as I can see from your eyes, you have not heard without compassion. It
seems to me that you should take example by it, and beware of placing
your affections upon men; for, however honourable or virtuous these
affections may be, in the end they have always an aftertaste of evil.
You see how St. Paul would not that even married people should so
deeply love each other; (4) for the more our hearts are set upon earthly
things, the more remote are they from heavenly affection, and the harder
is the tie to be broken. I therefore pray you, ladies, ask God for His
Holy Spirit, who will so fire your hearts with the love of God, that
when death comes, you will not be pained at leaving that which you love
too well in this world.”
4 I _Corinthians_ vii. 32-5.--M.
“If their love,” said Geburon, “was as honourable as you describe, why
was it needful to keep it so secret?”
“Because,” said Parlamente, “the wickedness of men is so great, that
they can never believe deep love to be allied with honour, but judge
men and women to be wicked according to their own passions. Hence, if a
woman has a dear friend other than one of her nearest kinsfolk, she must
speak with him in secret if she would speak long with him; for a woman’s
honour is attacked, whether she love virtuously or viciously, since
people judge only from appearances.”
“But,” said Geburon, “when a secret of that kind is revealed, people
think far worse of it.”
“I grant you that,” said Longarine; “and so it is best not to love at
all.”
“We appeal from that sentence,” said Dagoucin, “for, did we believe the
ladies to be without love, we would fain be ourselves without life. I
speak of those who live but to win love: and, even if they secure it
not, yet the hope of it sustains them and prompts them to do a thousand
honourable deeds, until old age changes their fair sufferings to other
pains. But, did we think that ladies were without love, it were needful
we should turn traders instead of soldiers, and instead of winning fame,
think only of hea’ping up riches.”
“You would say, then,” said Hircan, “that, were there no women, we
should all be dastards, as though we had no courage save such as they
put into us. But I am of quite the opposite opinion, and hold that
nothing weakens a man’s courage so much as to consort with women or love
them too much. For this reason the Jews would not suffer a man to go to
the war within a year after his marriage, lest love for his wife should
draw him back from the dangers that he ought to seek.” (5)
5 See _Deuteronomy_ xx. 5, 6, 7; and the comments thereon
of Rabelais (book iii. ch. vi.).--M.
“I consider that law,” said Saffredent, “to have been without reason,
for nothing will more readily make a man leave his home than marriage.
The war without is not harder of endurance than the war within; and I
think that, to make men desirous of going into foreign lands instead of
lingering by their hearths, it were only needful to marry them.”
“It is true,” said Ennasuite, “that marriage takes from them the care
of their houses; for they trust in their wives, and for their own part
think only of winning fame, feeling certain that their wives will give
due heed to the profit.”
“However that may be,” replied Saffredent, “I am glad that you are of my
opinion.”
“But,” said Parlamente, “you are not discussing what is chiefly to be
considered, and that is why the gentleman, who was the cause of all the
misfortune, did not as quickly die of grief as she who was innocent.”
Nomerfide replied--
“‘Twas because women love more truly than men.”
“Nay,” said Simontault, “‘twas because the jealousy and spitefulness of
women make them die without knowing the reason, whereas men are led by
their prudence to inquire into the truth of the matter. When this has
been learnt through their sound sense, they display their courage, as
this gentleman did; for, as soon as he understood the reason of his
sweetheart’s misfortune, he showed how truly he loved her and did not
spare his own life.”
“Yet,” said Ennasuite, “she died of true love, for her steadfast and
loyal heart could not endure to be so deceived.”
“It was her jealousy,” said Simontault, “which would not yield to
reason, so that she believed evil of her lover of which he was not
guilty at all. Moreover, her death was matter of necessity, for she
could not prevent it, whilst her lover’s death was voluntary, after he
had recognised his own wrongdoing.”
“Still,” said Nomerfide, “the love must needs be great that causes such
deep sorrow.”
“Have no fear of it,” said Hircan, “for you will never die of that kind
of fever.”
“Nor,” said Nomerfide, “will you ever kill yourself after recognising
your error.”
Here Parlamente, who suspected that the dispute was being carried on at
her own expense, said, laughing--
“‘Tis enough that two persons should have died of love, without two
others fighting for the same cause. And there is the last bell sounding
for vespers, which will have us gone whether you be willing or not.”
By her advice the whole company then rose and went to hear vespers, not
forgetting in their fervent prayers the souls of those true lovers, for
whom, also, the monks, of their charity, said a _De profundis_. As long
as supper lasted there was no talk save of the Lady du Vergier, and
then, when they had spent a little time together, they withdrew to their
several apartments, and so brought to an end the Seventh Day.
[Illustration: 213.jpg Tailpiece]
EIGHTH DAY.
_On the Eighth Day relation is made of the greatest yet truest follies
that each can remember_.
PROLOGUE.
When morning was come they inquired whether their bridge (1) were being
well advanced, and found that it might be finished in two or three days.
These were not welcome tidings to some among the company, for they
would gladly have had the work last a longer time, so as to prolong
the happiness that they enjoyed in this pleasant mode of life. Finding,
however, that only two or three such days were left, they resolved to
turn them to account, and begged the Lady Oisille to give them their
spiritual nourishment as had been her wont. This she forthwith did,
but she detained them longer than usual, for before setting forth she
desired to finish reading the canonical writings of St. John; and so
well did she acquit herself of this, that it seemed as if the Holy
Spirit in all His love and sweetness spoke by her mouth. Glowing with
this heavenly flame, they went to hear high mass, and afterwards dined
together, again speaking of the past day, and doubting whether they
could make another as fair.
1 The allusion is to the bridge over the Gave spoken of in
the General Prologue (_ante_, vol. i. p. 25-6).--M.
In order to set about it, they retired to their own rooms until it was
time to repair to their Chamber of Accounts on the Board of Green Grass,
where they found the monks already arrived and in their places.
When all were seated, the question was put, who should begin; and
Saffredent said--
“You did me the honour to have me begin on two days. Methinks we should
act wrongly towards the ladies if one of them did not also begin on
two.”
“It were then needful,” said the Lady Oisille, “either that we should
continue here for a great while, or else that a gentleman and a lady of
the company should forego the beginning of a day.”
“For my part,” said Dagoucin, “had I been chosen, I would have given my
place to Saffredent.”
“And I,” said Nomerfide, “to Parlamente, for I have been so wont to
serve that I know not how to command.”
To this all agreed, and Parlamente thus began--
“Ladies, the days that are past have been filled with so many tales of
wisdom, that I would beg you to fill this one with the greatest (yet
most real) follies that we can remember. So, to lead the way, I will
begin.”
[Illustration: 219a. The Saddler’s Wife Cured by the sight of her Husband
Caressing the Serving-maid]
[The Saddler’s Wife Cured by the sight of her Husband Caressing the
Serving-maid]
[Illustration: 219.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LXXI_.
_A saddler’s wife, who was grievously sick, was made whole
and recovered the power of speech, which for the space of
two days site had lost, on seeing her husband holding his
serving-maid too familiarly on the bed whilst she herself
was drawing to her end_.
In the town of Amboise there lived one Brimbaudier, (1) saddler to the
Queen of Navarre, and a man whose colour of feature showed him to be
by nature rather a servant of Bacchus than a priest of Diana. He had
married a virtuous woman who controlled his household very discreetly,
and with whom he was well content.
1 Boaistuau gives the name as Bruribandier, and Gruget
transforms it into Borribaudier. M, Pifteau, after examining
the MSS., is doubtful whether Brimbaudier is the correct
reading. Bromardier, which in old French meant a tippler
(Ducange, _Briemardum_), would have been an appropriate name
for the individual referred to.--Ed.
One day it was told him that his good wife was sick and in great danger,
at which tidings he was in the greatest trouble imaginable. He went with
all speed to her aid, and found her so low, poor woman, that she had
more need of a confessor than a doctor. Thereupon he made the most
pitiful lamentation that could be, but to represent it well ‘twere
needful to speak thickly as he did, (2) and better still to paint one’s
face like his.
2 Curiously enough, the transcriber of MS. No. 1520
attempts to give some idea of the husband’s pronunciation by
transforming all his r’s into l’s. Here is an example: “Je
pelz ma povle femme, que fesai-ze, moi malhureux?... M’amie
je me meuls, je suis pis que tlepassé... je ne sçai que
faize,” &c.--L.
When he had done all that he could for her, she asked for the cross, and
it was brought. On seeing this, the good man flung himself upon a bed in
despair, crying and saying in his thick speech--
“Ah God! I am losing my poor wife! What shall I do, unhappy man that I
am?”
After uttering many such complaints, he perceived that there was no one
in the room but a young servant-maid, passably fair and buxom, and he
called to her in a whisper.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “I am dying. I am more than dead to see your
mistress dying in this manner. I know not what to do or say, except
that I commend myself to you, and beg you to care for my house and my
children. Take therefore the keys from my side, and order the household,
for I myself can attend to nothing more.”
The poor girl had pity on him and comforted him, begging him not to
despair, so that, if she must lose her mistress, she might not also lose
her good master.
“Sweetheart,” he replied, “‘tis all of no avail, for I am indeed dying.
See yourself how cold my face is; bring your cheeks close to mine and
warm them.”
With this he laid his hand upon her breast. She tried to make some
difficulty, but he begged her to have no fear, since they must indeed
see each other more closely. And speaking in this wise, he took her in
his arms and threw her upon the bed.
Then his wife, whose only company was the cross and the holy water,
and who had not spoken for two days, began to cry out as loudly as her
feeble voice enabled her--
“Ah! ah! ah! I am not dead yet!” And threatening them with her hand, she
repeated--“Villain! monster! I am not dead yet!”
On hearing her voice, the husband and maid rose up, but she was in such
a rage against them that her anger consumed the catarrhal humour that
had prevented her from speaking, and she poured upon them all the abuse
that she could think of. And from that hour she began to mend, though
not without often reproaching her husband for the little love he bore
her. (3)
3 This story was imitated by Noël du Fail de La Hérissaye
in his _Contes d’Eutrapel_ (ch. v._ De la Goutte_), where
the hero of the incident is called Glaume Esnaut de
Tremeril. “It is said,” writes Du Fail, “that the wife of
that rascal Glaume of Tremeril when at the point of death,
on seeing Glaume too familiar with her serving-woman,
recovered her senses, saying, ‘Ah! wicked man, I am not yet
so low as you thought. By God’s grace, mistress baggage, you
shall go forth at once.’” Curiously enough, the 1585 edition
of the _Contes d’Eutrapel_ was printed at Rennes for Noël
Glame, virtually the same name as Glaume.--M.
“By this you see, ladies, the hypocrisy of men, and how a little
consolation will make them forget their sorrow for their wives.”
“How do you know,” said Hircan, “that he had not heard that such was the
best remedy his wife could have? Since his kindly treatment availed
not to cure her, he wished to try whether the opposite would prove any
better, and the trial was a very fortunate one. But I marvel that you
who are a woman should have shown how the constitution of your sex is
brought to amendment rather by foul means than by fair.”
“Without doubt,” said Longarine, “behaviour of that kind would make me
rise not merely from my bed, but from a grave such as that yonder.”
“And what wrong did he do her,” asked Saffre-dent, “by comforting
himself when he thought that she was dead? It is known that the
marriage-tie lasts only through life, and that when this is ended it is
loosed.”
“Ay,” said Oisille, “loosed from oath and bond, but a good heart is
never loosed from love. The husband you have told us of was indeed quick
to forget his grief, since he could not wait until his wife had breathed
her last.”
“What I think strangest of all,” said Nomerfide, “is that, when death
and the cross were before his eyes, he should not have lost all desire
to offend against God.”
“A brave argument!” said Simontault. “You would therefore not be
surprised to see a man act wantonly provided he were a good distance
from the church and cemetery?”
“You may laugh at me as much as you please,” said Nomerfide;
“nevertheless the contemplation of death must greatly chill a heart,
however young it may be.”
“I should indeed be of the same opinion as yourself,” said Dagoucin, “if
I had not heard a Princess say the opposite.”
“In other words.” said Parlamente, “she told some story about it. If it
be so, I will give you my place that you may relate it to us.”
Then Dagoucin began as follows:--
[Illustration: 224.jpg Tailpiece]
[Illustration: 225a. The Monk Conversing with the Nun while Shrouding
a Dead Body]
[The Monk Conversing with the Nun while Shrouding a Dead Body]
[Illustration: 225.jpg Page Image]
_TALE LXXII_.
_Whilst engaged in the last deed of charity, the shrouding
of a dead body, a monk did also engage with a nun in the
deeds of the flesh, and made her big with child_. (1)
In one of the finest towns of France after Paris there stood an hospital
(2) richly endowed--namely, with a Prioress and fifteen or sixteen nuns,
while in another building there was a Prior and seven or eight monks.
Every day the monks said mass, but the nuns only their paternosters and
the Hours of Our Lady, for they were occupied in tending the sick.
1 Gruget first printed this tale, which was not given by
Boaistuau.--L.
2 It is impossible to say what town and hospital Margaret
here refers to. Lyons is the scene of the latter part of the
story; and we are inclined to think that the earlier
incidents may have occurred at Dijon, where there was a
famous hospital under ecclesiastical management, founded by
Eudes III., seventh Duke of Burgundy.--L. and Ed.
One day it chanced that a poor man died, and the nuns, being all
assembled with him, after giving him every remedy for his health, sent
for one of their monks to confess him. Then, finding that he was growing
weaker, they gave him the extreme unction, after which he little by
little lost the power of speech.
But as he was a long time in passing away, and it seemed that he could
still hear, the nuns continued speaking to him with the most comforting
words they knew, until at last they grew weary, and, finding that night
was come and that it was late, retired one after another to rest. Thus,
to shroud the body, there remained only one of the youngest of the nuns,
with a monk whom she feared more than the Prior or any other, by reason
of the severity that he displayed in both speech and life.
When they had duly uttered their Hours in the poor man’s ear, they
perceived that he was dead, and thereupon laid him out. Whilst
engaged on this last deed of charity, the monk began to speak of
the wretchedness of life, and the blessedness of death; and in such
discourse they continued until after midnight.
The poor girl listened attentively to the monk’s pious utterances,
looking at him the while with tears in her eyes; and so pleasing were
these to him that, whilst speaking of the life to come, he began
to embrace her as though he longed to bear her away in his arms to
Paradise.
The poor girl, listening to his discourse and deeming him the most pious
of the community, ventured not to say him nay.
Perceiving this, the wicked monk, whilst still speaking of God,
accomplished with her the work which the devil suddenly put into their
hearts--for before there had been no question of such a thing. He
assured her, however, that secret sin was not imputed to men by God, and
that two persons who had no ties, could do no wrong in this manner,
when no scandal came of it; and, to avoid all scandal, he told her to be
careful to confess to none but himself.
So they parted each from the other, she going first. And as she passed
through a chapel dedicated to Our Lady, she was minded to make her
prayer as was her wont. But when she began with the words, “Mary,
Virgin,” she remembered that she had lost the title of virginity not
through force or love, but through foolish fear; and she began to weep
so bitterly that it seemed as if her heart must break.
The monk, hearing the sighing from a distance, suspected her repentance,
which might make him lose his delight, and to prevent this, he came and,
finding her prostrate before the image, began to rebuke her harshly,
telling her that if she had any scruples of conscience she should
confess herself to him, and that she need not so act again unless she
desired; for she might behave in either way without sin. The foolish
nun, thinking to make atonement to God, confessed herself to the monk;
but in respect of penance he swore to her that she did no sin in loving
him, and that holy water would suffice to wash away such a peccadillo.
Believing in him more than in God, she again some time afterwards
yielded to him, and so became big with child. At this she was in deep
grief, and entreated the Prioress to have the monk turned away from his
monastery, saying that she knew him to be so crafty that he would not
fail to seduce her. The Abbess and the Prior, who understood each other,
laughed at her, saying that she was big enough to defend herself against
a man, and that the monk she spoke of was too virtuous to do such a
deed.
At last, urged by the prickings of her conscience, she craved license
to go to Rome, for she thought that, by confessing her sin at the Pope’s
feet, she might recover her virginity. This the Prior and Prioress very
readily granted her, for they were more willing that she should become
a pilgrim contrary to the rules of her order, than be shut up in the
convent with her present scruples. They feared also that in her despair
she might denounce the life that was led among them, and so gave her
money for her journey.
But God brought it to pass that when she came to Lyons, my lady the
Duchess of Alençon, afterwards Queen of Navarre, being one evening after
vespers in the roodloft of the church of St. John, whither she came
secretly to perform a novena with three or four of her women, (3)
heard someone mounting the stairway whilst she was kneeling before the
crucifix. By the light of the lamp she saw it was a nun, and in order
that she might hear her devotions, the Duchess thereupon withdrew to the
corner of the altar. The nun, who believed herself to be alone, knelt
down and, beating her breast, began weeping so sorrowfully that it was
piteous to hear her; and all the while she cried naught but this--“Alas!
my God, take pity on this poor sinner.”
3 See _ante_, Tale LXV., note i.
The Duchess, wishing to learn what it meant, went up to her and said,
“Dear heart, what ails you, and whence do you come, and what brings you
to this place?”
The poor nun, who did not know her, replied, “Ah, sweet, my woe is such
that I have no help but in God; and I pray that He may bring me to speak
with the Duchess of Alençon. To her alone will I tell the matter, for I
am sure that, if it be possible, she will set it right.”
“Dear heart,” then said the Duchess, “you may speak to me as you would
to her, for I am one of her nearest friends.”
“Forgive me,” said the nun; “she alone must know my secret.”
Then the Duchess told her that she might speak freely, since she had
indeed found her whom she sought. Forthwith the poor woman threw herself
at her feet, and, after she had wept, related what you have heard
concerning her hapless fortune. The Duchess consoled her so well, that
whilst she took not from her everlasting repentance for her sin, she
put from her mind the journeying to Rome, and then sent her back to her
priory with letters to the Bishop of the place to have that shameful
monk turned away.
“I have this story from the Duchess herself, and from it you may see,
ladies, that Nomerfide’s prescription is not good for all, since these
persons fell into lewdness even while touching and laying out the dead.”
“‘Twas a device,” said Hircan, “that methinks no man ever used before,
to talk of death and engage in the deeds of life.”
“‘Tis no deed of life,” said Oisille, “to sin, for it is well known that
sin begets death.”
“You may be sure,” said Saffredent, “that these poor folk gave no
thought to any such theology; but just as the daughters of Lot made
their father drunk so that the human race might be preserved, so these
persons wished to repair what death had spoiled, and to replace the dead
body by a new one. I therefore can see no harm in the matter except the
tears of the poor nun, who was always weeping and always returning to
the cause of her tears.”
“I have known many of the same kind,” said Hircan, “who wept for their
sins and laughed at their pleasures both together.”
“I think I know whom you mean,” said Parlamente, “and their laughter has
lasted so great a while that ‘twere time the tears should begin.”
“Hush!” said Hircan. “The tragedy that has begun with laughter is not
ended yet.”
“To change the subject,” said Parlamente, “it seems to me that Dagoucin
departed from our purpose. We were to tell only merry tales, and his was
very piteous.”
“You said,” replied Dagoucin, “that you would only tell of follies, and
I think that herein I have not been lacking. But, that we may hear a
more pleasant story, I give my vote to Nomerfide, in the hope that she
will make amends for my error.”
“I have indeed,” she answered, “a story ready which is worthy to follow
yours; for it speaks of monks and death. So I pray you give good heed.”
_Here end the Tales and Novels of the late Queen of Navarre, that is,
all that can be recovered of them_.
[Illustration: 232.jpg Tailpiece]
APPENDIX.
THE SUPPOSED NARRATORS OF THE _HEPTAMERON_ TALES.
In his introductory essay to this translation of the _Heptameron_, Mr.
George Saintsbury has called attention to the researches of various
commentators who have laboured to identify the supposed narrators of
Queen Margaret’s tales. As it may be fairly assumed that the setting
of the work is pure invention on the Queen’s part, the researches in
question can scarcely serve any useful purpose. Still they appear to
have had considerable attraction for several erudite editors, whose
opinions, occasionally alluded to in our notes, we will here briefly
summarise for the information of those whom the matter may interest:--
OISILLE, a widow lady of long experience, is supposed by Messrs. de
Lincy, Lacroix, Génin, Frank, de Montaiglon and Miss Mary Robinson to be
Louise of Savoy. In some MSS. the name is written Osyle, the anagram
of _Loyse_, in which fashion Louise was spelt in old French. It may be
pointed out, _en passant_, that Brantôme’s grandmother, the Sénéchale
of Poitou, whose connection with the _Heptameron_ is recorded, was also
named Louise (see ante, vol. i. p. lxxxii.).