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IN the days of King Louis XI there lived at Paris, in a matted chamber,
a citizen dame called Violante, who was comely and well-liking in all
her person. She had so bright a face that Master Jacques Tribouillard,
doctor in law and a renowned cosmographer, who was often a visitor at
her house, was used to tell her:
“Seeing you, madame, I deem credible and even hold it proven, what
Cucurbitus Piger lays down in one of his scholia on Strabo, to wit, that
the famous city and university of Paris was of old known by the name of
Lutetia or Leucecia, or some such like word coming from _Leukê_, that
is to say, ‘the white,’ forasmuch as the ladies of the same had bosoms
white as snow,--yet not so clear and bright and white as is your own,
madame.”
To which Violante would say in answer:
“‘T is enough for me if my bosom is not fit to fright folks, like some
I wot of. And, if I show it, why, ‘tis to follow the fashion. I have not
the hardihood to do otherwise than the rest of the world.”
Now Madame Violante had been wedded, in the flower of her youth, to an
Advocate of the Parlement, a man of a harsh temper and sorely set on the
arraignment and punishing of unfortunate prisoners. For the rest, he
was of sickly habit and a weakling, of such a sort he seemed more fit to
give pain to folks outside his doors than pleasure to his wife within.
The old fellow thought more of his blue bags than of his better
half, though these were far otherwise shapen, being bulgy and fat and
formless. But the lawyer spent his nights over them.
Madame Violante was too reasonable a woman to love a husband that was
so unlovable. Master Jacques Tribouillard upheld she was a good wife,
as steadfastly and surely confirmed and stablished in conjugal virtue
as Lucretia the Roman. And for proof he alleged that he had altogether
failed to turn her aside from the path of honour. The judicious observed
a prudent silence on the point, holding that what is hid will only be
made manifest at the last Judgment Day. They noted how the lady was over
fond of gewgaws and laces and wore in company and at church gowns of
velvet and silk and cloth of gold, purfled with miniver; but they were
too fair-minded folk to decide whether, damning as she did Christian
men who saw her so comely and so finely dressed to the torments of vain
longing, she was not damning her own soul too with one of them. In a
word, they were well ready to stake Madame Violante’s virtue on the toss
of a coin, cross or pile,--which is greatly to the honour of that fair
lady.
The truth is her Confessor, Brother Jean Turelure, was for ever
upbraiding her.
“Think you, madame,” he would ask her, “that the blessed St. Catherine
won heaven by leading such a life as yours, baring her bosom and sending
to Genoa for lace ruffles?”
But he was a great preacher, very severe on human weaknesses, who could
condone naught and thought he had done everything when he had inspired
terror. He threatened her with hell fire for having washed her face with
ass’s milk.
As a fact, no one could say if she had given her old husband a meet and
proper head-dress, and Messire Philippe de Coetquis used to warn the
honest dame in a merry vein:
“See to it, I say! He is bald, he will catch his death of cold!”
Messire Philippe de Coetquis was a knight of gallant bearing, as
handsome as the knave of hearts in the noble game of cards. He had first
encountered Madame Violante one evening at a ball, and after dancing
with her far into the night, had carried her home on his crupper, while
the Advocate splashed his way through the mud and mire of the kennels
by the dancing light of the torches his four tipsy lackeys bore. In the
course of these merry doings, a-foot and on horseback, Messire Philippe
de Coetquis had formed a shrewd notion that Madame Violante had a limber
waist and a full, firm bosom of her own, and there and then had been
smit by her charms.
He was a frank and guileless wight and made bold to tell her outright
what he would have of her,--to wit, to hold her naked in his two arms.
To which she would make answer:
“Messire Philippe, you know not what you say. I am a virtuous wife,”--
Or another time:
“Messire Philippe, come back again tomorrow,--”
And when he came next day she would ask innocently:
“Nay, where is the hurry?”
These never-ending postponements caused the Chevalier no little distress
and chagrin. He was ready to believe, with Master Tribouillard, that
Madame Violante was indeed a Lucretia, so true is it that all men are
alike in fatuous self-conceit! And we are bound to say she had not so
much as suffered him to kiss her mouth,--only a pretty diversion after
all and a bit of wanton playfulness.
Things were in this case when Brother Jean Turelure was called to Venice
by the General of his Order, to preach to sundry Turks lately converted
to the true Faith.
Before setting forth, the good Brother went to take leave of his fair
Penitent, and upbraided her with more than usual sternness for living
a dissolute life. He exhorted her urgently to repent and pressed her to
wear a hair-shirt next her skin,--an incomparable remedy against naughty
cravings and a sovran medicine for natures over prone to the sins of the
flesh.
She besought him: “Good Brother, never ask too much of me.”
But he would not hearken, and threatened her with the pains of hell if
she did not amend her ways. Then he told her he would gladly execute any
commissions she might be pleased to entrust him with. He was in hopes
she would beg him to bring her back some consecrated medal, a rosary,
or, better still, a little of the soil of the Holy Sepulchre which the
Turks carry from Jerusalem together with dried roses, and which the
Italian monks sell.
But Madame Violante preferred a quite other request:
“Good Brother, dear Brother, as you are going to Venice, where such
cunning workmen in this sort are to be found, I pray you bring me back a
Venetian mirror, the clearest and truest can be gotten.”
Brother Jean Turelure promised to content her wish.
While her Confessor was abroad, Madame Violante led the same life as
before. And when Messire Philippe pressed her: “Were it not well to take
our pleasure together?” she would answer: “Nay! ‘t is too hot. Look at
the weathercock if the wind will not change anon.” And the good folk
who watched her ways were in despair of her ever giving a proper pair
of horns to her crabbed old husband. “‘T is a sin and a shame!” they
declared.
On his return from Italy Brother Jean Turelure presented himself before
Madame Violante and told her he had brought what she desired.
“Look, madame,” he said, and drew from under his gown a death’s-head.
“Here, madame, is your mirror. This death’s-head was given me for that
of the prettiest woman in all Venice. She was what you are, and you will
be much like her anon.”
Madame Violante, mastering her surprise and horror, answered the good
Father in a well-assured voice that she understood the lesson he would
teach her and she would not fail to profit thereby.
“I shall aye have present in my mind, good Brother, the mirror you
have brought me from Venice, wherein I see my likeness not as I am at
present, but as doubtless I soon shall be. I promise you to govern my
behaviour by this salutary thought.”
Brother Jean Turelure was far from expecting such pious words. He
expressed some satisfaction.
“So, madame,” he murmured, “you see yourself the need of altering your
ways. You promise me henceforth to govern your behaviour by the thought
this fleshless skull hath brought home to you. Will you not make the
same promise to God as you have to me?”
She asked if indeed she must, and he assured her it behoved her so to
do.
“Well, I will give this promise then,” she declared.
“Madame, this is very well. There is no going back on your word now.”
“I shall not go back on it, never fear.”
Having won this binding promise, Brother Jean Turelure left the place,
radiant with satisfaction. And as he went from the house, he cried out
loud in the street:
“Here is a good work done! By Our Lord God’s good help, I have turned
and set in the way toward the gate of Paradise a lady, who, albeit not
sinning precisely in the way of fornication spoken of by the Prophet,
yet was wont to employ for men’s temptation the clay whereof the Creator
had kneaded her that she might serve and adore him withal. She will
forsake these naughty habits to adopt a better life. I have throughly
changed her. Praise be to God!”
Hardly had the good Brother gone down the stairs when Messire Philippe
de Coetquis ran up them and scratched at Madame Violante’s door. She
welcomed him with a beaming smile, and led him into a closet, furnished
with carpets and cushions galore, wherein he had never been admitted
before. From this he augured well. He offered her sweetmeats he had in a
box.
“Here be sugar-plums to suck, madame; they are sweet and sugared, but
not so sweet as your lips.”
To which the lady retorted he was a vain, silly fop to make boast of a
fruit he had never tasted.
He answered her meetly, kissing her forthwith on the mouth.
She manifested scarce any annoyance and said only she was an honest
woman and a true wife. He congratulated her and advised her not to lock
up this jewel of hers in such close keeping that no man could enjoy it.
“For, of a surety,” he swore, “you will be robbed of it, and that right
soon.”
“Try then,” said she, cuffing him daintily over the ears with her pretty
pink palms.
But he was master by this time to take whatsoever he wished of her. She
kept protesting with little cries:
“I won’t have it. Fie! fie on you, messire! You must not do it. Oh!
sweetheart... oh! my love... my life! You are killing me!”
Anon, when she had done sighing and dying, she said sweetly:
“Messire Philippe, never flatter yourself you have mastered me by force
or guile. You have had of me what you craved, but ‘t was of mine own
free will, and I only resisted so much as was needful that I might yield
me as I liked best. Sweetheart, I am yours. If, for all your handsome
face, which I loved from the first, and despite the tenderness of
your wooing, I did not before grant you what you have just won with my
consent, ‘t was because I had no true understanding of things. I had
no thought of the flight of time and the shortness of life and love;
plunged in a soft languor of indolence, I reaped no harvest of my youth
and beauty. However, the good Brother Jean Turelure hath given me a
profitable lesson. He hath taught me the preciousness of the hours. But
now he showed me a death’s-head, saying: ‘Suchlike you will be soon.’
This taught me we must be quick to enjoy the pleasures of love and make
the most of the little space of time reserved to us for that end.”
These words and the caresses wherewith Madame Violante seconded them
persuaded Messire Philippe to turn the time to good account, to set to
work afresh to his own honour and profit and the pleasure and glory
of his mistress, and to multiply the sure proofs of prowess which it
behoves every good and loyal servant to give on suchlike an occasion.
After which, she was ready to cry quits. Taking him by the hand, she
guided him back to the door, kissed him daintily on the eyes, and asked:
“Sweetheart Philippe, is it not well done to follow the precepts of the
good Brother Jean Turelure?”