One day that it was drizzling with rain--a time when the ladies remain
gleefully at home, because they love the damp, and can have at their
apron strings the men who are not disagreeable to them--the queen was
in her chamber, at the castle of Amboise, against the window curtains.
There, seated in her chair, she was working at a piece of tapestry to
amuse herself, but was using her needle heedlessly, watching the rain
fall into the Loire, and was lost in thought, where her ladies were
following her example. The king was arguing with those of his court
who had accompanied him from the chapel--for it was a question of
returning to dominical vespers. His arguments, statements, and
reasonings finished, he looked at the queen, saw that she was
melancholy, saw that the ladies were melancholy also, and noted the
fact that they were all acquainted with the mysteries of matrimony.
“Did I not see the Abbot of Turpenay here just now?” said he.
Hearing these words, there advanced towards the king the monk, who, by
his constant petitions, rendered himself so obnoxious to Louis the
Eleventh, that that monarch seriously commanded his provost-royal to
remove him from his sight; and it has been related in the first volume
of these Tales, how the monk was saved through the mistake of Sieur
Tristan. The monk was at this time a man whose qualities had grown
rapidly, so much so that his wit had communicated a jovial hue to his
face. He was a great favourite with the ladies, who crammed him with
wine, confectioneries, and dainty dishes at the dinners, suppers, and
merry-makings, to which they invited him, because every host likes
those cheerful guests of God with nimble jaws, who say as many words
as they put away tit-bits. This abbot was a pernicious fellow, who
would relate to the ladies many a merry tale, at which they were only
offended when they had heard them; since, to judge them, things must
be heard.
“My reverend father,” said the king, “behold the twilight hour, in
which ears feminine may be regaled with certain pleasant stories, for
the ladies can laugh without blushing, or blush without laughing, as
it suits them best. Give us a good story--a regular monk’s story. I
shall listen to it, i’faith, with pleasure, because I want to be
amused, and so do the ladies.”
“We only submit to this, in order to please your lordship,” said the
queen; “because our good friend the abbot goes a little too far.”
“Then,” replied the king, turning towards the monk, “read us some
Christian admonition, holy father, to amuse madame.”
“Sire, my sight is weak, and the day is closing.”
“Give us a story, then, that stops at the girdle.”
“Ah, sire!” said the monk, smiling, “the one I am thinking of stops
there; but it commences at the feet.”
The lords present made such gallant remonstrances and supplications to
the queen and her ladies, that, like the good Bretonne that she was,
she gave the monk a gentle smile, and said--
“As you will, my father; but you must answer to God for our sins.”
“Willingly, madame; if it be your pleasure to take mine, you will be a
gainer.”
Everyone laughed, and so did queen. The king went and sat by his dear
wife, well beloved by him, as everyone knows. The courtiers received
permission to be seated--the old courtiers, of course, understood; for
the young ones stood, by the ladies’ permission, beside their chairs,
to laugh at the same time as they did. Then the Abbot of Turpenay
gracefully delivered himself of the following tale, the risky passages
of which he gave in a low, soft, flute-like voice:--
About a hundred years ago at the least, there occurred great quarrels
in Christendom because there were two popes at Rome, each one
pretending to be legitimately elected, which caused great annoyance to
the monasteries, abbeys, and bishoprics, since, in order to be
recognised by as many as possible, each of the two popes granted
titles and rights to each adherent, the which made double owners
everywhere. Under these circumstances, the monasteries and abbeys that
were at war with their neighbours would not recognise both the popes,
and found themselves much embarrassed by the other, who always gave
the verdict to the enemies of the Chapter. This wicked schism brought
about considerable mischief, and proved abundantly that error is worse
in Christianity than the adultery of the Church.
Now at this time, when the devil was making havoc among our
possessions, the most illustrious abbey of Turpenay, of which I am at
present the unworthy ruler, had a heavy trial on concerning the
settlements of certain rights with the redoubtable Sire de Cande, an
idolatrous infidel, a relapsed heretic, and most wicked lord. This
devil, sent upon earth in the shape of a nobleman, was, to tell the
truth, a good soldier, well received at court, and a friend of the
Sieur Bureau de la Riviere; who was a person to whom the king was
exceedingly partial--King Charles the Fifth, of glorious memory.
Beneath the shelter of the favour of this Sieur de la Riviere, Lord of
Cande did exactly as he pleased in the valley of the Indre, where he
used to be master of everything, from Montbazon to Usse. You may be
sure that his neighbours were terribly afraid of him, and to save
their skulls let him have his way. They would, however, have preferred
him under the ground to above it, and heartily wished him bad luck;
but he troubled himself little about that. In the whole valley the
noble abbey alone showed fight to this demon, for it has always been a
doctrine of the Church to take into her lap the weak and suffering,
and use every effort to protect the oppressed, especially those whose
rights and privileges are menaced.
For this reason this rough warrior hated monks exceedingly, especially
those of Turpenay, who would not allow themselves to be robbed of
their rights either by force or stratagem. He was well pleased at the
ecclesiastical schism, and waited the decision of our abbey,
concerning which pope they should choose, to pillage them, being quite
ready to recognise the one to whom the abbot of Turpenay should refuse
his obedience. Since his return to his castle, it was his custom to
torment and annoy the priests whom he encountered upon his domains in
such a manner, that a poor monk, surprised by him on his private road,
which was by the water-side, perceived no other method of safety than
to throw himself into the river, where, by a special miracle of the
Almighty, whom the good man fervently invoked, his gown floated him on
the Indre, and he made his way comfortably to the other side, which he
attained in full view of the lord of Cande, who was not ashamed to
enjoy the terrors of a servant of God. Now you see of what stuff this
horrid man was made. The abbot, to whom at that time, the care of our
glorious abbey was committed, led a most holy life, and prayed to God
with devotion; but he would have saved his own soul ten times, of such
good quality was his religion, before finding a chance to save the
abbey itself from the clutches of this wretch. Although he was very
perplexed, and saw the evil hour at hand, he relied upon God for
succour, saying that he would never allow the property of the Church
to be touched, and that He who had raised up the Princess Judith for
the Hebrews, and Queen Lucretia for the Romans, would keep his most
illustrious abbey of Turpenay, and indulged in other equally sapient
remarks. But his monks, who--to our shame I confess it--were
unbelievers, reproached him with his happy-go-lucky way of looking at
things, and declared that, to bring the chariot of Providence to the
rescue in time, all the oxen in the province would have to be yoked
it; that the trumpets of Jericho were no longer made in any portion of
the world; that God was disgusted with His creation, and would have
nothing more to do with it: in short, a thousand and one things that
were doubts and contumelies against God.
At this desperate juncture there rose up a monk named Amador. This
name had been given him by way of a joke, since his person offered a
perfect portrait of the false god Aegipan. He was like him, strong in
the stomach; like him, had crooked legs; arms hairy as those of a
saddler, a back made to carry a wallet, a face as red as the phiz of a
drunkard, glistening eyes, a tangled beard, was hairy faced, and so
puffed out with fat and meat that you would have fancied him in an
interesting condition. You may be sure that he sung his matins on the
steps of the wine-cellar, and said his vespers in the vineyards of
Lord. He was as fond of his bed as a beggar with sores, and would go
about the valley fuddling, faddling, blessing the bridals, plucking
the grapes, and giving them to the girls to taste, in spite of the
prohibition of the abbot. In fact, he was a pilferer, a loiterer, and
a bad soldier of the ecclesiastical militia, of whom nobody in the
abbey took any notice, but let him do as he liked from motives of
Christian charity, thinking him mad.
Amador, knowing that it was a question of the ruin of the Abbey, in
which he was as snug as a bug in a rug, put up his bristles, took
notice of this and of that, went into each of the cells, listened in
the refectory, shivered in his shoes, and declared that he would
attempt to save the abbey. He took cognisance of the contested points,
received from the abbot permission to postpone the case, and was
promised by the whole Chapter the Office of sub-prior if he succeeded
in putting an end to the litigation. Then he set off across the
country, heedless of the cruelty and ill-treatment of the Sieur de
Cande, saying that he had that within his gown which would subdue him.
He went his way with nothing but the said gown for his viaticum: but
then in it was enough fat to feed a dwarf. He selected to go to the
chateau, a day when it rained hard enough to fill the tubs of all the
housewives, and arrived without meeting a soul, in sight of Cande, and
looking like a drowned dog, stepped bravely into the courtyard, and
took shelter under a sty-roof to wait until the fury of the elements
had calmed down, and placed himself boldly in front of the room where
the owner of the chateau should be. A servant perceiving him while
laying the supper, took pity on him, and told him to make himself
scarce, otherwise his master would give him a horsewhipping, just to
open the conversation, and asked him what made him so bold as to enter
a house where monks were hated more than a red leper.
“Ah!” said Amador, “I am on my way to Tours, sent thither by my lord
abbot. If the lord of Cande were not so bitter against the poor
servant of God, I should not be kept during such a deluge in the
courtyard, but in the house. I hope that he will find mercy in his
hour of need.”
The servant reported these words to his master, who at first wished to
have the monk thrown into the big trough of the castle among the other
filth. But the lady of Cande, who had great authority over her spouse,
and was respected by him, because through her he expected a large
inheritance, and because she was a little tyrannical, reprimanded him,
saying, that it was possible this monk was a Christian; that in such
weather thieves would succour an officer of justice; that, besides, it
was necessary to treat him well to find out to what decision the
brethren of Turpenay had come with regard to the schism business, and
that her advice was put an end by kindness and not by force to the
difficulties arisen between the abbey and the domain of Cande, because
no lord since the coming of Christ had ever been stronger than the
Church, and that sooner or later the abbey would ruin the castle;
finally, she gave utterance to a thousand wise arguments, such as
ladies use in the height of the storms of life, when they have had
about enough of them. Amador’s face was so piteous, his appearance so
wretched, and so open to banter, that the lord, saddened by the
weather, conceived the idea of enjoying a joke at his expense,
tormenting him, playing tricks on him, and of giving him a lively
recollection of his reception at the chateau. Then this gentleman, who
had secret relations with his wife’s maid, sent this girl, who was
called Perrotte, to put an end to his ill-will towards the luckless
Amador. As soon as the plot had been arranged between them, the wench,
who hated monks, in order to please her master, went to the monk, who
was standing under the pigsty, assuming a courteous demeanour in order
the better to please him, said--
“Holy father, the master of the house is ashamed to see a servant of
God out in the rain when there is room for him indoors, a good fire in
the chimney, and a table spread. I invite you in his name and that of
the lady of the house to step in.”
“I thank the lady and lord, not for their hospitality which is a
Christian thing, but for having sent as an ambassador to me, a poor
sinner, an angel of such delicate beauty that I fancy I see the Virgin
over our altar.”
Saying which, Amador raised his nose in the air, and saluted with the
two flakes of fire that sparkled in his bright eyes the pretty
maidservant, who thought him neither so ugly nor so foul, nor so
bestial; when, following Perrotte up the steps, Amador received on the
nose, cheeks, and other portions of his face a slash of the whip,
which made him see all the lights of the Magnificat, so well was the
dose administered by the Sieur de Cande, who, busy chastening his
greyhounds pretended not see the monk. He requested Amador to pardon
him this accident, and ran after the dogs who had caused the mischief
to his guest. The laughing servant, who knew what was coming, had
dexterously kept out of the way. Noticing this business, Amador
suspected the relations of Perrotte and the chevalier, concerning whom
it is possible that the lasses of the valley had already whispered
something into his ear. Of the people who were then in the room not
one made room for the man of God, who remained right in the draught
between the door and the window, where he stood freezing until the
moment when the Sieur de Cande, his wife, and his aged sister,
Mademoiselle de Cande, who had the charge of the young heiress of the
house, aged about sixteen years, came and sat in their chairs at the
head of the table, far from the common people, according to the old
custom usual among the lords of the period, much to their discredit.
The Sieur de Cande, paying no attention to the monk, let him sit at
the extreme end of the table, in a corner, where two mischievous lads
had orders to squeeze and elbow him. Indeed these fellows worried his
feet, his body, and his arms like real torturers, poured white wine
into his goblet for water, in order to fuddle him, and the better to
amuse themselves with him; but they made him drink seven large jugfuls
without making belch, break wind, sweat or snort, which horrified them
exceedingly, especially as his eye remained as clear as crystal.
Encouraged, however, by a glance from their lord, they still kept
throwing, while bowing to him, gravy into his beard, and wiping it dry
in a manner to tear every hair of it out. The varlet who served a
caudle baptised his head with it, and took care to let the burning
liquor trickle down poor Amador’s backbone. All this agony he endured
with meekness, because the spirit of God was in him, and also the hope
of finishing the litigation by holding out in the castle.
Nevertheless, the mischievous lot burst out into such roars of
laughter at the warm baptism given by the cook’s lad to the soaked
monk, even the butler making jokes at his expense, that the lady of
Cande was compelled to notice what was going on at the end of the
table. Then she perceived Amador, who had a look of sublime
resignation upon his face, and was endeavouring to get something out
of the big beef bones that had been put upon his pewter platter. At
this moment the poor monk, who had administered a dexterous blow of
the knife to a big ugly bone, took it into his hairy hands, snapped it
in two, sucked the warm marrow out of it, and found it good.
“Truly,” said she to herself, “God has put great strength into this
monk!”
At the same time she seriously forbade the pages, servants, and others
to torment the poor man, to whom out of mockery they had just given
some rotten apples and maggoty nuts. He, perceiving that the old lady
and her charge, the lady and the servants had seen him manoeuvring the
bone, pushed backed his sleeve, showed the powerful muscles of his
arm, placed nuts near his wrist on the bifurcation of the veins, and
crushed them one by one by pressing them with the palm of his hand so
vigorously that they appeared like ripe medlars. He also crunched them
between his teeth, white as the teeth of a dog, husk, shell, fruit,
and all, of which he made in a second a mash which he swallowed like
honey. He crushed them between two fingers, which he used like
scissors to cut them in two without a moment’s hesitation.
You may be sure that the women were silent, that the men believed the
devil to be in the monk; and had it not been for his wife and the
darkness of the night, the Sieur de Cande, having the fear of God
before his eyes, would have kicked him out of the house. Everyone
declared that the monk was a man capable of throwing the castle into
the moat. Therefore, as soon as everyone had wiped his mouth, my lord
took care to imprison this devil, whose strength was terrible to
behold, and had him conducted to a wretched little closet where
Perrotte had arranged her machine in order to annoy him during the
night. The tom-cats of the neighbourhood had been requested to come
and confess to him, invited to tell him their sins in embryo towards
the tabbies who attracted their affections, and also the little pigs
for whom fine lumps of tripe had been placed under the bed in order to
prevent them becoming monks, of which they were very desirous, by
disgusting them with the style of libera, which the monk would sing to
them. At every movement of poor Amador, who would find short
horse-hair in the sheets, he would bring down cold water on to the bed,
and a thousand other tricks were arranged, such are usually practised
in castles. Everyone went to bed in expectation of the nocturnal revels
of the monk, certain that they would not be disappointed, since he had
been lodged under the tiles at the top of a little tower, the guard of
the door of which was committed to dogs who howled for a bit of him.
In order to ascertain what language the conversations with the cats
and pigs would be carried on, the Sire came to stay with his dear
Perrotte, who slept in the next room.
As soon as he found himself thus treated, Amador drew from his bag a
knife, and dexterously extricated himself. Then he began to listen in
order to find out the ways of the place, and heard the master of the
house laughing with his maid-servant. Suspecting their manoeuvres, he
waited till the moment when the lady of the house should be alone in
bed, and made his way into her room with bare feet, in order that his
sandals should not be in his secrets. He appeared to her by the light
of the lamp in the manner in which monks generally appear during the
night--that is, in a marvellous state, which the laity find it
difficult long to sustain; and the thing is an effect of the frock,
which magnifies everything. Then having let her see that he was all a
monk, he made the following little speech--
“Know, madame, that I am sent by Jesus and the Virgin Mary to warn you
to put an end to the improper perversities which are taking place--to
the injury of your virtue, which is treacherously deprived of your
husband’s best attention, which he lavishes upon your maid. What is
the use of being a lady if the seigneurial dues are received
elsewhere. According to this, your servant is the lady and you are the
servant. Are not all the joys bestowed upon her due to you? You will
find them all amassed in our Holy Church, which is the consolation of
the afflicted. Behold in me the messenger, ready to pay these debts if
you do not renounce them.”
Saying this, the good monk gently loosened his girdle in which he was
incommoded, so much did he appear affected by the sight of those
beauties which the Sieur de Cande disdained.
“If you speak truly, my father, I will submit to your guidance,” said
she, springing lightly out of bed. “You are for sure, a messenger of
God, because you have been in a single day that which I had not
noticed here for a long time.”
Then she went, accompanied by Amador, whose holy robe she did not fail
to run her hand over, and was so struck when she found it real, that
she hoped to find her husband guilty; and indeed she heard him talking
about the monk in her servant’s bed. Perceiving this felony, she went
into a furious rage and opened her mouth to resolve it into words--
which is the usual method of women--and wished to kick up the devil’s
delight before handing the girl over to justice. But Amador told her
that it would be more sensible to avenge herself first, and cry out
afterwards.
“Avenge me quickly, then, my father,” said she, “that I may begin to
cry out.”
Thereupon the monk avenged her most monastically with a good and ample
vengeance, that she indulged in as a drunkard who puts his lips to the
bunghole of a barrel; for when a lady avenges herself, she should get
drunk with vengeance, or not taste it at all. And the chatelaine was
revenged to that degree that she could not move; since nothing
agitates, takes away the breath, and exhausts, like anger and
vengeance. But although she were avenged, and doubly and trebly
avenged, yet would she not forgive, in order that she might reserve
the right of avenging herself with the monk, now here, now there.
Perceiving this love for vengeance, Amador promised to aid her in it
as long as her ire lasted, for he informed her that he knew in his
quality of a monk, constrained to meditate long on the nature of
things, an infinite number of modes, methods, and manners of
practicing revenge.
Then he pointed out to her canonically what a Christian thing it is to
revenge oneself, because all through the Holy Scriptures God declares
Himself, above all things, to be a God of vengeance; and moreover,
demonstrates to us, by his establishment in the infernal regions, how
royally divine a thing vengeance is, since His vengeance is eternal.
From which it followed, that women with monks ought to revenge
themselves, under pain of not being Christians and faithful servants
of celestial doctrines.
This dogma pleased the lady much, and she confessed that she had never
understood the commandments of the Church, and invited her
well-beloved monk to enlighten her thoroughly concerning them. Then
the chatelaine, whose vital spirits had been excited by the vengeance
which had refreshed them, went into the room where the jade was
amusing herself, and by chance found her with her hand where she, the
chatelaine, often had her eye--like the merchants have on their most
precious articles, in order to see that they were not stolen. They
were--according to President Lizet, when he was in a merry mood--a
couple taken in flagrant delectation, and looked dumbfounded, sheepish
and foolish. The sight that met her eyes displeased the lady beyond
the power of words to express, as it appeared by her discourse, of
which to roughness was similar to that of the water of a big pond when
the sluice-gates were opened. It was a sermon in three heads,
accompanied with music of a high gamut, varied in tones, with many
sharps among the keys.
“Out upon virtue! my lord; I’ve had my share of it. You have shown me
that religion in conjugal faith is an abuse; this is then the reason
that I have no son. How many children have you consigned to this
common oven, this poor-box, this bottomless alms-purse, this leper’s
porringer, the true cemetery of the House of Cande? I will know if I
am childless from a constitutional defect, or through your fault. I
will have handsome cavaliers, in order that I may have an heir. You
can get the bastards, I the legitimate children.”
“My dear,” said the bewildered lord, “don’t shout so.”
“But,” replied the lady, “I will shout, and shout to make myself
heard, heard by the archbishop, heard by the legate, by the king, by
my brothers, who will avenge this infamy for me.”
“Do not dishonour your husband!”
“This is dishonour then? You are right; but, my lord, it is not
brought about by you, but by this hussy, whom I will have sewn up in a
sack, and thrown into the Indre; thus your dishonour will be washed
away. Hi! there,” she called out.
“Silence, madame!” said the sire, as shamefaced as a blind man’s dog;
because this great warrior, so ready to kill others, was like a child
in the hands of his wife, a state of affairs to which soldiers are
accustomed, because in them lies the strength and is found all the
dull carnality of matter; while, on the contrary, in woman is a subtle
spirit and a scintillation of perfumed flame that lights up paradise
and dazzles the male. This is the reason that certain women govern
their husbands, because mind is the master of matter.
(At this the ladies began to laugh, as did also the king).
“I will not be silent,” said the lady of Cande (said the abbot,
continuing his tale); “I have been too grossly outraged. This, then,
is the reward of the wealth that I brought you, and of my virtuous
conduct! Did I ever refuse to obey you even during Lent, and on fast
days? Am I so cold as to freeze the sun? Do you think that I embrace
by force, from duty, or pure kindness of heart! Am I too hallowed for
you to touch? Am I a holy shrine? Was there need of a papal brief to
kiss me? God’s truth! have you had so much of me that you are tired?
Am I not to your taste? Do charming wenches know more than ladies? Ha!
perhaps it is so, since she has let you work in the field without
sowing. Teach me the business; I will practice it with those whom I
take into my service, for it is settled that I am free. That is as we
should be. Your society was wearisome, and the little pleasure I
derived from it cost me too dear. Thank God! I am quit of you and your
whims, because I intend to retire to a monastery.” . . . She meant to
say a convent, but this avenging monk had perverted her tongue.
“And I shall be more comfortable in this monastery with my daughter,
than in this place of abominable wickedness. You can inherit from your
wench. Ha, ha! The fine lady of Cande! Look at her!”
“What is the matter?” said Amador, appearing suddenly upon the scene.
“The matter is, my father,” replied she, “that my wrongs cry aloud for
vengeance. To begin with, I shall have this trollop thrown into the
river, sewn up in a sack, for having diverted the seed of the House of
Cande from its proper channel. It will be saving the hangman a job.
For the rest I will--”
“Abandon your anger, my daughter,” said the monk. “It is commanded us
by the Church to forgive those who trespass against us, if we would
find favour in the side of Heaven, because you pardon those who also
pardon others. God avenges himself eternally on those who have avenged
themselves, but keeps in His paradise those who have pardoned. From
that comes the jubilee, which is a day of great rejoicing, because all
debts and offences are forgiven. Thus it is a source of happiness to
pardon. Pardon! Pardon! To pardon is a most holy work. Pardon
Monseigneur de Cande, who will bless you for your gracious clemency,
and will henceforth love you much; This forgiveness will restore to
you the flower of youth; and believe, my dear sweet young lady, that
forgiveness is in certain cases the best means of vengeance. Pardon
your maid-servant, who will pray heaven for you. Thus God, supplicated
by all, will have you in His keeping, and will bless you with male
lineage for this pardon.”
Thus saying, the monk took the hand of the sire, placed it in that of
the lady, and added--
“Go and talk over the pardon.”