ancient lineage, and had married him on account of the great affection
that they bore to one another.
Being a woman most pleasant of speech, she by no means concealed from
her husband that she had lovers whom she made game of for her pastime,
and, at first, her husband shared in her pleasure. But at last this
manner of life became irksome to him, for on the one part he took it ill
that she should hold so much converse with those that were no kinsfolk
or friends of his own, and on the other, he was greatly vexed by the
expense to which he was put in sustaining her magnificence and in
following the Court.
He therefore withdrew to his own house as often as he was able, but so
much company came thither to see him that the expenses of his household
became scarcely any less, for, wherever his wife might be, she always
found means to pass her time in sports, dances, and all such matters as
youthful dames may use with honour. And when sometimes her husband told
her, laughing, that their expenses were too great, she would reply that
she promised never to make him a “coqu” or cuckold, but only a “coquin,”
that is, a beggar; for she was so exceedingly fond of dress, that she
must needs have the bravest and richest at the Court. (1) Her husband
took her thither as seldom as possible, but she did all in her power
to go, and to this end behaved in a most loving fashion towards her
husband, who would not willingly have refused her a much harder request.
1 As Queen Margaret was by no means over fond of gorgeous
apparel and display, this passage is in contradiction with
M. de Lincy’s surmise that the lady of this and the
preceding tale may be herself. In any case the narrative
could only apply to the period of her first marriage, and
this was in no wise a love-match. Yet we are told at the
outset of the above story that the lady and gentleman had
married on account of the great affection between them. On
the other hand, these details may have been introduced the
better to conceal the identity of the persons referred to.--
Ed.
Now one day, when she had found that all her devices could not induce
him to make this journey to the Court, she perceived that he was very
pleasant in manner with a chamber-woman (2) she had, and thereupon
thought she might turn the matter to her own advantage. Taking the girl
apart, she questioned her cleverly, using both wiles and threats, in
such wise that the girl confessed that, ever since she had been in the
house, not a day had passed on which her master had not sought her love;
but (she added) she would rather die than do aught against God and her
honour, more especially after the honour which the lady had done her in
taking her into her service, for this would make such wickedness twice
as great.
2 The French expression here is _femme de chambre à
chaperon_. The _chaperon_ in this instance was a cap with a
band of velvet worn across it as a sign of gentle and even
noble birth. The attendant referred to above would therefore
probably be a young woman of good descent, constrained by
circumstances to enter domestic service.--B. J. and Ed.
On hearing of her husband’s unfaithfulness, the lady immediately felt
both grief and joy. Her grief was that her husband, despite all his show
of loving her, should be secretly striving to put her to so much shame
in her own household, and this when she believed herself far more
beautiful and graceful than the woman whom he sought in her stead.
But she rejoiced to think that she might surprise her husband in such
manifest error that he would no longer be able to reproach her with her
lovers, nor with her desire to dwell at Court; and, to bring this about,
she begged the girl gradually to grant her husband what he sought upon
certain conditions that she made known to her.
The girl was minded to make some difficulty, but when her mistress
warranted the safety both of her life and of her honour, she consented
to do whatever might be her pleasure.
The gentleman, on continuing his pursuit of the girl, found her
countenance quite changed towards him, and therefore urged his suit more
eagerly than had been his wont; but she, knowing by heart the part
she had to play, made objection of her poverty, and said that, if she
complied with his desire, she would be turned away by her mistress, in
whose service she looked to gain a good husband.
The gentleman forthwith replied that she need give no thought to any
such matters, since he would bestow her in marriage more profitably than
her mistress would be able to do, and further, would contrive the matter
so secretly that none would know of it.
Upon this they came to an agreement, and, on considering what place
would be most suited for such a fine business, the girl said that she
knew of none better or more remote from suspicion than a cottage in the
park, where there was a chamber and a bed suitable for the occasion.
The gentleman, who would not have thought any place unsuitable, was
content with the one she named, and was very impatient for the appointed
day and hour to come.
The girl kept her word to her mistress, and told her in full the whole
story of the plan, and how it was to be put into execution on the morrow
after dinner. She would not fail, said she, to give a sign when the time
came to go to the cottage, and she begged her mistress to be watchful,
and in no wise fail to be present at the appointed hour, in order to
save her from the danger into which her obedience was leading her.
This her mistress swore, begging her to be without fear, and promising
that she would never forsake her, but would protect her from her
husband’s wrath.
When the morrow was come and dinner was over, the gentleman was more
pleasant with his wife than ever, and although this was not very
agreeable to her, she dissembled so well that he did not perceive the
truth.
After dinner she asked him how he was minded to pass away the time, and
he answered that he knew of nothing better than to play at “cent.” (3)
Forthwith everything was made ready for the game, but the lady pretended
that she did not care to take part in it, and would find diversion
enough in looking at the players.
3 This is probably a reference to the card game now called
piquet, usually played for a hundred points. It is one of
the oldest of its kind. See Rabelais’ _Gargantua_, book i.
chap, xxii.--L.
Just before he sat down to play, the gentleman failed not to ask the
girl to remember her promise to him, and while he was playing she passed
through the room, making a sign to her mistress which signified that
she was about to set out on the pilgrimage she had to make. The sign was
clearly seen by the lady, but her husband perceived nothing of it.
An hour later, however, one of his servants made him a sign from a
distance, whereupon he told his wife that his head ached somewhat, and
that he must needs rest and take the air. She, knowing the nature of his
sickness as well as he did himself, asked him whether she should play
in his stead, and he consented, saying that he would very soon return.
However, she assured him that she could take his place for a couple of
hours without weariness.
So the gentleman withdrew to his room, and thence by an alley into his
park.
The lady, who knew another and shorter way, waited for a little while,
and then, suddenly feigning to be seized with colic, gave her hand at
play to another.
As soon as she was out of the room, she put off her high-heeled shoes
and ran as quickly as she could to the place, where she had no desire
that the bargain should be struck without her. And so speedily did she
arrive, that, when she entered the room by another door, her husband was
but just come in. Then, hiding herself behind the door, she listened to
the fair and honest discourse that he held to her maid. But when she
saw that he was coming near to the criminal point, she seized him from
behind, saying--
“Nay, I am too near that you should take another.”
It is needless to ask whether the gentleman was in extreme wrath, both
at being balked of the delight he had looked to obtain, and at having
his wife, whose affection he now greatly feared to lose for ever, know
more of him than he desired. He thought, however, that the plot had been
contrived by the girl, and (without speaking to his wife) he ran after
her with such fury that, had not his wife rescued her from his hands,
he would have killed her. He declared that she was the wickedest jade
he had ever known, and that, if his wife had waited to see the end, she
would have found that he was only mocking her, for, instead of doing
what she expected, he would have chastised her with rods.
But his wife, knowing what words of the sort were worth, set no value
upon them, and addressed such reproaches to him that he was in great
fear lest she should leave him. He promised her all that she asked,
and, after her sage reproaches, confessed that it was wrong of him to
complain that she had lovers; since a fair and honourable woman is none
the less virtuous for being loved, provided that she do or say nothing
contrary to her honour; whereas a man deserves heavy punishment when he
is at pains to pursue a woman that loves him not, to the wronging of
his wife and his own conscience. He would therefore, said he, never more
prevent his wife from going to Court, nor take it ill that she should
have lovers, for he knew that she spoke with them more in jest than in
affection.
This talk was not displeasing to the lady, for it seemed to her that
she had gained an important point. Nevertheless she spoke quite to the
contrary, pretending that she had no delight in going to Court, since
she no longer possessed his love, without which all assemblies were
displeasing to her; and saying that a woman who was truly loved by her
husband, and who loved him in return, as she did, carried with her a
safe-conduct that permitted her to speak with one and all, and to be
derided by none.
The poor gentleman was at so much pains to assure her of the love he
bore her, that at last they left the place good friends. That they might
not again fall into such trouble, he begged her to turn away the girl
through whom he had undergone so much distress. This she did, but did it
by bestowing her well and honourably in marriage, and at her husband’s
expense.
And, to make the lady altogether forget his folly, the gentleman soon
took her to Court, in such style and so magnificently arrayed that she
had good reason to be content.
“This, ladies, was what made me say I did not find the trick she played
upon one of her lovers a strange one, knowing, as I did, the trick she
had played upon her husband.”
“You have described to us a very cunning wife and a very stupid
husband,” said Hircan. “Having advanced so far, he ought not to have
come to a standstill and stopped on so fair a road.”
“And what should he have done?” said Longarine.
“What he had taken in hand to do,” said Hircan, “for his wife was no
less wrathful with him for his intention to do evil than she would have
been had he carried the evil into execution. Perchance, indeed, she
would have respected him more if she had seen that he was a bolder
gallant.”
“That is all very well,” said Ennasuite, “but where will you find a man
to face two women at once? His wife would have defended her rights and
the girl her virginity.”
“True,” said Hircan, “but a strong bold man does not fear to assail two
that are weak, nor will he ever fail to vanquish them.”
“I readily understand,” said Ennasuite, “that if he had drawn his sword
he might have killed them both, but otherwise I cannot see that he had
any means of escape. I pray you, therefore, tell us what you would have
done?”
“I should have taken my wife in my arms,” said Hircan, “and have carried
her out. Then I should have had my own way with her maid by love or by
force.”
“‘Tis enough, Hircan,” said Parlamente, “that you know how to do evil.”
“I am sure, Parlamente,” he replied, “that I do not scandalise the
innocence in whose presence I speak, and by what I have said I do not
mean that I support a wicked deed. But I wonder at the attempt, which
was in itself worthless, and at the attempter, who, for fear rather than
for love of his wife, failed to complete it. I praise a man who loves
his wife as God ordains; but when he does not love her, I think little
of him for fearing her.”
“Truly,” replied Parlamente, “if love did not render you a good husband,
I should make small account of what you might do through fear.”
“You are quite safe, Parlamente,” said Hircan, “for the love I bear you
makes me more obedient than could the fear of either death or hell.”
“You may say what you please,” said Parlamente, “but I have reason to be
content with what I have seen and known of you. As for what I have not
seen, I have never wished to make guess or still less inquiry.”
“I think it great folly,” said Nomerfide, “for women to inquire so
curiously concerning their husbands, or husbands concerning their wives.
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, without giving so much heed
to the morrow.”
“Yet it is sometimes needful,” said Oisille, “to inquire into matters
that may touch the honour of a house in order to set them right, though
not to pass evil judgment upon persons, seeing that there is none who
does not fail.”
“Many,” said Geburon, “have at divers times fallen into trouble for lack
of well and carefully inquiring into the errors of their wives.”
“I pray you,” said Longarine, “if you know any such instance, do not
keep it from us.”
“I do indeed know one,” said Geburon, “and since you so desire, I will
relate it.”
[Illustration: 090.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 091a. The Chanter of Blois delivering his Mistress from the Grave]
[The Chanter of Blois delivering his Mistress from the Grave]
[Illustration: 091.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LX_.
_A man of Paris, through not making good inquiry concerning
his wife, whom he believed dead, though she was indeed
making good cheer with a chanter to the King, married a
second wife, whom, after having several children by her and
consorting with her for fourteen or fifteen years, he was
constrained to leave, in order to take his first wife back
again_.
In the city of Paris there was a man who was so good-natured that he
would have scrupled to believe a man abed with his wife, even if he had
seen him with his own eyes. This poor man married a woman whose conduct
was as bad as could be; nevertheless he perceived nothing of it, and
treated her as though she were the most virtuous woman alive. One
day, however, when King Louis XII. came to Paris, his wife surrendered
herself to one of the choir-men of the aforesaid sovereign, and when she
found that the King was leaving Paris and that she would no longer
be able to see the singer, she resolved to follow him and forsake her
husband. To this the chanter agreed, and brought her to a house that he
had near Blois, (1) where for a long while they lived together. The poor
husband, finding that he had lost his wife, sought her everywhere; and
at last it was told him that she was gone away with the chanter.
Wishing to recover the lost ewe which he had so badly watched, he wrote
many letters to her begging her to return to him, and saying that he
would take her back if she were willing to be a virtuous woman. But she
took such great delight in listening to the songs of the chanter, that
she had forgotten her husband’s voice, and gave no heed to all his
excellent words, but mocked at them.
Therefore the husband, in great wrath, gave her to know that, since
she would return to him in no other way, he would demand her in legal
fashion of the Church. (2) The wife, dreading that if the law should
take the matter in hand she and her chanter would fare badly, devised a
stratagem worthy of such a woman as herself. Feigning sickness, she sent
for some honourable women of the town to come and see her, and this they
willingly did, hoping that her illness might be a means of withdrawing
her from her evil life, with which purpose they addressed the sagest
admonitions to her. Thereupon she, whilst pretending to be grievously
sick, made a show of weeping and acknowledging her sinfulness in such
sort that she gained the pity of the whole company, who quite believed
that she was speaking from the bottom of her heart. And, finding her
thus subdued and sorry, they began to comfort her, telling her that God
was in no wise so terrible as many preachers represented Him, and that
He would never refuse to show her mercy.
1 Louis XII.’s favourite place of residence.--Ed.
2 Implying the Officialité or episcopal court.--B. J.
After this excellent discourse, they sent for a virtuous man to come
and confess her, and on the morrow the priest of the parish came to
administer the Holy Sacrament. This she received so piously, that
all the virtuous women of the town who were present wept to see her
devoutness, praising God, who of His goodness had in this wise shown
compassion upon this poor creature.
Afterwards she pretended that she could no longer take food, whereupon
the extreme unction was brought by the priest and received by her with
many pious signs; for (as they thought) she was scarcely able to speak.
She continued thus for a great while, and it seemed as though she were
gradually losing her sight, hearing and other senses, whereat there came
from all a cry of “Jesus!” As night was at hand and the ladies were far
from home, they all withdrew; and just as they were leaving the house it
was told them that she was dead, whereupon, saying their _De profundis_
for her, they returned to their houses.
The priest asked the chanter where he would have her buried, and the
other replied that she had desired to be buried in the cemetery,
and that it would be well to bring her there at night. So the poor
unfortunate was shrouded by a serving-woman, who was careful not to hurt
her, and then by brave torchlight she was carried to the grave that the
chanter had caused to be made.
When the body passed in front of the houses of those who had been
present when she received the extreme unction, they all came forth
and followed her to the tomb; and there she was soon left by women and
priests alike. The chanter, however, did not go away, but, as soon as he
saw the company some distance off, he and the serving-woman opened the
grave wherein was his sweetheart more alive than ever, and he sent her
secretly to his house, where for a long time he kept her concealed.
The husband, who was in pursuit of her, came as far as Blois to demand
justice, when he found that she was dead and buried according to the
testimony of all the ladies of Blois. They told him, too, what a good
end she had made, and the worthy man was rejoiced to think that his
wife’s soul was in Paradise, and himself rid of her wicked body.
In this wise well content, he betook himself back to Paris, where he
married a beautiful and virtuous young woman, and a good housewife, by
whom he had several children, and with whom he lived for fourteen or
fifteen years. But at last rumour, which can keep nothing hid, advised
him that his wife was not dead, but was still dwelling with the wicked
chanter. The poor man concealed the matter as well as he was able,
pretending to know nothing about it, and hoping that it was a lie. But
his wife, who was a discreet woman, was told of it, and such was her
anguish at the tidings that she was like to die of grief. Had it been
possible without offence to her conscience, she would gladly have
concealed her misfortune, but it was not possible. The Church
immediately took the affair in hand, and first of all separated them
from each other until the truth of the matter should be known.
Then was this poor man obliged to leave the good and go after the bad,
and in this wise he came to Blois shortly after Francis the First had
become king. Here he found Queen Claude and my Lady the Regent, (3) to
whom he made his complaint, asking for her whom he would gladly not have
found, but whom, to the great compassion of the whole company, he was
now obliged to see.
3 This shows that the incidents of the tale occurred in the
summer or autumn of 1515, when Francis I. was absent in
Italy conducting the campaign which resulted in the victory
of Marignano and the surrender of Milan.--Ed.
When his wife was brought before him, she strove for a long while to
maintain that he was not her husband, which he would willingly have
believed had he been able. More disappointed than abashed, she told him
that she would rather die than go back with him, and at this he was well
pleased; but the ladies in whose presence she spoke in this unseemly
fashion condemned her to return, and so rated the chanter with many a
threat, that he was obliged to tell his ugly sweetheart to go back with
her husband, and to declare that he himself would never see her more.
Rejected thus on all sides, the poor unfortunate withdrew to a home in
which she was fated to meet with better treatment from her husband than
she had deserved.
“You see, ladies, why I say that if the poor husband had been more
watchful over his wife, he would not thus have lost her. A thing that is
well guarded is difficult to lose, but heedlessness makes the thief.”
“‘Tis a strange thing,” said Hircan, “how strong love is just where it
seems most unreasonable.”
“I have heard,” said Simontault, “that it were easier to break two
marriages than to sunder the love of a priest and his serving-maid.”
“I believe it,” said Ennasuite; “for those who bind others together in
marriage, are so well able to tie the knot that nought but death can
destroy it. Theologians, moreover, hold that spiritual language is of
more effect than any other, and in consequence spiritual love surpasses
any other kind.”
“It is a thing that I cannot forgive in ladies,” said Dagoucin, “when
they forsake an honourable husband or a lover for a priest, however
handsome and worthy the latter may be.”
“I pray you, Dagoucin,” said Hircan, “intermeddle not with our Holy
Mother Church. Be assured that ‘tis a great delight for timorous and
secret-loving women to sin with those who can absolve them; for there
are some who are more ashamed to confess a thing than to do it.”
“You speak,” said Oisille, “of those who have no knowledge of God, and
who think not that secret matters are one day revealed in presence of
the Company of Heaven. But I think that it is not for confession’s sake
that they go after confessors; for the Enemy has so blinded them that
they are more concerned to attach themselves where they think there is
most concealment and security, than anxious to obtain absolution for the
wickedness of which they do not repent.”
“Repent, say you?” said Saffredent. “Nay, they deem themselves holier
than other women. I am sure that there are some who deem it honourable
in themselves that they are constant in such love.”
“You speak in such a manner,” said Oisille to Saffredent, “that I think
you know of some one of that kind. I pray you, therefore, begin the Day
tomorrow by telling us what you know. But now the last bell for vespers
is already ringing; for our friends the monks went off as soon as they
had heard the tenth tale, and left us to finish our discussions among
ourselves.”
At these words they all rose and came to the church, where they found
the monks awaiting them. Then, after hearing vespers, they all supped
together, talking the while of many excellent stories. After supper they
went, according to their wont, to disport themselves somewhat in the
meadow, and then retired to rest, in order that their memories might be
the sounder on the morrow.
[Illustration: 099.jpg Tailpiece]
SEVENTH DAY.
_On the Seventh Day relation is made of such as have done quite contrary
to their duty or desire_.
PROLOGUE.