Margaret died. Ste. Marthe in his _Oraison funèbre_,
pronounced at Alençon fifteen days after the Queen’s death,
formally states that she expired at Odos near Tarbes. He is
not likely to have been mistaken, so that Brantome’s
assertion that the Queen died at Audos in Beam may be
accepted as incorrect (_ante_, vol. i. p. lxxxviii.). It is
further probable that the above tale was actually written at
Odos (_ante_, vol. i. p. lxxxvi.), but the authenticity of
the incidents is very doubtful, as there is an extremely
similar story in the _Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_ (No, xvii.
_Le Conseiller au bluteau_), in which the hero of the
adventure is a “great clerk and knight who presided over the
Court of Accounts in Paris.” For subsequent imitations see
Malespini’s _Ducento Novelle_ (No. xcvii.) and _Les Joyeuses
Adventures et Nouvelles Recreations_ (No. xix.)--L. and Ed.
One day she hired a discreet and worthy girl, telling her of her
husband’s temper and her own, and how she was wont to turn away such
girls whom she found to be wantons. This maid, wishing to continue in
her mistress’s service and esteem, resolved to remain a virtuous woman;
and although her master often spoke to her, she on her part gave no heed
to his words save that she repeated them to her mistress, and they thus
both derived much diversion from his folly.
One day the maid was in a back room bolting meal, and wearing her
“sarot,” a kind of hood which, after the fashion of that country, not
only formed a coif but covered the whole of the back and shoulders. Her
master, finding her in this trim, came and urged her very pressingly,
and, although she would not have done such a thing even to save her
life, she pretended to consent, and asked leave to go first and see
whether her mistress was engaged in some such manner that they might not
be surprised together. To this he agreed; whereupon she begged him to
put her hood upon his head and to continue bolting whilst she was away,
in order that her mistress might still hear the noise of the bolter. And
this he gladly did, in the hope of obtaining what he sought.
The maid, who was by no means inclined to melancholy, ran off to her
mistress and said to her--
“Come and see your good husband, whom I have taught to bolt in order to
be rid of him.”
The wife made all speed to behold this new serving-woman, and when she
saw her husband with the hood upon his head and the bolter in his hands,
she began to laugh so exceedingly, clapping her hands the while, that
she was scarce able to say to him--
“How much dost want a month, wench, for thy labour?”
The husband, on hearing this voice, realised that he had been deceived,
and, throwing down both what he was holding and wearing, he ran at the
girl, calling her a thousand bad names. Had his wife not set herself in
front of the maid, he would have given her wage enough for her quarter;
but at last all was settled to the content of the parties concerned, and
thenceforward they lived together without quarrelling. (2)
2 The Italian Charles, equerry to the King, to whom the
leading part is assigned in Queen Margaret’s tale, may have
been Charles de San Severino, who figures among the
equerries with a salary of 200 _livres_, in the roll of the
royal household for 1522. The San Severino family, one of
the most prominent of Naples, had attached itself to the
French cause at the time of the expedition of Charles VIII.,
whom several of its members followed to France. In 1522 we
find a “Monsieur de Saint-Severin” holding the office of
first _maître d’hôtel_ to Francis I., and over a course of
several years his son figures among the _enfants
d’honneur_.--B. J. and Ed.
“What say you, ladies, of this wife? Was she not sensible to make sport
of her husband’s sport?”
“‘Twas no sport,” said Saffredent, “for the husband who failed in his
purpose.”
“I believe,” said Ennasuite, “that he had more delight in laughing with
his wife, than at killing himself at his age with his serving-woman.”
“Still, I should be sorely vexed,” said Simontault, “to be discovered so
bravely coifed.”
“I have heard,” said Parlamente, “that it was not your wife’s fault that
she did not once discover you in very much the same attire in spite of
all your craft, and that since then she has known no repose.”
“Rest content with what befalls your own house,” said Simontault,
“without inquiring into what befalls mine. Nevertheless, my wife has no
reason to complain of me, and even did I act as you say, she would never
have occasion to notice it through any lack of what she might need.”
“Virtuous women,” said Longarine, “require nothing but the love of
their husbands, which alone can satisfy them. Those who seek a brutish
satisfaction will never find it where honour enjoins.”
“Do you call it brutish,” asked Geburon, “if a wife desires that her
husband should give her her due?”
“I say,” said Longarine, “that a chaste woman, whose heart is filled
with true love, is more content to be perfectly loved than to have all
the delights that the body can desire.”
“I am of your opinion,” said Dagoucin, “but my lords here will neither
hear it nor confess it. I think if mutual love cannot satisfy a woman,
her husband alone will not do so; for unless she live in the love
that is honourable for a woman, she must be tempted by the infernal
lustfulness of brutes.”
“In truth,” said Oisille, “you remind me of a lady who was both handsome
and well wedded, but who, through not living in that honourable love,
became more carnal than swine and more cruel than lions.”
“I ask you, madam,” said Simontault, “to end the day by telling us her
story.”
“That I cannot do,” said Oisille, “and for two reasons. The first is
that it is exceedingly long; and the second, that it does not belong to
our own day. It is written indeed by an author worthy of belief; but we
are sworn to relate nothing that has been written.”
“That is true,” said Parlamente; “but I believe I know the story you
mean, and it is written in such old language that methinks no one
present except ourselves has ever heard of it. It will therefore be
looked upon as new.”
Upon this the whole company begged her to tell it without fear for its
length, seeing that a full hour was yet left before vespers. So, at
their request, the Lady Oisille thus began:--
[Illustration: 174.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 175a. The Gentleman Killing Himself on the Death of his Mistress]
[The Gentleman Killing Himself on the Death of his Mistress]
[Illustration: 175.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LXX_.
_The Duchess of Burgundy, not content with the love that her
husband bore her, conceived so great an affection for a
young gentleman that, when looks and glances were not
sufficient to inform him of her passion, she declared it to
him in words which led to an evil ending_. (1)
1 This story is borrowed from an old _fabliau_, known under
the title of the _Châtelaine de Vergy_, which will be found
in the _Recueil de Barbazan_ (vol iv.) and in Legrand
d’Aussy’s _Fabliaux_ (vol iii.). Margaret calls the lady
Madame du Vergier (literally the lady of the orchard) in her
tale. Bandello imitated the same _fabliau_ in his _Novelle_
(1554; part iv. nov. v.), but gave it a different ending.
Belleforest subsequently adapted it for his _Histoires
Tragiques_. Margaret’s tale may also be compared with No.
lxii. of the _Cento Novelle antiche_, p. 84 of the edition
of Florence, 1825.--L. and M.
In the Duchy of Burgundy there was a Duke who was a very honourable
and handsome Prince. He had married a wife whose beauty pleased him so
greatly that it kept him from knowledge of her character, and he took
thought only how he might please her, whilst she made excellent show of
returning his affection. Now the Duke had in his household a gentleman
filled with all the perfection that could be sought for in a man. He
was loved by all, more especially by the Duke, who had reared him
from childhood near his own person; and, finding him possessed of such
excellent qualities, the Duke loved him exceedingly and trusted him with
all such matters as one of his years could understand.
The Duchess, who had not the heart of a virtuous woman and Princess,
and was not content with the love that her husband bore her and the good
treatment that she had at his hands, often observed this gentleman,
and so much to her liking did she find him, that she loved him beyond
measure. This she strove unceasingly to make known to him, as well by
soft and piteous glances as by sighs and passionate looks.
But the gentleman, whose inclinations had ever been to virtue alone,
could not perceive wickedness in a lady who had so little excuse for it,
and so the glances and looks of the poor wanton bore no fruit save her
own frenzied despair. This at last drove her to extremes, and forgetting
that she was a woman fit to be entreated and yet to refuse, and a
Princess made to be worshipped by such lovers and yet to hold them in
scorn, she acted with the spirit of a man transported by passion, with a
view to rid herself of the fire which she could no longer endure.
Accordingly, one day when her husband was gone to the council, at which
the gentleman by reason of his youth was not present, she beckoned him
to come to her, which he did, thinking that she had some command to
give him. But leaning on his arm, like a woman wearied with repose, she
brought him to walk in a gallery, where she said to him--
“I marvel that you who are so handsome and young, and full of excellent
grace, have lived in this company, where are so many beautiful ladies,
and yet have been lover or true knight to none.” Then, looking at him as
graciously as she was able, she waited for his reply.
“Madam,” he said, “if I were worthy that your Highness should stoop to
think of me, you would have still greater reason to marvel at seeing a
man so little worthy of love as I am, offer his service where it would
be rejected or scorned.”
On hearing this discreet reply, the Duchess felt she loved him more
than before. She vowed to him that there was not a lady at her Court
who would not be only too happy to have such a knight, and that he might
well make an adventure of the sort, since there was no danger but he
would come out of it with honour. The gentleman kept his eyes downcast,
not daring to meet her looks, which were hot enough to melt ice; but,
just as he was trying to excuse himself, the Duke sent for the Duchess
to come to the council on some matter that concerned her, and thither
with much regret she went. The gentleman never afterwards made the
slightest sign of having understood a word of what she had said to him,
at which she was exceedingly distressed and vexed; and she knew not to
what cause to impute her failure, unless it were to the foolish fear of
which she deemed the gentleman to be possessed.
A few days afterwards, finding that he gave no sign of understanding
what she had said, she resolved on her part to set aside all fear or
shame, and to tell him of her love. She felt sure that beauty such as
hers could not be otherwise than well received, although she would fain
have had the honour of being wooed. However, she set her honour on one
side for her pleasure’s sake, and after she had several times attempted
the same fashion of discourse as at first, but without receiving any
reply to her liking, she one day plucked the gentleman by the sleeve,
and told him that she must speak to him on certain matters of weight.
The gentleman went with the humility and reverence that were her due to
a deep window into which she had withdrawn; and, on perceiving that
no one in the room could see her, she began in a trembling voice,
that halted between desire and fear, to continue her former discourse,
rebuking him for not yet having chosen some lady in the company, and
promising him that, no matter who it might be, she would help him to win
kindly treatment.
The gentleman, who was no less vexed than astonished by her words,
replied--
“Madam, my heart is so tender, that, were I once refused, I should never
again have joy in this world; and I know myself to be of such little
worth that no lady at this Court would deign to accept my suit.”
The Duchess blushed, and, imagining that at last he was indeed won,
vowed to him that she knew the most beautiful lady in the company
would, if he were willing, joyfully receive him, and afford him perfect
happiness.
“Alas! madam,” he replied, “I do not think that there is any woman in
this company so unfortunate and so blind as to find me worthy of her
love.”
The Duchess, finding that he would not understand her, drew the veil
of her passion somewhat aside, and, by reason of the fears which the
gentleman’s virtue caused her, spoke to him in the form of a question.
“If fortune,” she said, “had so far favoured you that it was myself who
bore you this goodwill, what would you say?”
The gentleman, who thought that he was dreaming when he heard her speak
in this wise, dropped on his knee, and replied--
“Madam, when God by His favour enables me to have both the favour of
the Duke, my master, and your own, I shall deem myself the happiest man
alive; for ‘tis the reward I crave for the loyal service of one who,
more than any other, is bound to give his life in the service of you
both. And I am sure, madam, that the love you bear my Lord aforesaid is
attended with such chastity and nobleness that, apart from myself,
who am but a worm of the earth, not even the greatest Prince and most
perfect man to be found could break the union that exists between you.
For my own part, my Lord has brought me up from childhood, and made me
what I am, and to save my life I could not entertain towards any wife,
daughter, sister or mother of his any thought contrary to what is due
from a loyal and faithful servant.”
The Duchess would not allow him to continue, but finding that she was
in danger of obtaining a dishonourable refusal, she suddenly interrupted
him, and said--
“Wicked and boastful fool, who seeks any such thing from you? Do you
think that your good looks win you the love of the very flies in the
air? Nay, if you were presumptuous enough to address yourself to me, I
would show you that I love, and seek to love, none but my husband. What
I have said to you was spoken only for my amusement, to try you and
laugh at you, as I do at all foolish lovers.”
“Madam,” said the gentleman, “I believed, and do still believe, that it
is as you say.”
Then, without listening further, she withdrew in haste to her own
apartment, and, finding that she was followed by her ladies, went into
her closet, where she sorrowed after a fashion that cannot be described.
On the one part, the love wherein she had failed caused her mortal
sadness; on the other, her anger, both against herself for having
entered upon such foolish talk and against the gentleman for his
discreet reply, drove her into such fury that at one moment she wished
to make away with herself, and at another, to live that she might avenge
herself on one whom she now regarded as her deadly enemy.
When she had wept for a long while, she made pretence of being ill, in
order that she might not be present at the Duke’s supper, at which the
gentleman was commonly in waiting. The Duke, who loved his wife better
than he did himself, came to see her; but the more effectually to work
her end, she told him that she believed herself to be with child, and
that her pregnancy had caused a rheum to come upon her eyes, which gave
her much pain. So passed two or three days, during which the Duchess
kept her bed in sadness and melancholy, until at last the Duke thought
that something further must be the matter. He therefore came at night
to sleep with her; but, finding that for all he could do he could in no
sort check her sighs, he said to her--
“You know, sweetheart, that I love you as dearly as my life, and that
if yours were lacking I could not endure my own. If therefore you would
preserve my health, I pray you tell me what causes you to sigh after
this manner; for I cannot believe that such unhappiness can come only
because you are with child.”
The Duchess, finding that her husband was disposed to her just as she
could have wished him to be, thought that the time was come to seek
vengeance for her affliction; and embracing the Duke, she began to weep,
and said--
“Alas, my lord, my greatest unhappiness is to see you deceived by
those on whom is so deep an obligation to guard your substance and your
honour.”
The Duke, on hearing this, was very desirous of knowing why she spoke
in that manner, and earnestly begged her to make the truth known to him
without fear. After refusing several times, she said--
“I shall never wonder, my lord, that foreigners make war on Princes,
when those who are in duty most bound to them, wage upon them a war so
cruel that loss of territory were nothing in comparison. I say this,
my lord, in reference to a certain gentleman” (naming her enemy) “who,
though reared by your own hand and treated more like a son than a
servant, has made a cruel and base attempt to ruin the honour of your
wife, in which is also bound up the honour of your house and your
children. Although for a long time he showed me such looks as pointed to
his wicked purpose, yet my heart, which only cares for you, understood
nothing of them; and so at last he declared himself in words to which
I returned a reply such as beseemed my condition and my chastity.
Nevertheless, I now so hate him that I cannot endure to look at him,
and for this cause I have continued in my own apartment and lost the
happiness of fellowship with you. I entreat you, my lord, keep not this
pestilence near your person; for, after such a crime, he might fear lest
I should tell you of it, and so attempt worse. This, my lord, is the
cause of my sorrow, and methinks it were right and fitting that you
should deal with it forthwith.”
The Duke, who on the one hand loved his wife and felt himself grievously
affronted, and on the other loved his servant, whose faithfulness he had
so fully tried that he could scarce believe this falsehood against him,
was in great distress and filled with anger. Repairing to his own room,
he sent word to the gentleman to come no more into his presence, but to
withdraw to his lodging for a time. The gentleman, being ignorant of the
cause of this, was grieved exceedingly, for he knew that he had deserved
the opposite of such unworthy treatment. Aware, then, of his own
innocence in heart and deed, he sent a comrade to speak to the Duke and
take him a letter, humbly entreating that if any evil report had caused
his banishment, his master would be pleased to suspend judgment until he
had heard from himself the truth of the matter, when it would be found
that he had been guilty of no offence.
When the Duke saw this letter, his anger was somewhat abated. He
secretly sent for the gentleman to his own room, and with wrathful
countenance said--
“I could never have thought that the care I took to rear you as my own
child would be changed into regret at having so highly advanced you;
but you have attempted what was more hurtful to me than loss of life
or substance, and have sought to assail the honour of one who is half
myself, and so bring infamy on my house and name. You may be assured
that this outrage is so wounding to my heart that, were it not for my
doubt whether it be true or not, you would have already been at the
bottom of the water, and so have received in secret due punishment for
the wrong that in secret you intended against me.”
The gentleman was in no wise dismayed by this discourse, but, ignorant
as he was of the truth, spoke forth with confidence and entreated the
Duke to name his accuser, since such a charge should be justified rather
with the lance than with the tongue.
“Your accuser,” said the Duke, “carries no weapon but chastity. Know,
then, that none other but my wife has told me this, and she begged me to
take vengeance upon you.”
The poor gentleman, though he then perceived the lady’s great
wickedness, would not accuse her.
“My lord,” he replied, “my lady may say what she will. You know her
better than I do, and you are aware if ever I saw her when out of your
sight, save only on one occasion, when she spoke but little with me.
You have, moreover, as sound a judgment as any Prince alive; wherefore I
pray you, my lord, judge whether you have ever seen aught in me to cause
any suspicion; and remember love is a fire that cannot be hidden so as
never to be known of by those who have had a like distemper. So I pray
you, my lord, to believe two things of me: first, that my loyalty to you
is such that were my lady, your wife, the fairest being in the world,
love would never avail to make me stain my honour and fidelity; and
secondly, that even were she not your wife, I should be least in love
with her of all the women I have ever known, since there are many others
to whom I would sooner plight my troth.”
On hearing these words of truth, the Duke began to be softened, and
said--
“I assure you, on my part, that I did not believe it. Do, therefore,
according to your wont, in the assurance that, if I find the truth to be
on your side, I will love you yet better than before. But if it be not
so, your life is in my hands.”
The gentleman thanked him and offered to submit to any pain or penalty
if he were found guilty.
The Duchess, on seeing the gentleman again in waiting as had formerly
been his wont, could not endure it in patience, but said to her
husband--
“‘Twould be no more than you deserve, my lord, if you were poisoned,
since you put more trust in your deadly enemies than in your friends.”
“I pray you, sweetheart, do not torment yourself in this matter,” said
the Duke. “If I find that you have told me true, I promise you he shall
not live four and twenty hours. But he has sworn to the contrary, and I
have myself never perceived any such fault, and so I cannot believe it
without complete proof.”
“In good sooth, my lord,” she replied, “your goodness renders his
wickedness the greater. What more complete proof would you have than
this, that no love affair has ever been imputed to him? Believe me, my
lord, were it not for the lofty purpose that he took into his head of
being my lover, he would not have continued so long without a mistress;
for never did a young man live solitary as he does in such good company,
unless he had fixed his heart so high as to be content merely with his
own vain hope. Since, then, you think that he is not hiding the truth
from you, put him, I beg you, on oath as regards his love. If he loves
another, I am content that you should believe him, and if not, you will
know that what I say is true.”
The Duke thought his wife’s reasonings very good, and, taking the
gentleman into the country with him, said--
“My wife continues still of the same mind, and has set before me an
argument that causes me grave suspicion against you. It is deemed
strange that you who are so gallant and young have never been known to
love, and this makes me think that you have such affection for her as
she says, and that the hope it gives you renders you content to think
of no other woman. As a friend, therefore, I pray you, and as a master I
command you to tell me whether you are in love with any lady on earth.”
Although the gentleman would have fain concealed his passion yet as
he loved his life, he was obliged, on seeing his master’s jealousy, to
swear to him that he did indeed love one whose beauty was so great, that
the beauty of the Duchess or of any lady of the Court would be simply
ugliness beside it. But he entreated that he might never be compelled to
name her, since the agreement between himself and his sweetheart was of
such a nature that it could not be broken excepting by whichever of them
should be the first to make it known.
The Duke promised not to urge him, and being quite satisfied with him,
treated him with more kindness than ever before. The Duchess perceived
this, and set herself with her wonted craft to find out the reason.
The Duke did not hide it from her; whereupon strong jealousy sprang up
beside her desire for vengeance, and she begged her husband to command
the gentleman to name his sweetheart. She assured him that the story was
a lie, and that the course she urged was the best means of testing
it. If the gentleman, said she, did not name her whom he deemed so
beautiful, and his master believed him on his mere word, he would indeed
be the most foolish Prince alive.