“I perceive that you are astonished at what you have seen at this table;
but for the sake of the excellence that I find in you I will explain
the matter, so that you may not think I could show such cruelty without
reasons of great weight. The lady whom you saw is my wife; I loved her
more than ever man loved woman, insomuch that in order to marry her I
forgot all fear, and brought her hither in defiance of her relations. On
her part, she showed me so many tokens of love that I would have risked
ten thousand lives in bringing her hither, to her delight and mine.
And here we lived for a while in such peace and gladness that I deemed
myself the happiest gentleman in Christendom.
“But it came to pass, upon my undertaking a journey which my honour
compelled me to make, she forgot her honour, conscience and love for me
to such a degree as to fall in love with a young gentleman whom I had
brought up in this house, and this I thought I could perceive when I
returned home again. Nevertheless, the love I bore her was so great that
I was not able to mistrust her, until at last experience opened my eyes
and made me see what I dreaded more than death, whereupon my love for
her was turned to frenzy and despair in such wise that I watched her
closely, and one day, while feigning to walk abroad, I hid myself in the
room in which she now dwells.
“Thither she withdrew soon after my departure, and sent for the young
gentleman, whom I saw come in with such familiarity as should have been
mine alone. But when I saw him about to get upon the bed beside her, I
sprang out, seized him in her very arms, and slew him. And as my wife’s
crime seemed to me so great that death would not suffice to punish it, I
laid upon her a penalty which she must hold, I think, to be more bitter
than death; and this penalty was to shut her up in the room to which she
was wont to retire to take her greatest pleasures in the company of
him for whom she had more love than she had for me; and there I further
placed in a cupboard all her lover’s bones, hanging there even as
precious things are hung up in a cabinet.
“That she may not lose the memory of this villain I cause her to be
served with his skull, (2) in place of a cup, when she is eating and
drinking at table, and this always in my presence, so that she may
behold, alive, him whom her guilt has made her mortal enemy, and dead,
through love of her, him whose love she did prefer to mine. And in this
wise, at dinner and at supper, she sees the two things that must be most
displeasing to her, to wit, her living enemy, and her dead lover; and
all this through her own great sinfulness.
2 It will be remembered that the Lombard King Alboin forced
his wife Rosamond to drink his health out of a goblet which
had been made from the skull of her father Cunimond,
sovereign of the Gepidæ. To revenge herself for this
affront, Rosamond caused her husband to be murdered one
night during his sleep in his palace at Pavia.--Ed.
“In other matters I treat her as I do myself, save that she goes
shorn; for an array of hair beseems not the adulterous, nor a veil the
unchaste.
“For this reason is her hair cut, showing that she has lost the honour
of virginity and purity. Should it please you to take the trouble to see
her, I will lead you to her.”
To this Bernage willingly consented, and going-downstairs they found her
in a very handsome apartment, seated all alone in front of the fire. The
gentleman drew aside a curtain that hung in front of a large cupboard,
wherein could be seen hanging a dead man’s bones. Bernage greatly longed
to speak to the lady, but durst not do so for fear of the husband. The
gentleman, perceiving this, thereupon said to him--
“If it be your pleasure to say anything to her, you will see what manner
of grace and speech is hers.”
Then said Bernage to her--“Lady, your patience is as great as your
torment. I hold you to be the most unhappy woman alive.”
With tears in her eyes, and with the humblest grace imaginable, the lady
answered--
“Sir, I acknowledge my offence to have been so great that all the woes
that the lord of this house (for I am not worthy to call him husband)
may be pleased to lay upon me are nothing in comparison with the grief I
feel at having offended him.”
So saying, she began to weep bitterly. The gentleman took Bernage by the
arm and led him away.
On the following morning Bernage took his leave, in order to proceed
on the mission that the King had given him. However, in bidding the
gentleman farewell, he could not refrain from saying to him--
“Sir, the love I bear you, and the honour and friendship that you have
shown me in your house, constrain me to tell you that, having regard to
the deep penitence of your unhappy wife, you should, in my opinion, take
compassion upon her. You are, moreover, young and have no children, and
it would be a great pity that so fair a lineage should come to an end,
and that those who, perhaps, have no love for you, should become your
heirs.”
The gentleman, who had resolved that he would never more speak to his
wife, pondered a long time on the discourse held to him by the Lord de
Bernage, and at last recognised that he had spoken truly, and promised
him that, if his wife should continue in her present humility, he would
at some time have pity upon her.
Accordingly Bernage departed on his mission, and when he had returned
to his master, the King, he told him the whole story, which the Prince,
upon inquiry, found to be true. And as Bernage among other things had
made mention of the lady’s beauty, the King sent his painter, who was
called John of Paris, (3) that he might make and bring him a living
portrait of her, which, with her husband’s consent, he did. And when she
had long done penance, the gentleman, in his desire to have offspring,
and in the pity that he felt for his wife who had submitted to this
penance with so much humility, took her back again and afterwards had by
her many handsome children. (4)
3 John Perréal, called “Jehan de Paris,” was one of the
most famous painters of the reigns of Charles VIII. and
Louis XII. At the end of 1496 we find him resident at Lyons,
and there enjoying considerable celebrity. From October 1498
to November 1499 he figures in the roll of officers of the
royal household, as valet of the wardrobe, with a salary of
240 livres. In the royal stable accounts for 1508 he appears
as receiving ten livres to defray the expense of keeping a
horse during June and July that year. He is known to have
painted the portrait and planned the obsequies of Philibert
of Savoy in 1509; to have been sent to England in 1514 to
paint a portrait of the Princess Mary, sister of Henry
VIII., who married Louis XII.; and in 1515 to have had
charge of all the decorative work connected with Louis
XII.’s obsequies. In his _Légende des Vénitiens_ (1509) John
Le Maire de Belges praises Perréal’s skill both in landscape
and portrait painting, and describes him as a most
painstaking and hardworking artist. He had previously
referred to him in his _Temple d’Honneur et de Vertu_ (1504)
as being already at that period painter to the King. In the
roll of the officers of Francis I.’s household (1522)
Perréal’s name takes precedence of that of the better known
Jehannet Clouet, but it does not appear in that of 1529,
about which time he would appear to have died. Shortly
before that date he had designed some curious initial
letters for the famous Parisian printer and bookseller,
Tory. The Claud Perréal, “Lyonnese,” whom Clement Marot
commemorates in his 36th _Rondeau_ would appear to have been
a relative, possibly the son, of “Jehan de Paris.”--See Léon
de La Borde’s _Renaissance des Arts_, vol. i., Pericaud
ainé’s _Notice sur Jean de Paris_, Lyons, 1858, and more
particularly E. M. Bancel’s _Jehan Perréal dit Jean de
Paris, peintre et valet-de-chambre des rois Charles VIII.
Louis XII., &c_. Paris, Launette, 1884.--L. and M.
4 Brantôme refers to this tale, as an example of marital
cruelty, in his _Vies des Dames Galantes_, Lalanne’s
edition, vol. ix. p. 38.--L.
“If, ladies, all those whom a like adventure has befallen, were to drink
out of similar vessels, I greatly fear that many a gilt cup would be
turned into a death’s head. May God keep us from such a fortune, for
if His goodness do not restrain us, there is none among us but might
do even worse; but if we trust in Him He will protect those who confess
that they are not able to protect themselves. Those who confide in
their own strength are in great danger of being tempted so far as to
be constrained to acknowledge their frailty. Many have stumbled through
pride in this way, while those who were reputed less discreet have been
saved with honour. The old proverb says truly, ‘Whatsoever God keeps is
well kept.’”
“The punishment,” said Parlamente, “was in my opinion a most reasonable
one, for, just as the offence was more than death, so ought the
punishment to have been.”
“I am not of your opinion,” said Ennasuite. “I would rather see the
bones of all my lovers hanging up in my cabinet than die on their
account. There is no misdeed that cannot be repaired during life, but
after death there is no reparation possible.”
“How can shame be repaired?” said Longarine. “You know that, whatever
a woman may do after a misdeed of that kind, she cannot repair her
honour.”
“I pray you,” said Ennasuite, “tell me whether the Magdalen has not now
more honour among men than her sister who continued a virgin?” (5)