to send a pair of his Galleys on an expedition to the Levant under the
command of Captain Beaulieu, one of his Lieutenants, of the which I
have spoke somewhat in another place. Beaulieu went readily enough,
being a brave and valiant sailor. When he was toward the Archipelago,
he did fall in with a great Venetian ship, well armed and well found,
which he set him to fire upon. But the ship did return his salute to
some purpose; for at the first volley she did carry clean away two of
his banks of oars, galley-slaves and all. Amongst other sore wounded
was his Lieutenant, a man named Captain Panier (“Basket”) and a good
fellow enough, which had time to cry out this word only before he died:
“Good-bye baskets all, the harvest is done,”—a merry and a pleasant
jest to enliven his death withal! The end was, M. de Beaulieu had to
retire, this big ship proving beyond his power to overcome.
The first year King Charles IX. was King, at the time of the July edict
when he was yet residing in the Faubourg St. Germain, we did see the
hanging of a certain gallows-bird in that quarter, which had stolen six
silver goblets from the kitchen of the Prince de La Roche-sur-Yonne.
So soon as he was on the ladder, he did beg the hangman to grant
him a little space for a dying speech, and did take up his parable,
remonstrating with the folk and telling them he was unjustly put to
death, “for never,” said he, “have I practised my thievings on the
poor, on beggars and the vulgar herd, but only on Princes and great
Lords, which be greater thieves than we, and do rob us every day of
their lives; and ’tis a good deed to recover again of these folk what
they do rob and filch from us.” Much more diverting nonsense of
the sort he did utter, the which ’twere but wasted time to repeat.
Presently the priest which was with him at the top of the ladder,
turning to the people, as we see done, did call upon them: “Good sirs!
this poor criminal doth recommend himself to your prayers; we will say
all together for him and his soul’s peace a _Pater noster_ and an _Ave
Maria_, and will sing a _Salve_.” Then just as the folk were answering,
the said poor criminal did drop his head, and fixing his eyes on the
priest, did start bellowing like a calf, and making mock of the priest
in the most absurd fashion; then lending him a kick, did send him
flying from the top of the ladder to the bottom, so big a leap that
he brake a leg. “Ah, ha! Sir priest!” cried the fellow, “God’s truth,
I knew I should shift you. Well! you’ve got your gruel now, my fine
fellow.” Hearing him groan, he did set up a loud and hearty guffaw;
then this ended, did jump off the ladder of his own motion and set
himself a-swinging into space. I dare swear the Court did laugh merrily
at the trick, albeit the poor priest had done himself a serious hurt. A
death, in good sooth, that can scarce be called grave and melancholy!
The late deceased M. d’Estampes had a fool called Colin, a very
diverting fellow. When his death was now nigh, his master did enquire
how Colin was doing. They told him, “But poorly, my Lord; he is going
to die, for he will take nothing.”—“Come now,” said M. d’Estampes, who
was at the moment at table, “take him this soup, and tell him, an if
he will not take somewhat for love of me, I will never love him more,
for they inform me he will take naught.” The message was delivered to
Colin, who, death already ’twixt the teeth of him, did make answer,
“And who be they which have told my Lord I would take naught?” Then
being surrounded by a countless cloud of flies (for ’twas summer time),
he began to hunt them with his hand, as we see pages and lackeys and
children do, a-trying to catch them; and having taken two with one
swoop, he cried, making a funny gesture more readily imagined than
described, “Go tell my Lord,” said he, “what I have taken for love of
him, and that now I’m away to the kingdom of the flies,” and so saying
and turning him round to the other side of the bed, the merry rascal
did expire.
As to this, I have heard sundry philosophers declare that folk do very
often at the moment of death remember them of those things they have
the most loved in life, and tell of these; so gentlemen, soldiers,
sportsmen, artisans, all in fact, very near, according to their former
occupation, do say some word thereof when a-dying. This is a fact often
noted no less in past time than at the present day.
Women in like wise do often out with a similar rigmarole,—whores just
as much as honest dames. So have I heard speak of a certain lady, of
very good quality too, which on her death-bed did exult to spit out
all about her divers intrigues, naughtinesses and past pleasures,
to such purpose that she told more thereof than ever folk had known
before, albeit she had always been suspected as a desperate wanton.
This revelation she may have made, either in a dream possibly, or else
because truth, that can never be hid, did constrain her thereto, or
mayhap because she was fain so to discharge her conscience. Anyhow, she
did actually, with clear conscience and true repentance, confess and
ask forgiveness for her sins, detailing them each and all, dotting
i’s and crossing t’s, till all was as clear as day. Verily, a curious
thing, she should have found leisure at that supreme hour so to be
sweeping her conscience clean of such a muckheap of scandal,—and with
such careful particularity.
Another good lady I have heard of which was so apt to dream every
night, as that she would tell out by night everything she did by day,
in such wise that she did bring sore suspicion of herself on her
husband’s part, who did presently set himself to listen to her talking
and prattling and pay heed to her dreams, whereby an ill fate did later
on befall her.
’Tis no long while since a gentleman of the great world, belonging
to a province I will not name, did the same thing on his death-bed,
publishing abroad his loves and lecheries, and specifying the ladies,
wives and maids, which he had had to do with, and in what places, and
how and under what circumstances. All this he did confess loud out,
asking God’s pardon therefor before everybody. This last did worse
than the woman just mentioned, for whereas she did bring disrepute on
herself only, he did blacken several fair ladies’ good name. A fine
pair of gallants truly!
’Tis said that misers, both male and female, have likewise this trick
of thinking much, in the hour of death, on their hoard of crowns,
forever talking of the same. Some forty years agone there was a certain
lady of Mortemar,[55*] one of the richest ladies in all Poitou and one
of the most moneyed, which afterward when she came to die had never a
thought for aught but her crowns that were in her closet. All the time
of her sickness, she would rise from her bed twenty times a day to go
visit her treasure. At the last, when she was now very nigh her end
and the priest was exhorting her to think of the life eternal, she
would make no other reply nor say any other word but only this: “Give
me my gown; the villains are robbing me.” Her one thought was to rise
and visit her strong-room, as she did sore strive to do, but the effort
was beyond the poor lady. And so she died.
I have let myself toward the end wander a little away from the first
intention of my present Discourse; but we should bear in mind that
after preaching and tragedy, farce ever cometh next. With this word, I
make an end.
[Illustration: Decorative scrollwork above chapter start]
SIXTH DISCOURSE[56*]
Of how we should never speak ill of ladies, and of
the consequences of so doing.
1.
One point there is to be noted in these fair and honourable dames
which do indulge in love, to wit that whatsoever freedom they do allow
themselves, they will never willingly suffer offence or scandal to
be said of them by others, and if any do say ill of them, they know
very well how to avenge the affront sooner or later. In a word, they
be ready enough to do the thing, but unwilling it should be spoken
about. And in very sooth ’tis not well done to bring ill repute on an
honourable lady, nor to divulge on her; for indeed what have a number
of other folks to do with it, an if they _do_ please their senses and
their lovers’ to boot?
The Courts of our French Kings, and amongst others, those of later
years in especial, have been greatly given to blazon abroad the faults
of these worthy dames; and I have known the days when was never a
gallant about the Palace but did discover some falsehood to tell
against the ladies, or at least find some true though scandalous tale
to repeat. All this is very blameworthy; for a man ought never to
offend the honour of fair ladies, and least of all great ladies. And I
do say this as well to such as do reap enjoyment of ladies’ favour, as
to them which cannot taste the venison, and for this cause do decry the
same.
The Courts of our later Kings have, I repeat it, been overmuch given to
this scandal-mongering and tale-bearing,—herein differing widely from
those of earlier Sovereigns, their predecessors, alway excepting that
of Louis XI., that seasoned reprobate. Of him ’tis said that most times
he would eat at a common table, in open Hall, with many gentlemen of
his privy household and others withal; and whoever could tell him the
best and most lecherous story of light women and their doings, this man
was best welcomed and made most of. Himself, too, showed no scruple to
do the like, for he was exceeding inquisitive and loved to be informed
of all secrets; then having found these out, he would often divulge the
same to companions, and that publicly.[57] This was indeed a very grave
scandal. He had a most ill opinion of women, and an entire disbelief
in their chastity. After inviting the King of England to Paris on a
visit of good fellowship, and being taken at his word by that Prince,
he did straight repent him, and invented an _alibi_ to break off the
engagement. “Holy Christ!” he said on this occasion, “I don’t want him
coming here. He would certainly find some little smart, dainty minx,
that he would fall over head and ears in love with, who would tempt him
to stay longer and come oftener than I should at all like.”
Natheless of his wife[57] he had a very high opinion, who was a very
modest and virtuous lady; and truly she had need be so, for else,
being a distrustful and suspicious Prince if ever there was one, he
would very soon have treated her like the rest. And when he died,
he did charge his son to love and honour his mother well, but not
to be ruled of her,—“not that she was not both wise and chaste,” he
declared, “but that she was more Burgundian than French.”[58*] And
indeed he did never really love her but to have an heir of her; and
when he had gotten this, he made scarce any account of her more. He
kept her at the Castle of Amboise like a plain Gentlewoman in very
scanty state and as ill-dressed as any young country girl. There he
would leave her with few attendants to say her prayers, while himself
was away travelling and taking his pleasure elsewhere. I leave you to
imagine, such being the opinion the King held of women, and such his
delight in speaking ill of them, how they were maltreated by every
evil tongue at Court. Not that he did otherwise wish them ill for so
taking their pleasure, nor that he desired to stop their amusements
at all, as I have seen some fain to do; but his chiefest joy was to
gird at them, the effect being that these poor ladies, weighed down
under such a load of detraction, were often hindered from kicking of
their heels so freely as they would else have liked to do. Yet did
harlotry much prevail in his day; for the King himself did greatly help
to establish and keep up the same with the gentlemen of his Court.
Then was the only question, who could make the merriest mock thereat,
whether in public or in privity, and who could tell the merriest tales
of the ladies’ wantonings and _wriggles_ (this was his phrase) and
general naughtiness. True it is the names of great ladies were left
unmentioned, such being censured only by guess-work and appearances;
and I ween they had a better time than some I have seen in the days
of the late King, which did torment and chide and bully them most
strangely. Such is the account I have heard of that good monarch, Louis
XI., from divers old stagers.
At any rate his son, King Charles VIII., which did succeed him, was
not of this complexion; for ’tis reported of him now that he was the
most reticent and fair-speaking monarch was even seen, and did never
offend man or woman by the very smallest ill word.[59] I leave you
then to think of the fair ladies of his reign, and all merry lovers of
the sex, did not have good times in those days. And indeed he did love
them right well and faithfully,—in fact too well; for returning back
from his Naples expedition triumphant and victorious, he did find such
excessive diversion in loving and fondling the same, and pleasuring
them with so many delights at Lyons, in the way of tournaments and
tourneys which he did hold for love of them, that clean forgetting his
partisans which he had left in that Kingdom, he did leave these to
perish,—and towns and kingdom and castles to boot, which yet held out,
and were stretching forth hands of supplication to him to send them
succour. ’Tis said moreover that overmuch devotion to the ladies was
the cause of his death, for by reason of a too reckless abandonment
to these pleasures, he did, being of a very weakly frame of body, so
enervate and undermine his health as that this behaviour did no little
contribute to his death.
Our good King Louis XII. was very respectful toward the ladies; for as
I have said in another place, he would ever pardon all stage-players,
as well as scholars and clerks of the Palace in their guilds, no matter
who they did make free to speak of, excepting the Queen his wife, and
her ladies and damosels,—albeit he was a merry gallant in his day and
did love fair women as well as other folk. Herein he did take after
his grand-father, Duke Louis of Orleans,—though not in this latter’s
ill tongue and inordinate conceit and boastfulness. And truly this
defect did cost him his life, for one day having boasted loud out at
a banquet whereat Duke John of Burgundy, his cousin, was present, how
that he had in his private closet portraits of all the fairest ladies
he had enjoyed, as chance would have it, Duke John himself did enter
this same closet. The very first lady whose picture he beheld there,
and the first sight that met his eyes, was his own most noble lady
wife, which was at that day held in high esteem for her beauty. She was
called Marguerite, daughter of Albert of Bavaria, Count of Hainault
and Zealand. Who was amazed then? who but the worthy husband? Fancy
him muttering low down to himself, “Ha, ha! I see it all!” However,
making no outcry about the flea that really bit him, he did hide it
all, though hatching vengeance, be sure, for a later day, and so picked
a quarrel with him as to his regency and administration of the Kingdom.
Thus putting off his grievance on this cause and not on any matter of
his wife at all, he had the Duke assassinated at the Porte Barbette of
Paris. Then presently his first wife being now dead (we may suspect
by poison), and right soon after, he did wed in the second place the
daughter of Louis, third Duke of Bourbon. Mayhap this bargain was no
better than his first; for truly with folks which be meet for horns,
change bed-chamber and quarters as they may, they will ever encounter
the same.
The Duke in this matter did very wisely, so to avenge him of his
adultery without setting tongues a-wagging of his concerns or his
wife’s, and ’twas a judicious piece of dissimulation on his part.
Indeed I have heard a very great nobleman and soldier say, how that
there be three things a wise man ought never to make public, an if he
be wronged therein. Rather should he hold his tongue on the matter,
or better still invent some other pretext to fight upon and get his
revenge,—unless that is the thing was so clear and manifest, and so
public to many persons, as that he could not possibly put off his
action onto any other motive but the true one.
The first is, when ’tis brought up against a man that he is cuckold and
his wife unfaithful; another, when he is taxed with buggery and sodomy;
the third, when ’tis stated of him that he is a coward, and that he
hath basely run away from a fight or a battle. All three charges be
most shameful, when a man’s name is mentioned in connection therewith;
so he doth fight the accusation, and will sometimes suppose he can well
clear himself and prove his name to have been falsely smirched. But the
matter being thus made public, doth cause only the greater scandal;
and the more ’tis stirred, the more doth it stink, exactly as vile
stench waxeth worse, the more it is disturbed. And this is why ’tis
always best, if a man can with honour, to hold his tongue, and contrive
and invent some new motive to account for his punishment of the old
offence; for such like grievances should ever be ignored so far as may
be, and never brought into court, or made subjects of discussion or
contention. Many examples could I bring of this truth; but ’twould be
over irksome to me, and would unduly lengthen out my Discourse.
So we see Duke John was very wise and prudent thus to dissimulate and
hide his horns, and on quite other grounds take his revenge on his
cousin, which had shamed him. Else had he been made mock of, and his
name blazoned abroad. No doubt dread of such mockery and scandal did
touch him as nigh at heart as ever his ambition, and made him act like
the wise and experienced man of the world he was.
Now, however, to return from the digression which hath delayed me,
our King Francis I., who was a good lover of fair ladies, and that in
spite of the opinion he did express, as I have said elsewhere, how that
they were fickle and inconstant creatures, would never have the same
ill spoke of at his Court, and was always most anxious they should be
held in all high respect and honour.[60*] I have heard it related how
that one time, when he was spending his Lent at Meudon near Paris,
there was one of the gentlemen in his service there named the Sieur
de Brizambourg, of Saintogne. As this gentleman was serving the King
with meat, he having a dispensation to eat thereof, his master bade him
carry the rest, as we see sometimes done at Court, to the ladies of the
privy company, whose names I had rather not give, for fear of offence.
The gentleman in question did take upon him to say, among his comrades
and others of the Court, how that these ladies not content with eating
of raw meat in Lent, were now eating cooked as well,—and their belly
full. The ladies hearing of it, did promptly make complaint to the
King, which thereupon was filled with so great an anger, as that he did
instantly command the archers of the Palace guard to take the man and
hang him out of hand. By lucky chance the poor gentleman had wind of
what was a-foot from one of his friends, and so fled and escaped in the
nick of time. But an if he had been caught, he would most certainly
have been hanged, albeit he was a man of good quality, so sore was the
King seen to be wroth that time, and little like to go back on his
word. I have this anecdote of a person of honour and credibility which
was present; and at the time the King did say right out, that any man
which should offend the honour of ladies, the same should be hanged
without benefit of clergy.
A little while before, Pope Farnese[61*] being come to Nice, and the
King paying him his respects in state with all his Court and Lords and
Ladies, there were some of these last, and not the least fair of the
company, which did go to the Pope for to kiss his slipper. Whereupon a
gentleman did take on him to say they had gone to beg his Holiness for
a dispensation to taste of raw flesh without sin or shame, whenever
and as much as ever they might desire. The King got to know thereof;
and well it was for the gentleman he did fly smartly, else had he been
hanged, as well for the veneration due to the Pope as for the respect
proper to fair ladies.
2.
These gentlemen were not so happy in their speeches and interviews as
was once the late deceased M. d’Albanie. The time when Pope Clement
did visit Marseilles to celebrate the marriage of his niece with M.
d’Orleans, there were three widow ladies, of fair face and honourable
birth, which by reason of the pains, vexations and griefs they suffered
from the absence of their late husbands and of those pleasures that
were no more, had come so low, and grown so thin, weak and sickly, as
that they did beseech M. d’Albanie, their kinsman, who did possess
a good share of the Pope’s favour, to ask of him dispensation for
the three of them to eat meat on prohibited days. This the said Duke
did promise them to do, and to that end did one day bring them on a
friendly footing to the Pope’s lodging. Meantime he had warned the
King of what was a-foot, telling him he would afford him some sport.
So having put him up to the game, and the three ladies being on their
knees before his Holiness, M. d’Albanie took the word first, saying
in a low tone and in Italian, so that the ladies did not catch his
words: “Holy Father, see here before you three widow ladies, fair to
look on and very well born. These same for the respect they bear toward
their dead husbands and the love they have for the children they have
borne to these, will not for aught in all the world marry again and so
wrong their husbands and children. But whereas they be sometimes sore
tempted by the pricks of the flesh, they do therefore humbly beseech
your Holiness for leave to go with men without marriage, whenever
and wherever they shall find them under the said temptation.”—“What
say you, cousin?” cried the Pope. “Why! ’twould be against God’s own
commandments, wherefrom I can give no dispensation.” “Well! the ladies
are here before you, Holy Father, and if it please you to hear them
say their say.” At this one of the three, taking the word, said: “Holy
Father! we have besought M. d’Albanie to make you our very humble
petition for us three poor women, and to represent to your Holiness our
frailty and our weakly complexion.”—“Nay! my daughters,” replied the
Pope, “but your petition is in no wise reasonable, for the thing would
be clean against God’s commandments.” Then the widows, still quite
ignorant of what M. d’Albanie had told the Pope, made answer: “At the
least, Holy Father, may it please you give us leave three times a week,
without scandal to our name.”—“What!” exclaimed the Pope, “give you
leave to commit _il peccato di lussuria_ (the sin of lasciviousness?).
I should damn mine own soul; I cannot do it!” Hereupon the three
ladies, perceiving at last ’twas a case of scampishness and knavery,
and that M. d’Albanie had played a trick on them, declared, “’Tis not
of that we speak, Holy Father; we but ask permission to eat meat on
prohibited days.”—Hearing these words, the Duc d’Albanie told them,
“Nay! I thought ’twas live flesh you meant, ladies!” The Pope was quick
to understand the knavery put on them, and said with a dawning smile,
“You have put these noble ladies to the blush, my cousin; the Queen
will be angered when she doth hear of it.” The Queen did hear of it
anon, but made no ado, and found the tale diverting. The King likewise
did afterward make good mirth thereof with the Pope; while the Holy
Father himself, after giving them his benediction, did grant them the
dispensation they craved, and dismissed them well content.
I have been given the names of the three ladies concerned, namely:
Madame de Chasteau-Briant or Madame de Canaples, Madame de Chastillon
and the Baillive de Caen, all three very honourable ladies. I have the
tale from sundry old frequenters of the Court.