walk alone with the gentleman, and told him that he was in even greater
trouble than before; for he was greatly minded to believe that he had
been given an excuse to keep him from suspecting the truth. This was a
greater torment to him than ever; and he therefore begged the gentleman,
as earnestly as he was able, to name her whom he loved so dearly. The
poor gentleman entreated that he might not be made to commit so great
an offence against his mistress as to break the promise he had given her
and had kept so long, and thus lose in a day all that he had preserved
for seven years. And he added that he would rather suffer death than in
this wise wrong one who had been true to him.
The Duke, finding that he would not tell him, became deeply jealous, and
with a wrathful countenance exclaimed--
“Well, choose one of two things: either tell me whom you love more than
any other, or else go into banishment from the territories over which
I rule, under pain of a cruel death if you be found within them after a
week is over.”
If ever heart of loyal servant was torn with anguish, it was so with
that of this poor gentleman, who might well have said, _Angustiæ sunt
mihi undique_, for on the one part he saw that by telling the truth
he would lose his mistress, if she learned that he had failed in his
promise to her; while, if he did not confess it, he would be banished
from the land in which she dwelt, and be no more able to see her. Hard
pressed in this manner on all sides, there came upon him a cold sweat,
as on one whose sorrow was bringing him near to death. The Duke,
observing his looks, concluded that he loved no other lady than the
Duchess, and was enduring this suffering because he was able to name
none other. He therefore said to him with considerable harshness--
“If what you say were true, you would not have so much trouble in
telling me; but methinks ‘tis your crime that is tormenting you.”
The gentleman, piqued by these words, and impelled by the love that he
bore his master, resolved to tell him the truth, believing that he was
too honourable a man ever, on any account, to reveal it. Accordingly,
throwing himself upon his knees, and clasping his hands, he said--
“My lord, the duty that I owe to you and the love that I bear you
constrain me more than the fear of any death. I can see that you imagine
and judge falsely concerning me, and, to take this trouble from you, I
am resolved to do that to which no torment had compelled me. But I pray
you, my lord, swear to me by the honour of God, and promise me by your
own faith as a Prince and a Christian, that you will never reveal the
secret which, since it so pleases you, I am obliged to tell.”
Upon this the Duke swore to him with all the oaths he could think of
that he would never reveal aught of it to any living being, whether by
speech, or writing, or feature. Then the young man, feeling confidence
in so virtuous a Prince as he knew his master to be, began the building
up of his misfortune, and said--
“It is now seven years, my lord, since knowing your niece, the Lady
du Vergier, to be a widow and without kindred, I set myself to win her
favour. But, since I was of too lowly a birth to wed her, I contented
myself with being received by her as her true knight, as indeed I have
been. And it has pleased God that the affair has hitherto been contrived
with much discretion, so that neither man nor woman knows of it save
ourselves alone, and now, my lord, you also. I place my life and honour
in your hands, entreating you to keep the matter secret and to esteem
your niece none the less; for I think that under heaven there is no more
perfect being.”
If ever man was rejoiced it was the Duke, for, knowing as he did the
exceeding beauty of his niece, he now had no doubt that she was more
pleasing than his wife. However, being unable to understand how so great
a mystery could have been contrived, he begged the gentleman to tell
him how it was that he was able to see her. The gentleman related to him
then that his lady’s chamber looked upon a garden, and that, on the days
when he was to visit her, a little gate was left open through which he
went in on foot until he heard the barking of a little dog which the
lady used to loose in the garden when all her women were withdrawn. Then
he went and conversed with her all night long, and, in parting from
her, would appoint a day on which he would return; and this appointment,
unless for some weighty reason, he never failed to keep. The Duke, who
was the most inquisitive man alive, and who had made love in no small
degree in his day, wished both to satisfy his suspicions and to fully
understand so strange a business; and he therefore begged the gentleman
to take him, not as a master but as a companion, the next time he went
thither. To this the gentleman, having gone so far already, consented,
saying that he had an appointment for that very day; at which the Duke
was as glad as if he had gained a kingdom. Making pretence of retiring
to rest in his closet, he caused two horses to be brought for himself
and the gentleman, and they travelled all night long from Argilly, where
the Duke lived, to Le Vergier. (2)
2 At Argilly the Dukes of Burgundy had a castle, which was
destroyed during the religious wars at the close of the
sixteenth century. The place is now a small village in the
arrondissement of Nuits, Côte d’Or. As the crow flies, it is
some ten miles distant from the ruins of the castle of
Vergy, which stands on a steep height, at an altitude of
over 1600 ft., within five miles from Nuits. The castle,
which can only be reached on one side of the hill, by a
narrow, winding and precipitous pathway, is known to have
been in existence already in the tenth century, when the
Lords of Vergy were Counts of Chalons, Beaune, and Nuits.
They appear to have engaged in a struggle for supremacy with
the princes of the first Ducal house of Burgundy, but in
1193 Alix de Vergy espoused Duke Eudes III., to whom she
brought, as dower, the greater part of the paternal
inheritance. The castle of Vergy was dismantled by Henry
IV., and the existing ruins are of small extent. Some
antiquaries believe the fortress to have been originally
built by the Romans.--B.J. and L.
Then they left their horses without the wall, and the gentleman brought
the Duke into the garden through the little gate, begging him to remain
behind a walnut-tree, whence he might see whether he had been told the
truth or not.
They had been but a short time in the garden when the little dog began
to bark, and the gentleman walked towards the tower, where his lady
failed not to come and meet him. She kissed him, saying that it seemed
a thousand years since she had seen him, and then they went into the
chamber and shut the door behind them.
Having seen the whole of the mystery, the Duke felt more than satisfied.
Nor had he a great while to wait, for the gentleman told his mistress
that he must needs return sooner than was his wont, since the Duke was
to go hunting at four o’clock, and he durst not fail to attend him.
The lady, who set honour before delight, would not keep him from
fulfilling his duty; for what she prized most in their honourable
affection was that it was kept secret from all.
So the gentleman departed an hour after midnight, and his lady in cloak
and kerchief went with him, yet not so far as she wished, for, fearing
lest she should meet the Duke, he obliged her to return. Then he
mounted with the Duke and returned to the castle of Argilly, his master
unceasingly swearing to him on the way that he would die rather than
ever reveal his secret. Moreover, he then put so much trust in the
gentleman, and had so much love for him, that no one in his Court stood
higher in his favour. The Duchess grew furious at this, but the Duke
forbade her ever to speak to him about the gentleman again, saying that
he now knew the truth about him and was well pleased, since the lady
in question was more worthy of love than herself. These words deeply
pierced the heart of the Duchess, and she fell into a sickness that was
worse than fever.
The Duke went to see her in order to comfort her, but there was no
means of doing this except by telling her the name of this beautiful and
dearly loved lady. She pressed him urgently to do this, until at last
the Duke went out of the room, saying--
“If you speak to me again after this fashion, we shall part one from the
other.”
These words increased the sickness of the Duchess, and she pretended
that she felt her infant stirring, at which the Duke was so rejoiced
that he came and lay beside her. But, just when she saw him most loving
towards her, she turned away, and said--
“I pray you, my lord, since you have no love for either wife or child,
leave us to die together.”
With these words she gave vent to many tears and lamentations, and the
Duke was in great fear lest she should lose her child. He therefore took
her in his arms and begged her to tell him what she would have, since he
possessed nothing that was not also hers.
“Ah, my lord,” she replied, weeping, “what hope can I have that you
would do a hard thing for me, when you will not do the easiest and most
reasonable in the world, which is to name to me the mistress of the
wickedest servant you ever had? I thought that you and I had but one
heart, one soul, and one flesh. But now I see that you look upon me as
a stranger, seeing that your secrets, which should be known to me, are
hidden from me as though I were a stranger. Alas! my lord, you have told
me many weighty and secret matters, of which you have never known me to
speak, you have proved my will to be like to your own, and you cannot
doubt but that I am less myself than you. And if you have sworn never to
tell the gentleman’s secret to another, you will not break your oath in
telling it to me, for I am not and cannot be other than yourself. I have
you in my heart, I hold you in my arms, I have in my womb a child in
whom you live, and yet I may not have your heart as you have mine. The
more faithful and true I am to you, the more cruel and stern are you to
me, so that a thousand times a day do I long by a sudden death to rid
my child of such a father and myself of such a husband. And I hope that
this will be ere long, since you set a faithless servant before a wife
such as 1 am to you, and before the life of the mother of your child,
which will perish because I cannot have of you that which I most desire
to know.”
So saying, she embraced and kissed her husband, and watered his face
with her tears, uttering the while such lamentations and sighs that the
good Prince feared to lose wife and child together, and resolved to tell
her all the truth of the matter. Nevertheless, he first swore to her
that if ever she revealed it to a living being she should die by his
own hand; and she agreed to and accepted this punishment. Then the poor,
deceived husband told her all that he had seen from beginning to end,
and she made show of being well pleased. In her heart she was minded
very differently, but through fear of the Duke she concealed her passion
as well as she was able.
Now on a certain great feast-day the Duke held his Court, to which he
had bidden all the ladies of that country, and among the rest his
niece. When the dances began, all did their duty save the Duchess, who,
tormented by the sight of her niece’s beauty and grace, could neither
make merry nor prevent her spleen from being perceived. At last she
called all the ladies, and making them scat themselves around her, began
to talk of love; and seeing that the Lady du Vergier said nothing, she
asked her, with a heart which jealousy was rending--
“And you, fair niece, is it possible that your beauty has found no lover
or true knight?”
“Madam,” replied the Lady du Vergier, “my beauty has not yet made such
a conquest. Since my husband’s death I have sought to love none but his
children, with whom I deem myself happy.”
“Fair niece, fair niece,” replied the Duchess, with hateful spleen,
“there is no love so secret that it is not known, and no little dog so
well broken in and trained that it cannot be heard to bark.”
I leave you to imagine, ladies, what sorrow the poor Lady du Vergier
felt in her heart on finding a matter, so long concealed, thus made
known to her great dishonour. Her honour, which had been so carefully
guarded and was now wofully lost, tortured her, but still more so her
suspicion that her lover had failed in his promise to her. This she did
not think he could have done, unless it were that he loved some lady
fairer than herself, to whom his love had constrained him to make the
whole matter known. Yet so great was her discretion that she gave no
sign, but replied laughing to the Duchess that she did not understand
the language of animals. However, beneath this prudent concealment her
heart was filled with sadness, so that she rose up, and, passing out of
the chamber, entered a closet in sight of the Duke, who was walking up
and down.
Having thus reached a place where she believed herself to be alone, the
poor lady let herself fall helplessly upon a bed, whereat a damsel, who
had sat down beside it to sleep, rose up and drew back the curtains
to see who this might be. Finding that it was the Lady du Vergier,
who believed herself to be alone, she durst say nothing to her, but
listened, making as little noise as she was able. And in a stifled voice
the poor Lady du Vergier began to lament, saying--
“O unhappy one, what words have I heard? to what decree of death have I
hearkened? what final sentence have I received? O best beloved of men,
is this the reward of my chaste, honourable and virtuous love? O my
heart, hast thou made so parlous an election, and chosen for the
most loyal the most faithless, for the truest the most false, for the
discreetest the most slanderous? Alas! can it be that a thing hidden
from every human eye has been revealed to the Duchess? Alas, my little
dog, so well taught and the sole instrument of my love and virtuous
affection, it was not you who betrayed me, it was he whose voice is
louder than a dog’s bark, and whose heart is more thankless than any
brute’s. Tis he who, contrary to his oath and promise, has made known
the happy life which, wronging none, we so long have led together. O my
beloved, the love of whom alone has entered into my heart, and preserved
my life, must you now be declared my deadly foe, while mine honour is
given to the winds, my body to the dust, and my soul to its everlasting
abode? Is the beauty of the Duchess so exceeding great that, like the
beauty of Circe, it has bewitched and transformed you? Has she turned
you from virtue to vice, from goodness to wickedness, from being a man
to be a beast of prey? O my beloved, though you have failed in your
promise to me, yet will I keep mine to you, and, now that our love has
been revealed, will never see you more. Nevertheless, I cannot live
without your presence, and so I gladly yield to my exceeding sorrow, and
will seek for it no cure either in reason or in medicine. Death alone
shall end it, and death will be sweeter to me than life on earth without
lover, honour or happiness. Neither war nor death has robbed me of my
lover; no sin or fault of mine has robbed me of my honour; neither error
nor demerit of mine has made me lose my joy. ‘Tis cruel fate that
has rendered the most favoured of men thankless, and has caused me to
receive the contrary of that which I deserved.
“Ah, my Lady Duchess, what delight it was to you to taunt me with my
little dog! Rejoice, then, in the happiness you owe to me alone; taunt
her who thought by careful concealment and virtuous love to be free from
any taunt. Ah! how those words have bruised my heart! how they have made
me blush for shame and pale for jealousy! Alas, my heart, I feel that
thou art indeed undone! The wicked love that has discovered me burns
thee; jealousy of thee and evil intent towards thee are to thee as ice
and death; while wrath and sorrow do not suffer me to comfort thee.
Alas, poor soul, that in adoring the creature didst forget the Creator,
thou must return into the hands of Him from whom vain love tore thee
away. Have trust, my soul, that thou wilt find in Him a Father kinder
than was the lover for whose sake thou hast so often forgotten Him. O my
God, my Creator, Thou who art the true and perfect love, by whose grace
the love I bore to my beloved has been stained by no blemish save
that of too great an affection, I implore Thee in mercy to receive the
soul-and spirit of one who repents that she has broken thy first and
most just commandment. And, through the merits of Him whose love passeth
all understanding, forgive the error into which excess of love has led
me, for in Thee alone do I put my perfect trust. And farewell, O my
beloved, whose empty name doth break my very heart.”
With these words she fell backward, and her face grew pallid, her lips
blue, and her extremities cold.
Just at this moment the gentleman she loved came into the hall, and,
seeing the Duchess dancing with the ladies, looked everywhere for his
sweetheart. Not finding her, he went into the chamber of the Duchess,
and there found the Duke, who was walking up and down, and who, guessing
his purpose, whispered in his ear--
“She went into that closet, and methought she was ill.”
The gentleman asked whether he would be pleased to let him go in, and
the Duke begged him to do so. When he entered the closet he found the
Lady du Vergier, come to the last stage of her mortal life; whereat,
throwing his arms about her, he said--
“What is this, sweetheart? Would you leave me?”
The poor lady, hearing the voice that she knew so well, recovered a
little strength and opened her eyes to look upon him who was the cause
of her death; but at this look her love and anguish waxed so great that,
with a piteous sigh, she yielded up her soul to God.
The gentleman, more dead than the dead woman herself, asked the damsel
who was there how this sickness had come upon his sweetheart, and she
told him all the words that she had heard. Then the gentleman knew that
the Duke had revealed the secret to his wife, and felt such frenzy that,
whilst embracing his sweetheart’s body, he for a long time watered it
with his tears, saying--
“O traitorous, wicked and unhappy lover that I am! why has not the
punishment of my treachery fallen upon me, and not upon her who is
innocent? Why was I not struck by a bolt from heaven on the day when my
tongue revealed the secret and virtuous love between us? Why did not
the earth open to swallow up this traitor to his troth? O tongue, mayest
thou be punished as was the tongue of the wicked rich man in hell!
“O heart, too fearful of death and banishment, mayest thou be torn
continually by eagles as was the heart of Ixion! (3)
3 Queen Margaret’s memory plainly failed her here.--Ed.
“Alas, sweetheart, the greatest of all the greatest woes has fallen upon
me! I thought to keep you, but I have lost you; I thought to see you for
a long time and to abide with you in sweet and honourable content, yet
now I embrace your dead body, and you passed away in sore displeasure
with me, with my heart and with my tongue. O most loyal and faithful of
women, I do confess myself the most disloyal, fickle and faithless of
all men. Gladly would I complain of the Duke in whose promise I trusted,
hoping thus to continue our happy life; but alas! I should have known
that none could keep our secret better than I kept it myself. The Duke
had more reason in telling his secret to his wife than I in telling mine
to him. I accuse none but myself of the greatest wickedness that was
ever done between lovers. I ought to have submitted to be cast into the
moat as he threatened to do with me; at least, sweetheart, you would
then have lived in widowhood and I have died a glorious death in
observing the law that true love enjoins. But through breaking it I am
now in life, and you, through perfectness of love, are dead; for your
pure, clear heart could not bear to know the wickedness of your lover.
“O my God! why didst Thou endow me with so light a love and so ignorant
a heart? Why didst thou not create me as the little dog that faithfully
served his mistress? Alas, my little friend, the joy your bark was wont
to give me is turned to deadly sorrow, now that another than we twain
has heard your voice. Yet, sweetheart, neither the love of the Duchess
nor of any living woman turned me aside, though indeed that wicked one
did often ask and entreat me. ‘Twas by my ignorance, which thought to
secure our love for ever, that I was overcome. Yet for that ignorance am
I none the less guilty; for I revealed my sweetheart’s secret and broke
my promise to her, and for this cause alone do I see her lying dead
before my eyes. Alas, sweetheart, death will to me be less cruel than
to you, whose love has ended your innocent life. Methinks it would not
deign to touch my faithless and miserable heart; for life with dishonour
and the memory of that which I have lost through guilt would be harder
to bear than ten thousand deaths. Alas, sweetheart, had any dared to
slay you through mischance or malice, I should quickly have clapped hand
to sword to avenge you; ‘tis therefore right that I should not pardon
the murderer who has caused your death by a more wicked act than any
sword-thrust. Did I know a viler executioner than myself, I would
entreat him to put your traitorous lover to death. O Love! I have
offended thee from not having known how to love, and therefore thou wilt
not succour me as thou didst succour her who kept all thy laws. ‘Tis not
right that I should die after so honourable a manner; but ‘tis well that
I should die by mine own hand. I have washed your face, sweet, with my
tears, and with my tongue have craved your forgiveness; and now it only
remains for my hand to make my body like unto yours, and send my soul
whither yours will go, in the knowledge that a virtuous and honourable
love can never end, whether in this world or in the next.”
Rising up from the body he then, like a frenzied man beside himself,
drew his dagger and with great violence stabbed himself to the heart.
Then he again took his sweetheart in his arms, kissing her with such
passion that it seemed as though he were seized rather with love than
with death.
The damsel, seeing him deal himself the blow, ran to the door and called
for help. The Duke, on hearing the outcry, suspected misfortune to those
he loved, and was the first to enter the closet, where he beheld the
piteous pair. He sought to separate them, and, if it were possible, to
save the gentleman; but the latter clasped his sweetheart so fast that
he could not be taken from her until he was dead. Nevertheless he heard
the Duke speaking to him and saying--“Alas! what is the cause of this?”
To which, with a glance of fury, he replied--“My tongue, my lord, and
yours.” So saying, he died, with his face close pressed to that of his
mistress.
The Duke, wishing to know more of the matter, made the damsel tell him
what she had seen and heard; and this she did at full length, sparing
nothing. Then the Duke, finding that he was himself the cause of all
this woe, threw himself upon the two dead lovers, and, with great
lamentation and weeping, kissed both of them several times and asked
their forgiveness. And after that he rose up in fury, and drew the
dagger from the gentleman’s body; and, just as a wild boar, wounded with
a spear, rushes headlong against him that has dealt the blow, so did the
Duke now seek out her who had wounded him to the bottom of his soul. He
found her dancing in the hall, and more merry than was her wont at
the thought of the excellent vengeance she had wreaked on the Lady du
Vergier.
The Duke came upon her in the midst of the dance, and said--
“You took the secret upon your life, and upon your life shall fall the
punishment.”
So saying, he seized her by the head-dress and stabbed her with the
dagger in the breast. All the company were astonished, and it was
thought that the Duke was out of his mind; but, having thus worked his
will, he brought all his retainers together in the hall and told them
the virtuous and pitiful story of his niece, and the evil that his wife
had wrought her. And those who were present wept whilst they listened.
Then the Duke ordered that his wife should be buried in an abbey which
he founded partly to atone for the sin that he had committed in killing
her; and he caused a beautiful tomb to be built, in which the bodies of
his niece and the gentleman were laid together, with an epitaph setting
forth their tragic story. And the Duke undertook an expedition against
the Turks, in which God so favoured him, that he brought back both
honour and profit. On his return, he found his eldest son now able to
govern his possessions, and so left all to him, and went and became a
monk in the abbey where his wife and the two lovers were buried. And
there did he spend his old age happily with God.