The _Journal d’un Bourgeois de Paris_ tells us that he was
born in Paris of poor parents, and became a favourite of
Francis I., who appointed him Bailiff of the capital,
without requiring him to pay any of the dues attaching to
the office. From the roll of the royal household for 1522,
we also find that he was then a gentleman of the bed chamber
with 1200 _livres_ salary, master of the wardrobe (a post
worth 200 _livres_) and governor of the pages, for the board
and clothing of whom he received 5000 _livres_ annually. In
1526 he became Provost as well as Bailiff of Paris, the two
offices then being amalgamated. He was further created Count
of Etampes, and acquired the lordship of Veretz, best
remembered by its associations with the murder of Paul Louis
Courier. La Barre fought at Pavia, was taken prisoner with
the King, and remained his constant companion during his
captivity. Several letters of his, dating from this period
and of great historical interest, are still extant; some of
them have been published by Champollion-Figeac (_Captivité
de François Ier_) and Génin (_Lettres de Marguerite, &c_).
Under date 1533 (o. s.) the “Bourgeois de Paris” writes in
his _Journal_: “At the beginning of March there died in
Paris, at the house of Monsieur Poncher, Monsieur le Prévost
de Paris, named de La Barre.... The King was then in Paris,
at his chateau of the Louvre, and there was great pomp at
the obsequies; and he was borne to his lordship of Veretz,
near Tours, that he might be buried there.” Numerous
particulars concerning La Barre will also be found in M. de
Laborde’s _Comptes des Bâtiments du Roi au XVIeme Siècle_.--
L. and Ed.
He told the latter his plan, which was approved both by the Prince and
by two other great personages of the Court, all three agreeing together
to share in the spoil.
While they were looking for a fourth comrade, there arrived a handsome
and honourable lord who was ten years younger than the others. He
was invited to the banquet, but although he accepted with a cheerful
countenance, in his heart he had no desire for it. For on the one part
he had a wife who was the mother of handsome children, and with whom he
lived in great happiness, and in such peacefulness that on no account
would he have had her suspect evil of him. And on the other hand he was
the lover of one of the handsomest ladies of her time in France, whom
he loved and esteemed so greatly that all other women seemed to him ugly
beside her.
In his early youth, before he was married, he had found it impossible to
gaze upon and associate with other women, however beautiful they might
be; for he took more delight in gazing upon his sweetheart, and in
perfectly loving her, than in having all that another might have given
him.
This lord, then, went to his wife and told her secretly of the
enterprise that his master had in hand, saying that he would rather die
than do what he had promised. For (he told her) just as there was no
living man whom he would not venture to attack in anger, although he
would rather die than commit a causeless and wilful murder unless his
honour compelled him to it; even so, unless driven by extreme love, such
as may serve to blind virtuous men, he would rather die than break his
marriage vow to gratify another.
On hearing these words of his, and finding that so much honour dwelt
in one so young, his wife loved and esteemed him more than she had ever
done before, and inquired how he thought he might best excuse himself,
since Princes often frown on those who do not praise what they like.
“I have always heard,” he replied, “that a wise man has a journey or
a sickness in his sleeve for use in time of need. I have therefore
resolved that I will feign a grievous sickness four or five days
beforehand, and in this matter your countenance may render me true
service.”
“Tis a worthy and holy hypocrisy,” said his wife, “and I will not fail
to serve you with the saddest face I can command; for he who can avoid
offending God and angering the Prince is fortunate indeed.”
As it was resolved, so was it done, and the King was very sorry to hear
from the wife of her husband’s sickness. This, however, lasted no
long time; for, on account of certain business which arose, the King
disregarded his pleasure to attend to his duty, and betook himself away
from Paris.
However, one day, remembering their unfinished undertaking, he said to
the young lord:--
“We were very foolish to leave so suddenly without seeing the four girls
who are declared to be the fairest in my kingdom.”
“I am very glad,” replied the young lord, “that you failed in the
matter, for I was in great fear that, by reason of my sickness, I should
be the only one to miss so pleasant an adventure.”
By reason of this answer the King never suspected the dissimulation of
the young lord, who was thenceforward loved by his wife more dearly than
he had ever been before.
Hereupon Parlamente began to laugh, and could not hold from saying--
“He would have loved his wife better if he had done this for love of her
alone. But in any case he is worthy of great praise.”
“It seems to me,” said Hircan, “that it is no great merit in a man
to keep his chastity for love of his wife, inasmuch as there are many
reasons which in a manner compel him to do so. In the first place, God
commands it; his marriage vow binds him to it, and, further, surfeited
nature is not liable to temptation or desire as necessity is. But when
the unfettered love that a man bears towards a mistress of whom he has
no delight, and no other happiness save that of seeing her and speaking
with her, and from whom he often receives harsh replies--when this love
is so loyal and steadfast that nothing can ever make it change, I say
that such chastity is not simply praiseworthy but miraculous.”
“‘Tis no miracle in my opinion,” said Oisille, “for when the heart is
plighted, nothing is impossible to the body.”
“True,” said Hircan; “to bodies which have become those of angels.”
“I do not speak only of those,” said Oisille, “who by the grace of God
are wholly transformed into Himself, but of the grosser spirits that
we see here below among men. And, if you give heed, you will find that
those who have set their hearts and affections upon seeking after the
perfection of the sciences, have forgotten not only the lust of the
flesh, but even the most needful matters, such as food and drink; for
so long as the soul is stirred within the body, so long does the flesh
continue as though insensible. Thence comes it that those who love
handsome, honourable and virtuous women have such happiness of spirit in
seeing them and speaking with them, that the flesh is lulled in all its
desires. Those who cannot feel this happiness are the carnally-minded,
who, wrapped in their exceeding fatness, cannot tell whether they have a
soul or not. But, when the body is in subjection to the spirit, it is
as though heedless of the failings of the flesh, and the beliefs of such
persons may render them insensible of the same. I knew a gentleman who,
to show that he loved his mistress more dearly than did any other man,
proved it to all his comrades by holding his bare fingers in the
flame of a candle. And then, with his eyes fixed upon his mistress, he
remained firm until he had burned himself to the bone, and yet said that
he had felt no hurt.”
“Methinks,” said Geburon, “that the devil whose martyr he was ought to
have made a St. Lawrence of him; for there are few whose love-flame is
hot enough to keep them from fearing that of the smallest taper. But
if a lady had suffered me to endure so much hurt for her sake, I should
either have sought a rich reward or else have taken my love away from
her.”
“So,” said Parlamente, “you would have your hour after the lady had
had hers? That was what was done by a gentleman of the neighbourhood
of Valencia in Spain, whose story was told to me by a captain, a right
worthy man.”
“I pray you, madam,” said Dagoucin, “take my place and tell it us, for I
am sure that it must be a good one.”
“This story, ladies,” said Parlamente, “will teach you both to think
twice when you are inclined to give a refusal and to lay aside the
thought that the present will always continue; and so, knowing that it
is subject to mutation, you will have a care for the time to come.”
[Illustration: 132.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 133a. The Lady Swooning in the Arms of the Gentleman of
Valencia who had become a Monk]
[The Lady Swooning in the Arms of the Gentleman of Valencia who had
become a Monk]
[Illustration: 133.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LXIV_.
_After a lady had for the space of five or six years made
trial of the love that a certain gentleman bore her, she
desired to have a still stronger proof of it, and reduced
him to such despair that he turned monk, on which account
she was not able to win him back again when she would fain
have done so_.
In the city of Valencia there lived a gentleman, who for the space of
five or six years had loved a lady so perfectly that the honour and
conscience of neither of them had taken any hurt; for his intent was
to have her as his wife, and this was reasonable, seeing that he was
handsome, rich and of good descent. But, before he became her lover, he
first inquired concerning her own mind, whereupon she declared herself
willing to marry according to the counsels of her kinsfolk. The
latter, being come together for the purpose, deemed the marriage a very
reasonable one provided that the maiden was herself disposed to it; but
she--whether because she thought to do better or because she wished to
hide her love for him---made some difficulty, and the company separated,
not without regret at having failed to conclude a match so well suited
to both parties.
The most grieved of all was the poor gentleman, who would have borne
his misfortune with patience had he thought that the fault lay with the
kinsfolk and not with her; but he knew the truth, and the knowledge was
to him worse than death. So, without speaking to his sweetheart or to
any other person, he withdrew to his own house, and, after setting his
affairs in order, betook himself to a solitary spot, where he strove to
forget his love and change it wholly to that love of our Lord which were
truly a higher duty than the other.
During this time he received no tidings of his mistress or her kindred,
and he therefore resolved that, since he had failed to obtain the
happiest life he could hope for, he would choose the most austere and
disagreeable that he could imagine. With this sad intent, which
might well have been called despair, he went and became a monk in the
monastery of St. Francis. This monastery was not far from the dwellings
of divers of his kinsfolk, who, on hearing of his desperate condition,
did all that in them lay to hinder his purpose; but this was so firmly
rooted in his heart that it was not possible to turn him from it.
Nevertheless, as the source of his distemper was known to them, they
determined to seek the cure, and so repaired to her who was the cause
of his sudden devoutness. She was greatly astonished and grieved by this
mischance, for, in refusing for a time, she had thought only to test his
affection, not to lose it for ever. Seeing now the evident risk that she
ran of doing this last, she sent him a letter, which, ill-translated,
was as follows:--
“Since love, if tested not full needfully,
Steadfast and faithful is not shown to be,
By length of time my heart would that assay
Whereon itself was set to love alway--
To wit, a husband with that true love filled
Such as no lapsing time has ever killed.
This, then, was the sole reason that I drew
My kin to hinder for a year or two
That closest tie which lasts till life is not,
And whereby woe is oftentimes begot.
Yet sought I not to have you wholly sent
Away; such was in no wise my intent,
For none save you could I have e’er adored
Or looked to as my husband and my lord.
But woe is me, what tidings reach mine ear!
That you, to lead the cloistered life austere,
Are gone with speech to none; whereat the pain
That ever holds me, now can brook no rein,
But forces me mine own estate to slight
For that which yours aforetime was of right;
To seek him out who once sought me alone,
And win him who myself has sometimes won.
Nay then, my love, life of the life in me,
For loss of whom I fain would cease to be,
Turn hither, graciously, those eyes of pain
And trace those wandering footsteps back again.
Leave the grey robe and its austerity,
Come back and taste of that felicity
Which often you desired, and which to-day
Time has nor slain, nor swept away.
For you alone I’ve kept myself; and I,
Lacking your presence, cannot choose but die.
Come back then; in your sweetheart have belief,
And for past memories find cool relief
In holy marriage-ties. Ah! then, my dear,
To me, not to your pride give ready ear,
And rest of this assured, I had no thought
To give, sweetheart, to you offence in aught,
But only yearned your faithfulness to prove
And then to make you happy with my love.
But now that through this trial, free from scathe,
Are come your steadfastness and patient faith,
And all that loyal love to me is known,
Which at the last has made me yours alone,
Come, my beloved, take what is your due
And wholly yield to me, as I to you!”
This letter, brought by a friend of hers with every remonstrance that it
was possible to make, was received and read by the gentleman friar with
such sadness of countenance, such sighs and such tears, that it seemed
as though he would drown and burn the poor epistle. But he made no
reply to it, except to tell the messenger that the mortification of his
exceeding passion had cost him so dear as to have taken from him both
the wish to live and the fear to die. He therefore requested her who
had been the cause of this, that since she had not chosen to satisfy
his passionate longings, she would, now that he was rid of them, abstain
from tormenting him, and rest content with the evil which was past. For
that evil he could find no remedy but the choice of an austere life,
which by continual penance might bring him to forget his grief, and, by
fasts and disciplines, subdue his body, till the thought of death should
be to him but a sovereign consolation. Above all, he begged that he
might never hear of her, since he found the mere remembrance of her name
a purgatory not to be endured.
The gentleman went back with this mournful reply, and reported it to the
maiden who did not hear it without intolerable sorrow. But Love, which
will not suffer the spirit utterly to fail, gave her the thought that,
if she could see him, her words and presence might be of more effect
than the writing. She therefore, with her father and the nearest of her
kin, went to the monastery where he abode. She had left nothing in her
box that might set off her beauty, for she felt sure that, could he but
once look at her and hear her, the fire that had so long dwelt in both
their hearts must of necessity be kindled again in greater strength than
before.
Coming thus into the monastery towards the end of vespers, she sent for
him to come to her in a chapel that was in the cloister. He, knowing not
who it was that sought him, went in all ignorance to the sternest battle
in which he had ever been. When she saw him so pale and wan that she
could hardly recognise him, yet filled with grace, in no whit less
winning than of yore, Love made her stretch out her arms to embrace him,
whilst her pity at seeing him in such a plight so enfeebled her heart,
that she sank swooning to the floor.
The poor monk, who was not void of brotherly charity, lifted her up and
set her upon a seat in the chapel. Although he had no less need of
aid than she had, he feigned to be unaware of her passion, and so
strengthened his heart in the love of God against the opportunities now
present with him, that, judging by his countenance, he seemed not to
know what was actually before him. Having recovered from her weakness,
she turned upon him her beautiful, piteous eyes, which were enough to
soften a rock, and began to utter all such discourse as she believed apt
to draw him from the place in which he now was. He replied as virtuously
as he was able; but at last, finding that his heart was being softened
by his sweetheart’s abundant tears, and perceiving that Love, the cruel
archer whose pains he long had known, was ready with his golden dart to
deal him fresh and more deadly wounds, he fled both from Love and from
his sweetheart, like one whose only resource lay, indeed, in flight.
When he was shut up in his room, not desiring to let her go without some
settlement of the matter, he wrote her a few words in Spanish, which
seem to me so excellent in their matter that I would not by translating
them mar their grace. These were brought to her by a little novice,
who found her still in the chapel and in such despair that, had it been
lawful, she too would have remained there and turned friar. But when she
saw the words, which were these--
“Volvete don venesti, anima mia,
Que en las tristas vidas es la mia,” (1)
she knew that all hope was gone, and she resolved to follow the advice
of him and her friends, and so returned home, there to lead a life as
melancholy as that of her lover in his monastery was austere.
1 “Return whence thou earnest, my soul,
for among the sad lives is mine.”’
“You see, ladies, what vengeance the gentleman took upon his harsh
sweetheart, who, thinking to try him, reduced him to such despair that,
when she would have regained him, she could not do so.”
“I am sorry,” said Nomerfide, “that he did not lay aside his gown and
marry her. It would, I think, have been a perfect marriage.”
“In good sooth,” said Simontault, “I think he was very wise. Anyone who
well considers what marriage is will deem it no less grievous than
a monkish life. Moreover, being so greatly weakened by fasts and
abstinence, he feared to take upon him a burden of that kind which lasts
all through life.”
“Methinks,” said Hircan, “she wronged so feeble a man by tempting him
to marriage, for ‘tis too much for the strongest man alive; but had she
spoken to him of love, free from any obligation but that of the will,
there is no friar’s cord that would not have been untied. However, since
she sought to draw him out of purgatory by offering him hell, I think
that he was quite right to refuse her, and to let her feel the pain that
her own refusal had cost him.”
“By my word,” said Ennasuite, “there are many who, thinking to do better
than their fellows, do either worse or else the very opposite of what
they desire.”
“Truly,” said Geburon, “you remind me--though, indeed, the matter is
not greatly to the point--of a woman who did the opposite of what she
desired, and so caused a great uproar in the church of St. John of
Lyons.”
“I pray you,” said Parlamente, “take my place and tell us about it.”
“My story,” said Geburon, “will not be so long or so piteous as the one
we have heard from Parlamente.”
[Illustration: 141.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 143a. The Old Woman startled by the Waking of the Soldier]
[The Old Woman startled by the Waking of the Soldier]
[Illustration: 143.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LXV_.
_Though the priests of St. John of Lyons would fain have
concealed it, the falsity of a miracle was brought to light
through an old woman’s folly becoming known_. (1)
In the church of St. John of Lyons there is a very dark chapel, and
inside it a stone tomb with figures of great personages raised life-like
upon it, whilst several men-at-arms lie all around it.
1 We believe that the incident here narrated occurred early
in 1525, when Margaret is known to have been at Lyons. She
and her husband (on his return from Pavia) resided there at
the house of the Obédiencier de St. Just, and it was in the
church of St. Just that the Duke of Alençon was buried.
Doubtless it was during his illness that the _novena_
alluded to in the final tale of the _Heptameron_ was
performed by Queen Margaret at the church of St. John of
Lyons, where the two most important chapels, according to
Quincarnon’s _Antiquités et la fondation de la Métropole
des Gaules, &c._, Lyons, 1673, were the Most Holy Eucharist,
or Bourbon chapel, built in 1449 by Charles de Bourbon,
Primate of Gaul, and the Holy Sepulchre, or Good Friday
chapel, erected at the beginning of the fifteenth century by
Philip de Turey, Archbishop of Lyons. Unfortunately the
church of St. John was in 1652 devastated by the Huguenots,
who in their insensate fury destroyed almost all the tombs.
It is therefore now impossible to identify the chapel and
tomb to which the Queen of Navarre refers in the above
story, though her allusion to the dimness of the light would
incline us to place the incident she recounts in the
Chapelle du St. Sépulcre.--L. and Ed.
One day a soldier, walking in the church at the very height of summer,
felt inclined to sleep, and, looking at this dark, cool chapel, resolved
to go and guard the tomb in sleep like the rest; (2) and accordingly he
lay down beside them. Now it chanced that a very pious old woman came
in while his sleep was the soundest, and having performed her devotions,
holding a lighted taper in her hand, she sought to fix this taper to the
tomb. Finding that the sleeping man was nearest to her, she tried to set
it upon his forehead, thinking that it was of stone; but the wax would
not stick to such stone as this, whereupon the worthy dame, believing
that the reason of it was the coldness of the statue, applied the flame
to the sleeper’s forehead, that she might the better fix the taper on
it. At this, however, the statue, which was not without feeling, began
to cry out.
2 Meaning the recumbent statues of the men-at-arms.--Ed.
The good woman was then in exceeding fear, and set herself to shout, “A
miracle! a miracle!” until all who were in the church ran, some to ring
the bells, and the rest to view the miracle. The good woman forthwith
took them to see the statue that had stirred, whereupon many found food
for laughter; though the greater number were unable to feel any content,
inasmuch as they had really determined to make profit out of the tomb,
and to gain as much money by it as by the crucifix on their pulpit,
which is said to have spoken. (3) But when the woman’s folly became
known the farce came to an end. If all knew of their follies, they would
not be accounted holy nor their miracles true. And I would beg you,
ladies, to see henceforward to what saints you offer your candles. (4)
3 The crucifix in the church of St. John was mainly of
silver, and, according to Quincarnon, at the time of a
Huguenot outbreak at Lyons it was thrown to the ground by a
Calvinist minister named Ruffy, who, after reducing it to
fragments, carried all the precious metal away with him.--M.
4 The latter portion of this story and all the dialogue
that follows it are omitted by Boaistuau in his edition.
Gruget inserted the dialogue, but he did not dare to print
the passage respecting the talking crucifix.--L.
“‘Tis notable,” said Hircan, “that, whatever the matter in question may
be, women always do wrong.”
“Is it wrong,” asked Nomerfide, “to bring candles to a tomb?”
“Yes,” said Hircan, “if the flame be turned against a man’s forehead;
for nothing good should be called good if it be attended with evil. You
may be sure that the poor woman thought she had made a fine gift to God
with her little candle.”
“I look not to the gift,” said Oisille, “but to the heart that offers
it. Perhaps this worthy woman had more love for God than those who offer
great torches; for, as the Gospel says, she gave of her need.”
“Still, I no not believe,” said Saffredent, “that God, who is sovereign
wisdom, can be pleased with the foolishness of women. Although
simplicity is pleasing to Him, I see from the Scriptures that He
despises the ignorant; and if He commands us to be as harmless as the
dove, He none the less commands us to be wise like the serpent.”
“For my part,” said Oisille, “I do not call the woman ignorant who
brings her candle or burning taper into the presence of God, and makes
amends for her wrongdoing on bended knees before her sovereign Lord,
confessing her unworthiness and with steadfast hope seeking pity and
salvation.”
“Would to God,” said Dagoucin, “that all understood it in the same way
as you; but I do not believe that these poor fools do it with the intent
you say.”
“The women,” said Oisille, “who are least able to speak are just those
who are most sensible of the love and will of God; wherefore ‘tis well
to judge none but ourselves.”