of Navarre on his way back from beyond
the mountains, and as soon as he had set eyes on his daughter he fell
in love with her, and having license from his mother to marry any woman
that might please him, he only inquired whether she was of gentle birth,
and, hearing that she was, asked her of the Queen in marriage. The Queen
willingly consented, for she knew that the gentleman was not only rich
and handsome, but worshipful to boot.

When the marriage had been consummated, the gentleman again wrote to
his mother, saying that she could no longer close her doors against him,
since he was bringing with him as fair a daughter-in-law as she could
desire. The lady inquired to whom he had allied himself, and found that
it was to none other than their own daughter. Thereupon she fell into
such exceeding sorrow that she nearly came by a sudden death, seeing
that the more she had striven to hinder her misfortune, the greater had
it thereby become.

Not knowing what else to do, she went to the Legate of Avignon, to
whom she confessed the enormity of her sin, at the same time asking
his counsel as to how she ought to act. The Legate, to satisfy his
conscience, sent for several doctors of theology, and laid the matter
before them, without, however, mentioning any names; and their advice
was that the lady should say nothing to her children, for they, being
in ignorance, had committed no sin, but that she herself should continue
doing penance all her life without allowing it to become known.

Accordingly, the unhappy lady returned home, where not long afterwards
her son and daughter-in-law arrived. And they loved each other so
much that never were there husband and wife more loving, nor yet more
resembling each other; for she was his daughter, his sister and his
wife, while he was her father, her brother and her husband. And this
exceeding love between them continued always; and the unhappy and deeply
penitent lady could never see them in dalliance together without going
apart to weep.

“You see, ladies, what befalls those who think that by their own
strength and virtue they may subdue Love and Nature and all the
faculties that God has given them. It were better to recognise their own
weakness, and instead of running a-tilt against such an adversary, to
betake themselves to Him who is their true Friend, saying to Him in the
words of the Psalmist, ‘Lord, I am afflicted very much; answer Thou for
me.’” (5)

5 We have failed to find this sentence in the Psalms.
Probably the reference is to _Isaiah_ xxxviii. 14, “O Lord,
I am oppressed; undertake for me.”--Eu.

“It were impossible,” said Oisille “to hear a stranger story than this.
Methinks every man and woman should bend low in the fear of God, seeing
that in spite of a good intention so much mischief came to pass.”

“You may be sure,” said Parlamente, “that the first step a man takes in
self-reliance, removes him so far from reliance upon God.”

“A man is wise,” said Geburon, “when he knows himself to be his greatest
enemy, and holds his own wishes and counsels in suspicion.”

“Albeit the motive might seem to be a good and holy one,” said
Longarine, “there were surely none, howsoever worthy in appearance, that
should induce a woman to lie beside a man, whatever the kinship between
them, for fire and tow may not safely come together.”

“Without question,” said Ennasuite, “she must have been some
self-sufficient fool, who, in her friar-like dreaming, deemed herself so
saintly as to be incapable of sin, just as many of the Friars would have
us believe that we can become, merely by our own efforts, which is an
exceeding great error.”

“Is it possible, Longarine,” asked Oisille, “that there are people
foolish enough to hold such an opinion?”

“They go further than that,” replied Longarine. “They say that we ought
to accustom ourselves to the virtue of chastity; and in order to try
their strength they speak with the prettiest women they can find and
whom they like best, and by kissing and touching them essay whether
their fleshly nature be wholly dead. When they find themselves stirred
by such pleasure, they desist, and have recourse to fasts and grievous
discipline. Then, when they have so far mortified their flesh that
neither speech nor kiss has power to move them, they make trial of
the supreme temptation, that, namely, of lying together and embracing
without any lustfulness. (6) But for one who has escaped, so many have
come to mischief, that the Archbishop of Milan, where this religious
practice used to be carried on, (7) was obliged to separate them and
place the women in convents and the men in monasteries.”

6 Robert d’Arbrissel, the founder of the abbey of
Fontevrault (see ante, p. 74), was accused of this
practice.--See the article Fontevraud in Desoer’s edition of
Bayle’s Dictionary, vi. 508, 519.--M.

7 Queen Margaret possibly refers to some incidents which
occurred at Milan in the early part of the fourteenth
century, when Matteo and Galeazzo Visconti ruled the city.
In Signor Tullio Dandolo’s work, _Sui xxiii. libri delta
Histories Patrice di Giuseppe Ripamonti ragionamento_
(Milano, 1856, pp. 52-60), will be found the story of a
woman of the people, Guglielmina, and her accomplice, Andrea
Saramita, who under some religious pretext founded a secret
society of females. The debauchery practised by its members
being discovered, Saramita was burnt alive, and
Guglielmina’s bones were disinterred and thrown into the
fire. The Bishop of Milan at this time (1296-1308) was
Francesco Fontana.--M.

“Truly,” said Geburon, “it were the extremity of folly to seek to
become sinless by one’s own efforts, and at the same time to seek out
opportunities for sin.”

“There are some,” said Saffredent, “who do the very opposite, and flee
opportunities for sin as carefully as they are able; nevertheless,
concupiscence pursues them. Thus the good Saint Jerome, after scourging
and hiding himself in the desert, confessed that he could not escape
from the fire that consumed his marrow. We ought, therefore, to
recommend ourselves to God, for unless He uphold us by His power, we are
greatly prone to fall.”

“You do not notice what I do,” said Hircan. “While we were telling
our stories, the monks behind the hedge here heard nothing of the
vesper-bell; whereas, now that we have begun to speak about God, they
have taken themselves off, and are at this moment ringing the second
bell.”

“We shall do well to follow them,” said Oisille, “and praise God for
enabling us to spend this day in the happiest manner imaginable.”

Hereat they rose and went to the church, where they piously heard
vespers; after which they went to supper, discussing the discourses they
had heard, and calling to mind divers adventures that had come to pass
in their own day, in order to determine which of them were worthy to be
recounted. And after spending the whole evening in gladness, they betook
themselves to their gentle rest, hoping on the morrow to continue this
pastime which was so agreeable to them.

And so was the Third Day brought to an end.

[Illustration: 204.jpg Tailpiece]

APPENDIX.

A. (Tale XX., Page 21.)

Brantôme alludes as follows to this tale, in the Fourth Discourse of his
_Vies des Dames Galantes_:--

“I knew a great lady whose plumpness was the subject of general talk
both whilst she was a maid and when she became a wife, but she happened
to lose her husband, and gave way to such extreme grief that she became
as dry as a stick. Still she did not cease to enjoy herself to her
heart’s content, with the assistance of one of her secretaries, and
even so it is said of her cook. Nevertheless, she did not regain her
plumpness, albeit the said cook, who was all grease and fat, should as
it seems to me have made her stout again. Whilst she thus amused herself
with one and another of her varlets, she affected more prudery and
chastity than any other lady of the Court, having none but words
of virtue on her lips, speaking ill of all other women and finding
something to be censured in each of them. Very similar to this one was
that great lady of Dauphiné who is mentioned in the Hundred Tales of
the Queen of Navarre, and who was found, lying on the grass with her
stableman or muleteer, by a gentleman who was in love with her to
distraction. On finding her thus, however, he was speedily cured of his
love-sickness.

“I have read in an old romance about John de Saintré, printed in
black-letter, that the late King John brought him up as a page.
In the old times it was usual for great personages to send their pages
about with messages, as is indeed done nowadays, but at that time they
journeyed anywhere across country, on horseback. In fact, I have heard
our fathers say that pages were often sent on little embassies, for very
often a matter would be settled and expense saved by merely despatching
a page with a horse and a piece of silver. This little Jehan de Saintré,
as he was long called, was a great favourite with his master King John,
for he was full of wit, and it often happened that he was sent with
messages to his [the King’s?] sister, who was then a widow, though
of whom the book does not say. This lady fell in love with him after
several messages that he had delivered to her, and one day finding him
alone, she engaged him in converse, and, according to the usual practice
of ladies when they wish to engage any one in a love attack, she began
to ask him if he were in love with any lady of the Court, and which one
pleased him the most. This little John de Saintre, who had never even so
much as thought of love, told her that he cared for none at the Court as
yet, whereupon she mentioned several other ladies to him, and asked him
whether he thought of them. ‘Still less,’ replied he.... Thereupon the
lady, seeing that the young fellow was of good appearance, told him that
she would give him a mistress who would love him tenderly if he would
serve her well, and whilst he stood there feeling greatly ashamed,
she made him promise that he would keep the matter secret, and finally
declared to him that she herself wished to be his lady and lover, for
at that time the word ‘mistress’ was not yet used. The young page was
vastly astonished, thinking that the lady was joking, or wished to
deceive him or to have him whipped. However, she soon showed him so many
signs of the fire and fever of love, saying to him that she wished to
tutor him and make a man of him, that he at last realised that it was
not a jest. Their love lasted for a long time, both whilst he was a page
and afterwards, until at length he had to go upon a long journey, when
she replaced him by a big, fat abbot. This is the same story that one
finds in the _Nouvelles du Monde Advantureux_ by a valet of the Queen of
Navarre [Antoine de St. Denis], in which one sees the abbot insult
this same John de Saintré who was so brave and valiant, and who right
speedily and liberally paid back my lord the abbot in his own
coin.... So you see it is no new thing for ladies to love pages. What
inclinations some women have, they will willingly take any number of
lovers but they want no husband! All this is through love of liberty,
which they deem such a pleasant thing. It seems to them as though they
were in Paradise when they are not under a husband’s rule. They have a
fine dowry and spend it thriftily, they have all their household affairs
in hand, receive their income, everything passing through their hands;
and instead of being servants they are mistresses, select their
own pleasures and favourites, and amuse themselves as much as they
like.”--Lalanne’s _OEuvres de Brantôme_, vol. xi. pp. 703-6.

B. (Tale XXV., Page 131.)

Baron Jerome Pichon’s elucidations of this story, as given by him in the
_Mélanges de la Société des Bibliophiles Français_, 1866, may be thus
summarised:--

The advocate referred to in the tale is James Disome, who Mézeray
declares was the _first_ to introduce Letters to the bar, though this,
to my mind, is a very hazardous assertion. Disome was twice married. His
first wife, Mary de Rueil, died Sept. 17, 1511, and was buried at the
Cordeliers church; he afterwards espoused Jane Lecoq, daughter of
John Lecoq, Counsellor of the Paris Parliament, who held the fiefs
of Goupillières, Corbeville and Les Porcherons, where he possessed a
handsome château, a view of which has been engraved by Israel Silvestre.
John Lecoq’s wife was Magdalen Bochart, who belonged like her husband to
an illustrious family of lawyers and judges. Their daughter Jane, who is
the heroine of the tale, must have been married to James Disome not very
long after the death of the latter’s first wife, for her intrigue with
Francis I. originated prior to his accession to the throne (1515). This
is proved by the tale, in which Disome is spoken of as being the young
prince’s advocate. Now none but the Procurors and Advocates-General were
counsel to the Crown, and Disome held neither of those offices. He was
undoubtedly advocate to Francis as Duke de Valois, and, from certain
allusions in the tale, it may be conjectured that he had been advocate
to Francis’s father, the Count of Angoulême.

When Francis ascended the throne his intrigue with Jane Disome was
already notorious, as is proved by this extract, under date 1515, from
the _Journal d’un Bourgeois de Paris_: “About this time whilst the King
was in Paris, there was a priest called Mons. Cruche, a great buffoon,
who a little time before with several others had publicly performed
in certain entertainments and novelties’ (_sic_) on scaffolds upon the
Place Maubert, there being in turn jest, sermon, morality and farce; and
in the morality appeared several lords taking their cloth of gold to the
tomb and carrying their lands upon their shoulders into the other world.
And in the farce came Monsieur Cruche with his companions, who had a
lantern by which all sorts of things were seen, and among others a hen
feeding under a salamander, (1) and this hen carried something on her
back which would suffice to kill ten men (_dix hommes, i.e._, Disome).

1 The salamander was Francis I.’s device.

The interpretation of this was that the King loved and enjoyed a
woman of Paris, who was the daughter of a counsellor of the Court of
Parliament, named Monsieur le Coq. And she was married to an advocate at
the bar of Parliament, a very skilful man, named Monsieur James Disome,
who was possessed of much property which the King confiscated. Soon
afterwards the King sent eight or ten of his principal gentlemen to sup
at the sign of the Castle in the Rue de la Juiverie, and thither, under
the false pretence of making him play the said farce, was summoned
Messire Cruche, who came in the evening, by torch-light, and was
constrained to play the farce by the said gentlemen. But thereupon, at
the very beginning, he was stripped to his shirt, and wonderfully well
whipped with straps until he was in a state of the utmost wretchedness.
At the end there was a sack all ready to put him in, that he might be
thrown from the window, and then carried to the river; and this would
assuredly have come to pass had not the poor man cried out very loudly
and shown them the tonsure on his head. And all these things were done,
so it was owned, on the King’s behalf.”

It is probable that this intrigue between the King and Jane Disome
ceased soon after the former’s accession; at all events Francis did not
evince much indulgence for the man whose wife he had seduced. Under date
April, 1518, the Journal dun Bourgeois de Paris mentions the arrest of
several advocates and others for daring to discuss the question of the
Pragmatic Sanction. Disome was implicated in the matter but appears to
have escaped for a time; however in September of that year we find him
detained at Orleans and subjected to the interrogatories of various
royal Commissioners. The affair was then adjourned till the following
year, when no further mention is made of it.

Disome died prior to 1521, for in September of that year we find his
wife remarried to Peter Perdrier, Lord of Baubigny, notary and secretary
to the King, and subsequently clerk of the council to the city of Paris.
Perdrier was a man of considerable means; for when the King raised a
forced loan of silver plate in September 1521, we find him taxed to the
amount of forty marcs of silver (26 1/2 lbs. troy); or only ten _marcs_
less than each counsellor of Parliament was required to contribute. Five
and twenty years later, he lost his wife Jane, the curious record
of whose death runs as follows: “The year one thousand five hundred
forty-six, after Easter, at her house (hôtel) Rue de la Parcheminerie,
called Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, died the late Demoiselle Jane Lecoq,
daughter of Master John Lecoq, Counsellor of the Court of Parliament,
deceased; in her lifetime wife of noble Master Peter Perdrier, Lord of
Baubigny, &c, and previously wife of the late Master James Disome, in
his lifetime advocate at the Court of Parliament and Lord of Cernay in
Beauvaisis; and the said Demoiselle Jane Lecoq (2) is here--buried with
her father and mother, and departed this life on the 23rd day of April
1546. Pray ye God for her soul.”

2 The church of the Celestines.

Less than a twelvemonth afterwards King Francis followed his whilom
mistress to the tomb. She left by Peter Perdrier a son named John, Lord
of Baubigny, who in 1558 married Anne de St. Simon, grand-aunt of the
author of the Memoirs. John Perdrier was possibly the Baubigny who
killed Marshal de St. André at the battle of Dreux in 1562.

Such is Baron Pichon’s account of Jane Lecoq and her husbands. We have
now to turn to an often-quoted passage of the _Diverses Leçons_ of Louis
Guyon, sieur de la Nauthe, a physician of some repute in his time, but
whose book it should be observed was not issued till 1610, or more than
half-a-century subsequent to King Francis I.’s death. La Nauthe writes
as follows:--

“Francis I. became enamoured of a woman of great beauty and grace, the
wife of an advocate of Paris, whom I will not name, for he has left
children in possession of high estate and good repute; and this lady
would not yield to the King, but on the contrary repulsed him with many
harsh words, whereat the King was sorely vexed. And certain courtiers
and royal princes who knew of the matter told the King that he might
take her authoritatively and by virtue of his royalty, and one of them
even went and told this to the lady, who repeated it to her husband.
The advocate clearly perceived that he and his wife must needs quit
the kingdom, and that he would indeed find it hard to escape without
obeying. Finally the husband gave his wife leave to comply with the
King’s desire, and in order that he might be no hindrance in the matter,
he pretended to have business in the country for eight or ten days;
during which time, however, he remained concealed in Paris, frequenting
the brothels and trying to contract a venereal disease in order to
give it to his wife, so that the King might catch it from her; and he
speedily found what he sought, and infected his wife and she the King,
who gave it to several other women, whom he kept, and could never get
thoroughly cured, for all the rest of his life he remained unhealthy,
sad, peevish and inaccessible.”

Brantôme, it may be mentioned, also speaks of the King contracting a
complaint through his gallantries, and declares that it shortened his
life, but he mentions no woman by name, and does not tell the story of
the advocate’s wife. It will have been observed in the extract we have
quoted that Guyon de la Nauthe says that the advocate had left children
“in possession of high estate and good repute.” Disome, however, had no
children either by his first or his second wife. The question therefore
arises whether La Nauthe is not referring to another advocate, for
instance Le Féron, husband of La belle Féronnière. These would appear to
have left posterity (see _Catalogue de tous les Conseillers du Parlement
de Paris_, pp. 120-2-3, and Blanchard’s _les Présidents à mortier du
Parlement de Paris, etc_., 1647, 8vo). But it should be borne in mind
that the Féronnière intrigue is purely traditional. The modern writers
who speak of it content themselves with referring to Mézeray, a very
doubtful authority at most times, and who did not write, it should be
remembered, till the middle of the seventeenth century, his _Abrégé
Chronologique_ being first published in 1667. Moreover, when we come
to consult him we find that he merely makes a passing allusion to La
Féronnière, and even this is of the most dubious kind. Here are his
words: “In 1538 the King had a long illness at Compiègne, caused by an
ulcer.... He was cured at the time, but died [of it?] nine years later.
_I have sometimes heard say_(!) that he caught this disease from La
belle Féronnière.”

Against this we have to set the express statement of Louise of Savoy,
who writes in her journal, under date 1512, that her son (born in 1494)
had already and at an early age had a complaint _en secrete nature_. Now
this was long before the belle Féronnière was ever heard of, and further
it was prior to the intrigue with Jane Disome, who, by Queen Margaret’s
showing, did not meet with “the young prince” until she had been married
some time and was in despair of having children by her husband. The
latter had lost his first wife late in 1511, and it is unlikely that he
married Jane Lecoq until after some months of widowhood. To our thinking
Prince Francis would have appeared upon the scene in or about 1514,
his intrigue culminating in the scandal of the following year, in
which Mons. Cruche played so conspicuous a part. With reference to the
complaint from which King Francis is alleged to have suffered, one must
not overlook the statement of a contemporary, Cardinal d’Armagnac, who,
writing less than a year before the King’s death, declares that Francis
enjoys as good health as any man in his kingdom (Genin’s _Lettres de
Marguerite_, 1841, p. 473). Cardinal d’Armagnac’s intimacy with the
King enabled him to speak authoritatively, and his statement refutes the
assertions of Brantôme, Guyon de la Nauthe and Mézeray, besides tending
to the conclusion that the youthful complaint mentioned by Louise of
Savoy was merely a passing disorder.--Ed.

C. (Tale XXVI., Page 143.)

Brantome mentions this tale in both the First and the Fourth Discourse
of his _Dames Galantes_. In the former, after contending that all women
are naturally inclined to vice--a view which he borrows from the _Roman
de la Rose_, and which Pope afterwards re-echoed in the familiar line,
“Every woman is at heart a rake”--he proceeds to speak of those who
overcome their inclinations and remain virtuous:--

“Of this,” says he, “we have a very fine story in the Hundred Tales of
the Queen of Navarre; the one in which that worthy Lady of Pampeluna,
vicious at heart and by inclination, burning too with love for that
handsome Prince, Monsieur d’Avannes, preferred to die consumed by the
fire that possessed her rather than seek a remedy for it, as she
herself declared in her last words on her deathbed. This worshipful and
beautiful lady dealt herself death most iniquitously and unjustly; and
as I once heard a worthy man and worthy lady say of this very passage,
she did really offend against God, since it was in her power to deliver
herself from death; whereas in seeking it and advancing it as she did,
she really killed herself. And thus have done many similar to her,
who by excessive continence and abstinence have brought about the
destruction both of their souls and bodies.”--Lalanne’s _OEuvres de
Brantôme_, vol. ix. pp. 209-n.

In the Fourth Discourse of his work, Brantôme mentions the case of a
“fresh and plump” lady of high repute, who, through love-sickness for
one of her admirers, so wasted away that she became seriously alarmed,
and for fear of worse resolved to satisfy her passion, whereupon she
became “plump and beautiful as she had been before.”

“I have heard speak,” adds Brantôme, “of another very great lady, of
very joyous humour, and great wit, who fell ill and whose doctor told
her that she would never recover unless she yielded to the dictates of
nature, whereupon she instantly rejoined: ‘Well then, let it be so;’ and
she and the doctor did as they listed.... One day she said to him: ‘It
is said everywhere that you have relations with me; but that is all the
same to me, since it keeps me in good health... and it shall continue
so, as long as may be, since my health depends on it.’ These two ladies
in no wise resemble that worthy lady of Pampeluna, in the Queen of
Navarre’s Hundred Tales, who, as I have previously said, fell madly in
love with Monsieur d’Avannes, but preferred to hide her flame and nurse
it in her burning breast rather than forego her honour. And of this I
have heard some worthy ladies and lords discourse, saying that she was
a fool, caring but little for the salvation of her soul, since she dealt
herself death, when it was in her power to drive death away, at very
trifling cost.”--Lalanne’s _OEuvres de Brantôme_, vol. xi. pp. 542-5.

To these extracts we may add that the problem discussed by Brantôme,
three hundred years ago, is much the same as that which has so largely
occupied the attention of modern medical men, namely the great spread
of nervous disease and melancholia among women, owing to the unnatural
celibacy enforced upon them by the deficiency of husbands.--Ed.

D. (Tale XXX., Page 191).

Various French, English and Italian authors have written imitations of
this tale, concerning which Dunlop writes as follows in his History of
Fiction:--

“The plot of Bandello’s thirty-fifth story is the same as that of Horace
Walpole’s comedy _The Mysterious Mother_, and of the Queen of Navarre’s
thirtieth tale. The earlier portion will be found also in Masuccio’s
twenty-third tale: but the second part, relating to the marriage, occurs
only in Bandello’s work and the _Heptameron_. It is not likely, however,
that the French or the Italian novelist borrowed from one another. The
tales of Bandello were first published in 1554, and as the Queen of
Navarre died in 1549, it is improbable that she ever had an opportunity
of seeing them. On the other hand, the work of the Queen was not printed
till 1558, nine years after her death, so it is not likely that any part
of it was copied by Bandello, whose tales had been edited some years
before.”

Walpole, it may be mentioned, denied having had any knowledge either of
the _Heptameron_ or of Bandello when he wrote _The Mysterious Mother_,
which was suggested to him, he declared, by a tale he had heard when
very young, of a lady who had waited on Archbishop Tillotson with a
story similar to that which is told by Queen Margaret’s heroine to
the Legate of Avignon. According to Walpole, Tillotson’s advice was
identical with that given by the Legate.

Dunlop mentions that a tale of this character is given in Byshop’s
_Blossoms_ (vol. xi.); and other authors whose writings contain similar
stories are: Giovani Brevio, _Rime e Prose vulgari_, Roma, 1545 (Novella
iv.); Desfontaine’s _L’Inceste innocent, histoire véritable_, Paris,
1644 5 Tommaso Grappulo, or Grappolino, _Il Convito Borghesiano_,
Londra, 1800 (Novella vii.); Luther, _Colloquia Mens alia_ (article on
auricular confession); and Masuccio de Solerac, _Novellino_, Ginevra,
1765 (Novella xxiii.).

Curiously enough, Bandello declares that the story was related to him by
a lady of Navarre (Queen Margaret?) as having occurred in that country,
while Julio de Medrano, a Spanish author of the sixteenth century,
asserts that it was told to him in the Bourbonnais as being actual fact,
and that he positively saw the house where the lady’s son and his wife
resided; but on the other hand we find the tale related, in its broad
lines, in _Amadis de Gaule_ as being an old-time legend, and in proof of
this, it figures in an ancient French poem of the life of St. Gregory,
the MS. of which still exists at Tours, and was printed in 1854.

In support of the theory that the tale is based on actual fact, the
following passage from Millin’s _Antiquités Nationales_ (vol. iii. f.
xxviii. p. 6) is quoted--

“In the middle of the nave of the collégial church of Ecouis, in the
cross aisle, was found a white marble slab on which was inscribed this
epitaph:--

“Hore lies the child, here lies the father,
Here lies the sister, here lies the brother,
Here lie the wife and the husband,
Yet there are but two bodies here.”

“The tradition is that a son of Madame d’Écouis had by his mother,
without knowing her or being recognised by her, a daughter named
Cecilia, whom he afterwards married in Lorraine, she then being in the
service of the Duchess of Bar. Thus Cecilia was at one and the same time
her husband’s daughter, sister and wife. They were interred together in
the same grave at Écouis in 1512.”

According to Millin, a similar tradition will be found with variations
in different parts of France. For instance, at the church of Alincourt,
a village between Amiens and Abbeville, there was to be seen in Millin’s
time an epitaph running as follows:--

“Here lies the son, here lies the mother,
Here lies the daughter with the father;
Here lies the sister, here lies the brother,
Here lie the wife and the husband;
And there are only three bodies here.”

Gaspard Meturas, it may be added, gives the same epitaph in his _Hortus
Epitaphiomm Selectorum_, issued in 1648, but declares that it is to be
found at Clermont in Auvergne--a long way from Amiens--and explains it
by saying that the mother engendered her husband by intercourse with her
own father; whence it follows that he was at the same time her husband,
son and brother.--L. M. and Ed.

End of vol. III.

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