“Yes, sir, though it were the Duke himself.”
Thereupon the gentleman led him away in such haste as to leave him no
time to take any weapon except a poignard that he was wearing.
The Duke, on hearing the gentleman coming back again, thought that he
was bringing the loved one with him, and, opening his eyes, drew back
the curtains in order to see and welcome the joy for which he had so
long been waiting. But instead of seeing her who, so he hoped, was to
preserve his life, he beheld something intended to take his life away,
that is, a naked sword which the gentleman had drawn, and with which he
smote the Duke. The latter was wearing nothing but his shirt, and lacked
weapons, though not courage, for sitting up in the bed he seized the
gentleman round the body, saying--
“Is this the way you keep your promise?”
Then, armed as he was only with his teeth and nails, he bit the
gentleman’s thumb, and wrestled with him so stoutly that they both fell
down beside the bed.
The gentleman, not feeling altogether confident, called to his servant,
who, finding the Duke and his master so closely twined together that
he could not tell the one from the other, dragged them both by the feet
into the middle of the room, and then tried to cut the Duke’s throat
with his poignard. The Duke defended himself until he was so exhausted
through loss of blood that he could do no more, whereupon the gentleman
and his servant lifted him upon the bed and finished him with their
daggers. They then drew the curtain and went away, leaving the dead body
shut up in the room.
Having vanquished his great enemy, by whose death he hoped to free
his country, the gentleman reflected that his work would be incomplete
unless he treated five or six of the Duke’s kindred in the same fashion.
The servant, however, who was neither a dare-devil nor a fool, said to
him--
“I think, sir, that you have done enough for the present, and that it
would be better to think of saving your own life than of taking the
lives of others, for should we be as long in making away with each of
them as we were in the case of the Duke, daylight would overtake our
enterprise before we could complete it, even should we find our enemies
unarmed.”
Cowed by his guilty conscience, the gentleman followed the advice of his
servant, and taking him alone with him, repaired to a Bishop (4) whose
office it was to have the city gates opened, and to give orders to the
guard-posts.
4 Probably Cardinal Cybo, Alexander’s chief minister, who
according to Sismondi, was the first to discover the
murder.--Ed.
“I have,” said the gentleman to the Bishop, “this evening received
tidings that one of my brothers is at the point of death. I have just
asked leave of the Duke to go to him, and he has granted it me; and
I beg you to send orders that the guards may furnish me with two good
horses, and that the gatekeeper may let me through.”
The Bishop, who regarded the gentleman’s request in the same light as an
order from his master the Duke, forthwith gave him a note, by means of
which the gate was opened for him, and horses supplied to him as he had
requested; but instead of going to see his brother he betook himself
straight to Venice, where he had himself cured of the bites that he had
received from the Duke, and then passed over into Turkey. (5)
5 On leaving Florence, Lorenzo repaired first to Bologna
and then to Venice, where he informed Philip Strozzi of how
he had rid his country of the tyrant. After embracing him in
a transport, and calling him the Tuscan Brutus, Strozzi
asked the murderer’s sisters, Laudamina and Magdalen de’
Medici, in marriage for his own sons, Peter and Robert. From
Venice Lorenzino issued a _mémoire justificatif_, full of
quibbles and paradoxes, in which he tried to explain his
lack of energy after the murder by the indifference shown by
the Florentines. He took no part in the various enterprises
directed against Cosmo de’ Medici, who had succeeded
Alexander at Florence. Indeed his chief concern was for his
own safety, which was threatened alike by Cosmo and the
Emperor Charles V., and to escape their emissaries he
proceeded to Turkey, and thence to France, ultimately
returning to Venice, where, despite all his precautions
against danger, he was assassinated in 1547, together with
his uncle, Soderini, by some spadassins in the pay of Cosmo
I.--Ed.
In the morning, finding that their master delayed his return so long,
all the Duke’s servants suspected, rightly enough, that he had gone to
see some lady; but at last, as he still failed to return, they began
seeking him on all sides. The poor Duchess, who was beginning to love
him dearly, was sorely distressed on learning that he could not be
found; and as the gentleman to whom he bore so much affection was
likewise nowhere to be seen, some went to his house in quest of him.
They found blood on the threshold of the gentleman’s room, which they
entered, but he was not there, nor could any servant or other person
give any tidings of him. Following the blood-stains, however, the Duke’s
servants came at last to the room in which their master lay. The door
of it was locked, but this they soon broke open, and on seeing the floor
covered with blood they drew back the bed-curtain, and found the unhappy
Duke’s body lying in the bed, sleeping the sleep from which one cannot
awaken.
You may imagine the mourning of these poor servants as they carried
the body to the palace, whither came the Bishop, who told them how the
gentleman had departed with all speed during the night under pretence of
going to see his brother. And by this it was clearly shown that it was
he who had committed the murder. And it was further proved that his poor
sister had known nothing whatever of the matter. For her part, albeit
she was astounded by what had happened, she could but love her brother
the more, seeing that he had not shrunk from risking his life in order
to save her from so cruel a tyrant. And so honourable and virtuous was
the life that she continued leading, that although she was reduced to
poverty by the confiscation of the family property, both she and her
sister found as honourable and wealthy husbands as there were in all
Italy, and lived ever afterwards in high and good repute.
“This, ladies, is a story that should make you dread that little god who
delights in tormenting Prince and peasant, strong and weak, and so far
blinds them that they lose all thought of God and conscience, and even
of their own lives. And greatly should Princes and those in authority
fear to offend such as are less than they; for there is no man but can
wreak injury when it pleases God to take vengeance on a sinner, nor any
man so great that he can do hurt to one who is in God’s care.”
This tale was commended by all in the company, (6) but it gave rise
to different opinions among them, for whilst some maintained that the
gentleman had done his duty in saving his own life and his sister’s
honour, as well as in ridding his country of such a tyrant, others
denied this, and said it was rank ingratitude to slay one who had
bestowed on him such wealth and station. The ladies declared that the
gentleman was a good brother and a worthy citizen; the men, on the
contrary, that he was a treacherous and wicked servant.
6 In MS. No. 1520 (Bib. Nat.) this sentence begins: “The
tale was attentively listened to by all,” &c.--L.
And pleasant was it to hear the reasons which were brought forward on
both sides; but the ladies, as is their wont, spoke as much from passion
as from judgment, saying that the Duke was so well worthy of death that
he who struck him down was a happy man indeed.
Then Dagoucin, seeing what a controversy he had set on foot, said to
them--
“In God’s name, ladies, do not quarrel about a thing that is past and
gone. Take care rather that your own charms do not occasion more cruel
murders than the one which I have related.”
“‘La belle Dame sans Mercy,’” (7) replied Parlamente, “has taught us to
say that but few die of so pleasing an ailment.”
7 _La belle Dame sans Merci_ (The Pitiless Beauty) is one
of Alain Chartier’s best known poems. It is written in the
form of a dialogue between a lady and her lover: the former
having obstinately refused to take compassion on the
sufferings of her admirer, the latter is said to have died
of despair. The lines alluded to by Margaret are spoken by
the lady, and are to the following effect--“So graceful a
malady seldom puts men to death; yet the sooner to obtain
comfort, it is fitting one should say that it did. Some
complain and worry greatly who have not really felt the most
bitter affliction; and if indeed Love doth cause such great
torment, surely it were better there should be but one
sufferer rather than two.” The poem, as here quoted, will be
found in André Duchesne’s edition of the _OEuvres de Maistre
Alain Chartier_, Paris, 1617, p. 502.--L.
“Would to God, madam,” answered Dagoucin, “that all the ladies in this
company knew how false that saying is. I think they would then scarcely
wish to be called pitiless, or to imitate that unbelieving beauty who
suffered a worthy lover to die for lack of a gracious answer to his
suit.”
“So,” said Parlamente, “you would have us risk honour and conscience to
save the life of a man who says he loves us.”
“That is not my meaning,” replied Dagoucin, “for he who loves with a
perfect love would be even more afraid of hurting his lady’s honour than
would she herself. I therefore think that an honourable and graceful
response, such as is called for by perfect and seemly love, must tend to
the increase of honour and the satisfaction of conscience, for no true
lover could seek the contrary.”
“That is always the end of your speeches,” said Ennasuite; “they begin
with honour and end with the contrary. However, if all the gentlemen
present will tell the truth of the matter, I am ready to believe them on
their oaths.”
Hircan swore that for his own part he had never loved any woman but
his own wife, and even with her had no desire to be guilty of any gross
offence against God.
Simontault declared the same, and added that he had often wished all
women were froward excepting his own wife.
“Truly,” said Geburon to him, “you deserve that your wife should be what
you would have the others. For my own part, I can swear to you that I
once loved a woman so dearly that I would rather have died than have led
her to do anything that might have diminished my esteem for her. My love
for her was so founded upon her virtues, that for no advantage that I
might have had of her would I have seen them blemished.”
At this Saffredent burst out laughing.
“Geburon,” he said, “I thought that your wife’s affection and your own
good sense would have guarded you from the danger of falling in love
elsewhere, but I see that I was mistaken, for you still use the very
phrases with which we are wont to beguile the most subtle of women, and
to obtain a hearing from the most discreet. For who would close her ears
against us when we begin our discourse by talking of honour and virtue?
(8) But if we were to show them our hearts just as they are, there is
many a man now welcome among the ladies whom they would reckon of but
little account. But we hide the devil in our natures under the most
angelic form we can devise, and in this disguise receive many favours
before we are found out. And perhaps we lead the ladies’ hearts so far
forward, that when they come upon vice while believing themselves on the
high road to virtue, they have neither opportunity nor ability to draw
back again.”
8 This sentence is borrowed from MS. No. 1520 (Bib. Nat.)--
L.
“Truly,” said Geburon, “I thought you a different man than your words
would show you to be, and fancied that virtue was more pleasing to you
than pleasure.”
“What!” said Saffredent. “Is there any virtue greater than that of
loving in the way that God commands? It seems to me that it is much
better to love one woman as a woman than to adore a number of women as
though they were so many idols. For my part, I am firmly of opinion that
use is better than abuse.”
The ladies, however, all sided with Geburon, and would not allow
Saffredent to continue, whereupon he said--
“I am well content to say no more on this subject of love, for I have
been so badly treated with regard to it that I will never return to it
again.”
“It is your own maliciousness,” said Longarine, “that has occasioned
your bad treatment; for what virtuous woman would have you for a lover
after what you have told us?”
“Those who did not consider me unwelcome,” answered Saffredent, “would
not care to exchange their virtue for yours. But let us say no more
about it, that my anger may offend neither myself nor others. Let us see
to whom Dagoucin will give his vote.”
“I give it to Parlamente,” said Dagoucin, “for I believe that she must
know better than any one else the nature of honourable and perfect
love.”
“Since I have been chosen to tell the third tale,” said Parlamente, “I
will tell you something that happened to a lady who has always been one
of my best friends, and whose thoughts have never been hidden from me.”
[Illustration: 117.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 119a.jpg The Sea-captain talking to the Lady]
[The Sea-captain talking to the Lady]
[Illustration: 119.jpg Page Image]
_TALE XIII_.
_A sea-captain, being greatly in love with a lady, sent her a diamond;
but she despatched it to his wife, whom he had long neglected, and in
this wise so atoned for his conduct that his wife was reconciled to him
in perfect affection_. (1)
1 M. Le Roux de Lincy believes that this story has some
historical basis, and, Louise of Savoy being termed the
Regent, he assigns the earlier incidents to the year 1524.
But Louise was Regent, for the first time, in 1515, and we
incline to the belief that Queen Margaret alludes to this
earlier period. Note the reference to a Court journey to
Normandy (post, p. 136), which was probably the journey that
Francis I. and his mother are known to have made to Rouen
and Alençon in the autumn of 1517. See vol. i. p. xxviii.--
Ed. 2 119
In the household of the Lady-Regent, mother of King Francis, there was
a very pious lady married to a gentleman of like mind with herself, and,
albeit her husband was old and she was young and pretty, she served and
loved him as though he had been the handsomest and youngest man in the
world. So that she might give him no cause for sorrow, she set herself
to live as though she were of the same age as himself, eschewing all
such company, dress, dances, and amusements as young women are wont to
love, and finding all her pleasure and recreation in the service of God;
on which account her husband so loved and trusted her, that she ruled
him and his household as she would.
One day it happened that the gentleman told his wife that from his youth
up he had desired to make a journey to Jerusalem, and asked her what she
thought of it. She, whose only wish was to please him, replied--
“Since God has withheld children from us, sweetheart, and has granted
us sufficient wealth, I would willingly use some portion of it in making
this sacred journey with you, for indeed, whether you go thither or
elsewhere, I am resolved never to leave you.”
At this the good man was so pleased, that it seemed to him as though he
were already on Mount Calvary.
While they were deliberating on this matter, there came to the Court
a gentleman, the Captain of a galley, who had often served in the wars
against the Turks, (2) and was now soliciting the King of France to
undertake an expedition against one of their cities, which might yield
great advantage to Christendom. The old gentleman inquired of him
concerning this expedition, and after hearing what he intended to do,
asked him whether, on the completion of this business, he would make
another journey to Jerusalem, whither he himself and his wife had a
great desire to go. The Captain was well pleased on hearing of this
laudable desire, and he promised to conduct them thither, and to keep
the matter secret.
2 M. Paul Lacroix, who believes that the heroine of this
tale is Margaret herself (she is described as telling it
under the name of Parlamente), is also of opinion that the
gentleman referred to is the Baron de Malleville, a knight
of Malta, who was killed at Beyrout during an expedition
against the Turks, and whose death was recounted in verse by
Clement Marot (_OEuvres_, 1731, vol. ii. p. 452-455).
Margaret’s gentleman, however, is represented as being
married, whereas M. de Malleville, as a knight of Malta, was
necessarily a bachelor. Marot, moreover, calls Malleville a
Parisian, whereas the gentleman in the tale belonged to
Normandy (see _post_, p. 136).--B. J. and L.
The old gentleman was all impatience to find his wife and tell her of
what he had done. She was as anxious to make the journey as her husband,
and on that account often spoke about it to the Captain, who, paying
more attention to her person than her words, fell so deeply in love
with her, that when speaking to her of the voyages he had made, he often
confused the port of Marseilles with the Archipelago, and said “horse”
when he meant to say “ship,” like one distracted and bereft of sense.
Her character, however, was such that he durst not give any token of
the truth, and concealment kindled such fires in his heart that he often
fell sick, when the lady showed as much solicitude for him as for the
cross and guide of her road, (3) sending to inquire after him so often
that the anxiety she showed cured him without the aid of any other
medicine.
3 This may simply be an allusion to wayside crosses which
serve to guide travellers on their road. M. de Montaiglon
points out, however, that in the alphabets used for teaching
children in the olden time, the letter A was always preceded
by a cross, and that the child, in reciting, invariably
began: “The cross of God, A, B, C, D,” &c. In a like way, a
cross figured at the beginning of the guide-books of the
time, as a symbol inviting the traveller to pray, and
reminding him upon whom he should rely amid the perils of
his journey. The best known French guide-book of the
sixteenth century is Charles Estienne’s _Guide des Chemins
de France_.--M. and Ed.
Several persons who knew that this Captain had been more renowned for
valour and jollity than for piety, were amazed that he should have
become so intimate with this lady, and seeing that he had changed in
every respect, and frequented churches, sermons, and confessions, they
suspected that this was only in order to win the lady’s favour, and
could not refrain from hinting as much to him.
The Captain feared that if the lady should hear any such talk he would
be banished from her presence, and accordingly he told her husband and
herself that he was on the point of being despatched on his journey by
the King, and had much to tell them, but that for the sake of greater
secrecy he did not desire to speak to them in the presence of others,
for which reason he begged them to send for him when they had both
retired for the night. The gentleman deemed this to be good advice, and
did not fail to go to bed early every evening, and to make his wife also
undress. When all their servants had left them, they used to send for
the Captain, and talk with him about the journey to Jerusalem, in the
midst of which the old gentleman would oft-times fall asleep with his
mind full of pious thoughts. When the Captain saw the old gentleman
asleep in bed, and found himself on a chair near her whom he deemed the
fairest and noblest woman in the world, his heart was so rent between
his desires and his dread of speaking that he often lost the power
of speech. In order that she might not perceive this, he would force
himself to talk of the holy places of Jerusalem where there were such
signs of the great love that Jesus Christ bore us; and he would speak of
this love, using it as a cloak for his own, and looking at the lady
with sighs and tears which she never understood. By reason of his devout
countenance she indeed believed him to be a very holy man, and begged of
him to tell her what his life had been, and how he had come to love God
in that way.
He told her that he was a poor gentleman, who, to arrive at riches and
honour, had disregarded his conscience in marrying a woman who was too
close akin to him, and this on account of the wealth she possessed,
albeit she was ugly and old, and he loved her not; and when he had drawn
all her money from her, he had gone to seek his fortune at sea, and had
so prospered by his toil, that he had now come to an honourable estate.
But since he had made his hearer’s acquaintance, she, by reason of her
pious converse and good example, had changed all his manner of life, and
should he return from his present enterprise he was wholly resolved to
take her husband and herself to Jerusalem, that he might thereby partly
atone for his grievous sins which he had now put from him; save that he
had not yet made reparation to his wife, with whom, however, he hoped
that he might soon be reconciled.
The lady was well pleased with this discourse, and especially rejoiced
at having drawn such a man to the love and fear of God. And thus, until
the Captain departed from the Court, their long conversations together
were continued every evening without his ever venturing to declare
himself. However, he made the lady a present of a crucifix of Our Lady
of Pity, (4) beseeching her to think of him whenever she looked upon it.
4 “Our Lady of Pity” is the designation usually applied to
the Virgin when she is shown seated with the corpse of
Christ on her knees. Michael Angelo’s famous group at St.
Peter’s is commonly known by this name. In the present
instance, however, Queen Margaret undoubtedly refers to a
crucifix showing the Virgin at the foot of the Cross,
contemplating her son’s sufferings. Such crucifixes were
formerly not uncommon.--M.
The hour of his departure arrived, and when he had taken leave of the
husband, who was falling asleep, and came to bid his lady farewell, he
beheld tears standing in her eyes by reason of the honourable affection
which she entertained for him. The sight of these rendered his passion
for her so unendurable that, not daring to say anything concerning it,
he almost fainted, and broke out into an exceeding sweat, so that he
seemed to weep not only with his eyes, but with his entire body.
And thus he departed without speaking, leaving the lady in great
astonishment, for she had never before seen such tokens of regret.
Nevertheless she did not change in her good opinion of him, and followed
him with her prayers.
After a month had gone by, however, as the lady was returning to her
house, she met a gentleman who handed her a letter from the Captain, and
begged her to read it in private.
He told her how he had seen the Captain embark, fully resolved to
accomplish whatever might be pleasing to the King and of advantage to
Christianity. For his own part, the gentleman added, he was straightway
going back to Marseilles to set the Captain’s affairs in order.
The lady withdrew to a window by herself, and opening the letter,
found it to consist of two sheets of paper, covered on either side with
writing which formed the following epistle:--
“Concealment long and silence have, alas!
Brought me all comfortless to such a pass,
That now, perforce, I must, to ease my grief,
Either speak out, or seek in death relief.
Wherefore the tale I long have left untold
I now, in lonely friendlessness grown bold,
Send unto thee, for I must strive to say
My love, or else prepare myself to slay.
And though my eyes no longer may behold
The sweet, who in her hand my life doth hold,
Whose glance sufficed to make my heart rejoice,
The while my ear did listen to her voice,--
These words at least shall meet her beauteous eyes,
And tell her all the plaintive, clamorous cries
Pent in my heart, to which I must give breath,
Since longer silence could but bring me death.
And yet, at first, I was in truth full fain
To blot the words I’d written out again,
Fearing, forsooth, I might offend thine ear
With foolish phrases which, when thou wast near,
I dared not utter; and ‘Indeed,’ said I,
‘Far better pine in silence, aye, and die,
Than save myself by bringing her annoy
For whose sweet sake grim death itself were joy.’
And yet, thought I, my death some pain might give
To her for whom I would be strong, and live:
For have I not, fair lady, promised plain,
My journey ended, to return again
And guide thee and thy spouse to where he now
Doth yearn to call on God from Sion’s brow?
And none would lead thee thither should I die.
If I were dead, methinks I see thee sigh
In sore distress, for then thou couldst not start
Upon that journey, dear unto thy heart.
So I will live, and, in a little space,
Return to lead thee to the sacred place.
Aye, I will live, though death a boon would be
Only to be refused for sake of thee.
But if I live, I needs must straight remove
The burden from my heart, and speak my love,
That love more loyal, tender, deep, and true,
Than, ever yet, the fondest lover knew.
And now, bold words about to wing your flight,
What will ye say when ye have reached her sight?
Declare her all the love that fills my heart?
Too weak ye are to tell its thousandth part!
Can ye at least not say that her clear eyes
Have torn my hapless heart forth in such wise,
That like a hollow tree I pine and wither
Unless hers give me back some life and vigour?
Ye feeble words! ye cannot even tell
How easily her eyes a heart compel;
Nor can ye praise her speech in language fit,
So weak and dull ye are, so void of wit.
Yet there are some things I would have you name--
How mute and foolish I oft time became
When all her grace and virtue I beheld;
How from my ‘raptured eyes tears slowly welled
The tears of hopeless love; how my tongue strayed
From fond and wooing speech, so sore afraid,
That all my discourse was of time and tide,
And of the stars which up in Heav’n abide.
O words, alas! ye lack the skill to tell
The dire confusion that upon me fell,
Whilst love thus wracked me; nor can ye disclose
My love’s immensity, its pains and woes.
Yet, though, for all, your powers be too weak,
Perchance, some little, ye are fit to speak--
Say to her thus: “Twas fear lest thou shouldst chide
That drove me, e’en so long, my love to hide,
And yet, forsooth, it might have openly
Been told to God in Heaven, as unto thee,
Based as it is upon thy virtue--thought
That to my torments frequent balm hath brought,
For who, indeed, could ever deem it sin
To seek the owner of all worth to win?
Deserving rather of our blame were he
Who having seen thee undisturbed could be.’
None such was I, for, straightway stricken sore,
My heart bowed low to Love, the conqueror.
And ah! no false and fleeting love is mine,
Such as for painted beauty feigns to pine;
Nor doth my passion, although deep and strong,
Seek its own wicked pleasure in thy wrong.
Nay; on this journey I would rather die
Than know that thou hadst fallen, and that I
Had wrought thy shame and foully brought to harm
The virtue which thy heart wraps round thy form.
‘Tis thy perfection that I love in thee,
Nought that might lessen it could ever be
Desire of mine--indeed, the nobler thou,
The greater were the love I to thee vow.
I do not seek an ardent flame to quench
In lustful dalliance with some merry wench,
Pure is my heart, ‘neath reason’s calm control
Set on a lady of such lofty soul,
That neither God above nor angel bright,
But seeing her, would echo my delight.
And if of thee I may not be beloved,
What matter, shouldst thou deem that I have proved
The truest lover that did ever live?
And this I know thou wilt, one day, believe,
For time, in rolling by, shall show to thee
No change in my heart’s faith and loyalty.
And though for this thou mayst make no return,
Yet pleased am I with love for thee to burn,
And seek no recompense, pursue no end,
Save, that to thee, I meekly recommend
My soul and body, which I here consign
In sacrifice to Love’s consuming shrine.
If then in safety I sail back the main
To thee, still artless, I’ll return again;
And if I die, then there will die with me
A lover such as none again shall see.
So Ocean now doth carry far away
The truest lover seen for many a day;
His body ‘tis that journeys o’er the wave,
But not his heart, for that is now thy slave,
And from thy side can never wrested be,
Nor of its own accord return to me.
Ah! could I with me o’er the treach’rous brine
Take aught of that pure, guileless heart of thine,
No doubt should I then feel of victory,
Whereof the glory would belong to thee.
But now, whatever fortune may befall,
I’ve cast the die; and having told thee all,
Abide thereby, and vow my constancy--
Emblem of which, herein, a diamond see,
By whose great firmness and whose pure glow
The strength and pureness of my love thou’lt know.
Let it, I pray, thy fair white finger press,
And thou wilt deal me more than happiness.
And, diamond, speak and say: ‘To thee I come
From thy fond lover, who afar doth roam,
And strives by dint of glorious deeds to rise
To the high level of the good and wise,
Hoping some day that haven to attain,
Where thy sweet favours shall reward his pain.”
The lady read the letter through, and was the more astonished at the
Captain’s passion as she had never before suspected it. She looked at
the cutting of the diamond, which was a large and beautiful one, set in
a ring of black enamel, and she was in great doubt as to what she ought
to do with it. After pondering upon the matter throughout the night, she
was glad to find that since there was no messenger, she had no occasion
to send any answer to the Captain, who, she reflected, was being
sufficiently tried by those matters of the King, his master, which he
had in hand, without being angered by the unfavourable reply which she
was resolved to make to him, though she delayed it until his return.
However, she found herself greatly perplexed with regard to the diamond,
for she had never been wont to adorn herself at the expense of any but
her husband. For this reason, being a woman of excellent understanding,
she determined to draw from the ring some profit to the Captain’s
conscience. She therefore despatched one of her servants to the
Captain’s wife with the following letter, which was written as though it
came from a nun of Tarascon:--
“MADAM,--Your husband passed this way but a short time before he
embarked, and after he had confessed himself and received his Creator
like a good Christian, he spoke to me of something which he had upon his
conscience, namely, his sorrow at not having loved you as he should
have done. And on departing, he prayed and besought me to send you this
letter, with the diamond which goes with it, and which he begs of you
to keep for his sake, assuring you that if God bring him back again in
health and strength, you shall be better treated than ever woman was
before. And this stone of steadfastness shall be the pledge thereof.
“I beg you to remember him in your prayers; in mine he will have a place
as long as I live.”
This letter, being finished and signed with the name of a nun, was sent
by the lady to the Captain’s wife. And as may be readily believed, when
the excellent old woman saw the letter and the ring, she wept for joy
and sorrow at being loved and esteemed by her good husband when she
could no longer see him. She kissed the ring a thousand times and more,
watering it with her tears, and blessing God for having restored her
husband’s affection to her at the end of her days, when she had long
looked upon it as lost. Nor did she fail to thank the nun who had given
her so much happiness, but sent her the fairest reply that she could
devise. This the messenger brought back with all speed to his mistress,
who could not read it, nor listen to what her servant told her, without
much laughter. And so pleased was she at having got rid of the diamond
in so profitable a fashion as to bring about a reconciliation between
the husband and wife, that she was as happy as though she had gained a
kingdom.
A short time afterwards tidings came of the defeat and death of the poor
Captain, and of how he had been abandoned by those who ought to have
succoured him, and how his enterprise had been revealed by the Rhodians
who should have kept it secret, so that he and all who landed with him,
to the number of eighty, had been slain, among them being a gentleman
named John, and a Turk to whom the lady of my story had stood godmother,
both of them having been given by her to the Captain that he might take
them with him on his journey. The first named of these had died beside
the Captain, whilst the Turk, wounded by arrows in fifteen places, had
saved himself by swimming to the French ships.
It was through him alone that the truth of the whole affair became
known. A certain gentleman whom the poor Captain had taken to be his
friend and comrade, and whose interests he had advanced with the King
and the highest nobles of France, had, it appeared, stood out to sea
with his ships as soon as the Captain landed; and the Captain, finding
that his expedition had been betrayed, and that four thousand Turks were
at hand, had thereupon endeavoured to retreat, as was his duty. But the
gentleman in whom he put such great trust perceived that his friend’s
death would leave the sole command and profit of that great armament to
himself, and accordingly pointed out to the officers that it would not
be right to risk the King’s vessels or the lives of the many brave men
on board them in order to save less than a hundred persons, an opinion
which was shared by all those of the officers that possessed but little
courage.
So the Captain, finding that the more he called to the ships the farther
they drew away from his assistance, faced round at last upon the Turks;
and, albeit he was up to his knees in sand, he did such deeds of arms
and valour that it seemed as though he alone would defeat all his
enemies, an issue which his traitorous comrade feared far more than he
desired it.
But at last, in spite of all that he could do, the Captain received
so many wounds from the arrows of those who durst not approach within
bowshot, that he began to lose all his blood, whereupon the Turks,
perceiving the weakness of these true Christians, charged upon them
furiously with their scimitars; but the Christians, so long as God gave
them strength and life, defended themselves to the bitter end.
Then the Captain called to the gentleman named John, whom his lady love
had given him, and to the Turk as well, and thrusting the point of his
sword into the ground, fell upon his knees beside it, and embraced and
kissed the cross, (5) saying--
“Lord, receive into Thy hands the soul of one who has not spared his
life to exalt Thy name.”
5 As is well known, before swords were made with shell and
stool hilts, the two guards combined with the handle and
blade formed a cross. Bayard, when dying, raised his sword
to gaze upon this cross, and numerous instances, similar to
that mentioned above by Queen Margaret, may be found in the
old _Chansons de Geste_.--M.
The gentleman called John, seeing that his master’s life was ebbing away
as he uttered these words, thought to aid him, and took him into his
arms, together with the sword which he was holding. But a Turk who was
behind them cut through both his thighs, whereupon he cried out, “Come,
Captain, let us away to Paradise to see Him for whose sake we die,” and
in this wise he shared the poor Captain’s death even as he had shared
his life.
The Turk, seeing that he could be of no service to either of them, and
being himself wounded by arrows in fifteen places, made off towards
the ships, and requested to be taken on board. But although of all the
eighty he was the only one who had escaped, the Captain’s traitorous
comrade refused his prayer. Nevertheless, being an exceeding good
swimmer, he threw himself into the sea, and exerted himself so well that
he was at last received on board a small vessel, where in a short time
he was cured of his wounds. And it was by means of this poor foreigner
that the truth became fully known, to the honour of the Captain and the
shame of his comrade, whom the King and all the honourable people who
heard the tidings deemed guilty of such wickedness toward God and man
that there was no death howsoever cruel which he did not deserve. But
when he returned he told so many lies, and gave so many gifts, that not
only did he escape punishment, but even received the office of the man
whose unworthy servant he had been.
When the pitiful tidings reached the Court, the Lady-Regent, who held
the Captain in high esteem, mourned for him exceedingly, as did the King
and all the honourable people who had known him. And when the lady whom
he had loved the best heard of his strange, sad, and Christian death,
she changed the chiding she had resolved to give him into tears and
lamentations, in which her husband kept her company, all hopes of their
journey to Jerusalem being now frustrated.
I must not forget to say that on the very day when the two gentlemen
were killed, a damsel in the lady’s service, who loved the gentleman
called John better than herself, came and told her mistress that she had
seen her lover ir a dream; he had appeared to her clad in white, and had
bidden her farewell, telling her that he was going to Paradise with his
Captain. And when the damsel heard that her dream had come true, she
made such lamentation that her mistress had enough to do to comfort her.
(6)
6 The Queen of Navarre was a firm believer in the truth and
premonitory character of dreams, and according to her
biographers she, herself, had several singular ones, two of
which are referred to in the Memoir prefixed to the present
work (vol. i. pp. lxxxiii. and Ixxxvii.). In some of her
letters, moreover, she relates that Francis I., when under
the walls of Pavia, on three successive nights beheld his
little daughter Charlotte (then dying at Lyons) appear to
him in a dream, and on each occasion repeat the words,
“Farewell, my King, I am going to Paradise.”--Ed.
A short time afterwards the Court journeyed into Normandy, to which
province the Captain had belonged. His wife was not remiss in coming to
pay homage to the Lady-Regent, and in order that she might be presented
to her, she had recourse to the same lady whom her husband had so dearly
loved.
And while they were waiting in a church for the appointed hour, she
began bewailing and praising her husband, saying among other things to
the lady--
“Alas, madam! my misfortune is the greatest that ever befell a woman,
for just when he was loving me more than he had ever done, God took him
from me.”
So saying, and with many tears, she showed the ring which she wore on
her finger as a token of her husband’s perfect love, whereat the other
lady, finding that her deception had resulted in such a happy issue,
was, despite her sorrow for the Captain’s death, so moved to laughter,
that she would not present the widow to the Regent, but committed her to
the charge of another lady, and withdrew into a side chapel, where she
satisfied her inclination to laugh.
“I think, ladies, that those who receive such gifts ought to seek to use
them to as good a purpose as did this worthy lady. They would find that
benefactions bring joy to those who bestow them. And we must not charge
this lady with deceit, but esteem her good sense which turned to good
that which in itself was worthless.”
“Do you mean to say,” said Nomerfide, “that a fine diamond, costing two
hundred crowns, is worthless? I can assure you that if it had fallen
into my hands, neither his wife nor his relations would have seen aught
of it. Nothing is more wholly one’s own than a gift. The gentleman was
dead, no one knew anything about the matter, and she might well have
spared the poor old woman so much sorrow.”
“By my word,” said Hircan, “you are right. There are women who, to
make themselves appear of better heart than others, do things that are
clearly contrary to their notions, for we all know that women are
the most avaricious of beings, yet their vanity often surpasses their
avarice, and constrains their hearts to actions that they would rather
not perform. My belief is that the lady who gave the diamond away in
this fashion was unworthy to wear it.”
“Softly, softly,” said Oisille; “I believe I know who she is, and I
therefore beg that you will not condemn her unheard.”
“Madam,” said Hircan, “I do not condemn her at all; but if the gentleman
was as virtuous as you say, it were an honour to have such a lover, and
to wear his ring; but perhaps some one less worthy of being loved than
he held her so fast by the finger that the ring could not be put on.”
“Truly,” said Ennasuite, “she might well have kept it, seeing that no
one knew anything about it.”
“What!” said Geburon; “are all things lawful to those who love, provided
no one knows anything about them?”
“By my word,” said Saffredent, “the only misdeed that I have ever seen
punished is foolishness. There is never a murderer, robber, or adulterer
condemned by the courts or blamed by his fellows, if only he be as
cunning as he is wicked. Oft-time, however, a bad man’s wickedness so
blinds him that he becomes a fool; and thus, as I have just said, it is
the foolish only that are punished, not the vicious.”
“You may say what you please,” said Oisille, “only God can judge the
lady’s heart; but for my part, I think that her action was a very
honourable and virtuous one. (7) However, to put an end to the debate, I
pray you, Parlamente, to give some one your vote.”
7 In our opinion this sentence disposes of Miss Mary
Robinson’s supposition (_The Fortunate Lovers_, London,
1887, p. 159) that Oisille (i.e., Louise of Savoy) is the
real heroine of this tale. Queen Margaret would hardly have
represented her commending her own action. If any one of the
narrators of the _Heptameron_ be the heroine of the story,
the presumptions are in favour of Longarine (La Dame de
Lonray), Margaret’s bosom friend, whose silence during the
after-converse is significant.--Ed.
“I give it willingly,” she said, “to Simontault, for after two such
mournful tales we must have one that will not make us weep.”
“I thank you,” said Simontault. “In giving me your vote you have all but
told me that I am a jester. It is a name that is extremely distasteful
to me, and in revenge I will show you that there are women who with
certain persons, or for a certain time, make a great pretence of being
chaste, but the end shows them in their real colours, as you will see by
this true story.”
[Illustration: 140.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 141a.jpg Bonnivet and the Lady of Milan]
[Bonnivet and the Lady of Milan]
[Illustration: 141.jpg Page Image]
_TALE XIV_.
_The Lord of Bonnivet, desiring to revenge himself upon a
Milanese lady for her cruelty, made the acquaintance of an
Italian gentleman whom she loved, but to whom she had never
granted anything save fair words and assurances of
affection. To accomplish his purpose he gave this gentleman
such good advice that the lady granted him what he had so
long sought, and this the gentleman made known to Bonnivet,
who, having cut both hair and beard, and dressed himself in
clothes like those of the other, went at midnight and put
his vengeance into execution. Then the lady, having learnt
from him the plan that he had devised to win her, promised
to desist from loving those of her own nation, and to hold
fast to him_.
At the time when the Grand-Master of Chaumont was Governor of the Duchy
of Milan, (1) there lived there a gentleman called the Lord of Bonnivet,
who by reason of his merits was afterwards made Admiral of France. Being
greatly liked by the Grand-Master and every one else on account of the
qualities he possessed, he was a welcome guest at the banquets where
the ladies of Milan assembled, and was regarded by them with more favour
than ever fell to a Frenchman’s lot, either before or since; and this
as much on account of his handsome countenance, grace of manner, and
pleasant converse, as by reason of the renown which he had gained among
all as being one of the most skilful and valorous soldiers of his time.
(2)
1 M. de Lincy is of opinion that the incidents recorded in
this story took place between 1501 and 1503; but according
to M. Lacroix, the Grand-Master of Chaumont did not become
Governor of the Milanese till 1506. This personage, to whom
Queen Margaret frequently alludes in her tales, was Charles
d’Amboise, nephew of the famous Cardinal d’Amboise, minister
to Louis XII. In turn admiral and marshal, Governor of
Paris, and Grand-Master, in France, of the Order of St. John
of Jerusalem, he figured prominently in the Italian wars of
the time, and notably at the battle of Aignadel. In 1510 he
commanded the troops which fought on behalf of the Duke of
Ferrara against the Emperor and Pope Julius II., and the
latter having excommunicated him for bearing arms against
the Holy See, his mind is said to have become unhinged. He
died at Correggio in February 1511, when only thirty-eight
years of age, some biographers asserting that he was
poisoned, whilst others contend that he fell from a bridge
during a military expedition. Whilst on his death-bed, he
sent messengers to the Pope, begging that the decree of
excommunication against him might be annulled, but before
the Papal absolution arrived he had expired. The name of
Chaumont, by which he is generally known, is that of an
estate he possessed, between Blois and Amboise, on the
Loire. The reputation he enjoyed of being one of the
handsomest men of his time was well deserved, if one may
judge by a painting at the Louvre which is said to be his
portrait. This picture, long ascribed to Leonardo da Vinci,
and supposed to represent Charles VIII. of France, has been
identified as the work of Andreas Solario, who executed
numerous paintings for Cardinal d’Amboise at the famous
château of Gaillon.--L. M. and Eu.
2 Some particulars concerning William Gouffier, Lord of
Bonnivet, have been given in vol. i. (Tale IV. n. 3). It
may here be mentioned that the domain whence he derived the
name by which he is generally known was in the neighbourhood
of Poitiers, around the village of Vendeuvre, where he built
himself a vast château, destroyed at the close of the
eighteenth century. Some fragments of the sculptured work
adorning it, remarkable for their elegance of design and
delicacy of workmanship, are in the Poitiers Museum. It is
not unlikely that the incidents related in Tale IV. occurred
at this château; or else at that of Oiron, another domain of
the Gouffiers, between Loudun and Bressuire. In the chapel
of Oiron were buried Bonnivet, his mother, his brother
Artus, and his nephew Claud. Their tombs, large marble
mausoleums of Italian workmanship, surmounted by recumbent
statues, were opened and mutilated by the Huguenots in 1568,
when the bones they contained were scattered to the winds.
Bon-nivet’s statue is probably the most damaged of the four.
The château of Oiron, with its marble staircases, quaint
frescoes, sculptured medallions, &c, testifies to the great
wealth possessed by the Gouffier family, and justifies the
cynical motto assumed by Bonnivet’s nephew: “Others have
beaten the bushes, but we have the birds.”--Ed.
One day during the carnival, when he was among the maskers, he danced
with one of the most beautiful and bravely attired ladies to be found
in the whole city; and whenever a pause occurred in the music of the
hautboys, he did not fail to address her with love speeches, in which he
excelled all others. But she (3) having no favourable reply to give him,
suddenly checked his discourse by assuring him that she neither loved
nor ever would love any man but her husband, and that he must by no
means expect that she would listen to him.
3 This lady may perhaps be the “Sennora Clerice” (Clarissa)
of whom Brantôme writes as follows in his _Capitaines
François_:--“It was Bonnivet alone who advised King Francis
to cross the mountains and follow M. de Bourbon, and in this
he had less his master’s advantage and service at heart than
his desire to return and see a great and most beautiful lady
of Milan, whom he had made his mistress some years
previously.... It is said that this was the ‘Sennora
Clerice,’ then accounted one of the most beautiful ladies of
Italy.... A great lady of the time, from whom I heard this
story, told me that he, Bonnivet, had commended this lady
Clerice to the King so highly as to make him desirous of
seeing and winning her; and this was the principal cause of
this expedition of the King’s.”--Lalanne’s _OEuvres de
Brantôme_, vol. ii. p. 167-8.--L.
The gentleman, however, would not take this answer for a refusal, and
continued to press his suit with great energy until mid-Lent. But he
found her still firm in her declaration that she would love neither
himself nor another, which he could not believe, however, seeing how
ill-favoured was her husband, and how great her own beauty. Convinced
that she was practising dissimulation, he resolved, on his own side, to
have recourse to deception, and accordingly he ceased to urge his suit,
and inquired so closely concerning her manner of life that he discovered
she was in love with a most discreet and honourable Italian gentleman.
Little by little the Lord of Bonnivet insinuated himself into the
friendship of this gentleman, and did so with so much discretion and
skill, that the other remained ignorant of his motive, and became so
much attached to him that, after the lady of his heart, there was no one
in the world whom he loved more. In order that he might pluck his secret
from his breast, the Lord of Bonnivet pretended to tell him his own,
declaring that he loved a certain lady to whom he had in truth never
given a thought, and begging that he would keep the matter secret, and
that they might have but one heart and one mind together. Wishing to
show in return a like affection, the poor Italian gentleman thereupon
proceeded to disclose at length the love that he bore the lady on whom
Bonnivet wished to be revenged; and after this they would meet somewhere
once every day in order to recount the favours that had befallen them
during the past four and twenty hours; with this difference, however,
that one lied, and the other spoke the truth. And the Italian confessed
that he had loved this lady for three years, but had never obtained
anything of her save fair words and the assurance of her love.
Bonnivet then gave him all the advice that he could to enable him to
attain his end, and to such good purpose that in a few days the lady
consented to grant all that was sought of her. It only remained to
devise a plan for their meeting, and through the counsels of Bonnivet
this was soon accomplished. And so one day before supper the Italian
said to him--
“I am more beholden to you, sir, than to any other man living, for,
thanks to your good advice, I expect to obtain to-night that which I
have coveted so many years.”
“I pray you, my friend,” thereupon said Bonnivet, “tell me the manner of
your undertaking, so that if there be any risk in it, or craft required,
I may serve you in all friendship.”
The Italian gentleman then began to tell him that the lady had devised
a means of having the principal door of the house left open that night,
availing herself as a pretext of the illness of one of her brothers for
whose requirements it was necessary to send into the town at all hours.
He might enter the courtyard, but he was to be careful not to go up by
the principal staircase. Instead of this he was to take a small flight
on his right hand, and enter the first gallery he came to, into which
the rooms of the lady’s father-in-law and brothers-in-law opened; and
he was to choose the third door from the head of the stairs, and if on
trying it gently he found that it was locked, he was to go away again,
for in that case he might be sure that her husband had returned, though
not expected back for two days. If, however, he found that the door was
open, he was to enter softly, and boldly bolt it behind him, for in that
case there would be none but herself in the room. And above all, he was
to get himself felt shoes, in order that he might make no noise, and he
was to be careful not to come earlier than two hours after midnight,
for her brothers-in-law, who were fond of play, never went to bed until
after one of the clock.
“Go, my friend,” replied Bonnivet, “and may God be with you and preserve
you from mischief. If my company can be of any service to you, I am
wholly at your disposal.”
The Italian gentleman thanked him warmly, but said that in an affair of
this nature he could not be too much alone; and thereupon he went away
to set about his preparations.
Bonnivet, on his part, did not go to sleep, for he saw that the time had
come for revenging himself upon his cruel love. Going home betimes, he
had his beard trimmed to the same length and breadth as the Italian’s,
and also had his hair cut, so that, on touching him, no difference
between himself and his rival might be perceived. Nor did he forget the
felt shoes, nor garments such as the Italian was wont to wear. Being
greatly liked by the lady’s father-in-law, he was not afraid to go to
the house at an early hour, for he made up his mind that if he were
perceived, he would go straight to the chamber of the old gentleman,
with whom he had some business on hand.
About midnight he entered the lady’s house, and although there were a
good many persons going to and fro, he passed them unnoticed and thus
reached the gallery. Trying the first two doors, he found them shut; the
third, however, was not, and he softly pushed it open. And having thus
entered the lady’s room, he immediately bolted the door behind him. He
found that the whole chamber was hung with white linen, the floor and
ceiling also being covered with the same; and there was a bed draped
with cloth so fine and soft and so handsomely embroidered in white, that
nothing better were possible. And in the bed lay the lady alone, wearing
her cap and night-gown, and covered with pearls and gems. This, before
he was himself perceived by her, he was able to see by peeping round the
curtain; for there was a large wax candle burning, which made the room
as bright as day. And fearful lest he should be recognised by her, he
first of all put out the light. Then he undressed himself and got into
bed beside her.
The lady, taking him to be the Italian who had so long loved her, gave
him the best possible reception; but he, not forgetting that he was
there in another’s stead, was careful not to say a single word. His
only thought was to execute his vengeance at the cost of her honour and
chastity without being beholden to her for any boon. And although this
was contrary to her intention, the lady was so well pleased with this
vengeance that she deemed him rewarded for all she thought he had
endured. At last it struck one of the clock, and it was time to say
good-bye. Then, in the lowest tones he could employ, he asked her if she
were as well pleased with him as he was with her. She, believing him
to be her lover, said that she was not merely pleased but amazed at the
greatness of his love, which had kept him an hour without answering her.