CORNELL - UNIVERSITY LIBRARY '■l^-'- THIS BOOK IS ONE OF A ' ^ _ ■ !• COLLECTION SlAbE'*BY BENNO LOEWY 1854-1919 AND BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 3 1924 082 463 211 Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924082463211 THE HEPTAMERON MARGARET, QUEEN OF NAVARRE ■/■"i/s A . C/uo'dm J™ f, jtDITION DE LUXE MARGARET Queen of Navarre {The Heptameron) TRANSLATED FROM THE OLD FRENCH INTO ENGLISH EIGHT ORIGINAL ETCHINGS BY LEOPOLD FLAMENG PHILADELPHIA G. BARRIE, IMPORTER PREFACE, Margaret of Angouleme, Duchess of Alen^on, Queen of Navarre, only sister of Francis I., is certainly the authoi of the collection of tales which bears her name, though the fact has been doubted by some French writers. La Croix du Maine, for instance, says : " I question whether the princess composed this book ; forasmuch as it is full of bold discourses and ticklish expressions." But, against this sur- mise we may set the positive testimony of Brant6me. The Queen of Navarre, he says, " composed most of these novels in her litter as she travelled ; for her hours of retirement were employed in affairs of importance. I have heard this account from my grandmother, who always went with her in her litter, as her lady of honour, and held her standish for her ; and she wrote them down as quickly and readily, or rather more so, than if they had been dictated to her." Besides, as Bayle remarks. La Croix du Maine could never have entertained a doubt on the matter if he had read Claude Gruget's dedication of the second edition of the work to Joan d'Albret, only daughter of Queen Margaret. Had the work been supposititious, it is incredible that Gruget should have thus addressed the princess : " Such a present will not be new to you ; you will only recognise it as your mother's heiress. However, I persuade myself that it will be accept- able to you to see it by this second impression restored to its primitive state ; for (as I have heard) the first displeased you ; not but that he who undertook it was a learned man, and had taken pains with it, and, as is easy to believe, would VI Preface. not have thus disguised it without some reason for domg so ; yet his labour proved disagreeable." The history of the Heptameron is singular. It is the best known and the most popular of all the old collections of tales in the French Language. It has been the delight of the unlearned, scholars have warmly commended it, and men of talent and genius have borrowed from its pages. Brantome speaks of it with enthusiasm, and quotes it repeatedly; I,afontaine, the conteur par excellence, acknowledges his obli- gations to it ; Montaigne calls it un gentil livre pour son Hoffe — "a nice book for its matter;" and Bayle says it is, " after the manner of Boccace's novels," and " has some beauties in that kind which are surprising." The book, too, has had its enemies as well as its admirers, for it abounds with reflections on religious topics which accord with the author's known leaning to the cause of the Reformers ; and through the whole work the monks, especially the Cordeliers, are treated with much severity, and are represented as com- mitting, and sometimes with impunity even when discovered, the most cruel, deceitful, and immoral actions. From all this, would it not seem reasonable to presume that the world had long possessed a tolerably correct text of this celebrated book — one at least which has not been seriously falsified both by omissions and interpolations ? But such is not the fact. The genuine Heptameron, after remaining in manuscript for more than three hundred years from the Queen of Navarre's death was only published a few years ago by the Socidtd des Bibliophiles Frangais. Margaret died in 1549. In 1558, Pierre BDaistuau pub- lished the first edition of her novels under the title of Histoire des Amans Fortunes, which he dedicated to Mar- garet of Bourbon, the deceased queen's niece. He took strange liberties with the original, inverting the order of the stories, and suppressing several of them, as well as many names of real personages, numerous passages that seemed to him too bold, and nearly the whole series of conversations by which one tale is followed and the next introduced. Now Preface. vii these conversations occupy almost one-half of the work, and comprise some of its most characteristic matter : no wonder, therefore, that Joan d' Albert was dissatisfied with Boaistuau's editorial labours. In 1559, Claude Gruget replaced the novels in their original order, restored most of the suppressed prologues and epilogues, and gave to the whole the title of Heptameron, instead of Decameron, which Margaret had intended to call it j for she had modelled it upon the De- cameron of Boccaccio, but died before she had completed more than two novels of the eighth day. So far the second editor's work was a great improvement on that of his pre- decessor ; but Gruget did not venture to restore the proper names, or the passages which Boaistuau had suppressed as objectionable ; while, on the other hand, he foisted into the work tales and dialogues of his own composition, without a word of warning to the reader, and left them to pass as the genuine productions of the Queen of Navarre. All this was bad enough ; but worse followed. The Hep- tameron having grown very scarce, the booksellers of Am- sterdam reprinted it in 1698. "They published two editions of it," says Bayle : " one from that of Claude Gruget, the other metamorphosed into new French : the latter will please foreigners who only understand the modem language, and many ignorant and lazy Frenchmen, who care not to be at the pains of informing themselves how they spoke in the reign of Francis I. The other edition is the only one which will be used by Frenchmen of good taste and judgment." The majority of readers, however, not being persons of that description, the modernised edition quickly supplanted the antique one ; and for the last hundred and fifty years the Heptameron has scarcely been known in any other form than that given to it by the literary cobbler by whom it was mis en beau language, et accommodk au goitt de ce temps — " put into fair language, and accommodated to the taste of the age." It is no exaggeration of his demerits to say that he neither understood old French rightly, nor could write modem French passably. His " beau language " is mere riii' Preface. slipslop ; ne mistakes the meaning of his original a thousand times ; and, by way, no doubt, of " accommodating it to the taste of the age," he patches it with paltry scraps from the common repertory of the "fast school" of his day. Mai sur mal n'est pas santi, says a French proverb. The work which survived all this accumulated ill-usage must have possessed no ordinary stock of vitality. It has at last been reproduced in its original form from MSS., of which there are twelve in the Bibliothbque Nationale of Paris, all belong- ing to the second half of the sixteenth century. From this edition (L'Heptameron des Nouvelles de trbs haute et trfes illustre Princesse Marguerite D'AngoulSme, Reine de Na- varre. Nouvelle edition, publide sur les manuscrits par la Socidtd des Bibliophiles Frangais. A Paris, 1853. 3 vols.) the present translation has been made. CONTENTS, rAca tNTRODUCTION I I FISST DAY. Novel I. A woman of Alencon having two lovers, one for her pleasure and the other for her profit, caused that one of the two to be slain who was the first to discover her gallantries — She obtained her pardon and that of her husband, who had fled the country, and who afterwards, in order to save some money, applied to a necromancer — The mat. ter was found out and punished II Novel II. Chaste and lamentable death of the wife of one of the Queen of Navarre's muleteers . . • l3 Novel III. A king of Naples, having debauched the wife of a gentleman, at last wears horns himself 21 Novel IV. Presumptuous attempt of a gentleman upon a Princess of Flanders, and the shame it brought upon him 26 Novel V. A boatwoman escapes from two Cordeliers, who wanted to force her, and exposes them to public derision 32 Novel VI. Stratagem by which a woman enabled her gallant to escape, when her husband, who was blind of an eye, thought to surprise them together 34 Novel VIL Tiick put by a mercer of Paris upon an old woman to conceal his intrigue with her daughter • • 37 X Contents. Novel VIII 'a" A man having Iain with his wife, believing that he was in bed with his servant, sends his friend to do the same thing ; and the friend makes a cuckold of him without the wife being aware of it . . 39 Novel IX. Deplorable death of a lover in consequence of his knowing too late that he was beloved by his mistress 44 Novel X. The loves of Amadour and Florida, wherein are seen several strata- gems and dissimulations, and the exemplary chastity of Florida . 49 SECOND DAY. Novel XI. An odorous adventure which befell Madame de Roncejc at the Fran- ciscan Monastery of Thouars. ....... 75 Facetious sayings of a Cordelier in his sermons . . . • 77 Novel XII. Incontinence and tyranny of a Duke of Florence — Just punishment of his wickedness .,80 Novel XIII. A captain of a galley, under the cloak of devotion, fell in love with a demoiselle — What happened in consequence . . : . 86 Novel XIV. Subtlety of a lover, who, counterfeiting the real favourite, found means to recompense himself for his past troubles 94 Novel XV. A lady of the court, seeing herself neglected by her husband, whose love was bestowed elsewhere, retaliated upon him ... 100 Novel XVI. A Milanese lady tested her lover's courage, and afterwards loved him heartily . . .111 Novel XVII. King Francis gives a signal proof of his courage in the case of Count Guillaume, who designed his death 115 Contents. xi Novel XVIII. ,^^„ A lady tests the fidelity of a young student, her lover, before granting him her favours . „« Novel XIX. Two lovers, in despair at being hindered from marrying, turn monk and nun . . . ■ *••••■• 1-^3 Novel XX. A gentleman finds liis cruel fair one in the arms of her groom, and is cured at once of his love 130 THIRD DAY, Novel XXI. Virtuous love of a young lady of quality and a bastard of an illus- trious house— Hinderance of their marriage by a queen— Sage reply of the demoiselle to the queen— Her subsequent marriage . 134 Novel XXII. A hypocritical prior tries every means to seduce a nun, but at last his villainy is discovered jco Novel XXIII. A Cordelier who was the cause of three murders, that of husband, wife, and child 160 Novel XXIV. Ingenious device of a Castilian in order to make a declaration of love to a queen, and what came of it . . . . . . . 166 Novel XXV. Cunning contrivance of a young prince to enjoy the wife of an advo- cate of Paris 1 73 Novel XXVI. By the advice and sisterly affection of a virtuous lady, the lord of Avannes was weaned from his dissolute amours with a lady of Pampeluna 1 79 Novel XXVII. / secretary had the impudence to solicit the favours of his host's wife, > and had only the shame for his pains 190 jii Contents. Novel XXVIII. "« A secretary, thinking to dupe a certain person, was himself duped . 192 Novel XXIX. A viUager, whose wife intrigued with the parish priest, suffered him- self to be easily deceived Novel XXX. Notable example of human fraUty in a lady who, to conceal an evil, commits a still greater one • • I97 FOURTH DAY. Novel XXXI. A monastery of Cordeliers was burned, and the monks in it, in per- petual memory of the cruelty of one of them who was in love with a lady 205 Novel XXXII. A husband surprises his wife in flagrante delicto, and subjects her to a punishment more terrible than death itself .... 209 Novel XXXIII. Incest of a priest, who got his sister with child under the cloak of sanctity, and how it was punished . . . . . .213 Novel XXXIV. Two over-inquisitive Cordeliers had a great fright, which had like to cost them their lives 216 Novel XXXV. Contrivance of a sensible husband to cure his wife of her passion for a Cordelier ........... 220 Novel XXXVI. A President of Grenoble, becoming aware of his wife's irregularities, took his measures so wisely that he revenged himself without any public exposure of his dishonour 226 Novel XXXVII. Judicious proceedings of a wife to withdraw her husband from a low intrigue with which he was infatuated 23 1 Contents. xiii Novel XXXVIII. ,ach Memorable charity of a lady of Tours with regard to her faithless hus- band .... 23S Novel XXXIX. Secret for driving away the hobgoblin 237 Novel XL. The Count de Jossebelin has his brother-in-law put to death, not knowing the relationship 239 FIFTH DAY. Novel XLI. Strange and novel penance imposed by a Cordelier confessor on a young lady. 246 Novel XLII. Chaste perseverance of a maiden, who resisted the obstinate pursuit of one of the greatest lords in France — Agreeable issue of the affair for the demoiselle ......... 250 Novel XLIII. Hypocrisy of a court lady discovered by the denouement of her amours, which she wished to conceal ...... 258 Novel XLIV. A Cordelier received a double alms for telling the plain truth . . 263 How two lovers cleverly consummated their amours, the issue of which was happy . 266 Novel XLV. A husband, giving the Innocents to his servant girl, plays upon his wife's simplicity 272 Novel XLVI. A sanctimonious Cordelier attempts to debauch the wife of a judge, and actually ravishes a young lady, whose mother had foolishly authorised him to chastise her for lying too late in bed . . . 277 A Cordelier's sermons on the subject of husbands beating their ■wives ..•••• 279 Kiv Contents. Novel XLVII. pac» A gentlemen ot the Pays du Perche, distrusting his friend, obliges him to do him the mischief of which he has faliiely suspected him 282 Novel XLVIII. A Cordelier took the husband's place on his wedding -night, while the latter was dancing with the bridal party 286 Novel XLIX. Of a countess who diverted herself adroitly with love sport, and how her game was discovered 288 Novel L. A lover, after a blood-letting, receives favours from his mistress, dies in consequence, and is followed by the fair one, who sinks under her grief 293 SIXTH DAY. Novel LI. Perfidy and cruelty of an Italian duke ...... 297 Novel LII. A nasty breakfast given to an advocate and a gentleman by an apothecary's man 301 Novel LIII. Madame de Neufchastel, by her dissimulation, forced the Prince of Belhoste to put her to such a proof as turned to her dishonour . 304 Novel LIV. A lady laughed to see her husband kissing her servant, and, being asked the reasonj replied that she laughed at her shadow . . 309 Novel LV. Cunning device of a Spanish widow to defraud the Mendicant Friars of a testamentary bequest made to them by her husband . .312 Novel LVI. A pious lady having asked a Cordelier to provide a good husband for her daughter, he marries another Cordelier to the young fedy, and possesses himself of her dowry — The cheat is discovered and punished .....,...,, -i^a Contents. Novel LVII. PAGB Ofa ridiculous milord who wore a lady's glove on his dress-coat , 319 Novel LVIII How a lady of the court pleasantly revenged herself on her faithless lover 323 Novel LIX. The same lady, whose husband was jealous of her without just cause, contrives to detect him in such a position with one of her women that he is obliged to humble himself, and allow his wife to live as she pleases 325 Novel LX. A woman of Paris quits her husband for one of the king's chanters, counterfeits death, and is buried, but secretly disinterred alive and well — Her husband marries another wife, and fifteen years after- wards is obliged to repudiate her, and take back his first wife . 330 SEVENTH DAY. Novel LXI. A husband became reconciled to his wife after she had lived fourteen or fifteen years with a canon , 335 Novel LXH. A lady recounting an adventure of gallantry that had occurred to her- self, and speaking in the third person, inadvertently betrayed her own secret 340 Novel LXIII. Notable chastity ofa French lord ■ . 342 Novel LXIV. A gentltman, having been unable to marry a person he loves, be- comes a Cordelier in despite — Sore distress of his mistress thereat 345 Novel LXV. Simplicity of an old woman, who presented a lighted candle to Saint Jean de Lyon, and wanted to fasten it on the forehead of a soldier who was sleeping on a tomb — What happened in consequence . 349 Novel LXVI. Amusing adventure of Monsieur de Vendome and the Princess af Navarre. ....»•••••• 35^ xvi Contents. Novel LXVII. 'a™ Love and extreme hardships of a woman in a foreign land . 353 Novel LXVIII. A woman gives her husband powder of cantharides to make him love her, and goes near to killing him 35^ Novel LXIX. An Italian suffered himself to be duped by his servant maid, and was caught by his wife bolting meal in place of the girl . 358 Novel LXX. The horrible incontinence and malice of a Duchess of Burgundy was the cause of her death, and of that of two persons who fondly loved each other ........•, 360 EIGHTH DA V. Novel LXXI. A woman at the point of death ilew into such a violent passion at seeing her husband kiss her servant that she recovered . . . 379 Novel LXXII. Continual repentance of a nun who had lost her vireinitv without violence and without love ;..|8l MEMOIR OF LOUISE OF SAVOY, DUCHESS OF ANGOUL^ME, AND OF HER DAUGHTER, MARGARET, QUEEN OF NAVARRE. Two children were born of the marriage of Charles of Orleans, Count of Angouleme, a prince of the blood royal of France, and Louise, the daughter of Philip Duke of Savoy, and Margaret ol Bourbon. The elder of the two was Margaret, the principal subject of this memoir, born on the nth of April, 1492; the younger, born on the I2th of September, 1494, was the prince who succeeded Louis XII. on the throne of France, February, 1 5 1 5, under the name of Francis I. Married when she was little more than eleven years old, Louise of Savoy was left a widow before she had completed her eighteenth year, and thenceforth devoted herself with exemplary assiduity to the care of her children, who repaid her solicitude by the warm affection they always felt for their mother and for each other. She was a woman of remarkable beauty and capacity, and her charac- ter and conduct were deserving, in many respects, of the eulogies which her daughter never wearied of lavishing upon them ; but less partial writers have convicted her of criminal acts which brought disasters upon her son and her country. In the first year of his reign, Francis I. committed the regency of the kingdom to his mother, and set out on his expedition to Italy. He was absent but a few months ; nevertheless, this hrst regency enabled Louise of Savoy to fill the most important offices with men entirely devoted to her interests, and even to her caprices, and to gratify by any and every means the insatiable thirst for money with which she was cursed. In the beginning of the year 1522, Lautrec, one of the king's fkvourites, who commanded his forces in Italy, lost in a few days i xviii Memoir of Margaret, all the advantages which Francis had gained by the victory of Marignano. He returned to Paris with only two attendants, and sought an audience of the king, who refused at first to receive him. Finally, at the intercession of the Constable of Bourbon, Francis allowed Lautrec to appear before him, and, after loading him with reproaches, demanded what excuse he could offer for himself. Lautrec calmly replied, " The troops I commanded, not having been paid, refused to follow me, and I was left alone."—" What ! ' said the king, " I sent you four hundred thousand crowns to Genoa, and Semblangay, the superintendent of finance, forwarded you three hundred thousand."—" Sire, I have received nothing." — Semblancjay being summoned to the presence, " Father," said the king (who addressed him in that way on account of his great age), " come hither and tell us if you have not, in pursuance of my order, sent M. de Lautrec the sum of three hundred thousand crowns ?" — " Sire," replied the superintendent, " I am prepared to prove that I delivered that sum to the duchess your mother, that she might employ it as you say." — " Very well," said the king, and went into his mother's room to question her. Louise of Savoy threw the whole blame on Semblangay, who was immediately confronted with her. He persisted in his first statement, and the duchess was forced to confess that she had received the greater part of the sum in question, but she alleged that the money was due to her by the superintendent, and she did not see why her private income should be applied to the Italian expedition. Francis most bitterly upbraided his mother for thus embezzling the money of the state, but his wrath fell more heavily on the minister, whom he found to have been guilty of culpable complaisance towards her. The unfortunate Semblangay was arrested, commissioners were appointed to examine his accounts, and, being condemned by their report, he was hung on the gibbet at Monfaucon, on the 9th of August, 1 527. Louise of Savoy was deeply implicated in a still fouler transac- tion, which was attended with the most terrible consequences. This was the iniquitous lawsuit brought against the Constable ol Bourbon, which was followed by his desertion and treason. According to all historians, the insensate love of the Duchess of Angoullme, then aged fourty-four, for the constable, who was but thirty-two, was the sole cause of this suit ; but her cupidity, and the secret jealousy with which Francis I. regarded one of the hand- somest, wealthiest, and bravest men in his kingdom, also contri- buted to that rssult. The object of the suit was to wrest from the Queen of Navarre. x\x constable the lordships bequeathed to him by Suzanne be Beaujeu, one of the richest heiresses in Europe, and to which Louise of Savoy laid claim as next of kin to the deceased. She did so at the Jnstigation of the Chancellor Duprat, whose reasonings on this subject we are enabled to give in his own words, as follows : — " The marriage of M. Charles de Bourbon with Madame Suzanne was nothing else than a mere shift to stop the action at law which the said lord was ready to move against Madame de Bourbon and her daughter, on account of the estates of appanage and others entailed on the marriage of Jean de Bourbon and Maria of Berry. The mere apprehension of this contest made the said Madame de Bourbon condescend thereto, and to that end she dissolved the contract passed between M. d'Alenqon and Madame Suzanne. Hence there is a likelihood that a similar apprehension of a suit to be promoted for the whole inheritance of the house by two stronger parties than was then the said Lord of Bourbon, who was neither old enough nor strong enough to prosecute it, as the king and his mother will be, may cause some overtures to be made on the one side or the other to compromise and allay this difference. " M. de Bourbon is now but thirty-two, and Madame, the king's mother, cannot be more than forty at most, which is not too dis- proportioned an age for so great a lady, handsome, rich, and so highly qualified. Should the said Lord of Bourbon agree to this marriage, why there she is at the point she desires. Duchess of Bourbonnais and Auvergne, and lady of that great heritage. If, on the contrary, he refuses, it will be necessary to bring this action, prosecute it vigorously, employ in it the authority of the king and my lady his mother, and spare nought to further it. This will make him bethink himself, however intractable he may be, and he will be very glad to return into favour by this means. If not, as he is a courageous prince, when he finds himself threatened with the loss of all his possessions, titles, and dignities, he will do something extraordinary, and will choose rather to abandon his country (as M. du Bellay says) than to live in it in a necessitous < ondition. He will withdraw out of the realm, and by so doing he will confiscate all. So that he cannot fail to do what is desired, be it how it may."* The Constable of Bourbon having rejected, and even it is said with disdain, the offer of marriage made to him, the si:i'- ■»-&& • Histoire de Bourbon, p. 226 r". Des desseias des pro/ess-o-a noiles tt ubliqua, &c, &c. Par Ant. de LavaL Paris, 1605. s-x Memoir of Margai ct, brought before the parliament, and was decided in favour of the Duchess of Angoulgme. But the pleasure brought her by this triumph over her haughty adversary was not of long duration. A few months after he was despoiled of all his estates, Charles of Bourbon quitted France, and entered the service of Charles V. In the following year, 1524, he drove the French out of Italy, and on the 24th of February, 1525, he defeated them in the famous battle of Pavia, in which Francis I. was taken prisoner, after receiving five wounds. The Duchess of Angouleme, as Regent of France, displayed great courage and ability under this heavy calamity. She soon received from her captive son the letter con- taining that memorable phrase — " De ioutes choses ne m'est demeuri que I'honneur, et la vie qui est sauve '' — " I have lost all but honour and life." This letter was a great joy to her. Margaret wrote respecting it to her brother, " Your letter has had such an effect of Madame, and of all those who love you, that it has been to us a Holy Ghost after the sorrow of the passion. . , . Madame has felt her strength so greatly redoubled, that all day and evening not a minute is lost for your affairs, so that you need not have any pain or care about your realm and your children." After taking all necessary measures for the internal defence of the kingdom, the regent and her daughter took up their residence at Lyon, for the purpose of the more readily receiving news from Italy. There they learned that Charles V. had removed his prisoner to Madrid, and that he was becoming more and more exacting in the conditions for his release. Francis I. wrote to his mother that he was very ill, and begged her to come to him ; but in spite ef her love for her son, she felt that she could not comply with his request, for it would have been risking the fate of the monarchy to put the regent along with the King of France into the Emperor's hands. Sacrificing, therefore, her feelings as a mother to the requirements of the state, she sent her daughter Margaret instead of herself to Madrid. • After she had done her part to the utmost for her son's release, and in the negotiations for the treaty of peace which was concluded at Cambria on the 5th of August, 1529, the Duchess of Angoulfeme took no further share in the government of the realm. She had repaired, as far as it was possible for her, the misfortunes earned by her conduct with regard to the constable. Her labours as regent, during her son's captivity, had completely ruined her health, which had begun to fail before that event. In September, 1531 she was at Fontainebleau with her daughter and all the other ladies Queen of Navarre, xA uf her court ; the plague was raging in the neighbourhood, and Louise, who had a great dread of death, was incessantly occupied with medicine and new receipts against disorders of all kinds. Her spirits were very low, and her countenance so changed as scarcely to be recognised by her daughter. " If you would like to know her pastime," Margaret writes to her brother, "it is that, after dinner, when she has given audience, instead of doing her customary works, she sends for all those who have any malady, whether in the legs, arms or breasts, and with her own hand she dresses them by way of trying an ointment she has, which is very singular." This horror at the thought of death was common to both mother and daughter. Brant6me says of the former, " She was in her time, as I have heard many say who have seen and known her, a very fine lady, but very worldly withal, and was the same in her declining age, and hated to hear discourse of death, even from preachers in their sermons : as if, said she, we did not know well enough that we must all die some time or other ; and these preachers, when they have nothing else to say in their sermons, like ignorant persons, fall to talking of death. The late Queen of Navarre, her daughter, liked no more thin her mother these repetitions and preachings concern- ing death."* A few days after the date of the letter quoted in the last para- graph, Louise of Savoy quitted Fontainebleau for change of air, but was obliged to stop at Grfes, o. little village of the Gatinais, where she died on the 22nd of September, 1531. We now turn to her daughter's history. Charles of Austria, Count of Flanders, afterwards the Emperor Charles V., was residing at the court of Louis XI L when Margaret of AngoulSme appeared there accompanying her brother on his en- trance into public life. The Count of Flanders was much struck by her appearance and her accomplishments, and eagerly sought her in marriage. But Louis XII. refused to bestow upon him the sister of the heir presumptive of the throne of France, and chose rather to marry her in the following year, December, 1509, to Charles, Duke of Alengon, a prince of the royal family. Historians have treated the memory of Margaret's first husband with excessive severity. He had the misfortune to escape un- wounded from the fatal battle of Pavia, while endeavouring to save the remains of the routed army ; and it has been alleged that on his arrival at Lyon, where he found his wife and mother-in-law, h» • Dames Galaniis. sxii Memoir of Margaret, was received by them both with the most contumelious reproaches, and that, unable to endure his shame and remorse, he died a few days after. That is not true. The battle of Pavia was fought on the 24th of February, 1525, and the Duke of Alengon did not die until the nth of April, that is to say, more than a month after his arrival in Lyon. It appears from the testimony of an eye-witness, brought to light by the last editors of the Heptameron, that he was carried off by a pleurisy in five days, that he was comforted on his death-bed by his wife and her mother, that he spoke with profound regret of the king's misfortune, but that nothing escaped his own lips or those of the two ladies to indicate the faintest idea on either side that he had not done his duty at Pavia. The first five years of Margaret's wedded life were passed in privacy in her duchy of Alengon, but from the date of her brother's accession to the throne, in January, 1 5 1 5, her talents were employed with advantage in affairs of state. " Such was her discourse," says Brant6me, " that the ambassadors who addressed her were ex- tremely taken with it, and gave a high character of it to their countrymen on their return, and by this she became a good assist- ant to the king her brother : for they always waited on her after their principle audience, and frequently, when he had affairs of im- portance, he referred them entirely to her determination, she so well knowing how to engage and entertain them with her fine speeches, and being very artful and dexterous in pumping out their secrets: these qualifications the king would often say made her of great use to him in facilitating his affairs. So that I have heard there was an emulation between the two sisters who should serve her brother best ; the one— the Queen of Hungary — ^her brother the emperor, the other, her brother King Francis ; but the former by war and force, the latter by the activity of her fine wit and complaisance. . . . During the imprisonment of the king her brother, she was of great assistance to the regent her mother in governing the kingdom, keeping the princes and grandees quiet, and gaining upon the nobility; for she was of very easy access, and won the hearts of all people by the fine accomplishments she was mistress of."* The death of her husband, without children, six weeks after the battle of Pavia, left Margaret free to act as became her intense affection for her mother and her brother, who both had the most urgent need of her help. With the emperor's permission she em- barked at Aigues Mortes for Spain, in spite of contrary winds, on • Brantome, Dames lllustra Queen of Navarre. xniil the 27th of August, 1525 ; hastened to Madrid, "and found her brother in so wretched a condition that had she not come he had died; because she understood his temper and constitution better than all his physicians could do, and caused him to be treated ac- cordingly, which entirely recovered him : so that the king would often say that without her he must have died ; and that he was so much obliged to her for it that he should for ever acknowledge it, and love her (as he did) to his dying day." * The task which Margaret had to accomplish at Madrid was one of great difficulty. In spite of the apparent cordiality with which she was universally treated at the imperial court, and the very favourable disijosition Charles V. always evinced in words, she soon perceived the hoUowness of his friendly protestations. "Every- one tells me that he likes the king," she says in one of her letters, " but the experience thereof is small. If I had to do with good men, who understood what honour is, I should not care ; but it is the reverse." Fortunately she was not one to give way before the first difficulties. She tried in the beginning to win over some great personages in the imperial court, but afterwards perceiving that the men always avoided talking with her upon any serious topic, she took care to address herself to their mothers, wives, or daughters. In a letter to Marshal de Montmorency she says of the Duke de Infantado, who had invited her to his castle of Guadalaxara, " You will tell the king that the duke has been warned from the court, that as he desires to please the emperor, neither he nor his son is to speak to me ; but the ladies are not forbidden me, and I shall speak to them doubly." As for Margaret's behaviour towards Charles V., let us again have recourse to Brant&me, whom we shall quote as often as we can : " She spoke so bravely and so handsomely to the emperor con- cerning his bad treatment of the king her brother that he was quite astonished, setting before him his ingratitude and felony wherewith he, the vassal, dealt towards his lord on account of Flanders ; then she reproached him with the hardness of his heart for being so de- void of pity with regard to so great and so good a king ; and said that acting in that manner was not the way to win a heart so noble and royal and so sovereign as that of the king her brother ; and that, should he die in consequence of his rigorous treatment, his death would not remain unpunished, for he had children who would be grown up some day, and would take signal vengeance. These words pronounced so bravely, and with so much passion, made th« * Brantome^ Dames Illustrcs, XXIV Memoir of Margaret, emperor bethink himself, so that he moderated his behaviour, arid visited the king, and promised him many fine things, which he did not, however, perform for that time. But if this queen spoke so well to the emperor, she did still more so to those of his council, where she had audience, and where she triumphed mth her fine speaking and graceful manner, of which she had no lack." Margaret took great pains to hasten the conclusion of the mar- riage between Francis I. and Eleonore of Austria, widow of the King of Portugal, rightly regarding the alliance as the surest means of a prompt deliverance. Though the royal widow had been pro- mised to the Constable of Bourbon, the emperor did not hesitate to sacrifice his engagement with the illustrious deserter to the inte- rests of his policy. He himself, fascinated by Margaret's talent and graces, entertained for a moment the idea of a union with her, and sent a letter to the regent containing a distinct proposal to that effect. In the same letter the emperor said, with reference to the Constable of Bourbon, that " there were good marriages in France, and quite enough for him ; naming Madame Renee, with whom he might content himself." These words have been understood to imply that there had been some question of a marriage between the Duchess of Alengon and the constable, but there is no evidence to warrant such a conjecture. There is no mention of anything of the sort in any of the diplomatic pieces exchanged between France and Spain on the subject of the king's liberation. They stipulate that the constable' shall be restored to all his possessions, and even that a wife shall be procured for him in France ; but Margaret's name nowhere appears in them, nor does she herself ever speak of the constable in any of her numerous letters. The story of an amour between those two persons, which is told by Varillas in his Histoire de Francois I., and which forms the main subject of a fictitious Histoire de Marguerite, published in 1696, is totally without foun- dation. After three months and a half of negotiations, Margaret and her brother saw the necessity of providing for the safety of the crown and government of France in case the king's captivity should be perpetual ; and Francis signed an edict, in 1525, by which he ordained that the young dauphin should be immediately crowned ; that the regency should remain in his mother's hands, but that in case of her being disabled by sickness or other impediment, or by death, from exercising it, then it should devolve upon his " most dear and most beloved and only sister, Margaret of France, Duchess of AleiiQon and Berry." Queen of Navarre, jtxv It has been erroneously asserted that Margaret carried with her this act of abdication when she quitted Spain, and that because the emperor was aware of this fact he gave orders that she should be arrested the very moment her safe-conduct expired. It was Marshal de Montmorency who carried the act of abdication to France, and, in designing to seize the person of the princess, Charles V. had no other object in view than to secure to himself a fresh hostage in case the treaty should not be executed. At her brother's instance, Margaret applied to the imperial court for permission to quit Spain. It was granted her, but in such a manner as plainly showed her there was more wish to retard her journey than to speed her upon it. She left Madrid in the beginning of December, and travelled at first by easy stages, until word was sent her by her brother that she should hasten ; for the emperor, hoping that on the 25th of the month — on which day her safe-conduct was to expire — she would be still in Spain, had given orders for her arrest. Thereupon she quitted her litter, got on horseback, and, making as much way in one day as she had previously done in four, she arrived at Salses, where some French lords awaited her, one hour before the expiry of the safe-conduct. In return for all Margaret's pains to hasten his deliverance, Francis I. could not do less than procure for her a fit husband. Negotiations were opened on the subject with Henry VIII. of England, but happily they came to nothing. There was at the court of France a young king — one, indeed, who was without a king- dom, but not without eminent advantages, both of mind and person. This was Henri d'Albret, Count of Bdarn, legitimate sovereign of Navarre, which was withheld from him by Charles V., contrary to treaty. Henri had been taken prisoner at the battle of Pavia, and had made his escape after a captivity of about two months, by letting himself down from the window by means of a rope. Having lived some time at the court of France, he was well known to Mar- garet, and there is every reason to beheve that the marriage was one of inclination — on her side, at least. It was celebrated, therefore, notwithstanding a considerable disparity of age, at Saint Germain en Laye, in January, 1527. Henri d'Albret received as his wife's portion the duchies of Alengon and Berry, and the counties of Armagnac and Perche •which Francis entailed on his sister's issue, whether male or female. He also pledged himself in the marriage contract to force the emperor immediately to restore Navarre to his brother-in-law. Margaret repeatedly urged him to fulfil this promise, and she speaks kW Memiir of Margaret, of it in many of her letters ; but political exigencies always prevailed against her ; and there was even a clause inserted in a protocol relative to the deliverance of the children of France, which ran thus : " Item, the same king promises not to assist or favour the King of Navarre to reconquer his kingdom, albeit he has married his most beloved and only sister." The indiffei-fnce of Francis I. with regard to the political fortunes of his brother-in-law, notwithstanding the numerous and signal ser- vices the latter had rendered him, disgusted the young prince, and he resolved to quit the court, where Montmorency, Brion, and several other persons, his declared enemies, were in the ascendant. He put his design into execution in 1529, after the conclusion ol the treaty of Cambrai, and Margaret retired with him to Bdam, where she diligently applied herself, in conjunction with her hus- band, to all measures capable of raising their dominions to a more flourishing condition, as we learn from Hilarion de la Coste. " This country," he says, " naturally good and fruitful, but lying in a bad state, uncultivated and barren, through the negligence of its in- habitants, quickly changed its face by their management. They in- vited husbandmen out of all the provinces of France, who occupied, improved, and fertilised the lands ; they caused the towns to be adorned and fortified, houses and castles to be built ; that of Pau among others, with the finest gardens which were then in Europe. After having fitted up a handsome place of residence, they gave orders about laws and good government ; they established, for the differences of their subjects, a court to determine them without appeal ; and they reformed the common law of Ol^ron, which was used in that country, and which, since its last reformation in 1288, had been greatly corrupted. By their conversation and court they greatly civilised the people ; and, to guard themselves against a new usurpation from Spain, they covered themselves with Navar- rins — a town upon one of the Gaves, which they fortified with strong ramparts, bastions, and half- moons, according to the art then in use." " This," says Bayle, " is one of the finest encomiums that could be bestowed on the Queen of Navarre." After the death of her first husband, Margaret retained full pos- session of the Duchy of Alengon, not only as regarded its revenues, but also its civil and political administration. She always watched over that principality with great solicitude. As she never could reside in it except for very brief intervals, she was careful to com- mit its government to able men, whose conduct fully justified het choice. Queen of Navarre. xxvii It was chiefly during her frequent and long residerces in her principality of Beam that the Queen of Navarre had opportunities of conferring with the advocates of the Reformation, and there many of them, including Andrew Melanchthon, Gdrard Roussel, Leftvre d'Etaple, Pierre Calvi, Charles de Sainte Marthe, and Calvin himself, found a refuge with her from persecution. The ques- tion whether or not Margaret ever seriously entertained the thought of abjuring the Church of Rome has been much debated by his- torians ; but that she very much inclined to the opinions of the Reformers is not disputed either by Protestant or Catholic writers ; both sides confess the fact. Florimond de Remond says, in his History of the Birth and Progress of Heresy : " It is particularly observed by all the historians of both parties that this princess was the sole cause, without designing any ill, of the preservation of the French Lutherans, and that the Church, which afterwards took the name of Reformed, was not stifled in its cradle ; for, besides that she lent an ear to their discourses, which at first were specious, and not so bold as afterwards, she, with a good intention, maintained a great many of them in schools at her own expense, not only in France, but also in Germany. She took a wonderful care to pre- serve and secure those that were in danger for the Protestant religion, and to succour the refugees at Strasburg and Geneva. Thither she sent to the learned at one time a benefaction of four thousand livres In short, this good-natured princess had nothing more at heart for those nine or ten years than to pro- cure the escape of such as the king exposed to the rigour of justice. She frequently talked to him of it, and by little touches endeavoured to impress on his soul some pity for the Lutherans." Margaret's influence would perhaps have induced Francis to favour the Reformation if the extravagance of some hot-headed people, who posted up certain placards in the year 1534, had not ex- asperated him to such a degree as to make him become afterwards a violent persecutor of Lutheranism — the name then given in France to what has since been called Calvinism. She was obliged, from that time, to act with great caution, and to conduct herself in such a manner as the Calvinists have highly condemned, and which gave occasion to the Papists to say that she perfectly renounced her errors. Brantdme, after saying that this queen was suspected of Lutheranism, adds, that " out of respect and love to her brother, who loved her entirely, and always called her his darUng, she never made any profession or appearance of it ; and if she be- lieved it, she always kept it to herself with very great secresy n^vlii Memoir of Margaret, because the king violently hated it, declaring that this and every new sect tended more to the destruction of kingdoms, monarchieSj and dominions, than to the edification of souls." Others believe that it was not possible for Francis I. to be ignorant that the Queen of Navarre was a Lutheran in her heart ; her attachments to the party, and the protection she gave the fugitives for this cause, were not such things as could be concealed from the King o( France ; he only affected not to know them. " The Constable de Montmorency, discoursing . . . one day with the king, made no difficulty or scruple to tell him that if he would quite exterminate the heretics of this kingdom he must begin with his court and with his nearest relations, naming the queen his sister. To this the king answered, ' Let us not speak of that ; she loves me too much ; she will never believe but what I believe, or take up a religion to the prejudice of my state.' " * Catholic writers assert that some years before her death the Queen of Navarre acknowledged her religious errors ; and De Remond even goes so far as to imply that she denied on her death- bed having ever swerved from the standard of Roman orthodoxy. Bayle comments on the remarks of this writer in a singularly earnest and noble passage. " I do not examine," he says, " whether Florimond de Remond has it from good authority that she protested at her death that what she had done for the followers of the new opinions proceeded rather from compassion than from any ill-will to the ancient religion of her fathers. But, granting her protestation to be sin- cere, I maintain that there was something more heroic in her com- passion and generosity than there would have been had she been persuaded that the fugitives she protected were orthodox. For a princess or any other woman to do good to .those whom she takes to be of the household of the faith is no extraordinary thing, but the common effect of a moderate piety. But for a queen to grant her protection to people persecuted for opinions which she believes to be false ; to open a sanctuary to them ; to preserve them from the flames prepared for them ; to furnish them with a subsistence ; liberally to relieve the troubles and inconveniences of their exile, is an heroic magnanimity which has hardly any precedent ; it is the effect of a superiority of reason and genius which very few can reach to ; it is the knowing how to pity the misfortune of those who err, and admire at the same time their constancy to the die- • Brantome, Dames Illustres. Queen of Naoarre. xxlj tates of their conscience ; it is the knowing how to do justice to their good intentions, and to the zeal they express for truth in general ; it is the knowing that they are mistaken in the hypo- thesis, but that in the thesis they conform to the immutable and eternal laws of order, which require us to love the truth, and to sacrifice to that the temporal conveniences and pleasures of life : it is, in a word, the knowing how to distinguish in one and the same person his opposition to particular truths which he does not know, and his love for truth in general ; a love which he evidences by his great zeal for the doctrines he believes to be true. Such was the judicious distinction the Queen of Navarre was able to make. It is difficult for all sorts of persons to arrive at this science ; but more especially difficult for a princess like her, who had been educated in the communion of Rome, where nothing has been talked of for many ages but fagots and gibbets for those who err. Family prejudices strongly fortified all the obstacles which education had laid in the way of this princess ; for she entirely loved the king her brother, an implacable persecutor of those they called heretics, a people whom he caused to be burned without mercy wherever the indefatigable vigilance of informers discovered them. ■ I cannot conceive by what method this Queen of Navarre raised herself to so high a pitch of equity, reason, and good sense : it was not through an indifference as to religion, since it is certain she had a great degree of piety, and studied the Scriptures with singular application. It must, therefore, have been the excellence of her genius, and the greatness of her soul, that discovered a path to her which scarcely anyone knows. It will be said, perhaps, that she needed only to consult the primitive and general ideas of order, whii;h most clearly show that involuntary errors hinder not a man who entirely loves God, as he has been able to discover him after all possible inquiries, from being reckoned a servant of the true God, and that we ought to respect in him the rights of the true God. But I might immediately answer that this maxim is of itself subject to great disputes, so far is it from being clear and evident ; besides that these primitive ideas hardly ever appear to our understanding without limitations and modifications which obscure them a hundred ways, according to the different prejudices contracted by education. The spirit of party, attachment to a sect, and even zeal for orthodoxy, produce a kind of ferment in the humours of our body ; and hence the medium through which reason ought to behold those primitive ideas is clouded and ob- •cured. These are infirmities which will attend our reason as long Kx Memoir oj Margaret, as it shall depend on the ministry of organs. It is the same thing to it as the low and middle region of the air, the seat of vapours and meteors. There are but very few persons who can rise above these clouds, and place themselves in a true serenity. If anyone could do it, we must say of him what Virgil said of Daphnis : Candidus insuetum miratur lumen Olympi, Sub pedibusque videt nubes et sidera Daphnis." We have seen how the Constable de Montmorency endeavoured to poison the mind of Francis I. against his sister. Margaret heard of this, and resented it the more strongly, as she had always behaved to Montmorency as a friend, and especially she had es- poused his interests in opposition to those of his rival. Admiral Brion. The sequel of this affair, as related by Brant6me, is curious : " She never afterwards liked the constable, and she helped greatly towards his disgrace and banishment from court : insomuch that the day on which Madam the Princess of Navarre " (Margaret's only daughter) "was married to the Duke of Cleves at Chasteleraud, as she was to be led to church, being so heavily laden with jewels, and cloth of gold and silver, that by reason of the weakness of her body she could not walk " (she was but twelve years old), " the king commanded the constable to take his little niece in his arms and carry her to the church ; at which the whole court was very much surprised, as being an office not suitable or honourable enough in such a ceremony for the constable, and which might have been given to some other ; wherewith the Queen of Navarre seemed not at all displeased, and said, ' There is a man who would ruin me with the king my brother, and who serves at present to carry my daughter to church.' I have this story from the person I have mentioned, and also that the constable was much displeased with this office, and greatly mortified to be made such a spectacle to all the company, and said, ' There is an end of all my favour ; farewell, host.' And so it happened ; for after the enter- tainment and the wedding dinner he was dismissed, and departed immediately." Judging from several original portraits of Margaret which are preserved in the libraries of France, her last editors infer that her beauty, so much celebrated by the poets of her time, consisted chiefly in the dignity of her deportment, and the sweet and cheer- ful expression of her countenance. Her eyes, nose, and mouth were large. She retained no marks of the small-pox with which Queen of Navarre. xx* she was attacked before middle age, and she preserved the fresh- ness of her complexion to a late period. Like her brother, to whom she bore a strong likeness, she was tall and stately ; but her imposing air was tempered by extreme affability and a merry humour. Her enthusiastic panegyrist, Sainte Marthe, says of her, "Seeing her humanely receive everybody, refuse none, and pa- tiently listen to each, thou wouldst have promised thyself an easy access to her ; but if she cast her eyes on thee, there was in her face I know not what divinity, that would have so confounded thee that thou wouldst have been unable, I do not say to walk one step, but even to stir one foot to approach her." Though conforming on special occasions to her brother's sumptuous tastes, Margaret's personal habits were remarkably simple. She dressed plainly, and, after the loss of her infant son, almost always in black. Brantome, speaking of the extravagant pomp displayed by Cassar Borgia when he visited France, remarks that the great Queen of Navarre never had more than " three sumpter mules and six for her litters, though she had three or four chariots for her ladies." Her biographers have generally asserted that this frugality was im- posed on Margaret by the precarious state of her fortune ; but it is rather to be attributed to her sober character and her munificent charity. The supposition that her means were inadequate to her rank is manifestly erroneous ; for at the very time when they are said to have been lowest, we find her declining to receive from Henry II. payment of a considerable sum lent five-and-twenty years before to his predecessor in a moment of financial difficulty and desiring that the amount should be given to the sisters of her first husband, the Duke d'Alengon. Distinguished as Margaret was by her mental powers and graces, she was still more admirable for the warmth and tenderness of her affections. These, it is to be feared, were but inadequately requited, and would have been a source of unhappiness to her, were it not for that precious prerogative which loving natures enjoy, to find pleasure in self-sacrifice and suffering. There was little community of feeling between her and the Duke d'Alengon, and their marriage was childless. The husband of her choice, Henry of Navarre, was a handsome, brave cavalier, of respectable capacity, and passably good-humoured, but he had little sympathy with his wife's literary and theological tastes, and the difference in their ages was not favourable to connubial concord. It is even said that he treated her at times with a roughness unworthy of a ireux chevalier. Hilarion de la Coste says that Henry, " having jtx\ii Memoir of Margaret, been informed that there was used in his wife's chan.ber some form of prayer and instruction contrary to that of his fathers, entered it with a resolution to punish the minister, but, finding they had contrived his escape, the weight of his anger fell upon the queen, to whom he gave a box on the ear, saying to her, ' Madam, you want to be too knowing ; ' and immediately gave advice of it to King Francis." Brant6me, having given some instances of matrimonial discord between princes, adds this : " And lately King Henry d'Albret, with Queen Margaret of Valois, as I have it from good hands, who treated her very ill, and would have done still worse had it not been for King Francis, her brother, who spoke home and roughly to him, and charged him with threats to honour the queen his sister in regard to the rank she bore." The whimsical behaviour of this King of Navarre on the occasion of the birth of his grandson, afterwards Henry IV. of France, may enable us to guess how far he was capable of tender- ness and delicacy of feeling in his conduct to his wife. On hearing that his daughter was pregnant, he recalled her from Picardy, where she was residing with her husband. The princess arrived in Pau on the 4th of December, after a journey of twenty days, and nine days afterwards her child was born. Her father had pro- mised that he would put his will into her hands as soon as she should be delivered, but on condition that in her labour she should sing a song : " To the end," said he ; " that you may not bring me a crying and ill-humoured child." The princess promised that she would, and had so much courage and resolution that, in spite of the pains of labour, she sang, as she heard him enter her chamber, a Beamish ditty, the burden of which was, Noste Donne deou cap deoupon, adjouda mi en aqiieste houre — that is, " Our Lady of the bridge-end, help me at this hour." As soon as the child was born, his grandfather took him out of the midwife's hands, carried him into his cabinet, and there plentifully rubbed his lips and gums with gariic, by which horrible treatment the poor infant very narrowly escaped suffocation. The intense affection which Margaret bestowed on her brother he returned as fully as it was in his nature to do. His conduct towards her was marked by that imperious egotism of which he gave so many unfortunate proofs in the most important circum- stances of his life. He always called her ma mignonne, but he exacted unsparingly from "his darting" the surrender of her opinions, inclinations, and feelings to the claims of his policy or his caprice. He even took from her her only surviving child wheo Queen of Navarre, xxxiil it was but two years old, and had it brought into the ch4teau of Plessis las Tours, where the poor mother saw it only at long intervals during her unfrequent journeys in France. But Margaret was never weary of making sacrifices for the brother she idolised ; and it is remarkable, not less as a characteristic of the age than of herself, that, notwithstanding the propriety of her personal conduct and her ardent piety, she was more than tolerant of the illicit amours to which her splendid brother openly addicted him- self. She composed the devices for the jewels which Francis I. presented to Madame de Chateaubriant ; she maintained a most friendly intercourse with Madame d'Etampes, and to her she pre- sented her poem of Le Cache, or the D'ebat d' Amour, in which she pronounced a most pompous eulogy on the beauty and the virtues of that royal mistress. The death, in April, 1547, of that brother whom she had loved so much, and to whose glory and welfare she had devoted her existence, was a heavy blow to Margaret* She survived him but two years, and that brief remnant of her life was spent chiefly in seclusion and religious abstraction from the concerns of the world. Nevertheless, it is not correctly stated by a recent English writer t that during that period " no solicitations could induce the queen to emerge from her seclusion, or interest herself as formerly in literature or politics." In the very next paragraph the same writer contradicts this loose assertion, by saying that Margaret " often solaced her grief by composing elegies and plaintive songs on her misfortune." Besides this, it is certain that the Queen of Navarre was occupied but a few months before her death in the composition of her book of tales ; for the 66th novel of her Heptameron recounts a ludicrous adventure which befel her daughter, Joanne d'AIbret, and the Duke de Vend6me, shortly after their marriage in October, 1548. Margaret's health began to decline in the summer of the following year, and she expired at the chateau of Audos, in Bigorre, on the 21st of December, 1549, in her 57th year. • " In his last sickness," says Brantdme, "I have heard that she spoke to this purpose; 'Should the courier who brings me news of the king my brother's recovery, be he ever so tired, harassed, mud-bespattered, and dirty, I would embrace and kiss him as the finest prince and gentleman of France ; and should he want a bed, and not be able to find one to repose himself, I would give him mine, and gladly lie on the ground, for sake of the good news he brought.'" + The Life of Marguerite d'Aitgouleme, Queen of Navarre, &c By Martha Walker Freer. 2 vols. London, 1854. e Kxxiy Memoir of Margaret, Amidst the multifarious occupations of her well-filled life, the Queen of Navarre found leisure to compose a great number of literary works, besides carrying on a voluminous correspondence with her brother, his ministers, and many other person. Her productions in verse, the greater part of which have been printed, consist of eight long poems on sacred, amorous, or historical subjects ; eight dramatic pieces, including four mysteries, two moralities, and two farces ; poetical epistles to her brother, her mother, and the King of Navarre ; and rondeaux, dixains songs, and other small pieces. According to the last editors of the Hep- tameron, some of Margaret's fugitive pieces, published by them for the first time, are superior as literary works to her more serious compositions, and in them alone are to be found the gaiety and grace for which she has been so much celebrated by her contem- poraries. There is one among them of a graver character, which appears to us so remarkable for its impassioned force and its full and flowing rhythm that we gladly lay it before the reader : — Souvieigne vous des lermes respandues. Qui par regret tr^ grand furent rendues Sur vostre tant amyable visaige ; Souvieigne vous du dangereux oultraige Que vous cuida faire mon povre coeur, Press6 par trop d'une extreme douleur, Quand il forca la voix de satisfaire Au tres grand mal oit ne scavois que fain^ Tant qu'a peu pres la pleur fut entendu ; Souvieigne vous du sens qui fut perdu, Tant que raison, parolle & contenance N'eurent pouvoir, ny force, ny puissance, De desclairer ma double passion. Ny aussi peu ma grand affection ; Souvieigne vous du coeur qui bondissoit Pour la tristesse en quoy il perissoit ; Souvieigne vous des souspirs tris ardens Qui k la foule en despict de mes denti Sortoient dehors, pour mieulx me soulaiger J Souvieigne vous du peril & danger Ou nous estions, dont nous ne tenions compter - Car vraye amour ne congnoist paour ny home ; Souvieigne vous de nostre amour honneste, Dont ne devons pour nul baisser la teste. Car nous scavons tons deux certninement Qu'honneur & Dieu en sont le fondement ; Souvieigne vous du tris chaste embrasser Dont vous ne moy ne nous pouvions laiuer Q»een of Navarre. Souvieigne vous de vostre foy promise Par vostre main dedans la mienne mise; Souvieigne vous de mes doubles passee% Que vous avez en une heure effassfes, Prenant en vous si grande securet^, Que je m'asseure en vostre fermet^ ; Souvieigne vous que vous avez remis Du plus parfaict de voz meilleurs amys Le coeur, I'esprit & le corps en repos. Par vostre honneste & vertueux propose Auquel je veulx adjouster telle foy, Que plus n'aura doubte pouvoir sus moy ; Souvieigne vous que je n'ay plus de painv Que ceste 14 que aveoques moy je maine : C'est le regret de perdre vostre veue. Par qui souvent tant de joye ay receue ; Souvieigne vous du regard de vostre ceil, Dont I'esloingner me faict mourir de duell ; Souvieigne vous du lieu tres mal pari Ou fust de moy trop de bien separ^ ; Souvieigne vous des heures qui sonnoyent, Et du regret qu'en sonnant me donnoien^ Voyant le temps & I'heure s'advancer Du despartir ou ne fays que penser ; Souvieigne vous de I'adieu redouble A chascun pas, de I'esperit trouble, Du coeur trancy & du corps affoibly, Et ne mectez le triste oeil en oubly ; Souvieigne vous de la parfaicte amour, Qui durera sans cesser nuyct & jour. Qui a dens moy si bien painct vostre ymatg^ Que je n'ay liens sinon vostre visaige, Vostre parler, vostre regard tant doubt Devant mes yeulx ; bref, je n'y ay que yoaM, Vous suppliant, o amye estimfe. Plus que nulle aultre & de moy tant aymee^ Souvieigne vous d'immortel souvenir De vostre amy, & le vueill^s tenir Dens vostre coeur seul amy & parfaict, Ainsi que vous dedens le sien il faict. On the whole, the Queen of Navarre has been far more success* ful in the poetical treatment of secular than of sacred subjects, and for obvious reasons. We cannot speak from personal knowledge of her efforts in the latter field, but we are very well disposed to accept the judgment pronounced upon them by the Bibliophiles Frangais, that they are barren of poetry, and brimful of tediousness, consist- ixxvi Memoir of Margaret, ing, as they do, of long paraphrases of Scripture, theological disser- tations, and metaphysico-devotional rhapsodies. One of them, how- ever, deserves more special mention, as marking the author's dissent from the religion of Rome. " The mirror of the sinful soul "{Miroir de I'ame pecheresse) "was composed in a strain very unusual in the Church of Rome, there being no mention made in it either of male or female saints, or of merits, or of any other purgatory than the blood of Jesus Christ." * The work was consequently assailed with fierce denunciations from the orthodox pulpits. A comedy was acted by the students of the College of Navarre, in which the queen was represented as a Fury of Hell, and the Sorbonne decreed at least, if it did not promulgate, a censure upon her heretical pro- duction. Margaret complained to her brother, and the result was that Nicolas Cop, rector of the Sorbonne, expressly disowned the censure pronounced by the body over which he presided ; the stu- dent-comedians, and the most intemperate of the preachers, were committed to prison ; and Noel Beda, syndic of the faculty of theology, who had been the most ardent promoter of the attacks on the king's sister, died in confinement at Mont Saint Michel. The Heptameron is, of all Margaret's works, the one on which her literary reputation has mainly rested since her deatji. We have sketched its bibliographical history in our preface, and it now remains for us to speak of its composition. Dunlop, who may be considered as expressing the general opinion of literary historians, says that " few of the tales composed in it are original ; for, except about half-a-dozen which are historically true, and are mentioned as having fallen under the knowledge and observation of the Queen of Navarre, they may all be traced to the Fabliaux, the Italian novels, and the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles." On the contrary, the last editors of the Heptameron allege that " its distinctive character is that it reproduces, under a tolerably transparent veil, real eveUs which happened at the court of France, especially in the reigns of Louis XI., Charles VIII., Louis XII., and Francis I. Of the seventy-two tales which compose the Heptameron, we know but five or six which are evidently borrowed from the French conteurs of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. This charac- ter of truth, which has not even been suspected by the majority of those who have spoken of this collection, may be demonstrated in the most evident manner." This opinion very nearly agrees with the Queen of Navarre's own statement in her prologue, that all the * Beza Hiit. Bcclesiast, book 1. p. 5. Q^een of Navarrt. xxxvii tales she was about to relate were founded on fact, and it is cor- roborated by many evidences, direct and indirect. Brant6me, for instance, tells us that "his mother knew some secrets of the novels, and that she was one of the confabulators " (une des devi- santes). He analyses many of the tales in the Heptameron, certifies the authenticity of some of them, and makes known to us the real names of certain persons whom Margaret has introduced into them. From him we learn that, under the title of a Princess of Flanders, the Queen has portrayed herself, and related the audacious attempt made upon her chastity by Admiral de Bonnivet. Another notable verification of the Heptameron is supplied by the Bibliophiles Frangais. The first novel relates a murder committed by a proc- tor at Alengon, and mentions that the murderer obtained letters of pardon from the King of France at the intercession of the King of England. The Bibliophiles have discovered these very letters in the French archives, and found them to agree perfectly with the Queen of Navarre's narrative. The more closely to imitate her Florentine model, she introduces her tales by describing a remarkable accident of nature by which the supposed narrators are thrown together for a season and driven to seek for some device to while away the time. Certainly there is no comparison between the fine description of the plague at Florence, which opens the Decameron, and that multiplicity of little events which the Queen has accumulated in her prologue ; nevertheless, the contrivance of the latter is sufficiently ingenious, and bears a considerable resemblance to the frame of the Canterbury Tales. Ten French ladies and gentlemen, intercepted by a perilous inun- dation on their return from the baths of Cauterets, take shelter in a monastery of the Pyrenees, where they are forced to remain till a bridge should be thrown over an impassable stream, and amuse themselves meanwhile by relating stories in a beautiful meadow on the banks of the Gave. As to the persons into whose mouths Mar- garet has put her stories, it is natural enough to suppose that she chose them from her own family, and from among the lords and ladies who were usually about her. Madame Oisille, for instance, appears to be Margaret's mother, that name being almost an ana- gram of Louise. She is represented as an aged widow of great experience, who is as a mother to the other ladies. The rest of the company call each other simply by their respective names, but in addressing Oisille they always say Madatne. Many of the novels which turn on the debauchery and wickedness of the Franciscans or Cordeliers are related by Oisille. The tone in which she speaks cxxviii Memoir of Margaret, of them accords with the concluding passage of the journal of Louise of Savoy : " In the year 1522, in December, my son and I, by the grace of the Holy Ghost, began to know the hypocrites white, black, grey, smoky, and of all colours, from whom God in his infinite mercy and goodness preserve and defend us, for if ] esus Christ is not a liar, there is not among all mankind a more dangerous generation." Hircan, another of the ten interlocutors, may very probably re- present one of Margaret's two husbands, but which of the two we are not prepared to say. The Bibliophiles infer that it is the Duke d'Alengon, from the deference with which he is treated by the rest of the gentlemen ; but surely this would apply quite as well to the King of Navarre. In the prologue, Hircan says to Simontault, " Since you have been the first to speak, it is right that you should take the lead,^r in sport we are all equal." Hircan's wife, Par- lamente, who was never idle or melancholy, is no doubt Margaret herself ; and if Hircan is the Duke d'Alengon, then Simontault is probably the King of Navarre, or vice versd. With respect to the other six persons, the Bibliophiles Frangais offer no conjectures, or only such as seem to us of little weight. The conversations in the Heptameron on the characters and in- cidents of the last related tale, and which generally introduce the subject of the new one, are much longer than in the Italian novels, and indeed occupy nearly one-half of the work. Some of the remarks are quaint and comical, others are remarkable for their naivete, while a few breathe the conceits of the Italian sonneteers ; for example, " It is said that jealousy is love, but I deny it ; for though jealousy be produced by love as ashes are by fire, yet jealousy ex- tinguishes love, as ashes smother the flame." These epilogues are well worthy of attention, as embodying the author's personal views on sundry important topics, such aS friendship, love, and conjugal fidelity ; and also as a curious model of conversation among per- sons of quality in the first half of the sixteenth century. Especially curious is it to observe in them how stories and comments of a very ticklish character are mingled with reflections imbued with the most exalted piety ; how the company prepare themselves by de- votional exercises for telling tales which are often anything but edifying ; and how, when the day's work is done, they duly praise the Lord for giving them the grace to spend their time so pleasanUy. Margaret's contemporaries were by no means shocked at these in- congruities, as our more sceptical age would be. The causes of this difference would be an interesting subject of inquiry, but here Queen of Navarre, xxxii we can only note the fact. To give another instance of it : When Clement Marot published his poetical versions of some of the Psalms, they quickly superseded all other songs throughout the country. The press could not throw off copies fast enough to sup- ply the demand. Each of the princes and courtiers appropriated a psalm, and sang it to such a tune as he thought fit. Henry II. chose the psalm, Ainsi qtion oyt le cerf braire, and made a hunting song of it. His mistress, Diane de Poitiers, jigged out Du fond de ma pensee to the popular dance tune, Le branle de Poitou ; and Catherine de Medici, in allusion to her husband's infidelities, pro- fanely appropriated Ne veuillez pas, d Sire, set to the air, Des bouffons. We have alluded to the questionable morality of the Heptameron, and certainly we will not endorse the argument of its new editors, who combat the common opinion that it should be classed among licentious books, upon the plea that " the Queen of Navarre excels in winding up a tale of extreme gallantry with moral reflections of the most rigorous kind." The best apology for the book is that its author has not exceeded the allowed licence of good society in her own age, and that she is not to be judged by the standard of ours. Free as her language must often appear to us, it will be found, upon closer scrutiny, to be always controlled by certain conventional rules of propriety. Some grossly obscene passages, for which she has incurred unmerited censure, prove now to have been the work of those manifold offenders, her first editors. ^^^p s M S M m M INTRODUCTION. |T the beginning of September, when the baths of the Pyrenees commenced to have effect, several persons from France, Spain, and other countries were assembled at those of Cauterets, some to drink the waters, others to bathe in them, or to be treated with mud ; remedies so marvellous, that the sick abandoned by physicians go home cured from (.auterets. My intention is not to declare either the situation or the virtue of the baths ; but only to relate what is pertinent to the matter I am about to describe. The patients remained at these baths until they found themselves sufficiently improved in Vir?lth ; but then, as they were preparing to return home, there icA such excessive and extraordinary rains, that it seemed as though God had forgotten His promise to Noah, and was again about to destroy the world with water. The houses of Cauterets were so flooded that it was impossible to abide in them. Those who had come from Spain returned over the mountains the best way they could. But the French lords and ladies, thinkmg to return to Tarbes as easily as they came, found the rivulets so swollen as to be scarcely fordable ; and when thej^ arrived at the Bearnese Gave, which was not two feet deep when they crossed it on their way to the baths, they found it so swollen and so impetuous that they were forced to turn out of their direct course and look for bridges. These, however, being only of wood, had been carried away by the violence of the current. Some attempted to ford the stream by crossing it several together in one body; but they were swept away with such rapidity that the rest had no inclination to follow their example. They separated, therefore, either to look for another route or because they were not ot the same way of thinking. Some crossed the mountains, and, passing through Aragon, arrived in the county of Roussillon, and nom there to Narbonne. Others went straight to Barcelona, and ch'. nee by sea to Marseilles or to Aigues-mortes. I 3 nie Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. But a widow of long experience, named Oisille, determined to banisii from her mind the fear of bad roads, and repair to Notre Dame de Serrance ; not that she was so superstitious as to suppose that the glorious Virgin would quit her place at her son's right hand to come and dwell in a desert land, but only because she wished to see the holy place, of which she had heard so much ; and also because she was assured that if there were any means of escaping from a danger, the monks were sure to find it out She met with no end of difficulties ; but at last she arrived, after having passed through places almost impracticable, and so difficult to climb and descend that, notwithstanding her age and her weight, she was compelled to perform the greater part of the journey on foot. But the most piteous thing was that most of her servants and horses died on the way, so that she arrived at Serranco attended by one man and one woman only. She was, however, charitably received by the monks. There were also among the French party two gentlemen, who had gone to the baths rather to accompany the ladies they loved than for any need they themselves had to use the waters. These gentlemen, seeing that the company was break- mg up, and that the husbands of their mistresses were taking them away, thought proper to follow them at a distance, without acquainting anyone with their purpose. The two married gentlemen and their wives arrived one evening at the house of a man who was more a bandit than a peasant. The two young gentlemen lodged at a cottage hard by, and hearing a great noise about midnight, they rose with their varlets, and inquired of their host what was all that tumult. The poor man, who was in a great fright, told them it was some robbers who were come to share the booty that was in the house of their comrade the bandit. The gentlemen instantly seized their arms, and hastened with their varlets to the aid of the ladies, holding it a far happier fate to die with them than to live without them. On reaching the bandit's house, they found the first gate broken open, and the two gentlemen and their servants defending themselves valorously ; but as they were outnumbered by the bandits, and the married gentlemen were much wounded, they were beginning to give way, having already lost a great number of their servants. The two gentlemen, looking in at the windows, saw the two ladies weeping and crying so hard that their hearts swelled with pity and love, and falling on the bandits like two enraged bears from the mountains, they laid about them with such fury that a great number of the bandits fell, and the rest fled for safety to a place Inirodudion. 3 well known to them. The gentlemen having defeated these villains, the owner of the house being among the slain, and having learnt that the wife was still worse than himself, de- spatched her after him with a sword-thrust. They then entered a room on the basement, where they found one of the married gentlemen breathing his last. The other had not been hurt, only his clothes had been pierced and his sword broken ; and seeing the aid which the two had rendered him, he embraced and thanked them, and begged they would continue to stand by him, to which they assented with great good-will. After having seen the deceased buried, and consoled the wife as well as they could, they departed under the guidance of Providence, not knowing whither they were going. If you would know the names of the three gentlemen, that of the married one was Hircan, and his wife's Parlamente. The widow's name was Longarine. One of the young gentle- men was called Dagoucin, and the other Saffredent. They were in the saddle all day, and towards evening they descried a belfry, to which they made the best of their way, not with- out toil and trouble, and were humanely welcomed by the abbot and the monks. The abbey is called St. Savin's. The abbot, who was of a very good house, lodged them honourably, and on the way to their lodgings begged them to acquaint him with their adventures. After they had recounted them, he told them they were not the only persons who had been un- fortunate, for there were in another room two ladies who had escaped as great a danger, or worse, inasmuch as they had encountered not men but beasts ; for these poor ladies met a bear from the mountain half a league this side of Peyrchite, and fled from it with such speed that their horses dropped dead under them as they entered the abbey gates. Two of their women, who arrived long after them, reported that the bear had killed all their men-servants. The two ladies and the three gentlemen then went into the ladies' chamber, where they found them in tears, and saw they were Nomerfide and Ennasuite. They all embraced, and after mutually recounting their adventures, they began to be comforted through the sage exhortations of the abbot, counting it a great consolation to have so happily met again ; and next day they heard mass with much devotion, and gave thanks to God for that he had delivered them out of such perils. Whilst they were all at mass, a man came running into the church in his shirt, and shouting for help, as if some one was 4 Vte Heptamerm of the Queen of Navarre. ■close at his heels. Hircati and the other gentlemen hastened to him to see what was the matter, and saw two men pursuing him, sword in hand. The latter would have fled upon seeing so many people, but Hircan and his party were too swift for them, and they lost their lives. On his return, Hircan dis- covered that the man in his shirt was one of their com- panions named Geburon. His story was that, being at a cottags near Peyrchite, he had been surprised in his bed by three men. Springing out in his shirt he had seized his sword, and mortally wounded one of them ; and whilst the two others were busy succouring their comrade, Geburon, seeing that the odds were two to one against him, and that he was naked whilst they wore armour, thought his safest course was to take to his heels, especially as his clothes would not impede his running. He too praised God for his deliver- ance, and he thanked those who had revenged him. After the company had heard mass and dined, they sent to see if it were possible to pass the Gave river, and were in consternation at hearing that the thing was impracticable, at which the abbot entreated them many times to remain with him until the waters had abated. This they agreed to for that day, and in the evening, when they were about to go to bed, there arrived an old monk who used to come regularly every September to our Lady of Serrance. Being asked news of his journey, he stated that, in consequence of the flood, he had come by the mountains, and travelled over the worst roads he had ever seen in his life. He had beheld a very sad spectacle. A gentleman named Simontault, tired of waiting till the river should subside, had resolved to attempt the passage, relying on the goodness of his horse. He had made his domestics place themselves round him ?o break the force of the current ; but when they reached the middle of the stream, the worst mounted were swept away and were seen no more. Thereupon the gentleman made again for the bank he had quitted. His horse, good as it was, failed him at his need ; but by God's will this happened so near the bank that the gentleman was able vat last to scramble on all fours to the hard, not without having drunk a good deal of water, and so exhausted that he could hardly sustain himself. Happily for him, a shepherd, leading back his sheep to the fields ii the evening, found him seated on the stones, dripping wet, and deploring the loss of his people, who had perished before his eyes. The shepherd, who understood his need both from his Introduction. 9 appearance and Ws words, took him by the hand and led him to his cabin, where he made a little fire, and dried him as well as he could. That same evening, Providence conducted to the cabin the old monk, who told him the way to Our Lady of Serrance, and assured him that he would be better lodged there than elsewhere, and that he would find there an aged widow named Oisille, who had met with an adventure as dis- tressing as his own. The company testified extreme joy at hearing the names of the good dame Oisille and the gentle knight Simontault ; and everyone praised God for having saved the master and mistress after the loss of the servants. Parlamente especially gave hearty thanks to God, for she had long had a most affectionate servant in Simontault. They inquired carefully about the road to Serrance, and though the good old man represented it to them as very difficult, nothing could stop them from setting out that very day, so well provided with all things necessary that nothing was left them to wish for. The abbot supplied them with the best horses in Lavedan, good Bearnese cloaks, wine, and plenty of victuals, and a good escort to conduct them in safety across the mountains. They traversed them more on foot than on horseback, and arrived at last, after many toils, at Our Lady of Serrance. Though the abbot was churlish enough, he durst not refuse to lodge them, for fear of disobliging the lord of Beam, by whom he knew they were held in consideration ; but, like a true hypocrite as he was, he showed them the best possible countenance, and took them to see the lady Oisille and the gentleman Simontault. All were equally delighted to find themselves so miraculously re- assembled, and the night was spent in praising God for the grace he had vouchsafed them. After taking a little rest, towards morning they went to hear mass, and receive the holy sacrament of union, by means of which all Christians are united as one, and to beg of God, who had reassembled them through his goodness, the grace to complete their journey for his glory. After dinner they sent to know if the waters were fallen, but finding, on the contrary, that they were still higher, and that it would be a long time before they could pass safely, they resolved to have a bridge made, abutting on two rocks very near each other, and on which there still are planks used by people on foot, who, coming from Oleron, wish to pass the Gave. The abbot, very well pleased at their incurring an S The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. expense which would increase the number of pilgrims, fur- nished them with workmen ; but he was so miserly that he would not contribute a farthing of his own. The workmen, however, having declared that it would take at least ten or twelve days to construct the bridge, the company began to grow tired. Parlamente, the wife of Hircan, always active and never melancholy, having asked her husband's permission to speak, said to old dame Oisille, " I am surprised, madam, that you, who have so much experience that you fill the place of a mother to the rest of us women, do not devise some amuse- ment to mitigate the annoyance we shall suffer from so long a delay ; for unless we have something agreeable and virtuous to occupy us, we are in danger of falling sick." " What is still worse," said Longarine, the young widow, " we shall grow cross, which is an incurable malady ; the more so as there is not one of us but has cause to be extremely sad, considering our several losses." "Everyone has not lost her husband like you," said Enna- suite, laughing. " To have lost servants is not a matter to break one's heart, since they can easily be replaced. How- ever, I am decidedly of opinion that we should pass the time away as agreeably as we can." Nomerfide, her companion, said it was a very good idea, and that if she passed one day without amusement, she should be dead the next. The gentlemen all warmly approved of the proposal, and begged dame Oisille to direct what was to be done. "You ask a thing of me, my children," replied the old lady, "which I find very difficult. You want me to invent an amuse- ment which shall dissipate your ennui. I have been in search of such a remedy all my life long, and I have never found but one, which is the reading of Holy Writ. It is in such reading that the mind finds its true and perfect joy, whence proceed the repose and the health of the body. If you ask me what I do to be so cheerful and so healthy at so advanced an age, it is that as soon as I rise I read the Holy Scriptures. I see and contemplate the will of God, who sent his Son on earth to announce to us that holy word and that good news which promises the pardon of all sins, and the payment of all debts, by the gift he has made us of his love, passion, and merits. This idea affords me such joy that I take my psalter, and sing with my heart and pronounce with my lips, as humbly as I can, the beautiful canticles with which the Holy Spirit inspired David and other sacred authors. The pleasure I derive from them is so ravishing that I regard as Introduction. y blessings the evils which befall me every day, because I have in my heart through faith Him who has suffered all these evils for me. Before supper, I retire in like manner to feed my soul with reading. In the evening I review all I have done in the day ; I ask pardon for my faults ; I thank God for his graces, and lie down in his love, fear, and peace, assured against all evils. This, my children, is what has long been my amusement, after having searched well, and found none more solid and more satisfying. It seems to me, then, that if you will give yourselves every morning for an hour to Keading, and say your prayers devoutly during mass, you will find in this solitude all the charms which cities could afford. In fact, he who knows God finds all things fair in him, and without him everything ugly and disagreeable. Take my advice, therefore, I entreat you, if you wish to find happiness in life." " Those who have read the Holy Scriptures," said Hircan, "as I believe we have done, will confess, madam, that what you have said is true. But you must also consider that we are not yet so mortified but that we have need of some amusement and zorporeal pastime. When we are at home we have the chase and nawking, which make us forget a thousand bad thoughts ; the Vadies have their household affairs, their needlework, and some- times dancing, wherein they find laudable exercise. I propose, .hen, on the part of the men, that you, as the eldest lady, read to js in the morning the history of the life of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of the great and wondrous things he has done for us. After dinner until vespers we must choose some pastime which may be agreeable to the body and not prejudicial to the soul. By this means we shall pass the day cheerfully." Dame Oisille replied that she had so much difficulty in for- getting vanities, that she was afraid she should succeed ill in the choice of such a pastime; also, that the matter should be referred to the majority of voices. "And you, monsieur," she said to Hircan, " shall give your opinion first." " If I thought," replied Hircan, "that the diversion I should like to propose would be as agreeable to a certain lady in this company as to myself, my choice would be soon announced ; but as I am atraid this would not be the case, I have nothing to say, but will submit to the decision of the rest." His wife Parlamente coloured up at these words, believing they were meant for her. " Perhaps, Hircan," she said, a little angrily and half-laughing, "the lady you think hardest to please could find means to content herself it she had a mind. 8 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre But let us say no more of the pastime in which only two car. take part, and think of one in which everybody can share." '• Since my wife has so well comprehended my views,'' obser\'ed Hircan to the other ladies, " and a private diversion is not to her taste, I believe she is the best person to invent an amusement which will give satisfaction to us all. I declare, therefor", beforehand, that I assent to her proposal." The whole company spoke to the same effect, and Parlamente, seeing that she was appointed mistress of the sports, thus addressed the company: "Were I conscious of possessing as much capacity as the ancients who invented the arts, I would contrive an amusement which should fulfil the obligation you lay upon me ; but as I know myself, and am aware that I find it difficult even to recollect the ingenious inventions of others, I shall think myself lucky if I can closely follow those who have already done what you desire. I believe there is not one of you but has , read the novels of Boccaccio, recently translated into French, and which the most Christian King, Francis I. of that name, Mon- seigneur le Dauphin, Madame la Dauphine, and Madame Mar- guerite prized so highly, that if Boccaccio could hear them, the praises bestowed on him by those illustrious persons would surely raise him from the dead. I can certify that the two ladies I have named, and several other personages of the court, resolved to imitate Boccaccio, except in one thing — namely, in writing nothing but what was true. Monseigneur and the two ladies arranged at first that they would each write ten tales, and that they would assemble a party of ten persons, selecting for it those whom they thought most capable of telling a story with grace, and expressly excluding men of letters ; for Monseigneur did not wish that there should be any intrusion of art into the matter, and was afraid lest the flowers of rhetoric should be in some manner prejudicial to the truth of history. But the great affairs in which the king afterwards became involved, the peace con- cluded between the sovereign and the King of England, the accouchement of Madame la Dauphine, and several other affairs of a nature to occupy the whole court, caused this project to be forgotten ; but as we have time to spare we will put it into execution whilst waiting for the completion of our bridge. If you think proper, we will go from noon till four o'clock into that fine meadow along the Gave river, where the trees form so thick a screen that the sun cannot pierce it, or incommode us with its heat. There, seated at our ease, we will each relate what we have seen or been told by persons worthy of belief. Introduction. 9 Ten days will suffice to make up the hundred. If it please God that our work prove worthy of being seen by the lords and ladies I have named, we will present it to them on our return, in lieu of images and paternosters, and I am convinced that such an offering will not be displeasing to them. At the same time, if anyone can suggest something more agreeable, I am ready to fall in with his ideas." The whole company declared they could not imagine any- thing better, and everyone looked forward with impatience for the morrow. As soon as the morning broke they all went to the chamber of Madame Oisille, whom they found already at prayers. She read to them for a good hour, after which they heard mass, and at ten o'clock they went to dinner. Everyone then retired to his own chamber, and attended to what he had to do. At noon all were punctually assembled in the meadow, which was so beautiful and agreeable that it would need a Boccaccio to depict all its charms : enough for us to say that there never was its like. The company being seated on the green turf, so soft and delicate that no one had need of floor or carpet, "Which of us," said Simontault, " shall have the command over the rest ? " " Since you have been the first to speak," said Hircan, " it is right you should have the command ; for in sport all are equals." " God knows," replied Simontault, " I could desire nothing better in the world than to command such a company." Parlamente, who knew very well what that meant, began to cough, so that Hircan did not perceive she had changed colour, and told Simontault to begin his tale, for all were ready to hear him. The same request being urged by the whole company, Simontault said, "I have been so ill-requited for my long services, ladies, that to revenge myself on love and on the fair one who treats me with so much cruelty, I am about to make a collection of misdeeds done by women to men, in the whole of which I will relate nothing but the simple truth." M ^^^^m ^^^^^ i^u (fflSr'^''' '' " ' ''•^^ ^M^^^^^ ^(l^pM ^^^M THE HEPTAMERON THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE. NOVEL I. A Woman of Alen9on having two lovers, one for her pleasure and the other for her profit, caused that one of the two to be slain who was the first to discover her gallantries— She obtained her pardon and that of her husband, who had fled the country, and who afterwards, in order to save some money, applied to a necromancer — The matter was found out and punished, N the lifetime of the last Duke Charles there was at Alengon a proctor named St. Aignan, who had mar- ried a gentlewoman of that country more handsome '"'^ than virtuous, who, for her beauty and her levity, was much courted by the Bishop of Sdes. In order to accomplish his ends, this prelate took care to amuse the husband so well, that not only he took no notice of the doings of either of the pair, but even forgot the attachment he had always felt towards his masters. He passed from fidelity to perfidy, and finally went the length of practising sorceries to cause the death of the duchess. The prelate maintained a long correspondence with this unlucky woman, who intrigued with him rather from motives of interest than of love ; whereto she was also solicited by her husband. But she entertained such a passion for the son of the Lieutenant-General of Alengon, named Du Mesnil, that it half crazed her ; and she often made the prelate give her husband some commission or another, that she might see the lieutenant- general's son at her ease. This affair lasted a long while, the prelate being entertained for her purse, and the other for her pleasure. She vowed to Du Mesnil that, if she received the I J The Heptamtron of the Queen of Navarre. bishop well, it was only that she might be the more free to continue her caresses to himself ; and that, whatever she did, the bishop got nothing but words, and he might be assured nobody but himself should ever have anything else of her. One day, when her husband had to wait upon the bishop, she asked leave of him to go to the country, alleging that the air of the city did not agree with her. No sooner had she arrived at his farm than she wrote to the lieutenant's son, bidding him not fail to visit her about ten o'clock at night. The poor young man did so ; but on his arrival the servant woman who usually let him in, met him and said, " Go elsewhere, my friend, for your place is filled." Du Mesnil, thinking that the husband had returned, asked the servant how all was going on. Seeing before her a handsome, well-bred young man, the girl could not help pitying him to think how much he loved, and how little he was loved in return. With this feeling, sh? resolved to acquaint him with her mistress's behaviour, believing that it would cure him of loving her so much. She told him that the Bishop of S^es had but just entered the house, and was in bed with her mistress, who had not expected him till the following day ; but having detained the husband at his own residence, he had stolen away by night to visit her. The lieutenant's son was thunder- struck at this disclosure, and could hardly bring himself to believe it. To clear up his doubts, he secreted himself in a neighbour- ing house, where he remained on sentry till three o'clock in the morning, when he saw the bishop come out, and recognized him perfectly in spite of his disguise. The young man returned in despair to Alengon, where his wicked mistress arrived soon after. Never doubting but that she should dupe him as usual, she lost no time in coming to see him, but he told her that since she had touched sacred things she was too holy to talk to a sinner like him, but a sinner so repentant that he hoped his sin would soon be forgiven. When she found she was discovered, and that excuses and promises never to offend in that way again were of no avail, she went off and complained to her bishop. After long pondering over the matter, she told her husband that she could no longer reside in Alengon because the lieutenant's son, whom he thought so much his friend, was incessantly importuning her ; and she begged that in order to prevent all suspicion he would take a house at Argentan. The husband, who allowed himself to be led by her, easily consented. They had been but a few days settled in Argentan, when this Niwel i.] First Day. ' 13 wretched woman sent word to the lieutenant's son that he was the most wicked of men, and that she was not ignorant that he publicly maligned her and the prelate, but that she would yet find means to make him repent of this. The young man, who had never spoken to anyone but herself, and who was afraid of involving himself in a quarrel with the prelate, mounted his horse and rode to Argentan, attended only by two of his servants. He found the lady at the Jacobins, where she was hearing ves- pers, and having placed himself on his knees beside her, " I am come, IVIadam," he said, "to protest to you before God that I have never complained of you to any but yourself. You have behaved so vilely to me that what I have said to you is not half what you deserve. But if any man or woman says that I have publicly spoken ill of you, I am here to contradict them in your presence." The proctor's wife, seeing that there were many people in the church, and that he was accompanied by two stout men, con- strained herself, and spoke to him as civilly as she could. She told him she did not doubt the truth of what he said ; that she believed him too upright to speak ill of anybody, and still less of her, who always loved him ; but as something had come to her husband's ears, she begged he would say before him that he had never spoken as had been said, and that he did not believe a word of such tales. To this he readily consented, and took her by the arm to conduct her home ; but she begged him not to do so, lest her husband should suppose that she had schooled him as to what he should say. Then taking one of his servants by the sleeve, she said, " Let this man come with me, and when it is time he shall bring you word. Meanwhile, you may remain quietly in your lodging." He, never dreaming of a conspiracy against him, made no objection to what she proposed. She gave the servant she took home with her his supper, and when the man frequently asked her when would it be time to go for his master, she always replied that he would come soon enough. At night she privily sent off one of her own domestics to fetch Du Mesnil, who, having no suspicion, accompanied the man tc St. Aignan's house, having with him only one of his 'servants, the other being with the mistress of the house. As he entered the door, his guide told him his mistress would be glad to say a few words to him before he spoke to her husband ; that she was Waiting for him in a room with only one of his servants, and •"at he had better sen 1 away the other by the front door. This 1 4 'TAe Heptiimeron of the Queen of Navarre. he accordingly did ; and as he was going up a narrow and very dark flight of stairs, the proctor, who had set men in ambush, hearing a voice, called out to know what it was. Some one replied it was a man who was making his way secretly into the house. Upon this, one Thomas Guerin, an assassin by pro- fession, and hired by the proctor for the occasion, fell upon the poor young man, and gave him so many sword-wounds that at last he fell dead. Meanwhile, his servant, who was with the lady, said to her, " I hear my master's voice on the stairs. I will go to him." But she stopped him, saying, " Don't trouble yourself ; he will come soon enough." Soon afterwards, hearing his master cry out, " I am a dead man ! My God have mercy on me ! " he wanted to go to his aid, but again she stopped him. " Be quiet," she said ; "my husband is chastising him for his pranks. Let's go see." Leaning over the stairhead, she called out to her husband, "Well! is it done?" " Come and see," replied the husband ; " you are avenged on him who put you to such shame." And so saying, he struck his dagger ten or twelve times into the stomach of a man whom when living he dare not have assailed. After the deed was done, and the two servants of the mur- dered man had fled with the sad tidings to his poor father, St. Aignan began to consider what steps he should next take. The servants of the murdered man could not be admitted to give evidence, and no one else had seen the deed besides the mur- derers, an old woman-servant, and a girl of fifteen. He en- deavoured to secure the old woman ; but she found means of escape, and took refuge in the Jacobins. Her testimony was the best that was had respecting this crime. The young chambermaid remained some days in St. Aignan's house ; but contriving to have her suborned by one of the assassins, he had her taken to Paris, and placed in a house of ill-fame, in order to hinder her from being believed as a witness. That nothing ebe might remain to prove his guilt, he burned the body ; and the bones which the fire could not consume he had mixed with mortar, for he was then building. All this being done, he sent to the court to sue for his pardon, and set forth that having as- certained that the deceased was endeavouring to dishonour his wife, he had often forbid him his house ; that he had come not- withstanding by night, under suspicious circumstances, to speak with her, and that having found him at the door of his wife's chamber, he had killed him more in the heat of anger than de- liberately. But in spite of his haste, before he had despatched his Noiel \.\ First Day. 15 letter, the duke and duchess learned the whole truth, which they had from the father of the unfortunate younjf man, and made it known to the chancellor in order to hinder St. Aignan from obtaining his pardon. Seeing this, the wretch fled to England with his wife and several of her relations. Before his depar- ture, he told the assassin he had employed that he had express orders from the king to arrest him and have him put to death ; but that, in consideration of the service he had rendered him, he would save his life. He gave him ten crowns to quit the realm, and the man iias never been heard of since. The murder, how- ever, was so well verified by the servants of the deceased, by the old woman who had fled to the Jacobins, and by the bones which were found in the mortar, that the criminal process was completed in the absence of St. Aignan and his wife, who were condemned to death as contumacious, to pay their victim's father fifteen hundred crowns for the cost of the pro- cess, and to have the rest of their property confiscated to the sovereign. St. Aignan being in England, and finding himself condemned to death in France, so managed by his services to gain the goodwill of several great lords, and set his wife's relations to work to such purpose, that the King of England entreated the King of France to pardon him and to restore him to his posses- sions and his honours. The king having been informed of the atrocity of this affair, sent the details of the process to the King of England, and begged him to consider if the crime was one which could be pardoned ; adding, that throughout his realm none but the Duke of Alengon alone had the privilege of granting grace in his duchy. The King of England did not yield to these representations, but so urgently solicited St. Aignan's pardon that at last he obtained it. On his return home, to fill up the measure of his wickedness, tiie proctor made acquaintance with a sorcerer named Galleiy, hoping to be put by him in a way to escape payment of the fifteen hundred crowns due by him to his victim's father. To this end, he and his wife went in disguise to Paris ; but the wife, seeing how.he often shut himself up for a long time with Gallery without saying a word to her, watched them one morning, and saw Gallery set before her husband five wooden images, three of which had their hands hanging down, and two had them raised. " We must have waxen images made like them," said Gallery to St. Aignan ; "those which shall have their arms hanging down will be for the persons we shall cause to die ; an«! 1 6 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. hose with raised arms will be for the persons whose goodwill we seek." "Very well," said the proctor. "This onie, then, shall be for the king, by whom I would be favoured, and this one for Monsieur Brinon, Chancellor of Alen5on." " The images," said Gallery, " must be put under the altar, where they will hear mass, with certain words which I will teach you at the proper time." The proctor coming then to the images with pendent arms, said that one was for Maitre Gilles du Mesnil, father of the de ceased for he knew well that, as long as the old man lived, he would not cease to pursue the murderer of his son. One of the female figures with pendent arms was for my lady the Duchess of Alengon, the king's sister, because she was so fond of her old servant Du Mesnil, and had on so many occasions known the wickedness of the proctor, that unless she died he could not live. The second female figure of the same sort was for his wife, who, he said, was the cause of all his misfortunes, and who, he well knew, would never amend. His wife, who was peeping through the keyhole, and found herself on the list of victims, thought it high time to anticipate him. She had an uncle, named Neaufle, who was referendary to the Duke of Alengon, and going to him under the pretence of borrowing money, she related to him all she had seen and heard. The uncle, a good old servant of the duke's, went to the Chancellor of Alengon, and communicated to him what he had learnt from his niece. As the duke and duchess were not that day at court, the chancellor waited on Madame la Rdgente, the mother of the king and the duchess, who, as soon as she was informed of the matter, set La Barre, the Provost of Paris, to work at once. The provost did his duty so promptly and so well, that the proctor and the necromancer were both arrested. Neither torture nor constraint was required to make them avow their guilt, and, on their own confession, judgment was completed and laid before the king. Some persons, who wished to save the lives of the culprits, represented to the king that they had no other intention in performing their enchantments than to secure his good graces ; but the king, to whom his sister's life was as dear as his own, commanded that they should be sentenced just as though they had been guilty against his own person. His sister, the Duchess of Alengon, nevertheless entreated the king to spare the proctor's life, and condemn him to a severe cor- poral punishment. Her request was granted, and St. Aignan and P REMIE RE J O URNE E NoTivelle I JVevel 1.] First Day. v\ Gallery were sent to Saint Blancart's galleys at Marseilles, where they ended their days, and had leisure to reflect on the atrocity of their crimes. The proctor's wicked wife, after the loss of her husband, conducted herself worse than ever, and died miserably.* Consider, ladies, I beseech you, what disorders a wiciced woman occasions, and how many evils ensue from the sin of the one you have just heard of. Since Eve made Adam sin, it has been the business of woman to torment, kill, and damn men. For my part, I have had so much experience of their cruelty, that I shall lay my death to nothing but the despair into which one of them has plunged me. And yet I am crazed enough to confess this hell is more agreeable to me, coming from her hand, than the paradise which another might bestow upon me. Parlamente, affecting not to understand that it was of herself he spoke, replied, " If hell is as agreeable as you say, you can't be afraid of the devil who put you into it." " If my devil," replied Simontault in a pet, "were to become as black as it has been cruel to me, it would cause this company as much fright as I feel pleasure in looking upon it. But the fire of love makes me forget the fire of that hell. So I will say no more about it, but call upon Madame Oisille, being assured that if she would speak of women as she knows them, she would corroborate my opinion." The whole company turned to the old lady and begged her to begin, which she did with a smile, and with this little preamble : " It seems to me, ladies, that the last speaker has cast such a slur upon our sex by the true story he has narrated of a wretched woman, that I must run back through all the past years of my life in order to call to my mind one woman whose virtue wassucb as to belie the bad opinion he has of our sex. Happily I recol- lect one such woman, who deserves not to be forgotten, and will now relate her story to you." • The events related in this novel, and the names of the persons, are all real. The last editors of the Heptameron (la Soci^t^ des Bibliophiles Fran9ais, 1853) have published the writ of pardon granted by Francis I. to St. Aignan, the original of which is preserved in the Archives Nationales. The writ, as usual, recites the statement of the case made by the petitioner for pardon, and this agrees closely with the Queen of Navarre's narrative, allowance, of couise, being made for the peculiar colouring which it was the murderer's interest to give to the facts. 1 8 T7u Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. NOVEL II. Chaste and lamentable death of the wife of one of the Queen of Navarre'i muleteets. T Amboise there once lived a muleteer, who was in the service of the Queen of Navarre, sister of Francis I. This princess being at Bois, where she was delivered of a son, the muleteer went thither to receive his quarterly pay- ment, and left his wife at Amboise, where they lived, in a house , bryond the bridges. There lived with them for a long time one of the muleteer's men, who had felt such a passion for her that at last he could not help declaring it ; but she, being a virtuous woman, reproved him so sharply, threatening to have him beaten and dismissed by her husband, that he never afterwards durst address her with such language. Nevertheless, the fire of his love, though smothered, was not extinguished. His master then being at Blois, and his mistress at vespers at St. Florentin, which is the church of the castle, very remote from the muleteer's house, in which he was left alone, he resolved to have by force what he could not obtain either by prayers or services. To this end he broke an opening through the boarded partition between his mistress's chamber and that in which he himself slept. This was not perceived, being covered by the Curtains of the master's bed on one side, and by those of the men's bed on the other. When the poor woman had gone to bed with a little girl of twelve years old, and was sleepmg soundly, as one usually does in the first sleep, the man entered the room through the opening, in his shirt, with his sword in his hand, and got into the bed with her. The moment she felt him she sprang out of bed, and addressed such remonstrances to him as would occur to any woman of honour in the like case. He, whose love was but brutality, and who would better have understood the language of his mules than such virtuous pleadings, appeared more insensible to reason than the brutes with which he had long associated. Seeing that she ran so fast round a table that he could not catch her, and that, although he had twice laid hands on her, she had strength enough both times to break from his grasp, he despaired of ever taking her alive, and stabbed her in the loins, to see if pain would make hei yield what fear and force had failed to extort from her. But it was quite the reverse; for as a brave soldier when he see* Novel 2.1 First Day. 19 his own blood is the hotter to revenge himself on his enemies and acquire honour, so, her chaste heart gathering new strength, she ran faster than ever, to escape falling into the hands of that wretch, at the same time remonstrating with him in the best way she could, thinking by that means to make him conscious of his fault. But he was in such a frenzy that he •was incapable of profiting by good advice. In spite of the speed with which she ran as long as her strength lasted, she received several more wounds, till at length, weakened by loss of blood, and feeling the approach of death, she raised her eyes and her clasped hands to heaven, and gave thanks to God, whom she called her strength, her virtue, her patience, and her chastity, beseeching him to accept the blood which, according to his commandment, was shed through respect for that of his son, wherein she was thoroughly assured that all sins are washed out, and efTaced from the memory of his wrath. Then exclaim- ing " Lord, receive my soul which thy goodness has redeemed," she fell on her face, and received several more wounds from the villain, who, after she had lost the power of speech and motion, satisfied his lust, and fled with such speed that, in spite of all efforts to track him, he was never heard of afterwards. The little girl who had been in bed with the poor woman had hid herself beneath it in her fright ; but as soon as she saw that the man was gone, she went to her mistress, and finding her speechless and motionless, she called out through the window to the neighbours for help. Esteeming and liking the muleteer's wife as much as any woman in the town, they all huiried at once to her aid, and brought with them surgeons, who found that she had received twenty-five mortal wounds. They did all they C3uld for her, but she was past saving. She lingered, how- ever, for an hour, making signs with her eyes and hands, and showing thereby that she had not lost consciousness. A priest having asked her in what faith she died, she replied, by signs as unequivocal as speech, that she put her trust in the death of Jesus Christ, whom she hoped to see in his heavenly glory. And so, with a serene countenance and eyes uplifted to heaven, she surrendered her chaste body to the earth, and her soul to her Creator. Her husband arrived just as they were about to carry her to the grave, and was shocked to see his wife dead before he had heard any news of her ; but double cause he had to grieve when he was told how she had died ; and so poignant was his sorrow that it had like to cost him his life. The mariyr 10 The Heptameron cfthe Queen of Navarre, of chastity was buried in the church of St. Florentin, being attended to the grave by all the virtuous women of the place, who did all possible honour to her memory, deeming it a happiness to be the townswomen of one so virtuous. Those, too, who had led bad lives, seeing the honours paid to the deceased, amended their ways, and resolved to live better for the time to come.* There, ladies, you have a true tale, and one which may well incite to chastity, which is so fine a virtue. Ought we not to die of shame, we who are of good birth, to feel our hearts full of the love of the world, since, to avoid it, a poor muleteer's wife did not fear so cruel a death ? Therefore we must humble ourselves, for God does not bestow his graces on men because they are noble or rich ; but, according as it pleases his goodness, which regards not the appearance of persons, He chooses whom He will. He honours with his virtues, and finally crowns with his glory, those whom He has elected ; and often He chooses low and despised things to confound those which the world esteems high and honourable. Let us not rejoice in our virtues, as Jesus Christ says, but let us rejoice for that we are enrolled in the Book of Life. The ladies were so touched by the sad and glorious death of the muleteer's wife, that there was not one of them but shed tears, and promised herself that she would strive to follow such an example should fortune expose her to a similar trial. At last, Madame Oisille, seeing they were losing time in praising the dead woman, said to Saffredent, " If you do not say something to make the company laugh, no one will forgive me for the fault I have committed in making them weep." Saffredent, who was really desirous to say something good and agreeable to the company, and especially to one of the ladies, replied that this honour was not due to him, and that there were others who were older and more capable than himself who ought to speak before him. " But since you will have it so," he said, "the best thing I can do is to despatch the matter at once, for the more good speakers pre- cede me, the more difficult will my task be when my turn comes." • The tragedy here related is thought to have occurred after August, 1530, when Margaret was delivsred of a son named Jean, who lived only two months, Ntl 10 ] First Day. 49 "As I have given you," said Dagoucin, "an authentic instance of virtuous love on the part of a gentleman, which continued to his last gasp, if you, madam, know any story that is to the honour of some lady, I beg you will be good enough to finish the day by relating it. Never mind the length ; for there is time enough still to say many good things." " Since I am to finish the day," said Parlamente, " I will not make you a long preamble, my story being so good, so beautiful, and so true, that I long to put you in possession of it. I have not been an eye-witness to the facts ; but I have them from an intimate friend of the hero, who related them to me on condition that if I repeated them I should conceal the names of the persons. Everything, then, which 1 am about to tell you is true, except the names, the places, and the country." NOVEL X. The loves of Amadour and Florida, wherein are seen several stratagems and dissimulations, and the exemplary chastity of Florida. |HERE was in the county of Aranda, in Aragon, a lady who, while still quite young, was left a widow by Count Aranda, with one son and one daughter, the latter of^ whom was named Florida. She spared no pains to"1 bring up her children according to their quality in virtue and \ good breeding, so that her house was considered to be one of the 'i most honourable in all the Spains. She often went to Toledo, / where the King of Spain then resided ; and when she came to'^ Saragossa, which was not far from her own house, she used to remain a long time at the queen's court, where she was as much esteemed as any lady could be. Going one day, according to her custom, to pay her court to the king, who was then in Saragossa, sue passed through a village belonging to the Viceroy of Cata- lonia, who did not quit the frontiers of Perpignan, on account of the wars between the Kings of France and Spain. But as peace was then made, the viceroy, accompanied by several officers, had come to pay his devoirs to the king. The viceroy, having been apprised that the countess was to pass through his domains, went to meet her, as well by reason of the old friendship he bore her, as to do her honour as the king's kinswoman. He was accompanied by several gentlemen of merit, who had acquired so much glory and reputation during the wars that everyone thought it a good fortune to enjoy their society. There E 50 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. was one among them named Amadour^who, notwithstanding his -• youth (he was not more than eighteen or nineteen), had such an air of self-possession, and a judgment so ripe, that one would have chosen him among a thousand'as a fit man to govern a state. It is true that besides good sense he had so engaging a^ mien, and graces so vivid and natural, that one never tired of gazing upon him. His conversation so well corresponded with all this, that it was hard to say whether natures had been more bountiful in regard to corporeal or to mentaPendowments. But what gained him most esteem was his great daring, far exceeding what was common with persons of his age. He had on so many rjccasions shown what he was capable of, that not only Spain, but France and Italy also, highly esteemed_hi^_virtues, for he had never spared himself in any"of the wars in which he had been engaged. When his country was at peace he went in search o' war among foreigners, and won the respect and love of friends and enemies. This gentleman was among those who accompanied his captain to the domain at which the countess had arrived. He could not behold with indifference the beauty and the charms of her daughter, who was then but twelve years old. He had never, he thought, seen a being so beautiful and of such high breeding, and he believed that if he could have her good grace he should be happier than if he possessed all the wealth and all the pleasures he could receive from another. After having long regarded her, he finally resolved to love her, in spite of all the \ insurmountable obstacles to success which reason presented to \ his view, whether on account of disparity ofTjirtfi, or as regardeC"^ the extreme youth of the beaufiful girl, who was not yet of an age to listen to Tender speeches. Against all these obstacles he set a resolute hope, and promised himself that time and patience would bring all his toils to a happy end. To remedy the greatest difBculty, which consisted in the remoteness of his residence and the few opportunities he had of seeing Florida, he resolved to marry, contrary to what he had resolved in Barcelona and Perpignan, where he was in such favour with the ladies that they hardly refused him anything. He had lived so long on those frontiers during the war that he had the air of a Catalan rather than of a Castilian, though he was born at Toledo, of a rich and distinguished family. Being ayojangerson, he had notjnuch_patriin0ny ; but love and fortune, seeing him ill provided by his parents, resolved to make him a chef-d'muvre, and gave him by means of his valour what the laws of the country refused Novd 10.] First Day. 51 him. He was thoroughly versed in the art of war, and princes and lords esteemed him so highly that he oftener refused their good offices than took the trouble to solicit them. The Countess of Aranda arrived then in Saragossa, and was extremely well received by the king and the whole court. The Governor of Catalonia paid her frequent visits, in which Ama- dour failed not to accompany him, for the sole pleasure of seeing Florida, for, he, in order to make himself known in such good company, attached himself to the daughter of an old knight, his neighbour. Her name was Aventurada. She had been brought up from childhood with Florida, an3" knew all the secrets of her heart. Whether it was that Amadour found her to his taste, or that her dowry of three thousand ducats a year tempted him,*' he made her an offer of marriage. She listened to him with pleasure ; but as he was poor, and the old knight was rich, she was afraid he would never consent to the marriage, except at the solicitation of the Countess of Aranda. She addressed herself, therefore, to Florida, and said, " I believe, madam, that this Castilian gentleman, who, as you are aware, often speaks to me here, intends to seek me in marriage. You know what sort of man my father is, and you must be sure he will never give his consent unless the countess and you have the goodness to press him strongly." Florida, who loved the damsel like herself, assured her she would make the business her own ; whereupon Aventurada: presented Amadour to her, who on kissing her hand had like to faint for joy. Though he was considered one of the men who spoke best in all the Spains, he could not find a tongue in presence of Florida. She was greatly surprised at this, for though she was but twelve years old, she nevertheless well remembered to have heard that there was not in Spain a man who could deliver what he had to say more fluently, or with a better grace. Seeing, then, that he uttered not a word, she broke silence. " You are so well known by reputation all over the Spains," she said, "that it would be surprising, Seiior Amadour, if you were unknown here ; and all who know you desire to have an opportunity to serve you- So if I can be of use to you in any way, I beg you will employ me." Amadour, who was gazing on Florida's charms, was so rapt and transported that he could hardly say grammercy. Though Florida was much surprised at his silence, she attributed it to some caprice rather than to its true cause, and retired without saying more. " Do not be sur- prised," said Amadour to her he wished to marry, "if I was js The Heptameron>of the Queen of Navarre. tongue-tied in presence of the Lady Florida-. She speaks" so discreetly, and so mafiy virtues ar,e latent under her great youth, that admiration made me dumb. As you know her secrets, I beg you will tell me, Aventurada, how is it possible that she does not possess the hearts of all the gentlemen of this court, for those who shall know her and love her not must be stones or brutes." Aventurada, who already loved Amadour above all men, \ and could conceal nothing from him, told him that Florida was \ loved by everybody ; but that, in accordance with the custom of the country, she spoke to few ; and that as yet she was aware of only two persons who made much show of love-for Florida, and those were two young Spanish princes, who desired to marry her. One was the son of the Fortunate Infante, and the other was the young Duke of Cardona. "Tell me, pray," said Amadour, "which of the two do you think she loves best ? " " She is so goed and virtuous that all she can be prevailed oi? to say is, that sKeTias no choice but as her mother pleases. A* far, however, as we can judge, she likes the son of the Fortunate" Infante better than the young Duke of Cardona. 1 believe you to be a man of such good sense that you may, if you like, come to a right surmise upon the matter at once. The son of the Fortunate Infante was brought up at this court, and is the hand- somest and most accomplished young prince in Europe. If the question were to be decided by the votes of us maidens, this match would take place, in order that the most charming couple in all Spain might be united. You must know that, although they are both very young, she being but twelve and he fifteen, they have loved each other these three years. If you wisRi to have her good grace, I advise you to become his friend and servant." Amadour was very glad to hear that Florida loved something, for he hoped, with the help of time, to become, not her husband, but her lover ; for her virtue caused him no uneasiness, his only fear being lest she should not love at all. He had little difficulty_ in introducing himself to the son of the Fortunate Infante, and still less in gaining his goodwill, for he was expert in all the exercises which the young prince was fond of. He was, above' all, a good horseman, skilled in feats of arms, and in all sorts of exercises befitting a young man. As war was then beginnjng again in Languedoc, Amadour was obliged to return with the governor ; but it was not without keen regret, for there was no prospect of his returning to the place where he could see Florida. ~\/ Novel 10.1 First Day. 53 Before his departure he spoke to his brother, who was major- domo to the Queen of Spain, told him the good match he had in the Countess of Aranda's house in the Lady Aventurada, and begged him to do his best during his absence to further his mar- riage, and to procure on his behalf the influence of the king, the queen, and all his friends. The brother, who loved Amadour not only as a brother, but for his great worth, promised to do all he could, and bestirred himself so well that Aventurada's miserly old father forgot his avarice, and suffered himself to be moved by Amadour's virtues, as they were represented to him by the Countess of Aranda, the beautiful Florida, and the young Count of Aranda, who was beginning, as he grew up, to love people of merit. After the marriage had been agreed on between the rela- tions, the major-domo made his brother return to Spain under favour of a truce then pending between the two kings. During this truce the King of Spain withdrew to Madrid, to avoid the bad air which was in several places, and at the request of the Countess of Aranda gave his sanction to the marriage of the heiress-Duchess of Medinaceli with the little Count of Aranda, The wedding was celebrated at the palace of Madrid. Amadour was present, and turned the occasion to such account that he married her whom he had inspired with more love than he felf? for her, and whom he made his wife only that he might have j a plausible pretext for frequenting the place where his mind incessantly dwelt. After his marriage he became so bold and so familiar in the family of the Countess of Aranda that no more distrust was enter- tained of him than if he had been a woman. Though he was then but twenty-two years old, he was so prudent that the coun- tess communicated all her affairs to him, and commanded her daughter and her son to converse with him and follow all his advice. Having gained this q apital point , he conducted himself — so discreetly and with such address that even she whom he loved never suspected it. As she was very fond of Amadour's wife, she had such confidence in the husband that she concealed nothing from him, and even declared to him all the love she felt for the son of the Fortunate Infante ; and Amadour, whose views were all directed to gaining her entirely, talked to her incessantly of the young prince ; for he cared not what was the T subject on which he spoke to her, provided he could hold her V long in conversation. J He had hardly been a month married when he was obliged to go to the wars again, and it was more than two years before he 54 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. could return to his wife, who all the while continued to reside where she had been brought up. He wrote frequently to her in the interval ; but the chief part of his letters consisted of com- pliments to Florida, who on her part failed not to return them, and often even wrote with her own hand some pretty phrase in Aventurada's letters. This was quite enough to induce the hus- band to write frequently to his wife ; yet in all this Florida knew nothing but that she loved him like a brother. Amadour went and came several times, and during~ffve~years he saw Florida not more than two months altogether. Yet, in spite of distance and long absence, his love not only remained in full force, but even grew stronger. At last Amadour, coming to see his wife, found the countess far away from the courL The king had gone into Andalusia, and had taken with him the young Count of Aranda, who was already beginning to bear arms, and the countess had retired to a country-house of hers on the frontier of Aragon and Navarre. She was very glad of the arrival of Amadour, whom she had not seen for nearly three years. He was welcomed by everybody, and the countess commanded that he should be treated as her own son. When he was with her, she consulted him on all the affairs of her house, and did just as he advised. In fact, his in- fluence in the family was unbounded ; and so strong was the be- lief in his discernment that he was trusted on all occasions as though he had been a saint or an angel. As for Florida, who loved Aventurada, and had no suspicion of her husband's inten- tions, she testified her affection for him without reserve. Her heart being free from_gassion, she felt much pleasure in his so- ciety, but sheTeE'nothing more. He, on the "other hand, found^ it a very hard task to evade the penetration of those who knew} by experience the difference between the looks of a man who loves and of one who does not love ; for when Florida talked familiarly with him in her frank simplicity, the hidden fire in his heatt blazed up so violently that he could not help feeling it in his face, and letting some sparks from it escape from his eyes. J To baffle observation, therefore, he entered into an intrigue with a lady named Paulina, who was considered in her time so beauti- ful that few men saw her and escaped her fascinations. Paulina being aware how Amadour had made love in Barcelona and Perpignan, and won the hearts of the handsomest ladies in the country, especially that of a certain Countess of Palamos, who was reputed the finest woman in all Spain, told him one day that she pitted him for having, after so many good fortunes, married Novel ro.] First Day. 55 a wife so ugly as his own. Amadour, who well knew that she had a mind to supply his wants, talked to her in the most enga- ging terms he could use, hoping to conceal a truth from her Sy^ making her believe a falsehood. As she had experience in love, j she did not content herself with words, and plainly perceiving - that Amadour's heart was not her own, she made no doubt that v- he wanted to use her as a stalking-horse. With this suspicion in her mind, she observed him so narrowly that not a single glance of his eyes escaped her ; but he managed, though with the utmost difficulty, to regulate them so well that she could never get beyond conjectures. Florida, who had no notion of the nature of Amadour's feelings towards her, used to speak to him so fami- liarly before Paulina that he could hardly prevent his eyes from following the movements of his heart To prevent bad conse- quences, one day, as Florida and he were talking together at a window, he said to her, " My dear, I beseech you to advise me which of the two is better, to speak or to die ? " " I shall always advise my friends to speak," she replied, with- out hesitation; "for there are few words which cannot be remedied : but from death there is no return." " You promise me, then, that not only you will not be angry at what I want to tell you, but even that you will not give way to surprise until I have laid my whole mind open to you ? " "Say what you please," replied Florida, "for if you surprise me there is no one who can reassure me." " Two reasons, madam, have hindered me hitherto from de- claring the strong passion, I feel for you : one is, that I wished to make it known to you "by long services, and the other, that I was afraid you would regard it as a great vanity that a simple gentle- man like myself should raise his desires so high. Even though my birth were as illustrious as your own, a heart so true as yours would take it ill that any other than he on whom you have be- stowed it, the son of the Fortunate Infante, should talk to you of love. But, madam, as in war necessity often compels the belli- gerent to destroy his own property, and ruin his standing crops that the enemy may not profit by them, so I venture to forestall the fruit which I hoped to gather in time, lest your enemies and mine profit by our loss. Know, madam, that from the first moment I had the honour of seeing you, I so wholly consecrated myself to your service, though you were very young, that I have forgotten nothing whereby I could hope to acquire your good grace. It was to that end alone that I married her whom I thought you loved best ; and knowing the love you bore to the son of the For- 56 The Heptameron of the Qtieen of Navarre. lunate Infente, I took pains to serve him and be about him ; in short, whatever I thought could please you, I have tried with all my might to do. You see that I have had the good fortune to win the esteem of the countess your mother, of the count your brother, and of all those whom you love, and that I am regarded here not as a servant, but as a son of the family. All the pains I have taken for five years have had no other object than to procure me the happiness of passing my whole life with you. „I_crave_no favour or pleasure of you which is not_ consistent witJi„yi.rtueu,. I know that I cannot wed you, and if I could I would not do so to the prejudice of the love you bear to him whom I would gladly see as your husband. To love you with a criminal love, like those who presume to think that a lady's dishonour should be the recom- pense of their long services, is a thought I am so far from enter- taining, that I would rather see you dead than know that you were less worthy of love, and that your virtue should suffer the least blemish for the sake of any pleasure whatever to myself, I ask but one thing of you in recompense for my long services, and that is, that you will deign to become a mistress so loyal as never to remove me from your good grace, but let me continue on my present footing, and trust in me more than in anyone besides. Fur- thermore, madam, do me the honour to be well assured that, be the matter what it may, should you have need of the life of a gentleman, you may count on mine, wHicHHivroHErjaOTHceTM^ you right gladly. 1 beseech you to believe, likewise, madam, that whatever I shall do that is honourable and virtuo us shall be done for love of you. If, for sake of ladies inferior to you, I have done things which have been thought well of, what shall I not do for a mistress like you ? Things which I found difScult or impossible will seem easy to me. But if you will not permit me to be wholly devoted to you, my resolution is to forsake the career of arms, and renounce the virtue which shall not have helped me at need. I entreat you, then, madam, to grant ma , the just grace which I ask, and you cannot refuse in conscience 1 and with honour." .--' Florida changed colour at a speech so novel to her. Surprise made her cast down her eyes ; nevertheless, her good sense prompted her to reply, " Does it need so long an harangue, Ama- dour, to ask of me what you have already ? I fear so much that, under your seemingly courteous and modest language, there is some lurking mischief to deceive my unpractised youth, that I know not how to reply to you. Were I to reject the virtuous friendship you offer me, I should do contrary to what I have Novel 10,] First Day. 57 done hitherto ; for you are the person in whom I have reposed most confidence. My ponscience and my honour do not revolt either against your request or against the love I bear to the son of the Fortunate Infante, since it rests on marriage, to which you do not aspire. There is nothing, then, to hinder me from replying in accordance with your desires, except a fear I have in my heart, proceeding from the little occasion you have for speak. ing to me as you do ; for if you already have what you ask, how comes it that you ask for it again with so much eagerness ? " " You speak very prudently madam," replied Amadour, who had his answer ready, "and you do me so much honour and so much justice in putting the confidence in me you say, that if I were not content with such a blessing, I were unworthy of all others. But consider, madam, that he who wants to build a durable edifice must begin by laying a good and solid founda- tion. As I desire to remain for ever in your service, I think not ) only of the means of being near you, but also of hindering my I attachment to you from being perceived. Though this attach-_J ment, madam, is quite pure, yet those who do not know the I hearts of lovers often judge ill of them, and this gives occasion ' for scandal as much as if their conjectures were well founded^J What makes me speak of this is, that Paulina, who knows well that I cannot love her, suspects me so much that wherever I am she has her eyes continually upon me. When you speak to me before her with so much kindness, I am so much afraid of making some gesture on which she may rest a surmise that I fall into the very thing I wish to avoid. I am therefore constrained, madam, to request you will not for the future address me so sud- denly before her, or before those whom you know to be as mali- cious as she is, for I would rather die than that any creature livingA should perceive it. If your honour was less dear to me, I should \ not have been in haste to say this to you, since I am so happy / in the love and the confidence you manifest towards me, that l/ desire nothing more than their continuance." _J Florida was so gratified that she could hardly contain herself, c!nd thenceforth she felt in her heart emotions that were new to her. " Virtue and good breeding reply for me," she said, "andj grant you what you request." _i That Amadour was transported with joy will not be doubted by any who love. Florida followed his advice better than he could have wished ; for as she was timid not only in presence of Paulina, but everywhere else too, she no longer sought his society as she had been used to do. She even disapproved of his inter- 58 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. course with Paulina, who seemed to her so handsome that she could not believe he did not love her. Florida vented her grief with Aventurada, who was beginning to be very jealous of her husband and Paulina. She poured out her lamentations to Florida, who, being sick of the same distemper, consoled her as well as she could. _^ Amadour, soon perceiving the change in Florida's conduct, believed not only that she was reserved, as he had advised her to be, but even that she had conceived unfavourable sentiments with regard to him. One day, as he was escorting her home from a convent where she had heard vespers, "What sort of coun- tenance do you show me, madam ? " he said. .- " Such as I believe you wish me to show," she replied. Suspecting the truth then, he continued, " I have taken such means, madam, that Paulina no longer suspects you." " You could not do better for yourself and for me," she replied : " for while doing yourself pleasure, you do me honour." Amadour, inferring from this that she believed he took pleasure,^ in talking with Paulina, was so incensed that he could not help saying in anger, " You begin betimes, madam, to make me suifer. I am more to be pitied than blamed, and the most cruel mortifi- cation I have ever endured in my life is the painful necessity I am under of speaking to a woman I do not love. Since you put a bad interpretation on what I have done for your service, I will never speak more to Paulina, happen what may. To hide my sorrow as I have hidden my joy, I will retire to some place in the neighbourhood, and wait there till your caprice has passed away. But I hope I shall receive news from my cap- tain, and be obliged to return to the army, where I will remain so long as will prove to you, I hope, that nothing keeps me here but you." So saying, he went away without awaiting her reply, which caused Florida an anxiety it is impossible to express. Thus love began to make its strength felt through its opposite. Finding iSh reflection that she had been wrong, Florida wrote to Ama- dour, begging him to return, which he did after his anger had somewhat subsided. I cannot tell you in detail what they said to each other to destroy these prejudices of jealousy : but the , result was that he justified himself so well that she promised not only that she would never believe he loved Paulina, but that she ^ would remain convinced that it was a most cruel martyrdom for him to speak to her, or any other woman, except only with a view to render her service. Novel 10.] First Day. 59 After love had dissipated this cloud, and when the lovers were beginning to take more pleasure than'ever in each other's society, news came that the King of Spain was sending his whole army to Salces. Amadour, whose custom it was to be among the first to join the royal standards, would not miss this new-opportunity of acquiring glory ; but it niusl be owned that he set out with ■n-ftwontedr -regret, as well on account of the pleasure he lost, as because he was afraid of finding a change on his return. He reflected that Florida was now fifteen, that many princes and great lords were seeking her hand, and that if she married during his absence he would have no more opportunity of seeing her, unless the Countess of Aranda should give her Aventurada for her com- panion. Accordingly, he managed so adroitly that the countess and Florida both promised him that, wherever the latter resided after her marriage, his wife should never leave her ; and as there was a talk then of her being married in Portugal, it was resolved that Aventurada should accompany her to that country. Upon this assurance Amadour took his departure, not without extreme regret, and left his wife with the countess. Florida, left lonely by her lover's departure, lived in such a \ manner as _she hoped would gain for her the. reputation of the j 'most perfect virtue,;^nd make the whole world confess that she i trierit^ff^cff^" servant as Amadour. As for him, on arriving at Barcelona, he was cordially welcomed by the ladies ; but they found him so changed that they never could have believed that marriage could have such an effect upon a man. In fact, he was no longer the same ; he was even vexed at the sight of what he formerly desired ; and the Countess of Palamos, of whom he had been so enamoured, could never find means to make hLm even visit her. Being impatient to reach the spot where honour was to be gained, he made as short a stay as possible in Barce- lona. He was no sooner arrived at Salces than war broke out with great fury between the two kings. I will not enrer into details of the campaign, nor enumerate the heroic actions per- formed in it by Amadour, for then, instead of telling a tale, I should have to compose a great book. It is enough to say that ( his renown overtopped that of all his comrades in arms. The \ Duke of " Nagfyeres, who commanded two thousand men, arrived at Perpignan, and took Amadour for his lieutenant. He did his duty so well with his little corps that in every skirmish no other cry was heard than that of Nagyeres 1 Now the King of Tunis, who had long been at war with the Spaaiards, learning that Spain and France were waging mutual 63 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. hostilities about Perpignan and Narbonne, thought it a good op- portunity to harass the King of Spain, and sent a great number of ships to pillage and destroy every ill-guarded point they found on the coasts of Spain. The people of Barcelona, seeing so many strange sail pass by, sent word to the viceroy, who was then at Salces, and who immediately despatched the Duke ot Nagyeres to Palamos. The barbarians, finding the place so well defended, made a feint of sheering off; but they returned in the night, and landed so many men that the Duke of Nagyeres, who had let himself be surprised, was taken prisoner. Amadour, who was very vigilant, hearing the noise, assembled instantly as many of his men as he could, and made so stout a resistance that the enemy, however superior in numbers, were for a long time held at bay. But at last, learning that the Duke of Nagyeres was a prisoner, and that the Turks were resolved to burn Palamos and the house in which he withstood them, he^thought_it bettet, to surrender than to , cause the loss of those who had followed him. Besides, by paying for his ransom, he expected to see Florida again. He surrendered then to a Turk named Dorlin, Viceroy of Tunis, who presented him to his master, in whose service he remained nearly two years, honoured and well treated, but still better guarded ; for, having him in their hands, the Turks thought they had the Achilles of all the Spains. The news of this event having reached Spain, the relations of Jhe Duke of Nagyeres were greatly affected at his disaster ; but Whose who had the glory pf the country at heart thought the loss Ujf Amadour still more grievous. It became known to the Countess of Aranda, in whose house poor Aventurada lay dangerously ill. The countess, who had great misgivings as to the tender feelings which Amadour entertained for her daughter, but concealed or tried to suppress them, in consideration of the virtues which she recognized in him, called her daughter aside to communicate this painful intelligence to her. Florida, who could dissejaible, well, said it was a great loss forTKetrwEoTe" house, and that,' above all, she pitied his poor wife, who, to make the matter worse, was on her sick bed ; but seeing that her mother wept much, she let fall a few tears to keep her company, for fear that the feint should be discovered by being overdone; The countess often talked with her again on the subject, but could never draw from her any indication on which she could form a definite conclusion. I will say nothing of the pilgrimagesri prayers, orisons, and fasts which Florida regularly performed for I Amadour's safety. Immediately on his reaching Tunis, he sens Novel 10.] First Day. 6i an expressto Florida to acquaint her that he was in good health, and full of hope that he should see her again, which was a great consolation to her. In return, she corresponded with him so diligently that Amadour had not leisure to grow impatient. At this period the countess received orders to repair tc Saragossa, where the king was. The young Duke of Cardona was there, and bestirred himself so effectually with the king and the queen that they begged the countess to conclude the mar- riage between him and Florida. The countess, who neither could nor would refuse their majesties anything, consented to it the more willingly as she believed that her daughter would at those years have no other will than hers. All being settled, she told her daughter she had chosen for her the match she thought would be most advantageous ; and Florida submitted, seeing no room was left her for deliberation, the business being already set- tled. To make matters worse, she heard that the Fortunate Infante was at the point of death. She never suffered the least evidence of her mortification to escape in presence of her mother or any- one else ; and so strongly did she conceal her feelings, that in- stead of shedding tears she was seized with a bleeding at the nose so copious as to endanger her life. By way of re-establish- ing her health, she married the man she would willingly have exchanged for death. After her marriage she went with her husband to the duchy of Cardona, and took with her Aven- turada, whom she acquainted, in confidence, with her mother's harshness towards her, and her regret for the loss of the For- tunate Infante ; but with regard to Amadour, sl^e ,^oke of hiirv only to console his wife. Resolutely setting TGod "s^nd'honourT^ before her eyes, she so well concealed her sorr&w^that floire of those who were most intimate with her ever perceived that she/ disliked her husband. J ■ For a long time did she continue this life, which was hardly ~j better than death. She failed not to make all known to ~Sma- [ dourTwho, knowing the gp-eatness of her heart, and how she had ) loved the Fortunate Infante, thought it impossible she could live long, and mourned for her as one whom he looked upon as worse than dead. This affliction augmented that under which he already laboured. Gladly would he have been a slave all his life, so Florida had found a husband after her own heart ; for the thought of his mistress's sorrows made him forget his own. Mean- while, he learned from a friend he had made at the court of Tunis, that the king was resolved to give him his choice, either to re- nounce his faith or be impaled, for he wished to keep him in his \ 62 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. service, if he could make a good Turk of him. To prevent this, Amadour prevailed upon his master to let him go upon his parole without speaking to the king ; and his ransom was set so high that the Turk calculated that a man who had so little wealth could never raise the amount. On his return to the court of Spain he made but a short stay there, and went away to seek his ransom in the purses of his friends. He went straight to Barcelona, whither the young Duke of Cardona, his mother, and Florida were gone on some business. Aventurada was no sooner apprised of her husband's '("return than she imparted the news to Florida, who rejoiced at it , asJfJorJier sake. But for fear lest the joy of again beholding Amadour should produce a change in her countenance, which might be noticed by those who did not know her, and therefore would misjudge her, she placed herself at a window, in order to catch sight of him at a distance, and the moment she perceived n, running down a staircase so dark that it was impossible to discern if she changed colour, she embraced him, took him up to her chamber, and then presented him to her mother-in-law, who I had never seen him. He had not been there two days before he 'Tvas as great a favourite as he had been in the house of the Countess of Aranda. (J will say nothing of the conversation between Florida and Amadour, nor all she told him of the afflictions she had incurred during his absence. After many tears wrung from her eyes by her grief at having married contrary to her inclination, and at having lost him whom she loved so passionately, and whom she never hoped to see again, she resolved to console herself with the love and confidence she had in Amadour. However, she durst not avow her intentions ; but Amadour, who suspected them, lost neither time nor opportunity to make known to her how much he loved her. Just when Florida could hardly refrain from advancing Amadour from the condition of an expectant to that of a favoured lover, a distressing and very inopportune accident occurred. The king summoned Amadour to the court upon' an affair of importance." His wife was so shocked by this news that she fainted, and falling down a flight of stairs, hurt herself so much that she never recovered. Florida, whom her death bereaved of all her con- solation, was as much afflicted as one who had lost all her good V friends and relations. Amadour was inconsolable, for, on the one hand he lost one of the best of wives, and, on the other hand, the means of being again with Florida ; and so over- whelming was his grief that he was near dying suddenly. The Nffi'd 10.] Fitst Day. 63 old Duchess of Cardona was constantly at his bedside, repeating the arguments of the, philosophers to console him ; but it was of no avail, for if his grief foFthe'dead was great, his love for the living made him a martyr. Amadour's wife being interred, and the king's orders being pressing, he could find no pretext to prolong his stay ; which so augmented his anguish that he had like to lose his senses. Florida, who, thinking to console him, was his very desolation, passed a whole afternoon in conversing with him in the most gracious manner, thinking to comfort him by the assurance that she would always find means to see him, oftener than he supposed. As he was to depart on the following day, and was so weak that he could not quit his bed, he entreated her to come again in the evening to see him, after everyone else had left him. She promised to do so, not knowing that excessive love knows no ,_ restraint of reason ; whilst he, desparing- for the future of seeing her whom he had so long loved, and of whom he had never had but what you have seen, was so racked by his love and his despair that he resolved to play, as it were, at double or quits — that is to say, to win or lose all, and to pay himself in one hour for what he thought he had merited. He had his bed hung with such good curtains that he could not be seen by persons in the room, and he complained more than usual, so that everybody in the house thought he had not four-and-twenty hours to live. After everyone else had visited him in the evening, Florida ^ came, at the request of her husband himself, to see him, her mind I made up to console him by a declaration of her affection, and to [ tell him, v\athoutd.isguise_or reserve, that she was resolved to love ! him as much as honour couT3~arrbw her. Seated beside the head I of his bed, she began her consolations by weeping with him , seeing which, Amadour fancied that in this great agitation of her mind he could the more easily accomplish his purpose, and he sat up in his bed. Florida, thinking he was too weak to do this, offered to prevent him. " Must I lose you for ever ? " he ex- claimed, on his knees ; and saying this he let himself fall into her arms like a man whose strength suddenly failed him. Poor Florida embraced and supported him a long while, doing her best- to comfort him ; but the remedy she applied to assuage his, pain increased it greatly. Still counterfeiting the appearance of one half dead, and saying not a word, hesetJiiiRself-Mi-qu£st-Di what the honour of ladies prohibits. TlMTda, seeing his bad intentionrburunabTeTO"beiteve- it after the laudable language he had always addressed to her, asked him what he meant. Ama- 64 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. dour, feaiing to provoke a reply which he knew could not be other than chaste and virtuous, went straight to his mark with- out saying a word. Florida's surprise was extreme, and choosing rather to believe that his brain was turned than that he had a deliberate design upon her virtue, she called aloud to a gentle- man who she knew was in the room ; whereupon Amadour, in an agony of despair, threw himself back on his bed so suddenly that the gentleman thought he was dead. Florida, who had risen from her chair, sent the gentleman to fetch some vinegar, and then said to Amadour, " Are you mad, Amadour ? What is this you have thought of doing ?" " Do such long services as mine merit such cruelty?" repliei Amadour, who had lost,,ailj.easonjn_thej:iideace.QLii " And where is that honour you have so often preached to me ? " she retorted. ' " ^^ "Ah, madam," said he, "it is impossible to love your honour more than I have done. As long as you were unmarried I so well mastered my passion that you never were aware of it ; but now that you are married and your honour is shielded^ what wrong ^do I do you iiTaskiYi^of yoiTwhat belongs-tajn£2 For have I not won you by the force of iflyTove? The first who had your heart has so little coveted your body that he deserved to lose both. He who possesses your body is unworthy to have your heart, and consequently your body even does not belong to him. But I have taken such pains for your sake during the last five or six years that you cannot but be aware, madam, that to me alone belong your body and your heart, for which I have forgotten my own. If you thinlc to excuse youself on the ground of con- science, doubt not that when love forces the body and the heart, sin is never imputed. Those even who are so infuriated as to Tciir themselves cannot sin; for passion^ leaves no room for reason. And if the passion of love is the most intolerable of alTofhers, and that which most blinds all the senses, what sin would you attribute to him who lets himself be led by an in- vincible power ? I am constrained to go away without the hope of ever seeing you again. But if I had from you before my departure that assurance which my love deserves, I should be strong enough patiently to endure the pains of that long absence. If, however, you will not grant me what I ask, you will soon learn that your rigour has caused me to perish miserably." — Florida, equally astonished and grieved at hearing such language from a man whom till then she had never distrusted, replied, in tears, " Is this, Amadour, the end of all the virtuous N'ovel io.'\ First Day. 65 speeches you have made me during my youth ? Is this the i^u£ and the conscience you have often counselled me to prize more than my owiTTife? Have you forgotten the good examples you have given me of virtuous ladies who have with- stoodjcriminallove, and the scorn you have always expressed for tKe wanton? ~I cannot believe, Amadour, that you are so different from yourself thatjGod, your conscience, and my honour i'!^-*^^*'* '" y°"- But if what' you "say" is true, I thank God ftfr- having prevented the misfortune into which I had nearlv fallen, by causing your tongue to make known to me the bottom of your heart, which I have never fathomed till now. After losing the son of the Fortunate Infante, not only by my mar- riage, but also because I know he loves another, and seeing myself wedded to a man I cannot love in spite of all my efforts, I had resolved to love you with my whole heart, basing my"l affection onthat virtue which I thought I discerned in you, and which I tfiinY I have attained through your means, which is to ; love my honour and my conscience more than my very life. 1 With these laudable views I had come, Amadour, to lay a good" foundation for the future ; but you have convinced me that I should have built on a drifting sand, or rather on loathsome mud ; and though a great part of the house was already built, in i which I hoped perpetually to abide, you have knocked it all j down at a blow. So never more expect anything of me ; and;' never think of speaking to me, wherever I may be, either with your tongue or your eyes ; and be assured that my sentiments will never change. I say this to you with extreme regret. If I had plighted you a perfect friendship, I am sure my heart could not have borne this rupture and lived ; though, indeed, the amazement into which I am cast at having been deceived is so intense and poignant that, if it does not cut short my life, it will at least render it very unhappy. I have no more to say but to bid you an eternal farewell." I will not attempt to describe the anguish of Amadour at hearing these words. It would be impossible not only to depict it but even to imagine it, except for those who have been in a similar position. As Florida turned to depart, he caught her by the arm, well knowing that he should lose her for ever unless he removed the bad opinion his conduct had caused her to entertain of him. " It.JjaS—b£S5^bS_ lodging of my whole ( life, .madara,"-W.'iaid,.55d.t_h, the, most sanclimonious countenance". ,' he could assume, "tolove a wornan of virtue ; and as I'have found' | few such, I w'shed to know if you were as estimable in that 1 F 66 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. respect as you are for beauty ; whereof I am now, thanks be to I God, fully convinced. I congratulate myself on having given \ my heart to such an assemblage of perfections ;,.and I entreat I you, madam, to pardon my^ capriceand ijiy audacity, -jgince the \ denouement is so glorious for you, and yields me such pleasure. ';, J Florida was beginning to have her eyes opened to the wiles of I men ; and as she had been slow to believe evil, where it existed, / she was still slower to believe good where it was not. " Would/ to God," she said, " that your words were true ; but I am nofso ignorant but that my married experience shows me clearly that ; the force and infatuation of passion have made you do what_you 'have done. Had God siiffered me to slacken tKe"feins, I am quite sure you would not have tightened them. No one would think of looking for virtue in that sort of way. But enough of this. If I too lightly gave you credit for some goodness, it is time I should know the truth, which now delivers me out of your hands." So saying, she left the room, and passed the whole night in tears. The anguish she felt from the change was so great that she could hardly bear it. Reason told her she should cease to love, but her heart told her quite another thing, and who can master the heart ? Unable, then, to overcome her love, she resolved to cherish it as warmly as ever, but to suppress all tokens of it for the satisfaction of her honour. Amadour went away the next day in a state of mind easily imagined, His great heart, however, instead of letting him yield to despair, suggested to him a new device whereby he might again see Florida and regain her goodwill. Taking the road then to Toledo, where the King of Spain was residing, he passed through the county of Aranda, arrived late one evening at the countess's mansion, and found the countess sick with grief at the absence of Florida. She kissed and embraced Amadour as though he were her own son, both because she loved him, and because she suspected that he loved Florida, She asked news, of her, and he gave her as much as he could, but not all true. He avowed the friendship which subsisted between them, which Florida had always concealed, begged her mother often to send him news of her, and to bring her soon to Aranda. He passed the night at the countess's, and continued his journey next day. Having despatched his business with the king, he joined the^*" army, but looked so melancholy and so changed that the ladies and the captains with whom he was intimate could hardly believe he was the same man. He wore only black clothes, and those of a ^> much coarser kind than was requisite for the mourning he wora 1 JVovei 10."] Mrs/ Day, 67 ostensibly for his wife, whose death served as a convenient pre- V text for his sadness. Amadour lived in this way for three or |\ four years without returning to court. The Countess of Aranda, hearing that her daughter was piteously changed, wanted her to come laack to her, but Florida would not ; for when she learned that Amadour had acquainted her mother with their mutual friendship, and that her mother, though so discreet and virtuous, had so much confidence in Amadour that she approved of it, she was in marvellous perplexity. On the one hand, she considered that if she told her mother the truth it might occasion mischief to Amadour, which she would not have done for her life, believing that she was quite able to punish his insolence without any help from her relations. On the other hand, she foresaw that, if she concealed his misconduct, her mother and her friends would oblige her to speak with him and show him a fair countenance, and thereby, as she feared, encourage his evil intentions. How- ever, as he was far away, she said nothing of what was past, and wrote to him when the countess desired her to do so ; but it was plain from the tone of her letters, that they were written, not from her spontaneous impulses, but in obedience to her mother, so that Amadour felt pain in reading them instead of the trans- ports of joy with which he had formerly received them. Having during two or three years performed so many fine exploits that all the paper in Spain could not contain them, he devised a grand scheme, not to regain Florida's heart, for he believed he had lost it wholly, but to vanquish„l3is enemy, since 1 such she declared herself. Setting ^ sidfi-geason) and even the fear_of__cleath-t3_which he ex]pqsed_himself, he ad opted~flTe fol- lowing course. He~rna3e such interest with the govemor-in- chief that he was deputed to go and report to the king respecting certain enterprises that were in hand against Leucate ; and, withou' caring for the consequences, he communicated the pur- port of his journey to the Countess of Aranda before he had mentioned it to the king. As he knew that Florida was with her mother, he posted to the countess's, under pretence of wish- ing to take her advice, and sent one of his friends before him to apprise her of his coming, begging she would not mention it, and would do him the favour to speak with him at night unknown to everyone. The countess, very glad of this news, imparted it to Florida, and sent her to undress in her husband's room, that she might be ready when she should send for her after everyone was in bed. Florida, who had not recovered from her first fear, said nothing of it, however, to her mother, and went to her 68 Tlu Hepamenn ef tJu Queen of Navarre. oratory to commend herself to God, and pray that He would, ^ guard her heart from all weakness. Remembering that Amadour / had often praised her for her beauty, which had lost nothing by \ her long illness, she chose rather to impair it with her own hand than to suffer it to kindle so criminal a fire in the heart of so worthy a man. To this end she took a stone, which she found opportunely, and gave herself such a great blow with it on the face that her mouth, eyes, and nose were quite disfigured. That \ it might not appear she had done it designedly, when the couriS""^ less sent for her she let herself fall on coming out of her oratory. The countess hearing her cries hurried to her, and found her in that sad condition. Florida raised herself up and told her mother she had struck her face against a great stone. Her wounds were immediately dressed and her face bandaged, after which her mother sent her to her own chamber, and begged her to enter- tain Amadour, who was in her cabinet, until she had got rid of her company. Florida obeyed, supposing that Amadour had some one with him ; but when she found herself alone with him, and the door closed, she was as much vexed as Amadour was delighted, fancying that he should achieve, by fair means or by force, what he had so long coveted, After a brief conversation, finding her sentiments unchanged, and hearing from her lips a protestation that, though it were to cost her her life, she would never swerve from the principles she had'^ professed at their last meeting, he exclaimed, desperately, " By God, Florida, your scruples shall not deprive me of the fruit of Hiy toils. Since love, patience, and entreaties are of no avail, • will employ force to have that without which I should perish," i Amadour's visage and his eyes were so changed that the--i handsomest complexion in the world was become red as fire, and the mildest and most agreeable aspect so horrible an4 lu^rious^ , that it seemed as though the fire in his heart blazed out through his eyes. In his rage he had seized both Florida's delicate hands in his strong gripe, and finding herself deprived of all means of defence or flight, she thought the only chance left her was to try if his former love was so extinct that it could not dis- arm his cruelty. " If I must now look upon you as an enemy, Amadour, she said, " I conjure you, by the virtuous love with which I formerly believed your heart was animated, at least to hear me before you do me violence. What can possess you, Amadour," she said, " seeing that he listened to her, " to desire a thing that can give you no pleasure, and would overwhelm me wi*h giief ? You have so well known my sentiments during my No-vel lo.] First Day. 6g youth and my prime, which might have served as an excuse for your passion, that I wonder how, at my present age, and ugly as you see I am, you seek for that which you know you caanot find. I am sure you do not doubt that my sentiments are still the same, and, consequently, that nothing but violence can enable you to obtain your wishes. Look at the state of my face, forget the beauty you have seen in it, and you will lose all desire to approach me. If there is any remnant of love in your heart, it is impossible but that pity shall prevail over your rage. It is to your pity, and to the virtue of which you have given me so many proofs, that I appeal for mercy. Do not destroy my peace of mind, and make no attempt upon my honour, which, in accord- ance with your counsel, I am resolved to preserve. If the love you had for me has degenerated into hate, and you design from vindictiveness rather than affection to make me the most miserable woman on earth, I declare to you that it shall not be so, and that you will force me to complain openly of your vicious conduct to her who is so prejudiced in your favour. If you reduce me to this extremity, consider that your life is not safe." " If I must die," replied Amadour, " a moment will put an end to all my troubles ; but the disfigurement of your face, which I believe is your own work, shall not hinder me from doing what I am resolved ; for though I could have nothing of you but your bones, I would have them close to me." Finding that entreaties, arguments, and tears were useless, Florida had recourse to what she feared as much as the loss of life, and screamed out as loudly as she could to her mother. The countess, on hearing her cries, at once suspected the truth, and hastened to her with the utmost promptitude. Amadour, who was not so near dying as he said, let go his hold so quickly that the countess, on opening the cabinet, found him at the door, and Florida far enough away from him. " What is the matter, Amadour ? " said the countess. " Tell me the truth." Amadour, who was prepared beforehand, and was never at a loss for an expedient at need, answered, with a pale and woebegone counten- ance, " Alas ! madam, I no longer recognize Florida. Never was man more surprised than I am. I thought, as I told you, , that I had some share in her goodwill, but now I see plainly I have no longer any. Methinks, madam, that whilst she lived with you she was neither less discreet nor less virtuous than she is now ; but she had no squeams of conscience to hinder her from talking to people and looking them in the face. I wanted to look at her, but she would not allow it. Seeing this, I though yo The Heplameron of the Queen of Navarre. I mus*. be in a dream or a trance, and I asked leave to kiss her hand, according to the custom of the country, but she absolutely refused it. It is true, madam, I have done wrong, and I crave your pardon for it, in taking her hand and kissing it in a manner by force. I asked nothing more of her, but I see plainly that she is resolved upon my death, and that, I believe, is why she called you, Perhaps she was afraid I had some other design upon her. Be that as it may, madam, I acknowledge I was wrong ; for though she ought to love all your good servants, such is my ill-luck, that I have no part in her goodwill. My heart will not change for all that, with regard either to her or to you ; and I entreat you, madam, to let me retain your goodwill, since I have lost hers without deserving it." The countess, who partly believed and partly doubted, asked her why she had called out so loudly. Florida replied that she did so because she was frightened. The countess asked her many other questions, and never got any but the same reply ; for having escaped from her enemy, Florida thought him sufficiently punished by the disappointment. After the countess had con- versed a long time with Amadour, she let him talk again with Florida in her presence, in order to see how he would look ; but he said little to her, and contented himself with thanking her for not having told her mother, and begging her that at least, since he was banished from her heart, another might not profit by his disgrace. "If I could have defended myself in any other way," said Florida, " all would have passed between our two selves. You shall be let off with this, unless you force me to do worse. Do not be afraid that I shall ever love ; for since I have been deceived in my judgment of a heart which I thought was full of virtue, I shall never believe that a man exists who is worthy to be trusted. This misfortune will make me banish for ever from my breast all passions which love can occasion." So saying, she took leave of him. Her mother, who had been watching them, could come to no conclusion, except that she saw clearly that her daughter had no longer any friendship for Amadour. She thought this unreason- able, and that it was enough for herself to like anyone to make Florida conceive an aversion for that person. From t^iat moment she was so displeased with her that for seven years she never spoke to her but with asperity, and all this at the solici- tation of Amadour. Florida, who had formerly shunned nothing .10 much as her husband's presence, resolved to pass all her life by his side, to avoid her mother's harshness ; but seeing jVand honours, and you may speak to me as to your own smif, being sure that whatever I can do is at your command." The duke then declared the passion with which he was pos- sessed for his favourite's sister, and told him it was impossible he should live long unless the brother enabled him to enjoy her ; for he was quite sure that prayers or presents would be of nc Novel 12.] Second Day. 81 avail with her. " If, then," said the duke, in conclusion, " you love my life as much as I love yours, find means to secure me a bliss I can never obtain but through your aid." The gentleman, who loved his sister and the honour of his house more than his master's pleasure, remonstrated with him, and implored him, not to reduce him to the horrible necessity of soliciting the dishonour, of his family, protesting there was nothing he would not do for^ his master, but that his honour would not suffer him to perform such a service as that. The duke, inflamed with intolerable_ a£geii. bit his nails, and replied, furiously, " Since I find noj friendship in you, I know what I have to do." The gentleman, who knew his master's cruelty, was alarmed, and said, " Since you absolutely insist on it, my lord, I will speak to her." " If you set store by my life, I will set store by yours," were the duke's last words as he went away. The gentleman knew well what this meant, and remained aJ day or two without seeing the duke, pondering over the means of extricating himself from so bad a dilemma. On the one hand, 1 he considered the obligations he was under to his master, the I wealth and honours he had received from him ; on the other hand, he thought of the honour of his house, and the virtue and chastity of his sister. He knew very weTTfhat she never would consent to such infamy, unless she were overcome by fraud orj violence, which he could not think of employing, considering the shame it would bring upon him and her. In fine, he made up his mind that he would rather die than behave so vilely to his sister, who was one of the best women in Italy ; and he resolved to deliver his country from a tyrant who was bent on disgracing his house ; for he saw clearly that the only means of securing the lives of himself and his kindred was to get rid of the duke. Re- solved, then, without speaking to his sister, to save his life and prevent his shame by one and the same deed, he went after two days to the duke, and told him that he had laboured so hard with his sister that at last, with infinite difficulty, he had brought her to consent to the duke's wishes, but on condition that the affair should be kept secret, and that no one should know of it but they three. As people readily believe what they desire, the' duke put implicit faith in the brother's words. He embraced" him, promised him everything he could ask, urged him to hasten the fulfilment of his good tidings, and appointed a time with him for that purpose. When the exulting duke saw the approach of the night he so longed for, in which he expected to conquer her whom he hao G 82 The Heptameron of tlte Queen of Navarre. thought invincible, he retired early with his favourite, and did not forget to dress and perfume himself with his best care. When all was still, the gentleman conducted him to his sister's abode, and showed him into a magnificent chamber, where he undressed him, put him to bed, and left him, saying, " I am going, my lord, to bring you one who will not enter this room without blushing ; but I hope that before day dawns she will be assured of you." He then went away to his own room, where he found one trusty servant awaiting him by his orders. " Is thy heart bold enougjL" he said to him, "to follow me to a place where I have to^CTengeJJ myself on the greatest of my enemies ?" "Yes, my lord, ' re- j plied the man, who knew nothing of the matter in hand, " though it were upon the duke himself." Thereupon, without giving the man time for reflection, the gentleman hurried him away so abruptly that he had not time to take any other weapon than a poniard with which he was already armed. The duke, hearing his favourite's footsteps at the door, believed that he was bringing him the object of his passion, and threw open the curtains to behold and welcome her ; but instead of her he saw her brother advance upon him with a drawn sword. Un- .irmed, but undaunted, the duke started up, seized the gentleman round the middle, saying, " Is this the way you keep your word ?" and for want of other weapons used his nails and his teeth, bit his antagonist in the thumb, and defended himself so well that they fell together beside the bed. The gentleman,' not feeling confident in his own strength, called his man, who, seeing his master and the duke grappling each other so desperately that he could not well distinguish which was which in that dark spot, dragged them both out by the heels into the middle of the room, and then set about cutting the duke's throat with his poniard. The duke defended himself to the last, until he was exhausted by loss of blood. Then the gentleman and his man laid him on the bed, finished him with their poniards, drew the curtains upon the body, and left the room, locking the door behind them. r- Having slain his enemy and liberated the republic, the gentle- man thought that his exploit would not be complete unless he did the same by five or six near relations of the duke. To this \ end he ordered his man to go and fetch them one by one ; but the servant, who had neither vigour nor boldness enough, re- plied, " It strikes me, my lord, that you have done enough for the present, and that you had much better think of saving your Ntrve/ 12.] Second Day. S3 own life than of taking that of others. If every one of them should take as long to despatch as the duke, it would be daylight,^ before we had finished, even should they be unarmed." As the] guilty are easily susceptible of the contagion of fear, the gentle- I man took his servant's advice, and went with him alone to a bishop, whose place it was to have the gates opened and to give orders to the postmasters. The gentleman told the prelate he had just received intelligence that one of his brothers was at the point of death ; that the duke had given him leave to go to him, and therefore he begged his lordship would give him an order to the postmasters for two good horses, and to the gate-keepers to let him pass. The bishop, to whom his request seemed almost equivalent to a command from the duke his master, gave him a note, by means of which he at once obtained what he required ; but instead of going to see his brother, he made straight for Venice, where he had himsell cured of the bites inflicted by the duke, and then passed over into Turkey. Next morning the duke's servants, not seeing or hearing any- thing of him, concluded that he had gone to see some lady ; but at last becoming uneasy at his long absence, they began to look for him in all directions. The poor duchess, who was begin- ning to love him greatly, was extremely distressed at hearing that he could not be found. The favourite also not making his appearance, some of the servants went for him to his house. They saw blood at his chamber door, but no one could give any account of him. The trace of blood led the duke's servants to the chamber where he lay, and finding the door locked, they broke it open at once, saw the floor covered with blood, drew the curtains, and beheld the duke stark dead on the bed. Picture to yourselves the affliction of these servants, as they carried the body to the palace. The bishop arrived there at the same time, and told them how the gentleman had fled in the night under pretence of going to see his brother. This was i enough to lead everyone to the _ conclusion that it was he who_J had done the deed. It clearly^ appeared -lhat his sister hadj known nothing about it. Thougb she was surprised at so un- / expected ah event, she loved her brother for it, since, without regard to his own life, he had delivered her from a tyrant who was bent on the ruin of her honour. She continued alwaysjto J lead the same virtuous life ; and though she was reduced to j Doverty by the confiscation of all the family property, her siscer and she found husbands as honourable and wealthy as any in 84 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarrt. Italy. Both of them have always lived subsequently in tht best repute.* Here is a fact, ladies, which should make you beware of that little god, who delights in tormenting princes and private per- sons, the strong and the weak, and who so infatuates them that they forget God and their conscience, and even the care of their own lives. Princes and those who are in authority ought to fear to outrage their inferiors. There is no man so insignificant but he can do mischief when it is God's will to inflict vengeance on the sinner, nor any so great that he can do hurt to one whom God chooses to protect. This story was listened to by the whole company, but wifS%, very different sentiments. Some maintained that the gentleman had done well in securing his own life and his sister's honour, and delivering his country from such a tyrant. Others, on the , contrary, said that it was enormously ungrateful to take the life j of a man who had loaded him with wealth and honours. The ladies said he was a good brother and a virtuous citizen ; the f gentlemen, on the contrary, maintained that he was a traitor and a bad servant. It was amusing to hear the opinions and argu- ments delivered on the one side and on the other : but the ladies, as usual, spoke more from passion than from judgmentj_s.aying^ that the duke deserved Seath, and that blessed was the brother who had slain him. " Ladies," said Dagoucin, who saw what a lively controversy he had excited, " pray do not put yourselves in a passion about a thing that is past and gone ; only take care that your beauties do not occasion murders more cruel than that which I have related." " ' The Fair Lady without Compassion,' "f said Parlamente, " has taught us to say that people hardly ever die of so agree- able a malady." " Would to God, madam,'' rejoined Dagoucin, " that every lady here knew how false is this notion. They would not then, I imagine, desire the reputation of being pitiless, or like to re- * The historical fact related in this novel is one of the most celebrated in the annals of Florence, The dulce was Alessandro, natural son of Lorenzo de Medicis, and the murderer was his cousin, Lorenzo de Medici. Historians state that the latter decoyed the duke to his house under pretence of affording him an interview with a Florentine lady, but they do not mention that she was Lorenzo's sister. t Za Belle Dame sins Mentis the title of a poem by Alain Chartier, in the form of a long metaphysical dialogue between a lady and her lover. \ JVovt'/ 12.] Second Day. 8j semble that incredulous fair one who let a good servant die for want of responding favourably to his passion." " So, then," said Parlamente, " to save the life of a man who says he loves us, you would have us violate our honour and our conscience ?" "I do not say that," replied Dagoucin, "for he who loves thoroughly would be more afraid of hurting the honour of his mistress than she herself. Hence it seems to me that a gracious response, such as is called for by a seemly and genuine love, / would only give more lustre to the honour and conscience of a | lady. I say a seemly love, for I maintain that those who love; otherwise do not love perfectly." J "That is always the upshot of your orisons," said Ennasuite. "You begin with honour, and end with its opposite. If all the gentlemen present will tell us the truth of the matter, I will believe them on their oaths." Hircan swore that he had never loved anyone but his wife, and that it was far from his wish to make her offend God. Simontault spoke to the same effect, and added that he had often wished that all women were ill'-natured except his own wife. " You deserve that yours should be so," retorted Geburon ; " but for my part, I can safely swear that I loved a woman so much that I would rather have died than have made her do anything capable of diminishing the esteem in which I held her. My love was so founded upon her virtues, that I would not have seen a stain upon them for the most precious favours I could have i obtained from her." ' ! " I thought, Geburon," said Saffredent, laughing, " that the love you have for your wife, and the good sense with which nature has endowed you, would have saved you from playing the lover elsewhere ; but I see I was mistaken, for you use the very phrases which we are accustomed to employ to dupe the most subtle of dames, and under favour of which we obtain a hearing from the most discreet. Where is the lady, indeed,' who will not lend us an ear when we begin our discourse with honour and virtue ? But if we were all to lay open our hearts before them just as they are, there is many a man well received) by the ladies, whom then they would not condescend so much as to look upon. We hide our devil under the form of the hand-f somest angel we can find, and so receive many a favour before we are found out. Perhaps, even, we lead the ladies so far, that thinking to go straightto virtue, they have neither time nor oppor. tunity to retreat when they find themselves face to face with vice." 86 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. " I thought you quite a different sort of man," said Geburon, and imagined virtue was more agreeable to you than pleasure." " Why," said Saffredent, " is there any greater virtue than to love in the way God has ordained ? To me it seems much better to love a woman as a woman, than to make her one's idol, as many do. For my part, I am convinced that it is better to use than to abuse." All the ladies coincided in opinion with Geburon, and bade Saffredent hold his tongue. " Very well," said he, " I am con- tent to say no more on the subject, for I have fared so badly with regard to it that I don't want to have any more to do with it." "You may thank your own bad thoughts for having fared badly," said Longarine ; " for where is the woman with a proper sense of decorum who would have you for a lover after what you have just said ? " " There are those," he retorted, "who did not think me in- tolerable, and who would not have exchanged their own sense of decorum for yours. But let us say no more about it, in order that my anger may shock no one, and may not shock myself. Let us think to whom Dagoucin will give his voice." " I give it to Parlamente," he replied at once, " persuaded as I am that she must know better than anyone what is honourable and perfect friendship." " Since you elect me to tell a story," said Parlamente, " I will relate to you one which occurred to a lady who had always been one of my good friends, and who has never concealed anything from me." NOVEL xin. The captain of a galley, under pretence of devotion, fell in love with a demoiselle. What happened in consequence, |HERE was in the household of the regent, mother of King Francis, a veryde yout lady, married to a gentle- man_gf JhcsameTcEiracter! Though her husband was old, and she young and fair, nevertheless she served him and loved him as though he had been the handsomest young man in the world. To leave him no cause of uneasiness, she made it her care to live with him like a woman of his own age, shunning all company, all magnificence in dress, all dances and diver- sions such as women are usually fond of, and making the service of God her sole pleasure and recreation. One day her husband told her that from his youth upwards he had longed to make the Navel 1-i.] Second Day, 87 journey to Jerusalem, and he asked her what she thought of the "j matter. She, whose only thought was how to please him, replied: -J " Since God has deprived us of children, my dear, and has given us wealth enough, I should be strongly inclined to spend a part of it in performing that sacred journey ; for, whether you go to Jerusalem or elsewhere, I am resolved to accompany, and never forsake you." The good man was so pleased with this reply that he fancied himself already standing on Mount Calvary. Just at this time there arrived at court a gentleman who had served long against the Turks, and who was come to obtain the king's approval for a projected enterprise against a fortress be- longing to the Ottomans, the success of which was likely to be very advantageous to Christendom. The old devotee talked with him about his expedition, and learning from him that he was resolved upon it, asked him if he would be disposed, after it was accomplished, to make another journey to Jerusalem, which him- self and his wife had a great desire to see. The captain, highly approving of so good a design, promised to accompany him, and -1 to keep the thing secret. The old gentleman was impatient to ) see his wife, to tell her what he had done. As she had scarcely less longing than her husband to perform the journey, she talked ■% of it often to the captain, who, paying more attention to her per^ / son than to her words, become so much in love with her that, in J talking to her of the voyages he had made by sea, he often con- founded the port of Marseilles with the Archipelago, and said horse when he meant to say ship, so much was he beside himself. He found her, however, of so singular a character that he durst not let her see that he loved her, much less tell her so in words. The fire of his passjan .became so violent by dint o f^his conceal- ~1 ingjt that it oftea_madie-him ill. / The demoiselle, who regarded him as her guide, took as mucfi~^ care of him as of the cross, and sent to inquire after him so often that the interest she evinced for him cured the patient without the aid of physic. Several persons, who knew that the capt ain ] had always had a better reputatioii for valour than for devotion, | were surprised at the great intercourse between him and this lady ; and seeing that he had changed from white to black, that he frequented the churches, attended sermons, and performed all the devoirs of a devotee, they doubted not that he did so to ingra- tiate himself with the lady, and could not even help hinting as much to him. The captain, fearing lest this should come to the ears of the lady, withdrew from society, and told her husband and her, that, being on the point of receiving his orders and quit- 88 Tlu Heptameron of the Quern of Navarre. ting the court, he had many things to say to them, but *at, foi the greater secrecy, he would only confer with them in private, to wliich end he begged they would send for him when they had both retired for the night. This proposal being quite to the old gentleman's liking, he failed not to go to bed early every night and make his wife un- dress. After everybody had gone to rest, he used to send for the captain to talk about the journey to Jerusalem, in the course of which the good man often fell asleep devoutly. On these occa- sions, the captain, seeing the old gentleman sleeping like the blessed, and himself seated in a chair at the bedside, close to her whom he thought the most charming woman in the world, felt his heart so hard pressed, between his fear and his desire to7 declare himself, that he often lostthe useof,Jiis tongue. ButJ that she might not perceive his perpTaflTjCTielaunched out upon the holy places of Jerusalem, where are to be seen the me- morials of the great love which Jesus Christ had for us. WhatH he said of that love was only uttered to conceal his own ; and J while he expatiated upon it, he kept his eyes fixed on the lady, wept and sighed so i propos, that her heart was quite penetrated with piety. Believing from this outward appearace of devotion"! that he was quite l saint, she begged him to tell her how he had \ lived, and how he had come to love God with such fervour ? He / told her he was a poor gentleman, who to acquire wealth anB'x honours had forgotten hisconseience, and married a lady who I was too nearly feTated"to him, one who was rjch, but old and ugly, and whom he did not love at all ; that after having drawn all his wife's money from her, he had gone to seek his fortune at sea, and had sped so well that he had become the captain of a galley ; but that since he had had the honour of her acquaint- ance, her holy converse and her good example had so changed him that he was reso! /ed, if by God's grace he came back alive from his expedition, to take her and her husband to Jerusalem, / there to do penance for his great sins which he had forsaken, after which it would only remain for him to make reparation to his wife, to whom he hoped soon to be reconciled. This account which he gave of himself was very pleasing to the pious lady, who congratulated herself much on having converted a sinner of such magnitude. These nocturnal confabulations continued every night until the departure of the captain, who never ventured to declare him- self. Only he made the fair devotee a present of a crucifix from Our Lady of Pity, beseeching her, whenever she looked upon it. Novel !$.'] Second Day. 89 to think of him. The time of his deparlu 'e being come, and having taken leave of the husband, who was falling asleep, tie had last of all to take leave of the fair one, in whose eyes he saw tears, drawn forth by the kind feeling she entertained for him. His impassioned heart so thrilled at the sight that he almost fainted as he bade her farewell, and burst into such an extraor- dinary perspiration that he wept, so to speak, not only with his eyes, but with every part of his body. Thus he departed without any explanation, and the lady, who never before had seen such tokens of regret, was quite astonished at his emotion. She had not the less good opinion of him for all that, and her prayers ac- companied him on his way. A month afterwards, as she was re- turning to her own house one day, she was met by a gentleman, who delivered a letter to her from the captain, begging her to read it in private, and assuring her that he had seen him embark, fully resolved to perform an expedition which should be pleasing to the king and advantageous to the faith. At the same time the gentle- man mentioned that he was going back to Marseilles to look after the captain's affairs. The lady went to the window and opened the letter, which consisted of two sheets of paper written all over. It was an elaborate declaration of the feelings which the writer had so carefully concealed, and in it was enclosed a large hand- some diamond, mounted in a black enamelled ring, which the lady was supplicated to put on her fair finger. -^ Having read the enormously long letter from beginning to end, the lady was the more astonished as she had never suspected the I captain's love for her. The diamond caused her much perplexity, I for she knew not what to do with it. After thinking over the! matter all that day, and dreaming of it at night, she rejoiced that she could abstain from replying for want of a messenger, saying to herself that as the bearer of the letter had taken such pains on the writer's behalf, she ought to spare him the mortification of such a reply as she had resolved to give him, but which she now thought fit to reserve till the captain's return. The diamond was still a cause of much embarrassment to her, as it was not her custom to adorn herself at anyone's expense but her husband's. At last her good_ssiise suggested to her that she could not | employ it better than for the relief of the_captain's_conscien£e, and she instantly despatched it, by the hands of one of her servants, to the captain's forlorn wife, to whom she wrote as follows, in the assumed character of a nun of Tarrascon : — _y " Madam, — Your husband passed this way a little before he JO The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. embarked. He confessed, and received his Creator like a good Christian, and declared to me a fact which lay heavy on his con- science, namely, his regret for not having loved you as he ought. He begged me at his departure to send you this letter with this diamond, which he begs you to keep for his sake, assuring you that if God brings him back safe and sound, he will make amends for the past by all the love that you can desire. This diamond will be for you a pledge of his word. I ask of you on his behalf the aid of your good prayers ; for all my life he shall have part in mine." When the captain's wife received this letter and the diamond, it may well be imagined how she wept with joy and sorrow : joy at being loved by her husband, and sorrow at being deprived of his presence. She kissed the ring a thousand times, washing it with her tears, and praised God for having restored her husband's affection to her at the close of her days, and when she least ex- pected it. The nun who, under God, had wrought such a blessing for her was not forgotten in her grateful acknowledgments. She replied to her by the same man, who made his mistress laugh heartily when he told her how the captain's wife had received her communication. The fair devotee congratulated herself on having got rid of the diamond in so pious a manner, and was as yiuch rejoiced at having re-established the good understanding between the husband and wife as though she had gained a kingdom. Some time afterwards news arrived of the defeat and death of ] the poor captain. He had been abandoned by those who ought I to have supported him, and the Rhodians, who had most interest j in concealing his design, were the first to make it known. / Nearly eighty men who had made a descent on the land were / cut off almost to a man. Among them there was a gentleman | named Jean, and a converted Turk, for whom the fair devotee had been godmother, and whom she had given to the captain to accompany him on his expedition. Jean fell along with the captain ; the Turk, wounded in fifteen places with arrows, escaped by swimming to the French vessels, and it was from his report that it was known exactly how the thing had happened. A certain gentleman whom the captain believed to be his friend, and whose interests he had advanced with the king and the greatest personages in France, after the captain had landed stood off shore with his vessels. The captain, seeing that his scheme was discovered, and that he was opposed by four thousand iV^^/i3-] Second Day. 91 Turks, set about retreating. But the gentleman in whom he put such confidence, considering that after his death he himself would have the command and the profit of that great fleet, represented to the officers that it was not right to risk the king's vessels and the lives of so many brave men on board them in order to save eighty or a hundred persons. The officers, as spiritless as himself, coincided with him in opinion. Tie captain, seeing that the more he called to them the more they drew off from the shore, faced round against his foes, and though he was up to his knees in sand, he defended himself so valiantly that -it almost seemed as if his single arm would defeat the assailants. But at last he received so many wounds from the arrows of those who durst not approach him within less than bowshot distance, that he began to grow weak from loss of blood. The Turks, seeing thai the Christians were nearly spent, fell upon them with the scimi- tars ; but notwithstanding the overwhelming numbers of the foe, the Christians defended themselves as long as they had breath. The captain called to him the gentleman named Jean, and the Turk whom the devotee had given him, and planting his sword in the ground, kissed and embraced the cross on his knees, say- j ing, " Lord, receive the soul of him who has not spared his life for the exaltation of thy name." Jean, seeing him droop as hej uttered these words, took him and his sword in his arms, wishing to succour him ; but a Turk cut both his thighs to the bone from behind. " Come, captain," he cried, as he received the stroke, "let us go to Paradise to see him for whose sake we die." As he had been united with the captain in life, so was he also in death. The Turk, seeing that he could be of no use to either of them, and that he was pierced with arrows, made his way to the vessels by swimming : and though he was the only one who had escaped out of eighty, the perfidious commander would not receive him. But being a good swimmer, he went from vessel to vessel, till at last he was taken on board a small one, where in the course of a little time he was cured of his wounds. It was through this foreigner that the truth became known / respecting this event, glorious to the captain, and shameful to his j companion in arms. The king, and all good people who heardj of it, deemed the act of the latter so black towards God and man that there was no punishment too bad for him. But on his return he told so many lies, and made so many presents, that not only did his crime remain unpunished, but he succeeded to the post of him whose lacquey he was not worthy to be. When the sad news reached the court, the regent-mother, who highly 93 The Heptama-on of the Queen of Navarre. esteemed the captain, greatly mourned his loss. So did the king and all who had known him. When she, whom he had so pas- sionately loved, heard of his strange, piteous, and Christian end, the obduracy she had felt towards him melted into tears, and hei lamentations were shared by her husband, whose pilgrim hopes were frustrated by the catastrophe. I must not forget to mention that a demoiselle belonging to this lady, who loved the gentleman Jean better than herself, told her mistress, the very day the captain and he were killed, that she had seen in a dream him whom she loved so much, that he had come to her in white raiment to bid her farewell, and told her that he was going to Paradise with his captain. But when she learned that her dream was true, she made such piteous moans that her mistress had enough to do to console her. Some time after, the court went into Normandy, of which province the cap- tain was a native, and his wife failed not to come and pay her respects to the regent-mother, intending to be introduced by the lady with whom her husband had been so much in love. Whilst waiting for the hour when she could have audience, the two ladies entered a church, where the widow began to laud her husband and make lamentations over his death. " I am, madam, the most unhappy of women," she said. " God has taken my husband from me at the time when he loved me more than ever he had done." So saying, she showed the diamond she wore on^ her finger as a pledge of his perfect affection. This was not said without a world of tears ; and the other lady, who saw that her good-natured fraud had produced so excellent an effect, was so strongly tempted to laugh, in spite of her grief, that, not being able to present the widow to the regent, she handed her over to another, and retired into a chapel, where she had her laugh out.* Methinks, ladies, that those of our sex to whom presents are made ought to be glad to employ them as usefully as did this good lady ; for they would find there is pleasure and joy in doing good. We must by no means accuse her of fraud, but * The incidents related in this novel appear to be real, but it is impossible to discover the names of the actors. M. Paul Lacroix supposes the hero of the novel to be a Baron de Malleville, Knight of Malta, who was killed at Beyrout in an expedition against the Turks, and whose death has been celebrated by Clement Marot. But the Bibliophiles Franfais remark that the conjjcture is untenable, De Malleville being styled Parisien by the poet, whereas the captain uras a Norman. He was a married man, too, which a Knight of Malta could not be. A'ir.elii.] Second Day, 93 praise her good sense, which enabled her to extract good out of a bad thing. " You mean to say, then," said Nomerfide, " that a fine diamond, worth two hundred crowns, is a bad thing ? I assure , you, if it had fallen into my hands, neither his wife nor his rela- ]__ ., tions would ever have set ej es on it. Nothing is more one's own I than a thing that is given. The captain was dead, no one knew/ anything of the matter, and she might well have abstained from making the poor old woman cry." " Good faith, you are right," said Hircan, " for there is many a woman who, to show that she is better than others, does acts contrary to her nature. In fact, do we not all know that nothing is more covetous than a woman ? Yet vanity often prevails with them over avarice, and makes them do things in which their hearts have no share. In my opinion, the lady who set so little store by the diamond did not deserve it." " Gently, gently," said Oisille ; " I think I know her, and I pray you not to condemn her unheard." " I do not condemn her, madam," replied Hircan ; "but if the gentleman was so gallant a man as he has been represented to have been, it was a glorious thing for her to have a lover of such nn«rit, and to wear his ring. But perhaps some one less worthy to be loved held her so fast by the finger that the ring could not be placed on it." " Truly," said Ennasuite, " she might fairly keep it, since no one knew anything about it." " What 1" exclaimed Geburon, "is everything allowable for those who love, provided nobody knows of it .■'" " I have never," said Saffredent, " seen anything punished as ^ a crime except imprudence ; in fact, no murderer, robber, or adulterer, is ever punished by justice, or blamed amongst men, provided they are as cunning as they are wicked. But wickedness often blinds them so that they become witless. Thus it may be truly said that it is only fools who are punished, and not the vicious." " You may say what you will," said Oisille, " but it is for God to judge the heart of the lady. For my part, I see nothing in her conduct but what is comely and virtuous ; and to put an end to this dispute, I beg you, Parlamente, to call on some one to follow you." " I have great pleasure in calling on Simontault," replied Parlamente, " and I am mistaken if, after these two sad novels, he will net give us one which will not make us weep." 94 The Heptiimeron of tJie Queen of Navarre. "That is almost as good as saying that I am a buffoon," said Simontault. " By way of revenge, I will let you see that there are ' women who make a show of being chaste with regard to certain \ people, or for a certain time ; but the end unmasks them, as you will see by this true story." _\ NOVEL XIV. Subtlety of a lover who, counterfeiting the real favourite, found means to recompense himself for his past troubles, j|T the time when the grand-master of Chaumont was governor of the duchy of Milan, there was a gentleman named Bonnivet, whose merits afterwards raised him to the rank of admiral of France. As his rare endow- ments made him liked by everybody, he was often a welcome guest at banquets and entertainments where ladies were present, and he was better received by them than ever was Frenchman before or since, both because he was a handsome, agreeable man, and spoke well, and because he had the reputation of being one of the ablest and most resolute soldiers of his time. One day during the carnival, when he was among the maskers, he danced with a lady, one of the handsomest and finest women in Milan. At every pause in the music, he failed not to entertain her with the language of love, in which no one was such an adept as he ; but the fair one, not thinking herself bound to respond to his most humble supplications, cut him short, told him flatly that she neither loved nor ever would love anyone but her husband, and that he had better address his tender speeches elsewhere. Nothing daunted by this reply, which he would by no means take for a refusal, Bonnivet stuck to the lady, and continued to press his suit with great vivacity until Mid-Lent. In spite of all nis endeavours, he found her steadfast in the resolution she had expressed, yet could not persuade himself that all this was real earnest, seeing the hard favour of the husband and the beauty of the wife. Convinced, then, that she practised dissimulation, he resolved to have recourse to the same art, and thenceforth desisted from his solicitations. He narrowly inquired into her conduct, and found that she loved an Italian gentleman of good parts and ac- complishments. Bonnivet gradually insinuated himself into the Italian's acquaintance, and did so with such adroitness that the latter never suspected his motive, but conceived such an esteem NiTdd 14,] Second Day. 95 for him th^it next ta his fair one he was the person he loved best in the world, in oVder to extract the Italian gentleman's secret from his breast, Bonnivet pretended to unlock his own, and told him that he loved a lady, naming one whom he scarcely ever thought of, at the same time begging him to keep the secret, that they might both have but one heart and one thought. The Italia.!, in return for the confidence which Bonnivet reposed in him, informed him, without reserve, of his passion for the lady before mentioned, on whom Bonnivet wanted to be revenged. The two friends met every day, and mutually recounted the good fortunes of the last four-and-twenty hours, with this difference, however, that one lied and the other told the truth. The Italian confessed that he had loved the lady in question for three years, without ever having obtained from her more than fair words and assurances that he was loved. Bonnivet gave him his very best advice ; the Italian acted upon it, and prospered by it so well that in a few days the lady consented to fulfil all his desires. Nothing remained now but to contrive means for their meeting ; but as Bonnivet was fertile in expedients, this was soon done. " I am more obliged to you than to any man living," said the Italian to him one evening before supper, " for, thanks to your excellent advice, I expect this night to enjoy what I have been longing for so many years." " Pray let me know the nature of your enterprise," said Bon- nivet, " so that if there is any risk in it, or it requires any artifice, I may aid and serve as your friend." He then learned that the lady had an opportunity for leaving the great door of the house open, under the pretext of enabling one of her brothers, who was ill, to send out at any hour of the night for what he might require. The Italian was to enter the court-yard through that door, but was not to ascend the main staircase. He was to turn to the rightto a small staircase, go up it to the first gallery, on which the chambers of her father-in- law and her brother-in-law opened. He was to take the third door from the stairs, push it gently, and if he found it locked, he was to go away at once, for he might conclude for certain that her husband had returned, though he was not expected back for two days ; but if he found the door open, he was to come in softly, and lock the door behind him, being assured that there was no one in the room but herself. Above all, he was to wear felt shoes, that he might make no noise, and not leave home till two hours after midnight, for her brothers-in-law, who were much addicted to play, never went to bed till past ona 96 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. o'clock. Bonnivet congratulated his friend, wished him good speed, and bade him not hesitate to command his services if he could be of any use to him. The Italian thanked him, said that in affairs such as this one could not be too much alone, and went off to make his preparations. Bonnivet, on his side, did not sleep ; and seeing that the time was come to be revenged on the cruel fair one, he went to bed early, had his beard trimmed after the fashion of the Italian's, and his hair cut so that she might not recognize the difference if she touched him. The felt shoes were not forgotten, nor any of the other things which the Italian was accustomed to wear As he was held in high consideration by the lady's father-in-law, he did not hesitate to go early to the house, being prepared, in case anyone perceived him, to go straight to the chamber of the old gentleman, with whom he had some business. He reached the house at midnight ; met several people in it passing to and fro, but no one noticed him, and he made his way into the gallery. He touched the first two doors, and found them shut ; the third being open, he entered it, and locked it behind him. The chamber was all hung with white, and there was a bed with a drapery of the same colour, of such fine stuff, and so excellently wrought with the needle, that nothing could be handsomer. The lady was alone in bed, dressed in the most exquisite night-gear, as he could perceive (himself unseen) through a corner of the curtain, for there was a large wax candle burning in the room. For fear of being recognized, he first put out the light ; then he undressed and went to bed to her. The fair one, believing him to be the man she had loved so long, received him with all possible caresses ; but he, well knowing that he owed all this to her mistake, took good heed not to say one word to her, his only care being to revenge himself at the cost of her honour, and without being under any obligation to her; but she liked that sweet revenge so well, that she thought she had recompensed him for all his sufferings. This lasted till the clock struck one, when it was time to leave her. Then he asked her, in a very low whisper, if she was as well satisfied with him as he was with her. She, thinking still that he was her lover, replied that she was not only satisfied, but even surprised at the excess of his love, which had kept him an hour without speaking. Upon this he could restrain himself no longer. " Now, madam," he said, laughing outright, " will you refuse me another time, as you have hitherto done?" JVavd 14.} Second Day. 97 The lady, recognizing him too late by his voice and his laugh- ter, was overwhelmed with shame and vexation, and called him a thousand times impostor, cheat, traitor, villain. She would have sprung out of bed to look for a knife with which to kill herself for having been so unhappy as to lose her honour for a man whom she did not love, and who, to be revenged upon her, might make known this affair to the whole world. But he held her fast, and vowed so hard that he would love her better than the other, and would faithfully keep her secret, that at last she believed him, and was pacified. He then told her how he had contrived to find himself where he then was, and related to her all the pains he had taken to win her; whereupon she praised his ingenuity, and vowed that she would love him better than the other, who had not been able to keep her secret. She was now convinced, she said, how false were the prejudices that prevailed against the French, who were better men, more persevering, and more dis- creet than the Italians ; and from that moment she would cast off the erroneous opinions of her countrypeople, and attach herself heartily to him. Only she entreated him that for some time he would forbear from showing himself at any entertainment or in any place where she might be, unless he were masked ; for she knew well she should be so much ashamed, that her countenance would tell tales of her to everybody. Having promised this, he begged her in his turn to receive his friend well when he should come about two o'clock, and afterwards get rid of him by degrees. She made great difficulties about this, and only yielded at last under the strong coercioft of her love for Bonnivet, who on taking leave of her behaved so much to her satisfaction that she would gladly have had' him stay a little longer. Having risen and put on his clothes, he went out of the room, and left the door ajar, as he had found it. As it was near two o'clock, he withdrew into a corner near the head of the stairs, lest he should meet the Italian, and soon afterwards saw him pass along the gallery and enter the fair one's chamber. Bon- nivet then went home to rest after the fatigues of the night, and remained in bed till nine next morning. The Italian failed not to come to him when he was getting up, and gave him an account of his adventure, which had not turned out quite so agreeably as he had expected ; for, said he, "I found the lady- out of bed in her dressing-gown, and in a high fever, her pulse beating vJ/> lently, her face all on fire, and such a great perspiration breaking out upon her, that she begged me to go away for fear she should H gS 77u Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. be obliged to call her women to her. She was so ill, in short, that she had more need to think of death than of love, and to ba put in mind of Heaven rather than of Cupid. She was very sorry, she told me, that 1 had run such a hazard for her sake, since she could not make me any requital in this world, being about, as she hoped, to find herself soon in a better one. I was so shocked at a mischance I so little anticipated, that my fire and my joy were changed to ice and sadness, and I instantly with- drew. At daylight this morning I sent to inquire for her, and have received word that she is extremely ill." As he delivered this sad report he wept so piteously that one would have thought his soul would have been washed out with his tears. Bonnivet, who was as much disposed to laugh as the other was to weep, consoled him as well as he could, and bade him recollect that things of long duration always seem to have an untoward beginning, and that love had caused this delay only to enhance his future enjoyment. Thereupon the two friends parted. The lady kept her bed for some days, and was no sooner out of it once more than she dismissed her first lover, alleging as her reason the fear of death in which she had been, and the terror of her conscience. She devoted herself wholly to Bonnivet, whose love lasted, as usual, about as long as the bloom and beauty of the flowers. It strikes me, ladies, that Bonnivet's sly manoeuvres were a fair set-off against the hypocrisy of the Milanese lady, who, after playing the prude so long, at last let her lasciviousness be seen. " You may say what you please of women," said Ennasuite ; " but Bonnivet's conduct was anything but that of a man of honour. If a woman loves a man, is that any reason why another should have her by trickery?" " Set it down for certain," said Geburon, "that when that sort of goods is for sale, they are always carried off by the highest and last bidder. Do not imagine that those who serve ladies take such a world of trouble for their sakes. No, it is for them- selves, and for their own pleasure." " Of that I entertain no manner of doubt," said Longarine ; " for, to be frank with you, all the lovers I have had have in- variably begun by talking of my interests, and telling me that they loved my life, my welfare, and my honour, and the upshot of it all has no less invariably been their own interest, their own pleasure, and their own vanity. So it is best to dismiss them before they have finished the first part of their sermon ; for when Mvel 14.] Second Day 99 you come to the second, you cannot refuse them with so much credit to yourself, since declared vice is a thing to be rejected as a matter of course." "According to your doctrine, then," said Ennasuite, "one ought to rebuff a man as soon as he opens his mouth, without knowing what he has to say." "Not so," replied Parlamente. "Every one knows that, at the outse;, a woman ought not to let it appear that she under- stands, still less that she believes, the declaration made to her by a lover; but when he comes to strong oaths, it strikes me that it is more becoming in the lady to leave him in the middle of that fine road than to go with him all the way to the bottom." " Nay, but are we always to assume that they love us with a criminal passion ?" said Nomerfide. " Is it not sinful to think ill of one's neighbour?" "You may believe this or not, as you please," said Oisille ; " but there is so much reason for fearing that such is the case, that the moment you discover the least inkling of it, you cannot be too prompt in getting away from a fire which is too apt to burn up a heart before even it is once perceived." " That is a very hard law you lay down," replied Hircan. " If women, whom gentleness becomes so well, were all as rigorous as you would have them to be, we men would lay aside meekness and supplication, and have recourse to stratagem and violence." "The best thing," said Simontault, " is, that every one should follow the bent of his nature, and love or not, as he pleases, but always without dissimulation." " Would to God," exclaimed Saffredent, " that the observance of this law were as productive of honour as it would be of plea- sure ! " But Dagoucin could not refrain from observing, " Those who would rather die than make known their sentiments, could not endure your law." " Die 1 " cried Hircan. " The good knight is yet unborn who would die for any such cause. But let us say no more of what is impossible, and see to whom Simontault will give his voice." " To Longarine," replied the gentleman thus appealed to ; " for I observed her just now talking to herself. I suspect she was conning over some good thing, and she is not wont to disguise the truth either against man or woman." " Since you think me such a friend to the truth," said Longa- riae. " I will tell you a story, which, though not quite so much lOO The Heptameron oftJte Queen of Navarre. to the credit of our sex as I could wish, will, nevertheless, show you that there are women who have as much spirit and as sound wits as men, and are not inferior to them in cunning. If my story is somewhat long, I will endeavour to make you amends by a little gaiety." NOVEL XV. How a lady of the court, being neglected by her husband, whose love was bestowed elsewhere, retaliated upon him. I HERE was at the court of King Francis the First a gentleman whom I could name if I would. He was poor, not having' five hundred livres a year; but the king prized him so highly for his great endowments, that he bestowed upon him a wife so wealthy that a great lord might have been satisfied with such a match. As his wife was still very young, the king requested one of the greatest ladies ot the court to take her into her household, which she did with great willingness. The gentleman was so well-bred and so good-looking, that he was greatly esteemed by all the court ladies, especially by one of them, whom the king loved, and who was neither so young nor so handsome as his wife. The gentle- man loved this lady so passionately, and made so little account of his wife, that he hardly shared her bed one night in the year ; and to add to the poor creature's mortification, he never spoke to her, or showed her any token of kindness ; a sort of treatment which she found it very hard to bear. Meanwhile he spent her income for his own gratification, and allowed her so small a share of it, that she had not wherewithal to dress as became her quality. The lady with whom she resided often complained of this to the husband. " Your wife," she said, " is handsome, rich, and of a good family, yet you neglect her. Her extreme youth has en- abled her hitherto to endure this neglect ; but it is to be feared, that when she comes to maturer years, her mirror, and some one who is no friend to you, will so set before her eyes her beauty which you di»dain, that resentment will prompt her to do what she would not have dared to think of if you had treated her better." But the gentleman, whose heart was set elsewhere, made light of these judicious remonstrances, and went on in his old ways. After two or three years, the young wife began to be one of the finest women in France. Her reputation was so great that It was commonly reported at court that she had not her equal. The more sensible she became that she was worthy to be loved, Novd 1 5] Second Day. loi the more poignantly she felt her husband's contemptuous treat- ment, and but for the efforts of her mistress to console her, she would almost have sunk into hopeless melancholy. After having tried in vain every means to please her husband, she came to the conclusion that it was impossible he should so ill respond to the love she bore him unless he were captivated elsewhere. With this idea in her mind, she set to work so care- fully and so shrewdly that she found out where it was he was so occupied every night as to forget his conscience and his wife. When she had thus got certain evidence of the life he led, she fell into such deep despondency that she would wear nothing but black, and shunned all places of amusement. Her mistress per- ceived this, and omitted nothing by which she could hope to raise her out of that gloomy mood ; but all her kind efforts were unavailing. Her husband was made acquainted with her con- dition, but instead of caring to relieve it, he only laughed at it. A great lord who was nearly related to the young wife's pro- tectress, and who paid her frequent visits, having one day been informed of the husband's hard-hearted behaviour, was so shocked at it, that he would fain try to console the wife ; but he was so charmed with her conversation and manners, and thought her so beautiful, that he had far more desire to make her love him than to talk to her of her husband, except it was to let her know how little cause she had to love such a man. As for the young lady herself, forsaken by him who ought to have loved and cherished her, and wooed by a lord who had everything to recommend him, she thought herself fortunate in having made such a conquest. Though she desired always to preserve her honour, nevertheless she took great pleasure in talking to him, and in seeing that she was loved, a thing whereof she had, so to speak, a famishing need. This tender friendship lasted some time, but at last the king became aware of it, and as he had a great regard for the husband, and would not have any one affront or annoy him, he begged the prince to discontinue his attentions, on pain of incurring the royal displeasure. The prince, who prized the king's good graces above all the ladies in the world, promised to forego his designs, since such was the king's wish, and to go that very evening and bid farewell to the lady. That evening the husband, being at his window, saw the prince come in and enter his wife's chamber, which was beneath his own. The prince saw him too, but did not turn back for all that. On saying farewell to her whom he was but beginning to love, the only reason he alleged for this change in him was the loa TTie Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. king's command. After many tears and lamentations, which lasted nearly until one o'clock in the morning, the lady said to him at parting, " I thank God, my lord, for the grace he confers upon me in depriving me of your friendship, since it is so little and so weak that you take it up and lay it down at the com- mands of men. As for me, I did not consult either mistress, or husband, or myself, whether I should love you or not. Your engaging manners and your good looks won my heart ; but since yours is less amorous than timid, you cannot love perfectly, and the friend who is not true and staunch to the uttermost is not the friend for me to love thoroughly, as I had resolved to love you ; farewell, then, my lord, you whose timidity does not deserve a love so frank and so sincere as mine." The prince went away with teats in his eyes, and looking back, he again saw the husband, who had watched him in and out. Next day the prince told him why he had gone to see his wife, and acquainted him with the commands laid upon him by the king, whereat the gentleman was greatly pleased, and gave much thanks to his sovereign. But seeing that his wife was becoming more beautiful every day, and he himself older and less good-looking, he began to change his part, and to assume that which he had long made his wife play ; for he sought her more than he had been wont, and took much more notice of her. But the more he sought her the more she shunned him, being very glad to pay him back a part of the distress he had caused her by his indifference. At the same time, not to miss the plea- sure which love was beginning to afford her, she cast her eyes on a ycung gentleman whose person and manners were so en- gaging, that he was a favourite with all the ladies of the court. By complaining to him of the unkind treatment she had ex- perienced, she inspired him with such pity for her, that he left nothing untried to console her. On her part, to indemnify her for the prince she had lost, she loved this new friend so heartily, that she forgot her past griefs, and thought only of the means of adroitly carrying on her intrigue ; and in this she succeeded so well, that her mistress never perceived it, for she took good care never to speak in her presence to her lover. When she had anything to say to him, she went to see certain ladies of the court. Among these was one with whom her husband seemed to be in love. One dark night after supper she stole away alone, and entered the ladies' room, where she found him whom she loved more than herself. She sat down beside him, and leaning over a IVbve/tS-] Second Day. 105 table they conversed together, whilst they pretended to be reading a book. Some one whom the husband had set on the watch came and told him whither his wife was gone ; and he, like a sensible man as he was, said nothing, but followed her quickly, entered the room, and saw her reading a book. Pretending not to see her, he went straight up to the ladies, who were at the other side of the room ; whilst so disconcerted was she at being found by him with a man to whom she had never spoken in his presence, that she scrambled over a table, and ran away as if her husband was pursuing her sword in hand, and went to her mis- tress, who was just about to retire for the night. After her mistress was undressed and she had left the room, she met one of her own women coming to tell her that her husband wanted her. She said flatly she would not go to him, for he was so strange and harsh, that she was afraid he would do her some mischief. Nevertheless she went at last, for fear of worse. Her husband said not a word to her about what had occurred until they were in bed ; but then as she could not help crying, he asked her the cause of her tears ? She cried, she said, because she was afraid he was angry at having found her reading with a gentleman. The husband replied that he had never forbidden her to speak to anybody ; but that he had been surprised at seeing her run away, as if she had done something wrong ; and that this had made him believe she loved the gentleman. The end of the matter was that he forbade her thenceforward to speak to any man, either in public or in pri- vate, assuring her that otherwise he would kill her without mercy. But to forbid things we like is the surest way to make us desire them more ardently, and it was not long before this poor woman had forgotten her husband's threats and her own promises. The very same evening, having gone back to sleep with other demoiselles and her attendants, she sent to invite the gentleman to visit her at night. Her husband, whose jealousy kept him awake, and who had heard that the gentleman used to visit his wife at night, wrapped himself up in a cloak, took a valet de chambre with him, and went and knocked at his wife's door. Up she got, and seeing her women all asleep, she went alone in her mantle and slippers to the door, never in the least suspecting who was there. Her inquiry, who was there ? was answered in her lover's name ; but for her better assurance, she half opened the wicket and said, " If you are the person you say, give me your hand, and I shall know if you speak truly." The moment she 104 ^'^ Heptamcron of tlu Queen of Navarre felt her husband's hand, she recognised him, and slamming the wicket, cried out, " Ha, monsieur ! it is your hand." '• Yes," cried her husband, in a great passion, " it is the hand that will keep word with you. So fail not to come when I send for you." With that he went away, and she returned to her chamber more dead than alive. " Get up, my friends," she cried to her women ; "get up. You have slept too long for me. I tho~ught to trick you, and I have been tricked myself," and saying this, she fainted away. Her women, thus suddenly roused from their sleep, were astonished at her words, and still more when they saw her lying like a corpse, and they ran hurriedly to and fro in search of means to revive her. When she had recovered her speech, she said to them, " You see before you, my friends, the most wretched creature in the world." Then she related to them her adventure, entreating them to stand by her, for she looked upon herself already as a dead woman. While her women were endeavouring to comfort her, a valet de chambre arrived with a message from her husband, ordering her to come to him instantly. Thereupon she embraced two of her women, and began to cry and shriek, beseeching them not to let her go, for she was sure she should never return. The valet de chambre, however, bade her not be afraid, for he would answer for it with his life that no harm should happen to her." Seeing, then, that resistance was useless, she threw herself into the valet's arms, saying, " Since it must be so, my friend, carry this wretched body to death ; " and in fact he carried, rather than led her away, for she was almost in a swoon. The moment she entered her husband's room, she fell on her knees, and said, " Have pity on me, monsieur, I beseech you ; and I swear to you before God that I will tell you the whole truth." " That I am determined you shall," replied the husband in a furious tone, and ordered every one to quit the room. As his wife had always seemed to him very devout, he thought she would not perjure herself if he made her swear on the cross. He therefore sent for a very handsome one he had, and when they were alone he made her swear on that cross that she would speak the truth as to such questions as he should put to her. By this time she had been able to rally her spirits, and having partly recovered from her first terror, she resolved to conceal nothing, but at the same time not to say anything which could compromise her lover. Her husband then put the questions he deemed necessary, and this was how she replied to them ; Aiw/is.] Second Day. 105 '• I will not attempt to justify myself, monsieur, or to make little of the love I have entertained for the gentleman who is the cause of your jealousy. Whatever I might say to that effect, you could not and ought not to believe it after what has occurred ; but I must tell you what has occasioned this love. Never wife so loved her husband as I loved you ; and but for your unkindness I should never have loved any one but you. You know that while I was yet a child, my parents wished to marry me to a man of higher birth than you ; but they could never make me consent to it from the moment I had spoken to you. I declared for you in spite of all they could say, and without caring for your poverty. You know in what manner you have treated me hitherto. This has caused me such grief and vexation, that but for the support of the lady with whom you have placed me, I should have sunk under my despair. But at last, seeing myself full-grown, and esteemed fair by every one but you, I began to feel so acutely the wrong you did me, that the love I had for you turned into hatred, and the desire of pleasing you into that of revenging myself. While in this desperate mood, I had opportunity to see a prince, who, more obedient to the king than to love, forsook me at a time when I was beginning to derive consolation from an honourable love. After I had lost the prince, I found one who had no need to be at any pains to woo me, for his good looks, his deportment, and his excellent endowments, are enough to make him an object of interest to all women of sense. At my solicitation, and not at his own, he has loved me with such propriety that he has never asked of me anything inconsistent with my honour. Though the little cause I have to love you might induce me to malft light of my wedded faith, yet my love for God and my own honour have hitherto prevented me from doing any- thing I have need to confess, or which can make me apprehen- sive of infamy. I do not deny that, under pretence of going to say my prayers, I have retired as often as I could into a garderobe to converse with him ; for I have never confided the conduct of this affair to any one. Nor yet do I deny, that being in such a private place, and safe from all suspicion, I have kissed him with more hearty good-will than I kiss you ; but may God never show me mercy if anything else ever happened in our tete-d-tites, or if he ever asked me for more, or my own heart ever harboured a thought of granting anything besides ; for I was so happy, that it seemed to me there could not be in the world a greater pleasure than that which I enjoyed. I06 The ffepiatmron of the Queen of Navarre. "But you, sir, who are the sole cause of my misfortunes, would you desire to be revenged for conduct of which you have so long been setting me an example, with this difference, that what you have done you have done without honour and without conscience? You know, and I know too, that she whom you love does not content herself with what God and reason com- mand. Though the laws of men condemn to infamy women who love any others than their husbands, the law of God, which is infinitely more venerable and more august, condemns men who love any other women than their own wives. If the faults we have both committed be weighed in the balance, you will be found more guilty than I. You are a wise man ; you have age and experience enough to know evil, and shun it ; but I am young, and have no experience of the force and might of love. You have a wife who loves you, and to whom you are dearer than her own life ; and I have a husband who shuns me, hates me, and treats me with such harshness as he would not show to a servant woman. You love a woman in years, lean and lanky, and not so handsome as I am ; and 1 love a gentleman, younger than you, handsomer, and more agreeable. You love the wife of your best friend and the mistress of your sovereign, thus violating friendship and the respect you owe to both ; and I love a gentleman who has no other ties than his love for me. Judge now, sir, without partiality, which of us two is the more to be condemned or excused. I do not believe there exists a man of sense and knowledge of the world who would not give his verdict against you, seeing that I am young and ignorant, despised by you and loved by the handsomest and best-bred gentleman in France, and that notwithstanding all that, I love him only because I despair of being loved by you." Hearing such home truths as these delivered by the lips of a beautiful woman, with such grace and assurance that it was easy to see she did not think herself deserving of any punish- ment, the husband was so confounded that he knew not what to reply, except that a man's honour and a woman's were different things. Nevertheless, as she swore that nothing cri- minal had taken place between her and her lover, it was not his intention to love her less ; but he begged that she would offend no more, and that they should both forgive and forget the past She gave a promise to that effect, and, the reconciliation being effected, they went to bed together. Next morning an old demoiselle, who was greatly alarmed fof her mistress's life, came to her bedside and said, " Well, madatn Nave/ 15.] Second Day. 107 how do you find yourself ? " « There is not a better husband in the world than mine," she replied, laughing, •' for he believed me All my oath." In this way five or six days passed in apparent harmony between the married pair ; meanwhile, however, the husband, whose jealousy was not at all allayed, had his wife narrowly watched night and day ; but in spite of all this vigi- lance his spies could not hinder the lady from again entertaining her lover in a dark and very suspicious place. Nevertheless, she managed the matter so secretly, that no one could ever know the truth for certain ; only some valet set a story afloat that he had found a gentleman and a lady in a stable which was under the chamber occupied by the mistress of the lady in question. Upon this doubtful evidence the husband's jealousy became so increased that he resolved to have the gallant assas- sinated ; and he assembled for that purpose a great number of relations and friends, who were to dispatch him in case they met him. But it happened that one of the principal persons among the confederates was an intimate friend of the man whose death they plotted ; and instead of surprising him, he put him fully on his guard ; and the gentleman was such a general favourite, and always had such a good escort of friends, that he did not fear his enemy ; nor was he ever assailed. He thought it right, however, to have a conference with the lady under whose protection his fair one resided, and who had never heard a word of the whole affair, for he had never spoken with the young lady in her presence. Going to a church where he knew that she was, he acquainted her with the husband's jealousy, and the design he had formed against his life, and told her, that although he was innocent, he was resolved to go and travel in foreign countries, in order to extinguish the false report that was beginning to gather strength. The princess was greatly astonished at hearing such news, and vowed that the husband did very wrong to suspect so virtuous a woman as his wife, and one in whom she had never seen anything but virtue and propriety. However, considering the husband's influence, and in order to put an end to this scandalous report, she advised him to withdraw for some time, assuring him she would never believe any such idle fancies and suspicions. Furthermore, she advised him to speak to the husband before his departure. He took her advice, and meeting the husband in a gallery near the king's chamber, he said to him with an assured countenance, and with the respect due to a man of his rank, " I have all my life desired, monsieur, to render you service, io3 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. and I learn that in return you laid wait, yesterday evening, for my life, I beg you to consider, monsieur, that although you have more power and authority than I, nevertheless I am a gentleman as well as you, and I should be veiy loth to part with my life for nothing. I entreat you also to consider that you have a virtuous wife, and if any one chooses to say the contrary, I will tell him that he foully lies. For my part, I am not conscious of having done anytliing that should give you cause for wishing me ill ; therefore, if it so please you, I will remain your obedient servant ; or if not, I am the king's, and that is enough for me." The husband replied, that true it was he had suspected him ; but he thought him so gallant a man that he would rather be his friend than his enemy ; and, taking leave of him, hat in hand, he embraced him as a friend. You may imagine what was said by those who had been commissioned on the preceding evening to kill the gentleman, when they witnessed these demonstrations of esteem and friendship. The lover then set out on his travels ; but as he had less money than good looks, his mistress gave him a ring her husband had given her, worth three thousand crowns, which he pawned for fifteen hundred. Some time after his departure the husband waited on the princess, and begged leave for his wife to pass some months with one of his sisters. The princess was much surprised at this unexpected request, and pressed him so much to tell her the reason of it, that he partially explained it to her. The young lady then having taken her leave of her mistress and the whole court, without shedding tears, or showing the least sign of grief, set out for the place to which her husband chose to send her, under the care of a gentleman who had express orders to watch her carefully, and above all, not to suffer her to speak on the road with the suspected person. Being aware of the nature of the orders given to her escort, she every day gave them alarms, and made game of their vigilance. On the day she began her journey, she fell in with a Cordelier on horseback, and chatted with him from dinner almost till bedtime. When they were within a good league of the inn, she said to him, " Here, father, are two crowns for the con- solations you have afforded me ; I have wrapped them in paper as you see, for otherwise I know you would not venture to touch them. Do me the favour to set off at a gallop across the country the moment you quit my side, and take care that J\r<>vel 11^.} Second Day. 109 you are not seen by the people about me. I say this for your good and for the obligation I am under to you." Off went the Cordelier accordingly ; and no sooner had he gone, than she said to her attendants, " Good servants you are, forsooth, and very vigilant guards. Properly you fulfil the orders of your master who confided in you. The very person with whom you have been commanded not to suffer me to speak, has been conversing with me the whole day, and you have let him alone. You deserve the stick, and not wages." The gentleman to whose care the fair lady had been entrusted was so vexed at hearing this, that he could not answer her a bingle word. Taking two men with him, he set spurs to his horse and galloped after the Cordelier, who did his best to escape, seeing himself pursued ; but as they were better mounted they overtook him. The good father, who had no idea why they treated him in that manner, roared for mercy, and in suppliant humility took off his hood and remained bareheaded. They then perceived that he was not the person they had taken him for, and that their mistress had made fools of them ; which she did more cruelly still when they came back from their chase. " You are proper men," she said, "to be entrusted with the care of women. You let them talk without knowing to whom, and then believing anything they choose to tell you, you go and insult God's servants." After several other pranks as humorous as this, she reached the place of her destination, where her two sisters-in-law and the husband of one of them kept her in great subjection. By this time the husband learned that her ring was pledged for fifteen hundred crowns. To save the honour of his wife and recover the ring, he sent her word to redeem it, and that he would pay the money. Caring nothing for the ring since her lover had the money for it, she wrote to him that her husband constrained her to reclaim it, and lest he should suppose that she loved him less than before, she sent him a diamond which her mistress had given her, and which she prized more than all her other jewels. Her lover cheerfully sent her the merchant's obligation, thinking himself well off to have fifteen hundred crowns and a diamond ; but glad above all things at being assured that his mistress loved him still. As long as the husband lived, they remained apart, and could only correspond in writing. Upon the husband's death, the lover, supposing that his mistress still retained the same feelings towards him which shf had always professed, lost no time in demanding her 110 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. hand in marriage ; but found that long absence had given him a rival who was preferred to himself. He was so mortified at this, that, shunning all intercourse with ladies, he wooed danger, and died at last, after having distinguished himself as much as ever young man did. This tale, ladies, in which our sex is not spared, conveys this lesson to husbands : that wives of high spirit suffer themselves to be led astray by resentment and vindictiveness, rather than by the charms of love. The heroine of this novel long resisted that sweet passion, but at last gave way to her despair. A good woman should not do like her, for there is no excuse for a bad action. The more one is exposed to do wrong, the more virtue there is in overcoming one's self and doing well, instead of rendering evil for evil ; especially as the ill one thinks to do to another often recoils upon the doer. Happy those women in whom God manifests the virtues of chastity, meekness, and patience. "It strikes me, Longarine," said Hircan, "that the lady you have been telling us of was inspired by resentment more than by love ; for had she loved the gentleman as much as she pre- tended, she would never have quitted him for another ; and therefore she may be called spiteful, vindictive, obstinate, and fickle." " You talk at your ease on such matters," said Ennasuite, "but you know not what a heart-break it is to love without being loved." " It is true I have little experience in that way," said Hircan ; " for only let a lady show the least coldness towards me, and at once I bid adieu to love and her." " That is all very well," said Parlamente, "for a man like you, who loves only his own pleasure ; but an upright wife ought not to forsake her husband." ,--' "And yet," observed Simontault, "the fair one in question forgot for awhile that she was a woman ; for a man could not have revenged himself more signally." "It is not fair," said Osille, "to conclude from one instance of a naughty woman, that all others are like her." "You are all women, however," replied Saffredent ; "and however bravely adorned you may be, any one who looked , carefully under your petticoats would find that you are so." " We should do nothing but wrangle all day, if we were to listen to you," said Nomerflde. " But I so long to hear another story, that I beg Longarine to call on some one." JVinvite.] Second Day. m Longarine cast her eyes on Geburon, and said, " If you have a story to tell of some good lady, pray do so now." "Since you call upon me," replied Geburon, "I will relate to you a thing that happened at Milan." NOVEL xvr. Of a Milanese lady who tested her lover's courage, and afterwards loved him heartily. HEN the Grand-Master of Chaumont was governor of Milan, there was a lady there who passed for one of the most respectable in the city. She was the widow of an Italian count, and resided with her brothers-in- law, not choosing to hear a word about marrying again. Her conduct was so correct and guarded that she was highly esteemed by all the French and Italians in the duchy. One day, when her brothers and sisters-in-law entertained the Grand-Master of Chaumont, the widow could not help being present, contrary to her custom of never appearing at any festive meeting. The French could not see her without praising her beauty and her grace ; one among them especially, whom I will not name. It is enough to inform you that there was not a Frenchman in Italy more worthy to be loved, for he was fully endowed with all the beauties and graces which a gentleman could have. Though he saw the widow dressed in black crape, apart from the young people, and withdrawn into a corner with several old ladies, yet, being one who had never known what it was to fear man or woman, he accosted her, took off his mask, and quitted the dance to converse with her. He passed the whole evening with her and the old ladies her companions, and enjoyed himself more than he could have done with the youngest and sprightliest ladies of the court. So charmed was he with this conversation, that when it was time to retire he hardly believed he had had time to sit down. Though he talked with the widow only upon common topics, suited to the company around her, she failed not to perceive that he was anxious to make her acquaintance, which she was so resolute to prevent, that he could never afterwards meet with her in any company, great or small. At last, having made inquiries as to her habits of life, and learned that she vifent often to the churches and religious houses, he set so many people on the watch that she could not go to any of thosvi places so secretly but that he was there before her, and 1 1 2 TTie Heptameron oftJic Queen of Navarre. stayed as long as he could see her. He made such good use ol his time, and gazed at her with such hearty good will, that she could not be ignorant of his passion ; and to prevent these encounters she resolved to feign illness for some time, and hear mass at home. This was a bitter mortification to the gentleman, for he was thus deprived of his only means of seeing her. At last, when she thought she had baffled his plans, she returned to the churches as before, and Love took care forthwith to make this known to the gentleman, who. then resumed his habits of devotion. Fearing lest she should throw some other obstacle in his way, and that he should not have time to make known to her what he felt, one morning, when she was hearing mass in a little chapel, where she thought herself snugly concealed, he placed himself at the end of the altar, and turning to her at the moment when the priest was elevating the host, said, in a voice of deep feeling, " I swear to you, madam, by Him whom the priest holds in his hands, that you are the sole cause of my death. Though you deprive me of all opportunity to address you, yet you cannot be ignorant of the passion I entertain for you. . My haggard eyes and death-like countenance must have sufficiently made known to you my condition." The lady pre- tended not to understand him, and replied, " God's name ought not to be taken in vain ; but the poets say that the gods laugh at the oaths and falsehoods of lovers, wherefore women who prize their honour ought neither to be credulous nor pitiful." So saying; she rose and went home. Those who have been in the like predicament will readily believe that the gentleman was sorely cast down at receiving such a reply. However, as he did not lack courage, he thought it better to have met with a rebuff than to have missed an opportunity of declaring his love. He persevered for three years, and lost not a moment in which he could solicit her by letters and by other means ; but during all that time she never made him any other reply, but shunned him as the wolf shuns the mastiff ; and that not by reason of any aversion she felt for him, but because she was afraid of exposing her honour and re- putation. The gentleman was so well aware that there lay the knot of the difficulty, that he pushed matters more briskly than ever ; till, after a world of trouble, refusals, and sufferings, the lady was touched by his constancy, took pity on him, and granted him what he had so long desired and waited for. The assignation having been made, and the requisite measures concerted, the gentleman failed not to present himself at the N'ovH 1 6.] Second Day. 1 1 j rendezvous, at whatever risk of his life, for Ihe fair widow resided with her relations. But as he was not less cunning than handsome, he managed so adroitly that he was in the lady's chamber at the moment appointed. He found her alone in a handsome bed ; but as he was undressing in eager haste, he heard whisperings outside the chamber-door, and the noise of swords clashing against the walls. " We are undone," cried the widow, more dead than alive. " Your life and my honour are in mortal peril. My brothers are coming to kill you. Hide your- self under the bed, I beseech you ; for then they will not find you, and I shall have a right to complain of their alarming me without cause." The gentleman, who was not easily frightened, coolly '•epiied, " What are your brothers that they should make a man of honour afraid ? If their whole race was assembled at the door, I am confident they would not stand the fourth lunge of my sword. Remain quietly in bed, therefore, and leave me to guard the door." Then wrapping his cloak round his left arm, and with his sword in his hand, he opened the door, and saw that the threatening weapons were brandished by two servant maids. " Forgive us, monsieur," they said. " It is by our mistress's orders we do this ; but you shall have no more annoyance from us." The gentleman, seeing that his supposed antagonists were women, contented himself with bidding them go to the devil, and slamming the door in their faces. He then jumped into bed to his mistress without delay. Fear had not cooled his ardour, and without wasting time in asking the meaning of the sham alarm, he thought only of satisfying his passion. Towards daylight, he asked his bedfellow why she had so long delayed his happiness, and what was her reason for making her servants behave so oddly. " I had resolved," she said, laughing, " never to love ; and I have adhered to that resolution ever since I became a widow. But the first time you spoke to me, I saw so much to admire in you that I changed my mind, and began from that hour to love you as much as you loved me. It is true that honour, which has always been the ruling principle of my conduct, would not suffer love to make me do anything which might blemish my reputation. But as the stricken deer thinks to change its pain by change of place, so did I go from church to church, hopine to fly from him whom I carried in my heart, the proof of whose perfect love has reconciled honour with love. But to be thoroughly assured that I gave my heart to a man who was perfectly worthy of it, I ordered my women to do as they have S 114 -^^^ Heptameron of the Quern of Navarre. clone. I can assure you, if you had been frightened enough to hide under the bed, my intention was to have got up and gone into another room, and never have had anything more to do wilh you. But as I have found you not only comely and pleasing, but also full of valour and intrepidity to a degree even beyond what fame had reported you ; as I have seen that fear could not appa! you, nor in the least degree cool the ardour of your passion foi me, I have resolved to attach myself to you for the rest of my days ; being well assured that I cannot place my life and my honour in better hands than in those of him whom of all men in the world I believe to be the bravest and the best." * As if human will could be immutable, they mutually promised and vowed a thing which was not in their power — I mean, per- petual affection, which can neither grow up nor abide in the hearts of men, as those ladies know who have learned by ex- perience what is the duration of such engagements. Therefore, ladies, if you are wise, you will be on your guard against us, as the stag would be against the hunter if the animal had reason . for our felicity, our glory, and delight is to see you captured, and to despoil you of what ought to be dearer to you than life. " Since when have you turned preacher, Geburon ? " said Hircan. " You did not always talk in that fashion." " It is true," replied Geburon, "that I have all my life long held a quite different language ; but as my teeth are bad, and I can no longer chew venison, I warn the poor deer against the hunters, that I may make amends in my old age for the mischiefs I have desired in my youth." "Thank you, Geburon, for your warning," retorted Nomerfide, "but after all, we doubt that we have much reason to be obliged to you ; for you did not speak in that way to the lady you loved so much, therefore it is a proof that you do not love us, or yet wish that we should love. Yet we believe ourselves to be as pru- dent and virtuous as those you so long chased in your young days. But it is a common vanity of the old to believe that they have always been more discreet than those who come after them." " When the cajolery of one of your wooers," retorted Geburon, "shall have made you acquainted with the nature of men, you will then believe, Nomerfide, that I have told you the truth." "Tome it seems probable," observed Oisille, "that the gentle- man whose intrepidity you extol so highly must rather have been • The hero of this novel is again Admiral de Bonnivet, as we learn from vantdme. Novel IT. "] Second Day. 115 possessed by the fury of love, a passion so violent that it makes the greatest poltroons undertake things which the bravest would think twiceof before attempting." "If he had not believed, madam,'' said Saffredent, "that the Italians are readier with their tongues than with their hands, methinks he must have been frightened." "Yes," said Oisille, "if he had not had a fire in his heart which burns up fear." "Since you did not think the courage of this gentleman sufficiently laudable," said Hircan, " I presume you know of some other instance which seems to you more worthy of praise." " It is true that this gentleman's courage deserves some praise," said Oisille, " but I know an instance of intrepidity that is worthy of higher admiration." " Pray tell us it then, madam," said Geburon. " If you so much extol," said Oisille, " the bravery of a man who displayed it for the defence of his own life and of his mistress's honour, what praise is too great for another, who, without necessity, and from pure valour, behaved in the manner I am about to relate ? " NOVEL XVII. How King Francis gave proof of his courage in the case of Count Guillaume, who designed his death. GERMAN count named Guillaume, of the House of Saxe, to which that of Savoy is so closely allied that anciently the two made but one, came to Dijon, in Burgundy, and entered the service of King Francis. This count, who was considered one of the finest men in Germany, and also one of the bravest, was so well received by the king, that he not only took him into his service, but placed him near his person, as one of the gentlemen of his chamber. The Seig- neur de la Tremouille, Governor of Burgundy, an old knight and faithful servant of the king, being naturally suspicious and atten- tive to his master's interests, had always a good number of spies among his enemies to discover their intrigues ; and he conducted himself with such wariness that little escaped his notice. One day he received a letter, informing him among other things that Count Guillaume had already received certain sums of money with promises of more, provided he would have the king put to death in any way in which it could be done. The Seigneur de la Tremouille instantly communicated the intelligence to the king. ii6 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navam. and made no secret of it to Madame Louise of Savoy, his mother, who, putting out of consideration that she was related to the German, begged the king to dismiss him forthwith. Instead o\ doing so, the king begged Madame Louise to say no more about it, declaring it impossible that so gallant a man could be guilty of so villainous an act. Some time after, a second despatch was received, confirmatory of the former one. The governor, burning with zeal for the preservation of his master's life, begged permission of him either to expel the count from the realm, or to take precautionary measures against him ; but the king expressly commanded him to make no stir in the matter, doubting not that he should come at the truth by some other means. One day, the king went to the chase, arme . with no other weapon than a very choice sword, and took Count Guillaume with him, desiring him to keep close up with him. After having hunted the stag for some time, the king, finding himself alone with Count Guillaume, and far from his suite, turned aside, and rode into the thick of the forest. When they had advanced some way he drew his sword, and said to the count, " What think you ? Is not this an excellent sword?" The count, taking it by the point, replied that he did not think he had ever seen a better. " You are right," rejoined the king; "and it strikes me that it a gentleman had conceived the design of killing me, and knew the strength of my arm, the boldness of my heart, and the temper of this good sword, he would think twice of it before he attacked me ; nevertheless, I should regard him as a great villain, if, being alone with me, man to man, he durst not attempt to execute what he had dared to undertake." " The villainy of the design would be very great, sire," replied the astounded count; "but not less would be the folly of attempting to put it in execution." The king sheathed his sword with a laugh, and, hearing the sound of the chase, set spurs to the horse, and galloped in the direction from which the sound came. When he rejoined his suite he said not a word of what had passed, satisfied in his own mind that Count Guillaume, for all his vigour and bravery, v/as not the man to strike so daring a blow. The count, however, making no doubt that he was suspected, and greatly fearing a discovery, went the next day to Robertet, the secretary of finance, and told him that, on considering the profits and appointments the king had proposed to make him for remaining in his service, he found they would not be sufficient to Novel \-^,.\ Second Day. 117 maintain hirn for half the year ; and that, unless lis majesty would be pleased to double them, he should oe under the neces- sity of retiring. He concluded by begging that Robertet would ascertain the king's pleasure in the matter, and make him ac- quainted with it as soon as possible. Robertet said he would lose no time, for he would go that instant to the king : a com- mission which he undertook the more readily, as he had seen the information obtained by La Tremouille. As soon as the king was awake, Robertet laid his business before him, in presence of Monsieur de la Tremouille and Admiral de Bonnivet, who were not aware of what the king had done the day before. " You want to dismiss Count Guillaume," said the king, laugh- ing, "and you see he dismisses himself. You may tell him, then, that if he is not satisfied with the terms he accepted when he entered my service, and which many a man of good family would think himself fortunate in having, he may see if he can do better elsewhere. Far from wishing to hinder him, I shall be very glad to. have him find as good a position as he deserves." Robertet was as prompt in carrying this reply to the count as he had been in laying the latter's proposals before the king. " That being the case, I must retire from his majesty's service," said the count. Fear made him so eager to be gone, that twenty-four hours sufficed for the rest. He took leave of his majesty as he was sitting down to table, and affected extreme regret at the necessity which compelled him to quit that gracious presence. He also took leave of the king's mother, who let him go with no less gladness than she had welcomed him as a kins- man and friend. The king, seeing his mother and his courtiers surprised at the count's sudden departure, made known to them the alarm he had given the count, adding that even if he were innocent of what was laid to his charge, he had a fright suffi- cient to make him quit a master whose temper he did not yet know. * I see no reason, ladies, which could have obliged the king thus to expose his person against a man who was reckoned so formidable an adversary, had he not chosen, from mere greatness of soul, to quit the company in which kings find no inferiors to offer them simple combat, in order to put himself upon an equal • The fact related in this novel must have occurred in the forest of Argilly ■ in July, 1521, when Francis I. was at Dijon. The German count in question was Wilhelm von Furstemberg. He is the subject of the thirtieth chapter '' something about the matter, may be allowed to say what we think of it. For my part, I say that he was a fool the first time, and a blockhead the second. It is my belief that, in keep- ing his word to his mistress, he made her suffer as much as himself, or more. She only exacted that promise from him to make herself appear a better conducted woman than she really was ; for she could not but know that there is no command, or oath, or anything else in the world, which is capable of stop- ping the headlong impulses of a violent love. She was very 123 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. glad to cover her vice under an appearance of virtue, and make believe that she was accessible for nothing beneath a heroic virtue. He was a blockhead the second time to leave her who loved him, and was worth more than the other, especially when he had so good an excuse as the provocation he had received." " I say quite the contrary," interrupted Dagoucin. " The first time he showed himself firm, patient, and a man of his word ; and the second time, faithful, and loving to per- fection." " And who knows," said Saffredent, " but he was one of those whom a chapter names defrigidis et maleficiatis f * But that nothing might be wanting to the glory of this hero, Hircan ought to have acquainted us if he did his duty when he got what he wanted. We should then have been able to judge whether he was so chaste through virtue or throujjh impotence." " You may be sure," said Hircan, " that if I had been told this, I should not have concealed it any more than the rest. But knowing as I do the man and his temperament, I attribute his conduct to the force of his love, and not at all to impotence or coldness." " If that is the case," said Saffredent, " he ought to have laughed at his promise. Had the fair one been offended at his doing so, it would not have been very hard to appease her." " But, perhaps," said Ennasuite, " she would not then have consented." " That's a fine idea ! " cried Saffredent. " Was he not strong enough to force her, since she had given him the opportunity .' " " Holy Mary ! " exclaimed Nomerfide, " how you talk ! Is that the way to win the good graces of a lady who is believed to be chaste and modest ? " " It seems to me," replied Saffredent, " that one cannot do more honour to a woman of whom one desires to have that sort of thing than to take it by force, for there is not the pettiest demoiselle of them all but dearly loves to be long wooed and entreated. There are some who can only be won by dint of presents ; others are so stupid that they are hardly pregnable on any side. With these latter, one must think of nothing but how to hit upon the means of having them. But when one has to do with a dame so wary that one cannot deceive her, and so good • This is an allusion to the penalties pronounced by several councils, and repeated in the Capitularies and the Decretals of Pope Boniface VIH., against those who were supposed guilty of having by magical practices deprived a bridegroom of the \ ower of consummating his nuptials. Novell^.} Second Day. 123 that she is not to be come at either by presents or by fair words, is it not allowable to try all possible means of success ? When ever you hear that a man has forced a woman, you may be sure that she had left him no other means to accomplish his ends ; and you ought not to think the worse of a man who has risked his life to satisfy his love." " I have seen in my time," said Geburon, laughing, " places besieged and taken by storm, because there was no means of bringing the governors to terms either by money or threats ; for they say that a fortress which treats is half taken." "One would think," said Ennasuite, "that love is built only upon these follies. There have been many who have loved constantly with other intentions." " If you know one such instance," said Hircan, "tell it us." " I know one," said Ennasuite, " which I will willingly relate." NOVEL XIX. Two lovers, in despair at being hindered from marrying, turn monk and nun. |N the time of the Marquis of Mantua, who had married the sister of the Duke of Ferrara, there was in the ^^ service of the duchess a demoiselle named Pauline, so much loved by a gentleman who was in the service of the marquis that everyone was surprised at the excess of his passion ; for being poor, but a handsome man, and, moreover, in great favour with the marquis, it was thought that he ought to attach himself to a lady who had wealth enough for them both : but he regarded Pauline as the greatest -of all treasures, which he hoped to make his own by marriage. The marchioness, who loved Pauline, and wished that she should make a wealthier match, dissuaded her from this one as much as she could, and often hindered the lovers from seeing each other, telling them that if they married they would be the poorest and most miser- able couple in Italy. But the gentleman could not admit the validity of this argument. Pauline, on her part, dissembled her love as much as she could ; but she only thought of it the more for all that. Their courtship was long, and they hoped their fortune wotrld mend in time. While they were awaiting this happy change, war broke out, and the gentleman was made prisoner, along with a Frenchman who was as much in love in his own country as the other was in Iialy. , Being fellcws in misfortune, they began reciprocally ta 124 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. communicate their secrets. The Frenchman told his companion that his heart was captive, without saying to whom ; but as they were both in the service of the Marquis of Mantua, the French- man knew that his comrade loved Pauline, and, having his interest at heart, advised him to abandon that connection. This the Italian vowed it was impossible for him to do, and added that, unless the Marquis of Mantua, in recompense for his im- prisonment and his good services, bestowed his mistress upon him at his return, he would turn Cordelier, and never serve any other master than God. The Frenchman, who saw in him no signs of religion, with the exception of his devotion to Pauline, could not believe that he spoke in earnest. At the end of nine"" months the Frenchman was set at liberty, and exerted himself to such effect that he procured that of his comrade also, who immediately on his liberation renewed his importunities to the marquis and the marchioness for their sanction to his marriage with Pauline. It was in vain they represented to him the poverty to which they would both be reduced ; the relations on both sides, who would not consent to the match, forbade him to speak any more to Pauline, in hopes that absence and impossi- bility would cure him of his headstrong passion : byt all this was unavailing to change his feelings. Seeing himself forced to submit, he asked leave of the marquis and marchioness to bid farewell to Pauline, after which he would see her no more, and his request was forthwith granted. " Since heaven and earth are against us," said he to Pauline when they met, " and we are not only forbidden to marry, but even to see each other, the marquis and marchioness, our master and mistress, who exact such a cruel kind of obedience of us, may boast of having with one word smitten two hearts, whose_ bodies can henceforth only languish to death. By so unfeeling a mandate they plainly show that they have never known love or pity. I know well that their purpose is to see us both prosper, ously established in wealthy marriages ; but they know not that people are truly rich only when they are content. However, they have so wronged and incensed me that it is impossible I should remain in their service. I have no doubt that if I had never talked of marrying you, they would not have carried their scruples so far as to forbid our speaking to each other ; but as for me, I can assure you that, having long loved you so honestly and truly, I shall continue to love you all my life. And foras- much as seeing you I could not endure the monstrous hardship of Tiot being allowed to speak to you, and not seeing you, my JVbvei ig.] Second Day. 125 heart, which could not remain void, would be filled with a despair which might end fatally for me, I have for a long time - resolved to retreat into the cloister. Not but that I well know one may work out his salvation in any condition of life ; but I believe that in these retreats one has more leisure to meditate on the greatness of the Divine goodness, which will have pity, I trust, on the faults of my youth, and dispose my heart to love the things of heaven as much as I have loved those of earth. If . God gives me the grace to be able to obtain his, my continual occupation will be to pray for you. I entreat you, by the faithful and constant love we have borne to one another, to remember me in your prayers, and to beseech the Lord to give me as much constancy, when I cease to see you, as He gave me gladness in beholding you. As I have hoped all my life to have from you through marriage what honour and conscience allow, and have contented myself with that hope, now that I lose it, and can never be treated by you as a husband, I entreat that, in bidding me farewell, you will treat me as a brolher, and let me kiss you." Poor Pauline, who had manifested rigour enough towards him, seeing the extremity of his grief and the reasonableness of his request, which was so moderate under such circumstances, could only reply by throwing herself in tears on his neck. So overcome was she that speech, sense, and motion failed her, and she fainted in his arms, whilst love, sorrow, and pity produced the same effect on him. One of Pauline's companions, who saw them fall, called for help, and they were recovered by force of remedies. Pauline, who wished to hide her afFection, was ashamed when she was aware how vehemently she had suffered it to display itself ; however, she found a good excuse in the commiseration she had felt for the gentleman. That heart- broken lover, unable to utter the words, " Farewell for ever I " hurried away to his chamber, fell like a corpse on his bed, and passed the night in such bitter lamentations that his servant sup- posed he had lost all his relations and friends, and all he was worth in the world. Next morning he commended himself to our Lord, and after dividing the little he possessed among his domestics, only retaining a very small sum of money for his immediate use, he forbade his servants to follow him, and wended his way alone to the convent of the Observance, to ask for the monastic habit, with the determination of wearing none other as long as he lived. The warden, who had known him formerly, th aught a', first that he was joking, or that he himself was dreim. 126 IheHeptameron of the Queen of Navarre. ing ; indeed, there was not a man in all the country who hail less the look of a Cordelier, or was better gifted with the graces and endowments which one could desire to see in a gentleman. But after having heard him, and seen him shed floods of tears, the source of which was unknown to him, the warden kindly received him as a guest, and soon afterwards, seeing his perseverance, he gave him the robe of the order, which the poor gentleman re- ceived with great devotion. The marquis and marchioness were made acquainted with this event, and were so much surprised at it that they could hardly believe it. Pauline, to show that she was without passion, did her best to dissemble her regret for her lover, and succeeded so well that everybody said she had forgotten him, whilst all the time she would fain have fled to some hermitage, to shun all commerce with the world. But one day, when she went to hear mass at the Ot^servance with her mistress, when the priest, the deacon, and the sub-deacon issued from the vestry to go to the high altar, her lover, who had not yet completed the year of his noviciate, served as acolyte, and led the procession, carrying in both hands the two canettes covered with silk-cloth, and walking with downcast eyes. Pauline, seeing him in that garb, which augmented rather than diminished his good looks, was so surprised and confused that, to conceal the real cause of her heightened colour, she began to cough. At that sound, which he recognized better than the bells of his monastery, the poor lover durst not turn his head ; but as he passed before her, he could not hinder his eyes from taking the direction to which they had been so long used. Whilst gazing sadly on his mistress, the fire he had thought almost ex- tinct blazed up so fiercely within him that, making an effort beyond his strength to conceal it, he fell full length on the floor. His fear lest the cause of this accident should be known prompted him to say that the floor of the church, which was broken at that spot, had thrown him down. Pauline perceived from this circumstance that he had not changed his heart along with his habit ; and believing that, as it was now so long since he had retired from the world, everyone imagined she had forgotten him, she resolved to put into execution her long-meditated design of following her lover's example. Having now been more than fourteen months privily making all necessary arrangements previous to her taking the veil, she one morning asked leave of the marchioness to go to hear mass at the convent of St. Claire. Her mistress granted this request without knowing why it was preferred. Calling at the Franciscan mo- Novel 19,] Second Day. 1 2. 7 nastery on her way, Pauline beg^ged the warder, to let her see her lover, whom she called her relation. She saw him in private, in a chapel, and said to him, " If I could with honour have retired to the cloister as soon as you, I should have been there long ago. But now that by my patience I have prevented the remarks of those who put a bad construction upon everything rather than a good one, I am resolved to renounce the world, and adopt the order, habit, and life which you have chosen. If you fare well, I shall have my part ; and if you fare ill, I do not wish to be exempt. I desire to go to Paradise by the same road as you, being assured that the Being who is supremely perfect, and alone worthy to be called Love, has drawn us to his service by means of an innocent and reasonable affection, which He will convert entirely to himself through His Holy Spirit. Let us both forget this perishing body, which is of the old Adam, to receive and put on that of Jesus Christ, who is our spirit." The cowled lover wept with joy to hear her express such a holy desire, and did his utmost to confirm it. " Since I can never hope for more than the satisfaction of seeing you," he said, " I esteem it a great blessing that I am in a place where I may always have opportunity to see you. Our conversations will be such that we shall both be the better for them, loving as we shall do with one love, one heart, one mind, led by the goodness of God, whom I pray to hold us in His good hands, in which no one perishes." So saying, and weeping with love and joy, he kissed her hands ; but she stooped her face as low as her hand, and they exchanged the kiss of love in true charity. From the Franciscan monastery, Pauline went straight to the convent of St. Claire, where she was received and veiled. Once there, she sent word to her mistress, who, hardly crediting such strange news, went to see her next day, and did all she could to dissuade her from her purpose. The only reply she received from Pauline was that she ought to be satisfied with having deprived her of a husband of flesh, the only man in the world she had ever loved, without seeking likewise to separate her from Him who is immortal and invisible, which neither she nor all the creatures on earth could do. The marchioness, seeing her so strong in her pious resolution^ kissed her, and left her in her convent with extreme regret. These two persons lived afterwards such holy and devout lives that it cannot be doubted that He whose law is charity said to them at the end of their course, as to Mary Magdalen, " Your sins are forgiven, since you have loved so much," and removed t ■»« Tlu Heptamercn of t/u Queen of Navarre. them in peace to the blessed abode where the recompense In- finitely surpasses all human merits. You cannot but own, ladies, that the man's love was the greatei of che two ; but it was so well repaid that I would all those who love were so richly recompensed. " In that case, there would be more fools than ever," said Hircan. " Do you call it folly," said Oisille, " to love virtuously in youth, and then to centre all our love in God ? " " If despite and despair are laudable," replied Hircan, laughing, " then I must say that Pauline and her lover are worthy of high praise." "Yet God has many ways of attracting us to Him," said Geburon ; "and though their beginnings seem bad, their end is, nevertheless, very good." "I believe," said Parlamente, "that no one ever perfectly loved God who did not perfectly love some of his creatures in this world." "What do you call loving perfectly ?" said Saffredent. " Do you believe that those enamoured cataleptics who worship ladies at a hundred paces' distance, without daring to speak out, love perfectly ? " " I call perfect lovers," replied Parlamente, " those who seek in what they love some perfection, be it goodness, beauty, or charming demeanour ; who aim always at virtue, and whose hearts are so noble and so spotless that they would rather lose their lives than devote them to low things forbidden by honour and conscience ; for the soul which is created only to return to its sovereign good, so long as it is imprisoned in the body, does but long to arrive at that high destination. But because the senses, which can give it views thereof, are obscured and carnal since the sin of our first parents, they can only present to it those visible objects which approach nearest to perfection. In that direction the soul rushes forth, and thinks to find in outward beauty, in visible graces, and in moral virtues, the supreme beauty, grace, and virtue. But after having sought and proved them, and not found what it loves, the soul lets them go, and passes on its way, like the child who loves apples, pears, dolls, and other trivial things, the handsomest it can see, and thinks that to amass little pebbles is to be wealthy ; but as it grows ap it loves living dolls, and amasses things necessary to human life. After a longer experience has shown it that there is neither Novel 19.] Second Day. la^ perfection nor felicity in the things of this earth, it seeks the true felicity, and Him who is its source and principle. Still, if God did not open the eyes of its faith, it would be in danger of passing from ignorance to infidel philosophy ; for it is faith alone that demonstrates and makes the soul receive that good which the carnal and animal man cannot know." " Do you not see," said Longarine, " that even the uncultivated ground, which produces only trees and useless herbs, is, never- theless, an object of desire, in the hope that when it is well cultivated and sown it will produce good grain ? In like manner, the heart of man, which is conscious only of visible things, will never arrive at the condition of loving God but through the seed of the Word ; for that heart is a sterile, cold, and corrupted soil." " Thence it comes," said Saffredent, "that most doctors are not spiritual, because they never love anything but good wine and ugly sluts of chambermaids, without making trial of what it is to love honourable ladies." -^ — " If I could speak Latin well," said Simontault, " I would quote St. John to you, who says, ' He who loves not his brother whom he sees, how shall he love God whom he doth not see ?' In loving visible things, one comes to love things invisible." " Tell us where is the man so perfect as you describe, et\ laudabimus eum," said Ennasuite. "There are such men," replied Dagoucin ; " men who love so strongly and so perfectly that they would rather die than enters tain desires contrary to the honour and conscience of their mistresses, and who yet would not hiive either them or others be aware of their sentiments." " These men are like the chameleon, who lives on air," ob- served Saffredent. " There is no man in the world but is very glad to have it known that he loves, and delighted to know that he is loved. Also, I am convinced, that there is no fever of affection so strong but passes off as soon as one knows the con- trary. For my part, I have seen palpable miracles in that way." " I beg, then," said Ennasuite, " that you will take my place, and tell us a story of someone who has been restored from death ' to life by having discovered in his mistress the reverse of what he desired." " I am so much afraid," said Saffredent, " of displeasing the ladies, whose most humble servant I have always been, and always shall be, that without an express command I should not have dared to speak of their imperfections. But, in token of obedience, I will speak the truth," I JO TTu Heptameron oftht Queen of Navarre. NOVEL XX. A gentleman finds his mistress in the arms of her groom, and is cured at ones of his love. }]T one time there lived in Dauphind a gentleman named the Seigneur De Riant, of the household of King Francis I., and one of the best-looking and best-bred men of his day. He paid his court for a long time to a widow, whom he loved and respected so much that, for fear of losing her good graces, he durst not ask of her that which he longed for with the utmost passion. As he was conscious of being a handsome man and well worthy of being loved, he firmly^ believed what she often swore to him — namely, that she loved ( him above all men in the world ; and that if she were con- strained to do anything for anyone, it would be for him alone, who was the most accomplished gentleman she had ever known. She begged he would content himself with this, and not attempt to exceed the limits of decorous friendship, assuring him that, upon the least symptom of his craving anything more, she should be lost to him for ever. J The poor gentleman not only contented himself with these fine words, but even deemed himself happy in having won the heart of a person he believed to be so virtuous. It would be an end- less affair to give you a circumstantial detail of his love, of the long intercourse he had with her, and of the journeys he made to see her. Enough to say that this poor martyr to a fire so pleasing that the more one is burned by it the more one likes to be burned, daily sought the means of aggravating his martyrdom. One day he was seized with a desire to travel post to s6e her whom he loved better than himself, and whom he prizfed above all the women in the world. On arriving at her house he a:sked where she was. They told him she had just come back from vespers, and was gone to take a turn in the warren to finish her devotions. He dismounts, goes straight to the warren, and meets her woman, who tells him that she is gone to walk alone in the great alley. Upon this he began to hope more than ever for some good fortune, and continued to search for her as softly as possible, desiring above all things to steal upon her when she was alone. But on coming to a charming pleached arbour, in his impatience to behold his adored, he darted into it abruptly, and what did he see then but the lady stretched on the grass, in the arms of a groom, as ugly, nasty, and disreputable as De Riant was all the reverse. I will not Novel 20."] Second Day. rji pretend to describe his indignation at so unexpected a spectacle ; I will only sa> it was so great that in an instant it extinguished his long- cherished flame. " Much good may it do you, madam," said he, as full of resentment as he had been of love. " I am now cured and delivered of the continual anguish which your- fancied virtue had caused me ;" and without another word, he turned on his heel and went back faster than he had come. The poor woman had not a word to say for herself, and could ( only put her hands over her face, that as she could not cover her shame she might at least cover her eyes, and not see him who saw her but too plainly, notwithstanding her long dissimulation. So, ladies, unless you choose to love perfectly, never think^ of dissembling with a proper man, and giving him displeasure i for sake of your own glory ; for hypocrisy is paid as it deserves, I and God favours those who love frankly. * / " It must be confessed," said Oisille, " that you have kepf something good in reserve for us to the end of the day. If we were not pledged to tell the truth, I could not believe that a woman of such station could have forgotten herself so much as to quit so handsome a gentleman for a nasty groom." "If you knew, madam," replied Hircan, ''the difference there Is between a gentleman who has all his life worn harness and followed the army, and a servant who has led a sedentary life and been well fed, you would excuse this poor widow." " Say what you will," rejoined Oisille, " I doubt that you would admit any excuse for her." "I have heard," said Simontault, "that there are women who are very glad to have apostles to preach up their virtue and their chastity ; they treat them with the most gracious kindness and familiarity, and assure them they would grant them what they sue for, did conscience and honour permit it. When the poor dupes are in company they talk of these excellent ladies, and swear they would put their hands in the fire if they are not women of virtue, relying on the proof they think they have personally obtained for their assertion. But the ladies thus praised by these simple gentlemen show themselves in their real colours to those who are like themselves, and choose for the * This is a very old story, though told by the Queen of Navarre, with name and date, as one of her own time. It occurs in the introduction to the Arabian Nights, in the eighteenth canto of the Orlando Furioso, and in the novels ol Morlini, the first edition of which was printed at Naples in 1520. La Fontaina has put it at the beginning of his tale of Joconde. 132 The Heptamerm of the Queen of Navarre. objects on whom they bestow their favours men who have not the boldness to tell tales, and of so abject a condition that, even, were they to blab, they would not be believed." " I have heard the same thing said before by extravagantly jealous folk," said Longarine. "But surely this is what may be called painting a chimera ; for though such a thing may have happened to one wretched woman, is it thence to be inferred that all women do the same thing ? " " The more we talk on this subject," said Parlamente, " the more we shall be maligned. We had better go hear vespers, that we may not keep the monks waiting for us as we did yester- - day." This proposal was unanimously agreed to. " If anyone," said Oisille, as they were walking back to the monastery, "gives thanks to God for having told the truth to- day, Saffredent ought to implore his pardon for having told such a villanous tale against the ladies." " I give you my oath," said Saffredent, " that although I have only spoken upon hearsay, what I have told you is, nevertheless, the strict truth. But if I choose to tell you what I could relate of women from my own knowledge, you would make more signs of the cross than they do in consecrating a church." " Since you have so bad an opinion of women," said Par- lamente, "they ought to banish you from their society." " There are some who have so well practised what you ad- vise," he replied, " that if I could say worse of them, and do worse to them all, to excite them to avenge me on her who does me so much injustice, I should not be slow to do so." While he was speaking, Parlamente put on her half-mask and went with the rest into the church, where they found that although the bell had been rung for vespers there were no monks to say them. The fathers had been apprised of the agreeable manner in which the company spent their time in the meadow, and being fonder of pleasure than of their prayers, they had gone and crouched down there in a ditch behi d a very thick hedge, and had listened to the tales with so much attention that they had not heard the vesper-bell. The con- sequence was that they came running in with such haste that they were quite out of breath when they should have begun vespers. After service, some of the company inquiring of them why they had come in so late and chanted so badly, they con- fessed the cause ; and for the future they were allowed to listen behind the hedge, and to sit at their ease. The supper was a NffVtl 30.] Second Day. 133 merry one ; and during it were uttered such things as any of the company had forgotten to deliver in the meadow. This filled up the rest of the evening, until Oisille begged them to retire, that they might prepare for the morrow, saying that an hour before midnight was better than three after it. Thereupon they sought their respective chambers, and so ended the second day. 134 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre, THIRD DAY, JARLY as it was next morning when the company &•• sembled in the refectory, they found Madame Oisille already there. She had. been meditating for half an hour on what she was to read to them ; and so intent were they upon listening to her that they did not hear the bell, and a monk had to come and tell them that high mass was about to begin. After hearing mass and dining soberly, in order to have their memories more clear, they all retired to their chambers to review their several repertories of tales previously to the next meeting in the meadow. Those who had some droll story to tell were already so merry that one could not look in their faces without being prepared beforehand for a hearty laugh. When all were seated, they asked Saffredent to whom he addressed his call. " The fault I committed yester- day," he said, " being as you say so great, and knowing not how to repair it, I call on Parlamente. Her excellent sense will enable her to praise the ladies in such a manner as will make you forget the truth I have told you." " I do not undertake to repair your faults," replied Parla- mente ; " but I will take gooj care not to imitate them. To this end, without departing from the truth we have pledged ourselves to speak, I will show you that there are ladies who in their love have had no other end in view than virtue and honour. As the lady of whom I have to speak is of a good family, I will change nothing in her story but the names. You will see, ladies, from what I am going to narrate, that love can make no change in a chaste and virtuous heart" NOVEL XXI. ^^rtnous love of a young lady of quality and a bastard of an illustrious bouw — Hindrance of their marriage by a queen — Sage reply of the demoiselle to the queen — Her subsequent marriage. |HERE was a queen in France who had in her house- hold several young ladies of good birth, and among the rest one named Rolandine, who was her near relation. But the queen, being displeased with this young lady's father, punished the innocent for the guilty, and behaved not very well to Rolandine. Though this young lady was reither a great beauty nor the reverse, such was the propriety o* her do- Novel 2i.'\ Third Day. 135 meanour and the sweetness of her disposition, that many great lords sought her in marriage, but obtained no reply, for Ro- landine's father was so fond of his money that he neglected the establishment of his daughter. On the other hand, she was so little in favour of her mistress that she was not wooed by those who wished to ingratiate themselves with the queen. Thus, through the negligence of her father and the disdain of her mistress, this poor young lady remained long unmarried. At last she took this sorely to heart, not so much from eagerness to be married, as from shame at not being so. Her grief reached such a pitch that she forsook the .pomp and mundane pursuits ot the court to occupy herself only with prayer and some little handiworks. In this tranquil manner she passed her youth, leading the most blameless and devout of lives. When she was approaching her thirtieth year, she became acquainted with a gentleman, a bastard of an illustrious house, and one of the best-bred men of his day, but ill endowed by fortune, and of so little comeliness that no one but herself would have readily chosen him for a lover. As this poor gentleman had remained solitary like herself, and as the unfortunate naturally seek each other's society, he one day accosted Rolandine. There being a strong similitude between them in point of temperament and fortune, they poured their griefs into each other's ears, and that was the beginning of a very intimate friendship between them. Seeing that they both laboured under the same misfortune, they everywhere sought each other out for mutual consolation, and thus they became more and more attached to each other to an extraordinary degree. Those who had known Rolandine so coy that she would hardly speak to any- one were shocked to see her every moment with the bastard, and told her gouvernante that she ought not to permit such long conversations. The gouvernante spoke to Rolandine on the subject, telling her that it was taken amiss that she should be on such familiar terms with a man who was neither rich enough to marry her, nor good-looking enough to be loved. Rolandine, who had hitherto been reproved for her austerity rather than for her i^undane ways, replied, "You see, mother, that I cannot have a liusband of my own quality. I have hitherto always attached myself to the young and good-looking ; but as I am afraid of falling into the pit into which I have seen so many fall, I now attach myself to this gentleman, who, as you know, is so correct and so virtuous that he never talks to me but of seemly things. What harm, then, do I do to you, and to those who 136 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. make a talk about it, consoling my sorrows by means of an innocent converse ? " The poor woman, who loved her mistress more than herself, made answer, "I see plainly, mademoiselle, that you are right, and that your father and your mistress do not treat you as you deserve. But since this acquaintance gives rise to remarks which are not to the advantage of your honour, you ought to break it off, though the man were your own brother." " I will do so, since such is your advice," replied Rolandine, weeping, " but it is very hard to have no consolation in the world." The bastard came to see her as usual, but, with tears in her eyes, she related to him in detail all that her gouvernante had said to her, and begged him not to visit her any more until this tattle should have subsided ; and he complied with her entreaty. Both of them having lost their consolation through this separation, they began to feel an uneasiness such as neither had ever before experienced. Her whole time was spent in prayer, fasting, and journeying ; for the sentiment of love, so totally new to her, caused her such agitation that she did not know a moment's rest. The bastard was not in a much better plight ; but as he had made up his mind to love her and try to obtain her for a wife, and saw that it would be a very glorious thing for him to succeed in the attempt, his only thought was how he should press his suit, and how he should secure the gouvernante in his interest. To this end he represented to her the deplorable condition of her mistress, who was wilfully deprived of all consolation. The good woman thanked him with tears for the interest he took in her mistress's welfare, and cast about with him for means to enable him to have an interview with her. It was arranged between them that Rolandine should pretend to be troubled with a headache, which made all noise insupportable to her ; and that when her companions left her in her chamber, the bastard and she might remain alone, and converse together with- out restraint. The bastard, delighted witli the expedient, gave himself up entirely to the guidance of tbe gouvernante, and in this way he was enabled to talk with his mistress whenever he pleased. But this pleasure was not of long duration ; for the queen, who disliked Rolandine, asked what she was doing in her chamber. Some one replied that she had a headache ; but somebody else, either disliking her absence or wishing to cause her annoyance, said that the pleasure she took in conversing with Novel 21.] Third Day. 137 the bastard would be sure to cure her headache. The queen, who regarded as mortal sins in Rolandine what would have been venial sins in others, sent for her, and forbade her ever to speik to the bastard, except in her own chamber or hall. Rolandine professed obedience, and replied, that had she known that the bastard, or anyone else, was displeasing to her majesty, she would never have spoken to him. At the same time, she was inwardly resolved to find out some other expedient, of which the queen should know nothing. As she fasted on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, and did not quit her chamber, she took care to be visited on those days by the bastard, whom she was beginning to love greatly, and had time to talk with him in presence of her gouvernante whilst the others were at supper. The less time they had at their disposal, the more fervid and impassioned was their language ; for they stole the time for mutual conversation, as the thief steals something precious. But there is no secret which is not found out at last. A varlet, having seen the bastard come in one day, mentioned it in a place where it failed not to be repeated, till it reached the ears of the queen, who put herself into such a towering passion that the bastard never afterwards durst enter the chamber of the demoiselles. He often pretended to go a journey, in order to have opportunity to see the object of his affections, and every evening he used to return to the chapel of the chiteau, dressed sometimes as a Cordelier, sometimes as a Jacobin, and always so well disguised that no one knew him except Rolandine and her gouvernante, who failed not at once to accost the good father. The bastard, feeling assured that Rolandine loved him, did not scruple to say to her one day, " You see, mademoiselle, to what I expose myself for your service, and how the queen has forbidden you to speak to me. You see, too, that nothing is further from your father's thoughts than disposing of you in marriage. He has refused so many good ofiFers that I know no one far or near who can have you. I know that I am poor, and that you could not marry a gentleman who was not richer than myself; but if to have a great deal of love were to be rich, I should think myself the most opulent man in the world. God has given you great wealth, and the expectation of still greater. If I were so happy as to be chosen by you for your husband, I would be all my life your spouse, your friend, and your servant. If you marry one who is your own equal — and such a one, I think, will not easily be found — he will insist on being the fjS Tlie Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. master, and will have more regard to your wealth than to your person, to beauty than to virtue ; he will enjoy your wealth, and will not treat you as you deserve. My longing to enjoy this contentment, and my fear that you will have none with another, oblige me to entreat that you will make me happy, and yourself the best-satisfied and best-treated wife in the world." Rolandine, hearing from her . lover's lips the declaration she had made up her mind to address to him, replied, with a glad face, " I rejoice that you have anticipated me, and have said to me what I have long resolved to say to you. Ever since I have known you, now two years, not a.moment has passed in which. I have not thought over all the arguments that could be adduced in your favour and against you ; but at last, having r£Solved to engage in matrimony, it is time that I should make a beginning, and choose the man with whom I think I can pass my life with most quiet and satisfaction. I have had as suitors men of good figure, wealthy, and of high birth ; but you are the only one with whom it seems to me that my heart and mind can best agree» I know that in marrying you I do not offend God, but that, on the contrary, I do what he commands. As for my father, he has so much neglected the duty of establishing me, and has rejected so many opportunities, that the law empowers me to marry with- out his having a right to disinherit me ; but even should I have nothing but what belongs to myself, I shall esteem myself the happiest woman in the world in having such a husband as you. As for the queen, my mistress, I need make no scruple of dis- obeying her to obey, God, since she has not scrupled to frustrate all the advantages that offered themselves to me during my youth. But to prove to you that my love for you is founded on honour and virtue, I require your promise that, in case I consent to the marriage you propose, you will not ask to consummate it until after the death of my father, or until I shall have found means to obtain his consent." The bastard having promised this with alacrity, they gave each other a ring in pledge of marriage, and exchanged kisses in the church before God, whom they called to witness their mutual promise ; and never afterwards was there anything between them of a more intimate nature than kisses. This slight satisfaction quite contented these two perfect lovers, who were a long time without seeing each other, or ever giving way to mutual suspicion. There was hardly a place where honour was to be acquired to which the bastard did not repair, being assured that he could never be poor, since God had bestowed on him a rich wife ; and Nixi'tl 21."] Third Day. 139 she, during his absence, so faithfully preserved that perfect affection for him, that she made no account' of any other man. There were some who sought her in marriage, and had for answer that, having been so long unmarried, she was resolved to remam so for ever. This reply obtained such publicity that it reached the ears of the queen, who asked her the reason of such language. Rolandine replied that it was dictated by obedience ; that she well knew her majesty had never chosen to marry her when very advantageous matches had offered ; and that age and patience had taught her to be content with her present condition; Whenever marriage was mentioned to her, she always replied to the same effect. The war being ended, and the bastard having returned to court, she did not speak to him before others, but always in the church under pretext of confession, for the queen had for- bidden both of them, on pain of their lives, ever to converse except in public. But virtuous love, which fears no prohibitions, was more ingenious in suggesting to them means and opportunity to meet and converse than their enemies in hindering them. There was no monastic habit which the bastard did not suc- cessively assume ; and by that means their intercourse was always agreeably maintained, until the king went to one of his country seats near Tours, which was so situated that the ladies could not go on foot to any other church than that of the chiteau, which had such an exposed confessional that the confessor would have easily been recognized. But as often as one opportunity failed them, love furnished them with another. At that very time there came to the court a lady nearly related to the bastard. She and her son were lodged in the king's residence ; and the young prince had a projecting chamber, detached as it were from the king's apartments, and so placed that from his window one could see and speak to Rolandine, their windows being exactly at the angle of the main building and the wing. The chamber which was over the king's hall was that of Rolandine and the other ladies of honour. Rolandine, having frequently seen the young prince at the window, sent word of the fact by her gouvernante to the bastard. The latter, having reconnoitred the ground, pretended to take great pleasure in reading the book of the Knights of the Round Table, which was one of those belonging to the prince ; and towards dinner-hour he used to beg a valet- de-chambre to let him in, and leave him shut up in the chamber to finish reading his book. The valet, knowing him to be his master's relation, and a gentleman to be trusted, let him read as 140 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. much as he pleased. Rolandine, on her part, used to come tc hei window, and in order to be free to remain there the longer, she pretended to have a sore leg ; and she took her meals so early that she had no need to go to the table of the ladies of honour. She also bethought her of working at a crimson silk coverlet, which she hung at the window, where she was very glad to be left alone to converse with her husband, who spoke in such a manner that no one could ovehear them. When he saw anyone coming she coughed, and made signs to the bastard to retire. Those who had orders to watch them v/ere persuaded that there was no love between them, for she never quitted a chamber in which he certainly could not see her, the entrde being forbidden him. The mother of the young prince, being one day in her son's chamber, placed herself at the window where lay the big book. Presently one of Rolandine's companions in office, who was at the window of their chamber, saluted the lady. The latter asked her how Rolandine was. The other replied that she should see her if she pleased, and made her come to the window in her nightcap. After some conversation about Rolandine's illness, both parties retired. The lady casting her eyes on the big book of the Round Table, said to the valet-de-chambre who had charge of it, " I am astonished that young people give up their time to reading such follies." The valet-de-chambre replied that he was still more surprised that persons of ripe years; and who passed for sensible people, were more attached to them than the young ; and thereupon he told her, as a curious fact, how the bastard, her relation, spent four or five hours everyday in reading that book. The lady at once guessed the reason, and ordered the valet-de-chambre to conceal himself, and watch narrowly what the bastard did. The valet-de-chambre executed his commision, and found that, instead of reading, the bastard planted himself at the window, and that Rolandine came and talked with him. He even overheard many expressions of their love, which they thought they had so well concealed. Next day, the valet having told his mistress what he had seen and heard, she sent for her cousin, the bastard, and after some sharp remon- strances, forbade him evermore to place himself at that window. In the evening she spoke to Rolandine, and threatened she would inform the queen if she persisted in that foolish attachment. Rolandine, without losing her presence of mind, replied that, whatever the lady might have been told, she had not spoken to the bastard since she had been prohibited from doing so by her mistress, as her companions and her servants could witness. As Novel 21.1 Third Day. 141 for the window of which the lady spoke, she had never talked there with the bastard. The lover, now fearing lest his intrigue should be exposed, with- drew from the danger, and absented himself for a long time from court, but not without writing to Rolandine, which he managed to do with such address that, in spite of all the queen could do, Rolandine heard from him twice a week. In the first instance he employed a monk to convey his letters ; but this means failing, he sent a little page, dressed sometimes in one colour, sometimes in another. The page used to post himself at the places through which the ladies passed, and, mingling with the other servants, found means always to deliver his letters to Rolandine. The queen going into the country, one of those psrsons whom she had charged to be on the watch regarding this affair recognized the page, and ran after him ; but the page, who was a cunning lad. darted into the house of a poor woman, who was boiling her pot, and instantly thrust his letters into the fire. The gentleman who pursued him, having caught and stripped him naked, searched him all over, but, finding nothing, let him go. When the page was gone, the good woman asked the gentleman why he had searched the poor boy in that manner. He replied that it was because he believed the boy had letters about him. " You were not likely to find them," she said : " he had hidden them too well." " Where, pray ? " inquired the gentleman, who now made sure of having them. He was quite confounded when he heard that they were burnt, and saw that the page had been too clever for him. However, he went at once, and told the queen what he had ascertained. The bastard, not being able to employ the page any more, sent in his stead an old domestic, who, without caring for the threats of death which he well knew the queen had proclaimed against all who should meddle in this affair, undertook to convey the letters to Rolandine. Having entered the chateau, he stationed himself at a door which was at the foot of a great staircase used by all the ladies, but a valet, who had formerly known him, recognized hife at once, and denounced him to the queen's maitre d' h6tel, who gave orders for his instant arrest. The wary servant, seeing that he was watched, turned to the wall, under a certain pretence, tore his letters into the smallest possible pieces, and threw them be- hind the door. Immediately afterwards he was arrested and searched, but nothing being found on him, he was interrogated upon oath as to whether he had not carried letters. Nothing was left untried in tJie way of promises or threats to make him confess 142 71u Heptameron of tlu Queen of Navarre. the truth, but, in spite of all they could do, they could never get anything out of him. The unsatisfactory result was reported to the queen ; but some one having thought of looking behind the door, found there the fragments of the letters. The king's con- fessor was sent for ; and having arranged all the piecies on a table he read the whole of the letter, in which the secret marriage was plainly revealed, for the bastard called Rolandine his wife. The queen, who was not of a humour to conceal her neighbour's fault, made a great noise about the matter; and insisted on every means being employed to make the man confess the truth respecting the letter, the identity of which he could not deny ; but say to him or show him what they would, there was no possibility of making him avow anything. Those who had been com- missioned in this matter took him to the edge of the river, and put him into a sack, telling him that he lied to God and the queen, contrary to the proved truth. Choosing rather to die than to betray his master, he asked for a confessor, and after having set his conscience right, he said to them, " I pray you, sir, to tell the bastard, my master, that I commend to him my wife and my children, and that I die with a good heart for his service. Do with me what you please, and be assured that you will never ex- tract anything from me to my master's disadvantage." Then, to frighten him more, they threw him into the water, shut up as he' was in the sack, and shouted to him that his life should be saved if he would speak the truth ; but seeing that he made no reply, they took him out of the water, and reported his firm behaviour to the queen. "Neither the king nor myself," said her majesty, " is so fortunate in servants as the bastard, who has not where- withal to reward them." She did all she could to engage the worthy fellow in her service, but he would never quit his master, until the latter permitted him to enter the service of the queen, in which he lived happy and contented. Having discovered the secret marriage by means of the in- tercepted letter, the queen sent for Rolandine, and with great violence of manner called her several times wretch instead of cousin, upbraiding her with the dishonour she had done to her house, and to her who was her mistress, in having thus married without her consent. Rolandine, who was long aware of the little kindness the queen entertained for her, fully returned that feeling. As there was no love between them, fear no longer availed ; and as Rolandine saw plainly that a reprimand so publicly given was prompted less by regard for her than by the wish to put her to shame, and that the queen was more pleased M)vel2j.] TIUrdDay. 14 j in mortifying her than grieved to find her in fault, she replied, with an air as calm and composed as that of the queen was agitated and passionate, " If you did not lon, and La Gamache. She married, in 1517, Pierre de Rohan, Baron of Frontenay, by whom she had two sons. The bastard appears to have been Jean, Bastard of Angoulfime, legitimised in 1458 by Charles VII. ; and the lady, the mother of the young prince, who forbade the bastard to continue his interviews with Rolandine at the window, and who mjst, therefore, have had a certain right to command him, was probably Louise of Savoy. 150 The Hepameron of the Queen of Navarre. the latter may not in like manner cease to love women ; as if the heart of the one sex was different from that of the other. For my part, I am persuaded that, in spite of diversity in faces and dresses, the inclinations of both are the same ; the only dif- ference is that the more hidden guilt is the worse." " I am very well aware," said Parlamente, with some anger, " that in your opinion the least guilty women are those whose guilt is known." " Let us change the subject," interrupted Simontault, " and dismiss that of the heart of man and of woman by saying that the best of them is good for nothing. Let us see to whom Par- lamente will give her voice." " To Geburon," she said. , " Since I have begun with mentioning the Cordeliers," said he, " I must not forget the monks of St. Benedict, and cannot for- bear relating what happened in my time to two of these good fathers ; at the same time, let not what I am going to tell you of a wicked monk hinder you from having a good opinion of those that deserve it. But as the Psalmist says that all men are liars, and that there is none that worketh righteousness, no not one, it seems to me that one cannot fail to esteem a man such as he is. In fact, if there is good in him, it is to be attributed, not to the creature but to Him who is the principle and the source of all good. Most people deceive themselves in giving too much to the creature, or in too much esteeming themselves. And that you may not sup- pose it impossible to find extreme concupiscence under an extreme austerity, I will relate to you a fact which happened in the time of King Francis L" NOVEL XXII. A prior tries every means to seduce a nun, but at last his vSlainy is discovered. |HERE was at St. Martin-des-Champs, at Paris, a prior, whose name I will not mention, because of the friend- ship I once bore him. He led so austere a life until the age of fifty, and the fame of his sanctity was so strong throughout the kingdom, that there was no prince or princess who did not receive him with veneration when he paid them a visit No monastic reform was effected in which he had not part ; and he received the name of the " Father of true monas- ticism." He was elected visitor of the celebrated society of the Nevel 22.] TJiird Day. \%\ Ladies of Fontevrault, who were in so much awe of him that when he came to any of their convents the nuns trembled with fear, and treated him just as they might have treated the king, hoping thereby to soften his rigour towards them. At first, he did not wish that such deference should be paid him ; but as he approached his fifty-fifth year, he at last came to like the honours he had refused in the beginning; and coming by degrees to regard himself as the public property of the religious societies, he was more careful to preserve his health than he had been. Though he was bound by the rules of his order never to eat meat, he granted himself a dispensation in that respect, a thing he would never do for anyone else, alleging as his reason that the whole burden of the brethren's spiritual interests rested upon him. Accordingly, he pampered himself, and to such good purpose that from being a very lean monk he became a very fat one. With the change in his manner of living a change took place in his heart also, and he began to look at faces on which he had before made it matter of conscience to cast his eyes casually. By dint of looking at beauties, rendered more desirable by their veils, he began to lust after them. In order to satisfy his unholy passion he changed from a shepherd into a wolf ; and if he found an Agnes in any of the convents under his jurisdiction, he failed not to corrupt her. After he had long led this wicked life, Divine goodness, taking pity on the poor misused sheep, was pleased to unmask the villain, as you shall hear. He had gone one day to visit a convent near Paris named Gif, and while he was confessing the nuns, there came before him one named Sister Marie Herouet, whose sweet and pleasing voice indicated that her face and heart were not less so. The mere sound inspired the good father with a passion exceeding all he had ever felt for other nuns. In speaking to her he stooped down to look at her, and seeing her mouth so rosy and charming, he could not help lifting up her veil to satisfy ' himself if her eyes corresponded to the beauty of her lips. He found what he sought, and noted it so well that his heart became filled with a most vehement ardour ; he lost his appetite for food and drink, and even all countenance, in spite of his efforts to dissemble. On his return to his priory there was no rest for him. He passed his days and nights in extreme disquietude, his mind continually occupied in devising means to gratify his passion, and make of this nun what he had made of so many others. As he had observed that she possessed steadiness of IS* The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. character and quickness of perception, tlie thing appeared to him hard to accomplish. Conscious, moreover, that he was ugly and old-looking, he resolved not to attempt to win her by soft words, but extort from her by fear what he could not hope to obtain for love. With this intention, he returned a few days after to the con- vent of Gif, and displayed more austerity there than ever he had done before, angrily rating all the nuns. One did not wear her veil low enough ; another carried her head too high ; another did not make obeisance properly like a nun. So severe was he with regard to all these trifles, that he seemed as terrible as the picture of God on the day of judgment. Being gouty, he was much fatigued in visiting all the parts of the convent, and it was about the hour of vespers (an hour assigned by himself) that he reached the dormitory. The abbess told him it was time to say vespers. " Have them said, mother," replied the prior, " for I am so tired that I will remain here, not to repose, but to speak to Sister Marie about a scandalous thing I hear of her ; for I am told that she babbles like a worldling." The prioress, who was aunt to Sister Marie's mother, begged that he would chapter her soundly, and left her in the hands of the prior, quite alone, except that a young monk was with him. Left alone with Sister Marie, he began by lifting up her veil, and bidding her look in his face. Sister Marie replied that her rule forbade her to look at men. " That is well said, my daughter," said the prior, "but you are not to believe that monks are men.'" For fear, then, of being guilty of disobedience. Sister Marie looked at him, and thought him so ugly that it seemed to he( more a penance than a sin to look at him. The reverend father, after talking of the love he bore her, wanted to put his hands on her breasts. She repulsed him as she ought ; and the reverend father, vexed at so untoward a beginning, exclaimed in great anger, "What business has a nun to know that she has breasts?" " I know that I have," replied Sister Marie ; " and I am very certain that neither you nor anyone else shall ever touch them, I am neither young enough nor ignorant enough not to know what is a sin and what is not so." Seeing, then, that he could not compass his designs in that way, he had recourse to another expedient, and said, " I must declare my infirmity to you, my daughter ; I have a malady which all the physicians deem incurable, unless I delight myselt •with a woman whom I passionately love. I would not for my Novel a. Third Day. 153 life commit a mortal sin ; but even sliould it oome to that, I know that simple fornication is not to be compared to the sin of homicide. So if you love my life, you will hinder me from dying, and save your own conscience." She asked him what sort of diversion it was that he contem- plated ; to which he replied that she might rest her conscience on his, and he assured her that he would do nothing which would leave any weight on either. To let her judge by the pre- liminaries what sort of pastime it was he asked of her, he embraced her and tried to throw her on a bed. Making no doubt then of his wicked intention, she cried out, and defended herself so well that he could only touch her clothes. Seeing, then, that all his devices and efforts were fruitless, like — I will not say a madman, but like a man without conscience or reason, he put his hand under her robe, and scratched all that came under his nails with such fury that the poor girl, shrieking with all her might, fell in a faint. The abbess, hearing her cries, ran to the dormitory, reproaching herself for having left her relation alone with the reverend father. She stood for a moment at the door to listen, but, hearing her niece's voice, she pushed open the door, which was held by the young monk. When she entered the dormitory, the prior, pointing to her niece, said, " You did wrong, mother, not to acquaint me with Sister Marie's constitution : for, not knowing her weakness, I made her stand before me, and while I was reprimanding her, she fainted away, as you see." Vinegar and other remedies being applied, Sister Marie re- covered from her faint ; and the prior, fearing lest she should tell her aunt the cause of it, found means to whisper in her car, '' I command you/ my daughter, on pain of disobedience and eternal damnation, never to speak of what I have done to you. It was my great love for you that made me do it ; but since I see that you will not respond to my passion, I will never mention it to you while I live. I may, however, assure you, for the last time, that if you will love me I will have you chosen abbess of one of the best abbeys in this kingdom." She replied that she would rather die in perpetual imprison- ment than ever have any other friend than Him who had died for her on the cross ; deeming herself happier in suffering all ills with Him than in enjoying without Him all the pleasures the world can afford. She warned him once for all not to speak to her any more in that manner, if he did not wish her to com- plain of it to the abbess ; but if he desisted, she would say 1 5 4 The HeptaTneron of the Queen of Navarre. nothing of what was past. Before this bad shepherd with- drew, in order to appear quite different from what he was in reality, and to have the pleasure of again gazing on her he loved, he turned to the abbess and said, " I beg, mother, that you will make all your daughters sing a Salve Regina in honour of the Virgin, in whom I rest my hope." The Salve Regina was sung ; and all the while the fox did nothing but weep, not with devotion, but with regret at having so ill succeeded. The nuns, who attributed his emotion to the love he felt for the Virgin Mary, regarded him as a saint ; but Sister Marie, who knew his hypocrisy, prayed to God in her heart to confound a villain who had such contempt for virginity. The hypocrite returned to St. Martin's, carrying with him the criminal fire which consumed him day and night, and occupied his mind only in trying to find means for accomplishing his unrighteous end. Being afraid of the abbess, whose virtue he was aware of, he thought he could not do better than remove her from that convent. With that view, he went to Madame de Vend&me, who was then residing at La Ffere, where she had built and endowed a convent of the order of St. Benedict, named Mont d'Olivet. In his professed character of a sovereign reformer, he represented to her that the abbess of Mont d'Olivet was not capable of governing such a community. The good lady begged him to name one who should be worthy to fill that office. This was just what he wanted, and he at once recom- mended her to take the abbess of Gif, whom he depicted to her as the abbess of the greatest capacity in France. Madame de Vend6me sent for her forthwith, and gave her the government of her convent of Mont d'Olivet ; whilst the prior, who commanded the suffrages of all the communities, had one who was devoted to him elected abbess of Gif. This being done, he went to the convent to try once more if by prayers or promises he could prevail over Sister Marie. He succeeded no better than the first time, and returning in despair to St. Martin's, he there contrived more villany. As much with a view to accomplish his original purpose as to be revenged on the uncomplying nun, and for fear the affair should obtain publicity, he had the relics stolen from the convent of Gif by night, accused the confessor of the convent, an aged and •worthy monk, of having committed the theft, and imprisoned him at St. Martin's. Whilst he kept him there he suborned two witnesses, who deposed that they had seen the confessor and Sister Marie committing an infamous and indecent act in a Novel 22.] TTiird Day. 155 garden ; and this he wanted to make the old monk confess. The good man, who knew all the prior's tricks, begged him to assemble the chapter, and said he would state truly all he knew in presence of the monks. This demand he took care not to grant, fearing lest the confessor's justification should condemn himself ; but finding the latter so invincibly steadfast, he treated him so ill that some say he died in prison ; others say that the prior forced him to unfrock and quit the realm. Be it as it may, he was never seen afterwards. The prior, having, as he thought, such a great hold on Sister Marie, went to Gif, where the abbess his creature never disputed a word that fell from his lips. He began by exercising his authority as visitor, and summoned all the nuns one by one, that he might hear them in chamber in form of confession and visitation. Sister Marie, who had lost her good aunt, having at last appeared in her turn, he began by saying to her, " You know. Sister Marie, of what a crime you are accused ; and consequently you know that the great chastity you affect has availed you nothing, for it is very well known that you are any- thing but chaste." . "Produce my accuser," replied Sister Marie, undauntedly, " and you will see how he will maintain such a statement in my presence." " The confessor himself has been convicted of the fact, and that must be proof enough for you," returned the prior. " I believe him to be such a good man," said Sister Marie, " that he is incapable of confessing such a falsehood. But even should he have done so, set him before me and I will prove the contrary." The prior, seeing she was not daunted, said, " I am your father, and as such I wish to be tender with your honour ; I leave the matter between you and your conscience, and will believe what you shall tell me. I conjure you then, on pain of mortal sin, to tell me the truth. Were you a virgin when you entered this house ? " " My age at that time, father, is warrant lor my virginity. I was then but five years old." " And since then, my daughter, have you not lost that fair flcwer ?" She swore she had not, and that she had never undergone any temptation except from him. "I cannot believe it," the hypocrite replied ; "it remains to be proved." iS6 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. " What proof do you require ?" •' That which I exact from other nuns. As I am the visitof of souls, so am I also of bodies. Your abbesses and prioresses have all passed through my hands, and you must not scruple to let me examine your virginity. Lay yourself on that bed, and turn the front of your robe over yoir face." " You have told me so much of your criminal love for me," replied Sister Marie, indignantly, " that I have reason to believe your intention is not so much to examine my virginity as to despoil me of it. So be assured I will never consent." " You are excommunicated," returned the prior, " to refuse obedience ; and unless you do as I bid you, I will dishonour you in full chapter, and will state all I know of you and the confessor." Sister Marie, without suffering herself to be dismayed, replied that He who knew the hearts Of his servants would be her stay. " And since you carry your malevolence so far," she said, " I would rather be the victim of your cruelty than the accomplice of your criminal desires ; because I know that God is a just judge." In a rage that may be more easily imagined than described, the prior hurried off to assemble the chapter. Summoning Sister Marie before him, he made her kneel, and thus addressed her : "It is with extreme grief. Sister Marie, that I see how the wholesome remonstrances which I have addressed to you on so capital a fault have been of no avail, and I am compelled with regret to impose a penance upon you contrary to my custom. I have examined your confessor touching certain crimes of which he was accused, and he has confessed to me that he has abused you, and that in a place where two witnesses depose to having seen you. Instead, then, of the honourable post of mistress of the novices in which I had placed you, I ordain that you be the lowest of all, and also that you eat your diet of bread and water on the ground in the presence of all the sisters, until you shall have merited pardon by your repentance." Sister Marie, having been warned beforehand, by one of her companions who knew her whole affair, that if she made any reply which was displeasing to the prior he would put her in pace, that is, immure her for ever in a cell, heard her sentence without saying a word, raising her eyes to heaven, and praying that He who had given her the grace to resist sin, would give her the patience necessary to endure her sufTerings. This was not all, The venerable prior further prohibited her speaking for three Novel 22 :\ Third Day. 157 years to her mother or her relations, or writing any letter except- ing in community. After this the wretch went away and returned no more. The poor girl remained a long time in the condition prescribed by her sentence ; but her mother, who had a more tender affection for her than for her other children, was surprised at not hearing from her, and said to one of her sons that she believed her daughter was dead, and that the nuns concealed her death in order the longer to enjoy the annual payment made for her maintenance. She begged him to inquire into the matter, and see his sister, if it were possible. The brother went at once to the convent, was answered with the usual excuses, and was told that for three years his sister had not quitted her bed. The young man would not be put off with that reply, and swore that unless she were shown to him he would scale the walls and break into the convent. This threat so alarmed the nuns that they brought his sister to the grating ; but the abbess followed her so closely, that she could not speak to her brother without being heard by the good mother. But Sister Marie, having her wits about her, had taken the precaution beforehand to write down all the facts I have related, together with the details of a thousand other stratagems which the prior had employed to seduce her, and which, for the sake of brevity, I omit. I must not, however, forget to mention that, whilst her aunt was abbess, the prior, fancying it was on account of his ugliness he was repulsed, caused Sister Marie to be tempted by a young and handsome monk, hoping that, if she yielded to the latter for love, he himself might afterwards have his will of her through fear. But the young monk having accosted her in a garden, with words and gestures so infamous that I should be ashamed to repeat them, the poor girl ran to the abbess, who was talking with the prior, and cried to her, " Mother, they are demons, and not monks, who come to visit us." Upon this the prior, afraid oi being discovered, said to the abbess, with a laugh, " Certainly, mother, Sister Marie is right." He then took her hand, and said, in presence of the abbess, " I had heard that Sister Marie spoke very well, and with such facility as led people to believe that she was mundane. For this reason I have done violence to my nature, and have spoken to her as worldlings speak to women, so far as I know that language from books ; for in point of personal experience I am as ignorant as I was the day I was born. And as I attributed her virtue to my age and ugliness, I ordered my young monk to speak to her in the same IS* The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. tone. She has made, as you see, a sage and virtuous resistance, I am pleased with her for it, and esteem her so highly, that henceforth I desire that she be the first after you, and the mistress of the novices, in order that her virtue may be fortified more and more." The venerable prior did many feats of the same sort during the three years he was in love with the nun, who, as I have said, gave her brother a written narrative of her sad adventures through the grating. The brother carried the paper to his mother, who hurried distractedly to Paris, where she found the Queen of Navarre, only sister to the king, and laid this piteous tale before her, saying, "Put no more trust, madam, in these hypocrites. I thought I had placed my daughter on the outskirts of heaven, or at least on the way to it ; but I find I have placed her in hell, and in the hands of people worse than all the devils there ; for the devils tempt us only so far as we are ourselves consent- ing parties, but these wretches try to prevail over us by violence when they cannot do so by love." The Queen of Navarre was greatly perplexed. She had implicit confidence in tlie prior of St. Martin's, and had committed to his charge the abbesses of Montivilliers and of Caen, her sisters-in-law. On the other hand, the crime appeared to her so black and horrible, that she longed to avenge the poor innocent girl, and communicated the matter to the king's chancellor, who was then legate in France.* The legate made the prior appear before him, and all that the latter could allege in excuse for himself was that he was seventy years of age. He appealed to the Queen of Navarre, beseech- ing, by all the pleasures she would ever wish to do him, and as the sole recompense of his past services, that she would have the goodness to put a stop to these proceedings, assuring her he would avow that Sister Marie Herouet was a pearl of honour and chastity. The queen was so astounded at this speech, that, not knowing how to reply to it, she turned her back upon him, and left him there. The poor monk, overwhelmed with con- fusion, retired to his monastery, where he never more would let himself be seen by anybody, and died a year afterwards. Sister Marie Herouet, esteemed as the virtues God had given her deserved, was taken from the abbey of Gif, where she had suffered so much, and was made by the king abbess of the abbey of Giy, near Montargis. She reformed the abbey which his • Antoine Duprat, cardinaUegnte, chancellor of France, was appcinted legate in 1530, and died 1533. The events related in this novel must hav* OKcuned between those years. Novel 2 2.1 Tiiird. Day. j 55 majesty had given her, and lived like a saint, animated by the spirit of God, whom she praised all her life long for the repose He had procured her, and the dignity with which He had invested her.* There, ladies, is a story which well confirms what St. Paul says to the Corinthians, that God makes use of weak things to confound the strong, and of those who seem useless in men's eyes to overthrow the glory and splendour of those who, thinking themselves something, are yet in reality nothing. There is no good in any man but what God puts into him by His grace ; and there is no temptation out of which one does not come victorious, when God grants aid. You see this by the confession of a monk, who was believed to be a good man, and by the elevation of a girl whom he wished to exhibit as criminal and wicked. In this we see the truth of our Lord's saying, that " He that exalteth himself shall be humbled, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted." " How many worthy people this monk deceived I " said Oisille ; " for I have seen how they trusted in him more than in God." "I should not have been one of those he deceived," said Nomerfide, " for I have such a horror of the very sight of a monk that I could not even confess to them, believing them to be worse than all other men, and never to frequent any house without leaving in it some shame or dissension." "There are some good men amongst them," said Oisille ; "and the wickedness of an individual ought not to be imputed to the whole body ; but the best are those who least frequent secular houses and women." " That is very v/ell said," observed Ennasuite, " for the less one sees and knows them the better one esteems them ; for upon more experience one comes to know their real nature." "Let us leave the monastery where it is," said Nomerfide, 'and see to whom Geburon will give his voice." "To Madame Oisille," replied Geburon, " in order that she may tell us something in honour of the regular clergy." " We have pledged ourselves so strongly to speak the truth," replied Oisille, "that I could not undertake that task. Besides, * The prior who figures in this novel was Etienne Gentil, who became prior in 1508, and died in 1536. The abbey of St. Martin-des-Champs stood on the site now occupied by the Conservatoire des Arts et Metiers. The church and ~ Uie refectory are still standing. i6o The Heptamtron of the Queen of Navarre. your tale reminded me of a piteous one, which I must relate to you, as I come from the neighbourhood of the country where the thing occurred in my own time. I choose this story of recent date, ladies, in order that the hypocrisy of those who believe themselves more religious than others may not so beguile you as to make your faith quit the right path, and induce you to hope for salvation in any other than Him who will have no companion in the work of our creation and redemption. He alone is almighty to save us in eternity and to comfort us in this life, and deliver us out of all our afflictions. You know that Satan often assumes the appearance of an angel of light, in order that the eye, deceived by the semblance of sanctity and devotion, may attach itself to the things it ought to shun." NOVEL XXIII. A cordelier who was the cause of three murdets, those of husband, wife, and child. |N Perigord, there dwelt a gentleman whose devotion to St. Francis was such that he imagined all those who wore that saint's habit were, as a matter of course, as holy as the sainted founder of their order. In honour of that good saint he fitted up a suite of apartments in his house to lodge the Franciscan monks, by whose advice he regulated all his affairs, even to the smallest household matters, thinking that he could not but walk safely when he followed such good guides. It happened that the wife of this gentleman, a handsome lady, and as virtuous as she was handsome, was delivered of a fine boy ; for which her husband, who already loved her much, now regarded her with redoubled affection. The better to entertain his wife, the gentleman sent for one of his brothers-in-law ; and a Cordelier, whose name I shall conceal for the honour of the order, arrived also. The gentleman was very glad to see his spiritual father, from whom he had no secrets ; and after a long conversation between the lady, her brother, and the monk, they all sat down to supper. During the repast, the gentleman, looking wistfully at his lovely wife, said aloud to the good father, " Is it true, father, that it is a mortal sin to be with one's wife during the month of her confinement ? " The Cordelier, who was anything but what he seemed, replied, " Certainly, sir ; I think it is one of the greatest sins that can be committed in marriage. I need only refer you to the example of .•VLc'^/23.] Third Day. \t\ the blessed Virgin, who would not enter the Temple till the day of her purification, though she had no need of that ceremony. This alone should teach you the indispensable necessity of ab- staining from this little pleasure, since the good Virgin Mary, in order to obey the law, abstained from going to the Temple, in which was her whole consolation. Besides, the physicians say that there is reason to fear for the children that might be begotten under such circumstances." The gentleman, who had expected that the monk would give him permission to lie with his wife, was much annoyed at a reply so contrary to his hope ; however, he let the matter drop. The reverend father having drunk a little mere than was reasonable during the conversation, cast his eyes on the lady, and concluded within himself that if he was her husband, he would lie with her without asicing anyone's advice. As the fire liindles little by little, and at last waxes so strong and fierce that it burns down the house, so the poor monk felt himself possessed with such vehement concupiscence, that he resolved all at once to satisfy the desire he had cherished in secret for three years. After the supper-things had been taken away, he took the gentleman by the hand, led him to the side of the bed, and said to him, in the pre- sence of his wife, " Knowing, sir, as I do, the affection that sub- sists between you and mademoiselle, I compassionate the feelings with which your great youth inspires you both. Therefore I will impart to you a secret of our holy theolog)-. You must know, then, that the law which is so rigorous on account of the abuses committed by indiscreet husbands, is not so strict with regard to husbands so prudent and moderate as you. Hence, sir, after having stated before others what is the severity of the law, I must tell you in private what is its mildness. Know, then, that there are women and women, as there are men and men. Before all things, then, it is necessary that mademoiselle, who has been ■ delivered these three weeks, should tell you if her flux of blood has quite ceased." The demoiselle replied very positively that it had. " That being the case, my son," resumed the Cordelier, <• I permit you to lie with her without scruple, on these two con- ditions : first, that you mention it to no one, and that you come to her secretly; secondly, that you do not come to her until two hours after midnight, in order not to disturb your wife's digestion." The gentleman promised to observe both these conditions, and confirmed his promise by so strong an oath that the monk, who »62 The Heptamcron of the Queen of Navarre. knew him to be more of a fool than a liar, did not doubt that he would Iceep his word. After a pretty long conversation, he bade them good night, gave them plenty of benedictions, and retired to his chamber. As he was leaving the room, he took the gen- tleman by the hand, and said, " Certes, sir, it is time for you to retire also, and leave mademoiselle to repose." The gentleman obeyed, and withdrew, telling his wife, in the good father's pre- sence, to leave the door open. On reaching his chamber the good monk thought of anything but sleeping. As soon as he found that the house was all still, that is to say, about the hour when he was wont to go to matins, he went straight to the chamber where the gentleman was ex- pected. He found the door open, and having entered, he began by putting out the candle, and then got into bed to the lady as fast as he could. " My dear, this is not what you promised the good father," said the demoiselle, who mistook him for her hus- band ; "you said you would not come here until two o'clock." The Cordelier, who was more intent upon action than on con- templation, and was afraid, too, of being recognised if he spoke, made no reply, but proceeded at once to gratify the criminal passion which had long poisoned his heart ; whereat the demoi- selle was much astonished. The hour when the husband was to come being at hand, the Cordelier got out of bed, and returned to his chamber ; but as love had before hindered him from sleeping, so now the fear that always follows crime allowed him no repose. He got up, wt-nt to the porter, and said, " My friend, monsieur has commanded me to go' back at once to our convent, where I am to put up prayers for him. So pray let me have my beast, and open the door for me without letting any- one know, for this business requires secrecy." The porter, know- ing that to obey the Cordelier was to serve his master, opened the gate and let him out. At that'inoment the gentleman awoke, and seeing that it was near the time when he was to go to his wife, he wrapped his dressing-gown about him, and went to his wife's bed, whither he might have gone in accordance with God's law without asking leave of anyone. His wife being ignorant of what had occurred, and finding her husband beside her, and hearing his voice, said to him, in surprise, " What, sir ! is this the promise you made the good Cordelier, that you would be cautious of your health and mine ? Not content with having come hither before the time, you now come again. Do think better of it, I entreat you." JVoz>ej23.-] Third Day. 163 Confounded at being addressed in this manner, and unable to conceal his vexation, the husband replied, " What is this you say ? It is three weeks since I have been in bed with you, and you accuse me of coming to you too often. If you continue to talk to me in that strain, you will make me believe that my company is distasteful to you, and constrain me to do what I have never yet done, that is, to seek elsewhere the lawful pleasure you refuse me." The lady, who thought he was joking, replied, " Do not de- ceive yourself, sir, in thinking to deceive me. Though you did not speak to me the first time you came, I knew very well that you were there." The gentleman then perceived that they had both been duped, and solemnly vowed that he had not been there before ; and the wife, in an agony of grief, begged he would find out at once who it could be that had deceived her, since the only persons who had slept in the house were her brother and the Cordelier. The hus- band's suspicions falling immediately on the latter, he ran to his chamber, and found it empty, To make sure whether or not he had fled, he called the porter, and asked if he knew what had become of the Cordelier. The porter told him what had passed, and the poor gentleman, convinced of the monk's villainy, went back to his wife, and said, " Be assured, my dear, that person who lay with you and performed such feats was no other than our father confessor." The lad)', to whom honour had always been most precious, was so horror-stricken, that, forgetting all humanity and the natural gentleness of her sex, she entreated her husband on her knees to revenge her for such a cruel outrage ; whereupon he mounted his horse, and rode off" in pursuit of the Cordelier. The wife, left alone in her bed, without anyone to counsel her, and without any consolation except her new-born babe, pondered over the hideous adventure which had befallen her, and making no account of her ignorance, regarded herself as guilty, and as the most miserable woman in the world. And then, having never learned anything from the Cordelier but confidence in good works, satisfaction for sins by austerity of life, fasting, and disci- pline, and being wholly ignorant of the grace given by our good God through the merits of his Son, the remission of sins through his blood, the reconciliation of the Father with us through his death, and the life given to sinners by his sole goodness and mercy, she was so bewildered between her horror at the enor- mity of the deed and her love for her husband and the honour of i64 I^K^ Heptameron of the Queen tf Navarre. her line, that she thought death far happier than such a life as hers. Thus, rendered desperate by her grief, she lost not only the hope which every Christian ought to have in God, but common sense too, and the recollection of her own nature. Not knowing, then, either God or herself, but, on the contrary, full of rage and madness, she undid one of the cords of her bed, and strangled herself with her own hands. In the agony of that painful death, amidst the last violent efforts of nature, the unfor- tunate woman pressed her foot upon her infant's face, and its inno- cence could not secure it from a death as piteous as its mother's. Roused by a great cry uttered by the expiring lady, a woman who slept in her room got up, and lighted a candle. Seeing her mistress hanging dead by the bed-cord, and her infant smothered at her feet, the horrified servant went to the bedroom of the deceased's brother, and took him to see that sad spectacle. The brother, as deeply afflicted as a man would naturally be who tenderly loved his sister, asked the servant who had perpetrated such a crime. She could not tell at all ; the only thing she could say was, that no one had entered the room but her master, who had quitted it but a moment ago. The brother, hurrying instantly to his brother-in law's chamber, and not finding him there, was firmly persuaded that he had done the deed. Mount- ing his horse without more delay, or waiting for fuller informa- tion, he rode after his brother-in-law, and met him as he was returning from his ineffectual pursuit of the Cordelier. " Defend yourself, base villain I " cried the brother-in-law ; " I trust that God will revenge me with this sword on the greatest miscreant on earth." The husband would have expostulated ; but the brother- in-law pressed him so hard, that all he could do was to defend himself, without knowing what was the cause of the quarrel. They dealt each other so many wounds that they were compelled, by loss of blood and weakness, to dismount and rest a little. While they were taking breath, the husband said, " Let me at least know, brother, why the friendship we have always had for one another has been changed into such rancorous hatred ? " " Let me know why you have put my sister to death, one of the best women that ever lived," replied the brother ; " and why, under pretext of going to sleep with her, you have hung her with the bed-cord ? " More dead than alive on hearing these words, the poor hus- band faltered out, " Is it possible, brother, that you found your sister in the state you suy ? " Being assured that this was the exact truth, "Pray, brother, listen to me," he continued, "and Nifvei 23.] Third Day. lOJ you shall know why I left the house." And then he related the adventure of the Cordelier. The astonished brother now bitterly repented the precipitation with which he had acted, and earnestly implored forgiveness. " If I have wronged you," said the hus- band, " you are avenged ; for I am wounded beyond hope of recovery." The brother-in-law set him on his horse as well as he could, and led him back to his own house, where he died the next day, and the survivor confessed before all his relations and friends that he was the cause of his death. For the satisfaction of justice, the brother-in-law was advised to go and solicit his pardon ot King Francis I. To this end, after having honourably interred the father, mother, and child, he set out one Good Friday, to solicit his pardon at court ; and he obtained it through the favour of Fran<;ois Olivier, chancellor ot Alengon, afterwards, in consideration of his great endowments, chosen by the king to be chancellor of France. I am persuaded, ladies, that after this story, which is the very truth, there is not one of you but will think twice before giving reception to such guests. Let it at least teach you that the more hidden the venom, the more dangerous it is. "Surely," said Hircan, "this husband was a great fool to bring such a gallant to sup by the side of such a handsome and virtuous woman." " I have seen the time," said Geburon, " when there was not a house in our country in which there was not a chamber for the good fathers ; but at present people know them so well that they are more feared than adventurers." " It seems to me," said Parlamente, " that a woman in bed ought never to let monk or priest into her room except to ad- minister to her the sacraments of the church ; and for my part, when I summon any of them to my bedside, it may be taken for a sure sign that I am very far gone." " If everybody was as austere as you," said Ennasuite, " the poor clergy would no longer be free to see women when and where they pleased, and that would be worse to them than ex- communication," "Have no fear on their account," said SafTredent; "these worthies will never want for women." " Is not this too bad ? " exclaimed Simontault. " It is they who unite us with our wives in the bonds of wedlock, and they have the wickedness to try to disunite us, and make us break tha oath they have imposed upon us." 166 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. " It is a pity," said Oisille, " that tliey who have the adminis- tration of the sacraments make light of them in this manner. They ought to be burned alive." " You would do better to honour them than to blame them," replied Saffredent, " and to flatter instead of abusing them, for it is they who have the power to burn and dishonour others, there- fore, let them alone ; and let us see, whom does Oisille call on?" " On Dagoucin,'' she replied ; " for I see he is so pensive that it strikes me he must have something good at the tip of his tongue." "Since I cannot and dare not say what I think," said Dagou- cin, " at least I will speak of a man to whom cruelty was preju- dicial and afterwards advantageous. Although love has such a good opinion of its own strength and potency that it likes to show itself quite naked, and finds it extremely irksome, nay, insup- portable to go cloaked, yet those who, in obedience to its dictates, make too great haste to disclose themselves often suffer for it, as happened to a gentleman of Castile, whose story I shall relate to you." NOVEL XXIV. Device of a Castilian to make a declaration of love to a queen, and what came of it. jjHERE was at the court of a king and queen of Castile, whose names history does not mention, a gentleman of such good birth and comely person that his equal there was not in all Spain. Everyone held his endowments in admiration, but still more his eccentricity ; for it had never been perceived that he loved or courted any lady, though there were many at the court who might have fired ice itself ; but there was not one who could kindle the heart of Elisor, for so this gentleman was named. The queen, who was a woman of great virtue, but a woman nevertheless, and not more exempt than the rest of her sex from that flame which is the more violent the more it is compressed — the queen, I say, surprised that this gentleman did not attach himself to any of her ladies, asked him one day if it was true that he was as indifferent as he appeared. He replied, that it she saw his heart as she saw his face, she would not have asked liim that question. Eager to know what he meant, she pressed him so hard that he confessed he loved a lady whom he believed to be the most virtuous in all Christendom. She did all she Novel n."] Third Day. 167 could by entreaties and commands to make him say who the lady was, but all to no purpose ; till at last she pretended to be most deeply incensed against him, and swore that she would never speak to him again if he did not name the lady he loved so passionately. To escape from her importunities, he was forced to say that he would rather die than do what she required of him ; but at last, finding that he was about to be deprived of the honour of seeing her, and to be cast out of her favour for not declaring a truth in itself so seemly that no one could take it in bad part, he said to her, trembling with emotion, " I cannot and dare not, madam, name the person ; but I will show her to you the first time we go to the chase ; and I am sure that you will say, as well as I, that she is the most beautiful and most accom- plished lady in the world." After this reply, the queen went to the chase sooner than she would otherwise have done. Elisor had notice of this, and pre- pared to wait on her majesty as usual. He had got made for himself a great steel mirror in the shape of a corslet, and this he placed on his chest, concealed beneath a mantle of black frieze, all bordered with purl and gold. He rode a black horse, very richly caparisoned. His harness was all gilded and enamelled black in the Moorish fashion, and his black silk hat had a buckle adorned with precious stones, and having in the centre, for a device, a Love concealed by Force. His sword, poniard, and the devices upon them, corresponded to the rest ; in short, he was admirably accoutred ; and he was such a good horseman that all who saw him neglected the pleasures of the chase to see the paces and the leaps which Elisor made his horse perform. After escorting the queen to the place where the toils were spread, he alighted and went to aid her majesty to dismount. At the moment she held out her arms he opened his cloak, which covered his new cuirass, and said, " Be pleased, madam, to look H8re ; " and without awaiting her reply he set her gently on the ground. When the chase was ended, the queen returned to the palace without speaking to Elisor. After supper she called him to her, and told him he was the greatest liar she had ever seen, for he had promised to show her at the chase the lady of his love, and yet he had done no such thing ; but for her part, she was re- solved for the future to make no account of him. Elisor, fearing that the queen had not understood what he had said to her, replied that he had kept his word, and that he had shown her not only the woman, but also that thing in all the world which 1 68 TJie Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. he loved best. Affecting ignorance of his meaning, she declared she was not aware that he had shown her any of the ladies. " That is true," replied Elisor; " but what did I show you when you dismounted from your horse ? " "Nothing," said the queen, "but a mirror you had on your chest." "And what did you see in the mirror? " " Nothing but myself." " Consequently, madam, I have kept my word and obeyed you. Never did anything enter my heart but that which you saw when you looked at my chest. She who was there pictured is the only one whom I love, revere, and adore, not as a woman merely, but as an earthly divinity, on whom my life and death depend. The only favour I ask of you, madam, is that the perfect passion, which has been life to me whilst concealed may not be my death now that I have declared it. If I am worthy that you should regard me and receive me as your most impassioned ser- vant, suffer me at least to live, as I have hitherto done, upon the blissful consciousness that I have dared to give my heart to a being so perfect, and so worthy of all honour, that I must be content to love her, though I can never hope to be loved in return. If the knowledge you now possess of my intense love does not render me more agreeable to your eyes tha«x heretofore, at least do not deprive me of life, which for me consists in the bliss of seeing you as usual. I now receive from ypu no other favour than that which is absolutely necessary for my existence. If I have less you will have a servant the less, and wiU lose the best and most affectionate one you have ever had or ever will have." The queen, whether it was that she might appear other than she really was, or that she might put his love for her to a longer proof, or that she loved another whom she would not forsake for him, or, lastly, that she was glad to have this lover in reserve in case her heart should become vacant through any fault which might possibly be committed by him whom she loved already, said to him, in a tone which expressed neither anger nor satisfac- tion, " I will not ask you, Elisor, although I know not the powel of love, how you can have been so presumptuous and so extrava- gant as to love me ; for I know that the heart of man is so little at his own command that one cannot love or hate as one chooses. But since you have so well concealed your feelings, I desire to know how long you have entertained them ? " Elisor, looking in her beautiful face, and hearing her inquire TB-OrsrEME JOTJRNEE Novel 24,] Third Day. 169 abott his malady, was not without hopes that she would afford him some relief ; but, on the other hand, seeing the self-command and the gravity with which she questioned him, he feared he had to do with a judge who was about to pronounce sentence against him. Notwithstanding this fluctuation between hope and fear, he protested that he had loved her since her early youth ; but that it was only within the last seven years he had been con- scious of his pain, or rather of a malady so agreeable that he would rather die than be cured. " Since you have been constant for seven years,'' said the queen, " I must be no more precipitate in believing you than you have been in declaring your love to me. Therefore, if you speak the truth, I wish to convince myself of it in a manner that shall leave no room for doubt ; and if I am satisfied with, the result of the trial, I will believe you to be such towards me as you swear that you are ; and then, when I find you to be indeed what you say, you shall find me to be what you wish." Elisor besought her to put him to any proof she pleased, there being nothing so hard that would not appear to him very easy, in the hope that he might be happy enough to convince her of the perfect love he bore her. He only waited, he said, to be honoured with her commands. " If you love me, Elisor, as much as you say,'' replied the queen, " I am sure that nothing will seem hard to you to obtain my good graces ; so I command you, by the desire you have of possessing them, and the fear of losing them, that to-morrow, without seeing me more, you quit the court and go to a place where for seven years you shall hear nothing of me, nor I of you. You know well that you love me, since you have had seven years' experience of the fact. When I shall have a similar seven years' experience, I shall believe what all your protestations would fail tc assure me of." This cruel command made Elisor believe at first that her in- tention was to get rid of him ; but, upon second thoughts, he accepted the condition, hoping that the proof would do more for him than all the words he could utter. " If I have lived seven years without any hope," he said, " underthe painful necessity of dissembling my love, now that it is known to you, and that I have some gleam of hope, I shall pass the other seven years with patience and calmness. But, madam, since in obeying the command you impose upon me I am deprived of all the joy I have ever had in the world, what hope do you give me that, at the end of seven years, you will own me for your faithful servant ? " 1 70 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. Drawing a ring off her finger, " Let us cut this ring in two," said the queen ; " I will keep one half and you the other, in order that I may recognise you by that token, in case length ol time makes me forget your face." Elisor took the ring, divided it in two, gave the queen one half, and kept the other. Then taking leave of her, more dead than those who have already given up the ghost, he went home to give orders for his departure. Sending his whole retinue to the country, he went away with only one attendant to a place so lonely and sequestered that none of his relations and friends had any tidings of him for seven years. How he lived during that time, and what sorrow absence made him endure, are things beyond my telling ; but those who love can be at no loss to con- ceive them. Precisely at the end of seven years, and at the moment when the queen was going to mass, a hermit with a long beard came to her, kissed her hand, and presented to her a petition, which she did not peruse at once, though her custom was to receive all the petitions that were presented to her, however poor were the people who preferred them. When mass was half said, she opened the petition, and found enclosed in it the half of the ring she had given to Elisor. This was an agreeable surprise for her, and before she read the paper, she ordered her almoner to bring her straightway the hermit who had presented the petition. The almoner sought for him in all directions, but all he could learn was that he had been seen to mount and ride away, but no one could tell which way he had gone. While awaiting the return of her almoner, the queen read the petition, which turned out to be a letter, composed in the best possible manner, and, but for the desire I feel to make it intelligible to you, I should never have ventured to translate it ; for I must beg you to understand, ladies, that the Castilian is better adapted than the French tongue to express the emotions of love. The letter was as follows : "Time, a mighty teacher, gave me perfectly to know the nature of love. Time was afterwards assigned me, that the in- credulous one might see by my protracted woe what love could not convince her of. Time hath shown me on what foundation my heart built its great love. That foundation was your beauty, which concealed great cruelty. Time teaches me that beauty is nothing, and that cruelty is the cause of my weal. Exiled by the beauty whose regards I so yearned for, I have come to be more conscious of your extreme unkindness. I obey your cruel Novel 24.] Third Day. 1 7 1 order, however, and am perfectly content to do so ; for time has had such pity on me that I have wished to return to this place to bid you, not a good day, but a last farewell. Time has shown me love just as it is, poor and naked ; and I have no sense of it excep; regret. But time has likewise shown me the true love, which I have known only in that solitude where for seven years I have been doomed to mourn in silence. Through time I have come to know the love that dwells on high, at sight of which the other love vanishes, and I have given myself wholly to the one, and weaned my affections from the other. To that better love I devote my heart and my body, to do suit and service to it, and not to you. When I served you, you esteemed me nothing. I now give you back entirely the love you put into my heart, having no need either of it or you. I take my leave of cruelty, pain, torment, scorn, hatred, and the burning fire with which you are filled, no less than you are adorned with beauty. I cannot better bid farewell to all woes and pains and intolerable distresses, and to the hell of the amorous woman, than in bidding farewell to you, madam, without the least prospect that, wherever you or I may be, we shall ever look upon each other more." This letter was not read without tears and incredible surprise and regret. Indeed, the queen could not but feel so keenly the loss of a servant who loved her so perfectly, that not all her treasures, nor even her crown, could hinder her from being the poorest and most miserable princess in the world, since she had lost that which no wealth could replace, After hearing mass, she returned to her chamber, where she gave utterance to the lamentations her cruelty had merited. There was no mountain, rock, or forest to which she did not send in quest of the hermit ; but he who had taken him out of her hands hindered him from falling into them again, and removed him to Paradise before she could discover his retreat in this world. This example shows that no one can tell what can do him harm only and no good. Still less, ladies, should you carry dis- trust and incredulity so far as to lose your lovers through de- siring to put them to too severe a proof. " All my life long, Dagoucin," said Geburon, " I have heard the lady in question spoken of as the most virtuous woman in the world ; but now I regard her as the most cruel that ever lived." " It seems to me, however,'' said Parlamente, " that she did I?* ^t Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. him no such great wrong, if he loved her as much as he said, in exacting from him seven years of trial. Men are so ac- customed to lie on these occasions, that one cannot take too many precautions before trusting them — if they are ever to be trusted." " The ladies of our day," said Hircan, "are wiser than those of times past ; for in seven days' trial they are as sure with re- gard to a lover as others were in seven years." " Yet are there those in company," said Longarine, "who have been wooed for seven years without ever being won." " That is true," said Simontault ; "but with your leave they ought to be classed with the ladies of bygone times, for in the modern class they would not be received." " After all," said Oisille, " Elisor was greatly indebted to the queen, since she was the cause of giving his heart entirely to God." " It was great luck for him," said Saffredent, "to find God in his way ; for, crossed as he was, I wonder he did not give himself to the devil." " When your lady ill-used you," inquired Ennasuite, " did you give yourself to such a master ? " " Thousands of times ; but the devil would never take me, seeing that the tortures of hell were less than those she made me suffer, and that there is no devil more insupportable than a woman who is passionately loved and will not love in return." " If I was in your place, and entertained such sentiments," said Parlamente, " I would never love a woman." " Such has always been my unfortunate propensity," replied Saffredent, " that when I cannot command I think myself very happy in being able to serve. But tell me pray, in conscience, now, do you applaud this princess for such excessive rigour?" "Yes," said Oisille, "for I believe she did not choose either to love or be loved." "That being the case," said Simontault, "why give him hopes after seven years should have passed ? " "You are right," said Longarine; "and I think that ladies who do not choose to love should cut the matter short at once, and hold out no hopes to their suitors." " Perhaps," said Nomerfide, " she loved another who was not so worthy as Elisor, and preferred the worse man to the better." " It is my belief," said Saffredent, " that she was glad to keep him in play, that she might have him ready to her hand when- ever she cast off the lover she then preferred to him." N'ovel2S.] Third Day. 173 " I see plainly, ' said Oisille, " that as long as the conversation runs upon this topic, those who do not like to be treated harshly will say everything bad they can of us ; so be pleased, Dagoucin, to give your voice to some one." " I give it to Longarine," said he, " being assured that she will tell us sonnething novel, and speak the very truth without sparing either men or women." " Since you have such a good opinion of my sincerity," said Longarine, " I will relate an anecdote of a great prince who surpassed in endowments all the princes of his time. Permit me also to remark, that falsehood and dissimulation are things which should be least of all used, unless in a case of extreme necessity. They are very ugly and disgraceful vices, especially in princes and great lords, whom truth becomes still more than other men. But there is no prince in the world, however glorious or rich he may be, who does not acknowledge the empire of love, and submit to its tyranny. Indeed, that arro- gant god disdains all that is common, and delights only in working miracles every day, such as weakening the strong, strengthening the weak, making fools of the wise, and knowing p.ersons of the ignorant, favouring the passions, destroying reason, and, in a word, turning everything topsy-turvy. As princes are not exempt from it, no more so are they from the necessity in which they are put by the desire of amorous servitude. Thence it comes that they are forced to use falsehood, hypocrisy, and feigning, which, according to Maitre Jean de Meun, are means for vanquishmg enemies. Though conduct of this nature is laudable in a prince, though it be censurable in all other men, I will recount to you the device employed by a young prince ■who tricked those who are used to trick all the world." NOVEL XXV. Cunning contrivance of a young prince to enjoy the wife of an advocate of Paris. j|MONG the advocates in Paris, there was one who was more esteemed than any nine others in his profession ; and as his knowledge and ability made him sought by all clients, he became the richest of all the men of the gown. Now, seeing that he had no children by his first wife, he thought he should have some by a second ; for though he was old, he had, nevertheless, the heart and the hope of a young man. He 174 7 he Heptameron of tJie Queen of Navarre. made choice of a Parisian of eighteen or nineteen, very handsome la face and complexion, and handsomer still in figure and plumpness. He loved her and treated her as well as possible ; but he had no children by her any more than by his first wife ; which the fait one at last took sorely to heart. As youth cannot carry the burden of care very far, the advocate's young wife resolved to seek else- where the pleasure she did not find at home, and used to go to balls and feasts ; but this she did, nevertheless, with such out- ward propriety, and so much caution, that her husband could not take offence, for she was always with those ladies in whom he had most confidence. One day, when she was at a wedding entertainment, there happened to be present a young prince, who told me the story, and forbade me to name him. All I can tell you is that there never was, and never will be, I think, a prince in France of finer person and demeanour. The eyes and the countenance of the advocate's lady inspired the prince with love. He spoke to her so well, and with such grace, that she took pleasure in his dis- course, and ingenuously owned to him that she had long had in her heart the love for which he craved, and begged he would spare himself the pains of trying to persuade her to a thing to which love had already made her consent at mere sight. The frankness of love having bestowed on the prince what was well worth the pains of being won by time, he failed not to thank the god who favoured him ; and he plied his oppirtunity so well, that they agreed there and then upon the means of seeing each other in less crowded company. The time and the place being assigned, the prince appeared punctually, but in disguise, that he might not compromise the honour of the fair one, As he did not wish to be known by the rogues and thieves who roam by night, he had himself escorted by some trusty gentlemen, from whom he separated on entering the street where the lady resided, saying to them, " If you hear no noise within a quarter of aij hour go away, and return about three or four o'clock." The quarter of an hour having expired, and no noise having been heard, the gentlemen withdrew. The prince went straight to the advocate's house, and .bund the door open as he had been promised, but on going up the staircase he met the advocate with a candle in his hand, who saw him first. Love, however, which gives wit and boldness in proportion to the crossings and thwartings it occasions, prompted the prince to go up at once to the advocate and say to him, "You know, master advocate, the confidence which I and Mvel25.] TJiirdDay. 175 all my house repose in you, and that I regard you as one of my best and most faithful servants. 1 am come to see you privately, as wrell to recommend my affairs to you as to beg you will give me something to drink, for I am very thirsty, and not let anybody know that I have been here. When I quit you I shall have to go to another place, where I should not like to be known." The poor man, delighted with the honour the prince did him by this familiar visit, begged him to enter his room, and told his wife to prepare a collation of the best fruits and the most exquisite confections she could find ; which she did right gladly, with all possible daintiness. Though she was in kerchief and mantle, and appeared to more than usual advantage in that n^glig^, the prince affected not to look at her, but talked continually about his business to her husband, who had always had the manage- ment of it. Whilst the wife knelt before the prince to present him some confections, and the husband was going to the buffet to fetch him something to drink, she found time to tell him not to fail on departing to enter a garderobe on the right, where she would soon join him. When he had drunk, he thanked the advocate, who wished by all means to accompany him ; but this the prince would not allow, assuring him he was going to a place where he had no need of company. Then turning to the wife, he said, " I will not deprive you of your good husband, who is one of my old servants. You are so happy in having him that you have reason to thank God. You must serve and obey him well ; and if you did otherwise you would be very ungrateful." So saying, he went out, shut the door after him, that he might not be followed to the staircase, and entered \h^ garderobe, where the fair one joined him as soon as her husband was asleep. She took him into a cabinet as elegant as could be, but in truth there was nothing in it handsomer than he and she ; and I doubt not that she kept word with him as to all she had promised. He left her at the hour he had told his people, and found them at the place where he had desired them to wait for him. As the intrigue was of long duration, the prince chose a shorter way to go to the advocate's ; this was to pass througli a monastery. He managed matters so well with the prior that every night the porter opened the door for him towards midnight, and did the same when he returned. The advocate's house not being far from the monastery, he took no one with him. Not- withstanding the prince led the life I have described, still he loved and feared God, so true it is that man is a whimsical mixture of good and evil, and a perpetual contradiction. On his i'j6 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. way to th; advocate's he only passed through the moaastery, but on his return he never failed to remain a long time at prayer in the church. The monks, seeing him on his knees as they went to matins, or returned from them, believed he was the most pious of men. The prince had a sister who was much in the habit of fre- quenting that convent. As she loved her brother above all men, she used to commend him to the prayers of all the good people »ne knew. One day, when she was thus speaking for him with great earnestness to the prior of this monastery, the good father replied, •' Why, madam, what is that you ask of me ? You name the very man above all others to whose prayers I most desire to be myself commended ; for if he is not pious and righteous, I never expect to see one that is so." Thereupon he quoted the text which says that " Blessed is he who can do evil, and doeth it not." The sister, who longed to know what proof the prior had of her brother's sanctity, questioned him so earnestly that he said to her, as if he was revealing a secret of the confessional, " Is it not a marvellous and goodly thing to see a young and handsome prince abandoning pleasures and repose to come frequently to our matins ? He does not come like a prince who seeks to be honoured of men, but quite alone like a simple- monk, and he goes and hides himself in one of our chapels. This devotion so confounds my brethren and myself, that we do not think ourselves worthy to be called men of religion in comparison with him." The sister did not know what to think of this ; for though her brother was very mundane, she knew, nevertheless, that he had a good conscience, that he believed in God and loved him much ; but she could never have imagined that he would make a practice cf going to church at that hour. As soon as she saw him, she told him what a good opinion the monks had of him. He could not help laughing, and in such a manner that she, who knew him as she did her own heart, readily guessed that there was something concealed under this pretended devotion. She teased him so much that at last he told her the whole truth, as you have heard from me, and as she did me the honour to relate it to me.* • Francis I. is the young prince who figures in tliis novel. The same story- has been told of him, with additional circumstances, by some historians and others. It is thus related by a physician named Louis Guyon, Sieur de la Nauche, who flourished at the end of the i6th century. " Francis I. was en- amoured of a lady of great beauty and great grace, the wife of an advocate of Paris, whom I will not name, for he has left children in high estate, and who JVbvdzs.'] Third Day. 177 You see by this, ladies, that there are no advocates so crafty, or monks so shrewd, but that they may be tricked in case of need when one loves well. Since, then, love teaches how to trick the tricksters, how much reason have we to fear it, we who are poor simple creatures ? "Though I guess pretty well," said Geburon, "who is the hero of this tale, I cannot help saying that he is to be praised for having kept the secret ; for there are few great lords who give themselves any concern either about the honour of women or public scandal, provided they have their pleasure. Frequently, even, they act in such a manner as to make people believe more than the truth." «re persons of good repute. The lady would never comply with the king a desires, but on the contrary repulsed him with many rude words, which h«rt him sore. Knowing this, some courtiers and royal pimps told the king he might take her authoritatively and by the power of his royalty. One of them actually went and said this to the lady, who reported it to her husband. The advocate saw plainly that they must quit the realm, and that, moreover, they should find it very hard to escape, unless they obeyed. Finally, the husband allowed his wife to comply with the king's desire ; and that he might be no hindrance, he pretended to have business in the country for eight or ten days. Meanwhile he remained concealed in Paris, frequenting the brothels, trying to catch the pox to give to his wife, that the king might take it from her. He quickly got what he sought, infected his wife, and she the king, who gave it to several other women with whom ho conversed ; and he never could tw thoroughly cured, for all the rest of his life he was unhealthy, sad, peevish, and inaccessible." (Diverse! Lens de Louis Guyoii, sieur de la Nauche. Lyon, 1610, t. II, p. 109.) Brant6me also speaks of the malady contracted by the king through his gallantries, and says that it shortened his life ; but he does not mention any woman in particular, or allude to the story of the advocate's wife. ' ' Many have thought that she was no other than ' La belle F^ronnijre, ' so called because she was married to an advocate of the Le F6ron family, many members of which were distinguished in the bar of Paris." "We must, then," say the Bibliophiles Franpais, " number among apocryphal anecdotes the last and vilest part of the adventure of the advocate of Paris. What is true, Margaret has made known to us ; modern historians, even those who have shown themselves most unfavourable to Francis L, have not re- produced the fact stated by Louis Guyon. M. Genin, editor of Margaret'* letters, has even published the postcript of a letter of Cardinal d'Armagnac, which proves that at least a year before his deafn the king was in perfect health. (See Lettres de Marguerite d'Angoulime, &o., 1841, 8vo., p, 473.) Thus is Annihilated the ignoble accusation of a shameful disease which should have hastened the death of Francis L" In Grammont's Memoirs it is related that the Duke of York, afterwards James IL, was the victim of the same sort of revenge on the part of a jealous husband as that attributed to the advocate of Paris. 178 Hie Heptameron of the Queen of Navarrt. " It would be well," said Oisille, " if all young lords fol- lowed this example, for often the scandal is worse than the sin." " Vou may well believe," said Nomerfide, " that the prayers he offered up in church were very sincere and very acceptable to God." •' That is not a question for you to decide," said Parlamente, "for, perhaps, his repentance was such on his return from his assignation that his sin was forgiven." " It is very difficult," said Hircan, "to repent of a thing that gives such pleasure. For my part, I have often confessed, but hardly repented it." " If one does not repent, it were better not to confess," ob- served Oisille. " Sin displeases me, madam," rejoined Hircan. " I am vexed at offending God ; but pleasure pleases me." "You would be very glad, you and others like you," remarked Parlamente, "that there were neither God nor law but what agreed with your own inclination." " I confess," said Hircan, " I should be glad if my pleasures were as pleasing to God as they are to me. In that case, I would often give matter for rejoicing." "You will not make a new God, however," said Geburon ; " and so the best thing we can do is to obey the one we have; But let us leave these disputes to theologians, and see to whom Longarine will give her voice." "To Saffredent," said Longarine, "on condition that he tells us the finest tale he can recollect, and that he is not so intent on speaking ill of women as not to do them justice when he can say anything to their advantage." "With all my heart," said Saffredent. "I recollect, quite j propos, a story of a loose woman and a staid one ; so you may choose whichever example of the two you prefer. You will see from this story that love makes bad acts be done by persons of bad heart ; it also makes people of worth do things deserving of praise ; for love is good in itself, but the depravity of the individual often makes it take a new title, such as lascivious, light, cruel, or vile. You will see, nevertheless, from the tale I am about to tell, that love does not change the heart, but makes it appear such as it is : wanton in the wanton, sober in the sober." i^ovel 36.1 Third Day. i7j NOVEL XXVI. How the Lord of Avannes was weaned from a dissolute amour with a lady ol Pampeluna by the advice and sisterly affection of a virtuous lady. |URING the reign of King Louis XIL, there was a young lord named Monsieur D'Avannes, son of Monsieur d'Albret, the brother of John, King of Navarre, with whom D'Avannes usually resided. This young lord was so handsome, and had such an engaging demeanour at the age of fifteen, that he seemed to be made only to be beloved and admired ; and so he was by all who saw him, and above all by a lady who lived in Pampeluna, in Navarre, and was married to a very wealthy man, with whom she lived happily. Though she was but three-and-twenty, yet, as her husband was nearly fifty, she dressed so modestly that she had more the appearance of a widow than of a married woman. She was never seen at wed dings or festivities but with her husband, whose worth she prized so highly that she preferred it to the good looks of all other men. The husband, on his side, knew her to be so disciieet, and had so much confidence in her, that he entrusted all the affairs of the house to her prudence. This rich man and his wife were one day invited to the wed- ding of one of their female relations. D'Avannes was present to do honour to the bridal, and also because he was fond of dancing, in which he acquitted himself better than any man of his day. When dinner was over and the ball began, the rich man begged D'Avannes to dance. The latter asked with whom he would have him dance : whereupon the rich man, taking his wife by the hand, presented her to D'Avannes, and said, " If there was a handsomer lady in the room, monsieur, or one so much at my disposal, I would present her to you as I do this one, begging you, monsieur, to do me the honour to dance with her." The prince gladly complied ; and he was still so young that he took more pleasure in dancing and skipping than in gazing on ladies' charms. It was not so with his partner, who paid more attention to the handsome figure and good looks of her cavalier than to the dance ; but she took care not to let this appear. Supper time being come, M. D'Avannes took leave of the company and retired to the chateau. The rich man escorted him thither, mounted on his mule, and said to him on the way, " Monsieur, you have to-day done so much honour to my relations and myself that I should be ungrateful if I did not make you 7 So The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. every offering in my power. I know, monsieur, that lords like you, who have strict and close-handed fathers, have often more need of money than we, who, with our small retinue and good management, do nothing but amass. God, who has given me everything that could be desired in a wife, has thought fit to leave me still something to wish for in this world, since I am deprived of the joy which fathers derive from children. I know, mon- sieur, that it does not belong to me to adopt you ; but if you please to regard me as your servant, and confide your little affairs *.o me, as far as a hundred thousand crowns may go you shall never want for aid in your need." M. D'Avannes was very glad of this offer, for he had just such a father as the other had mentioned ; and after thanking his generous friend, he called him his father by alliance. Thence- forth the rich man was so fondly attached to M. D'Avannes, that he failed not to ask him every morning and evening if he wanted anything ; and he made no secret of this to his wife, who was much pleased with it. M. D'Avannes never afterwards wanted anything he could desire. He often went to see his father by alliance, and eat with him ; and when he did not find him at home, the wife gave him whatever he asked for, and spoke to him so sagely, exhorting him to virtue, that he feared and loved her above all women in the world. For her part, having the fear of God and honour before her eyes, she contented herself with seeing and speaking to him, which is enough for a virtuous love ; nor did she ever give him any indication from which he could conjecture that she entertained for him any other than a sisterly and Christian regard. About the age of seventeen, M. D'Avannes began to attach himself more to the ladies than he had been used to do ; and though he would more gladly have loved his own good lady than any other, the fear of losing her friend- ship hindered him from speaking, and made him fix his choice elsewhere. He addressed himself to a lady near Pampeluna, who had a house in the town, and had married a young man whose ruling passion was horses, dogs, and hawks. For her sake he gave a thousand entertainments, such as tournaments, games, races, wrestling-matches, masquerades, balls, &c. ; but as the husband was of a jealous temper, and the lady's father and mother knew her to be fair and frolicsome, and were afraid of her tripping, they watched her so closely that all M. D'Avannes could do was to whisper a word or two in her ear at a ball, although he well knew, and this made the matter still more provoking, that JV,vd26.] Third Day. i8| nothing but time and place was wanting for the consummation of their mutual inclinations. He went to his good father, told him he had a mind to visit Notre Dame de Montferrat, and begged he would receive his whole retinue into his house, for it was his wish to go alone. This request was instantly granted ; but as loveJs_a_great_£raphetj^ and as the wife was under the^ influence of that power, she guessed the truth at once, and could T not help saying to M. D'Avannes, " The Notre Dame you adore,' monsieur, is not outside the walls of this town. Take care o< your health, I beseech you." M. D'Avannes, who, as I have already said, feared and loved her, blushed so much at these words that he tacitly betrayed the truth, and went away. After buying two handsome Spanish horses, he dressed him- self as a groom, anddisguised-himself so well that no one could 1 have known him. TBehusband of the wanton lady, being fond"^ of horses above all things, saw the two belonging to M. D'Avannes, and immediately offered to buy them. The bargain being con- cluded, he took particular notice of the groom, and seeing that he managed the horses very well, asked if he would enter his service. M. D'Avannes at once agreed to do so, and said he was a poor groom, who could do nothing but take care of horses, but this he could do so well that his master would be satisfied with him. The gentleman gave him the charge of all his horses, and when he reached home told his wife that he was going to the chateau, and that he begged her to look after his groom and his horses. As much to please her husband as because she had no other recreation, the lady went to see the horses, and noticed the new groom, who seemed to her a good-looking man ; but she did not recognize him. Seeing this, he made his obeisanc to her in the Spanish fashion, took her hand and kissed it, an4 in so doing pressed it so strongly that she knew him, for he had often done the same thing in dancing with her. From that moment she thought of nothing but how she might contrive to speak with him in private ; and this she did that very evening. She was invited to an entertainment to which her husband was to have taken her ; but she feigned indisposition, 1 and would not go. Her husband, not wisHmg to disappoint his | friends, begged her, since she would not accompany him, to look ' a^ter his dogs and his horses, and see that they wanted for no- thing. This commission was most agreeable to her ; but the better to play her part, she replied that, since he would not employ her in higher things, she would prove to him, by her care for the least, how much she desired to please him. 1 8a Tlu Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. No sooner was her husband gone than she went to the stable, where she found that something was not as it should be. To set matters right, she gave so many orders to the men that she was left alone with the head groom, and, for fear of anyone coming upon them, she told him to go into the garden and wait for her in a little corner at the end of an alley, which he did with such haste that he had not time even to thank her. Having given her orders in the stables, she went to see the dogs, and busied herself so much about them, that it seemed as though from being mistress she had become servant. All this being done, she went back to her chamber, and complained so much of fatigue that she had to go to bed. All her women withdrew except one, in whom she specially confided ; and this one she sent to the garden, with orders to bring her the man she would find at the end of the alley. The chambermaid found the head- groom, brought him straightway to her mistress, and then mounted guard outside, to give warning should the husband return. M. D'Avannes, finding himself alone with his fair one, stripped ofl his groom's dress, his false nose, and false beard, and not as a timorous groom, but in his proper character, boldly stepped into bed to her without asking leave, and was received as the handsomest man of his time by the most wanton woman in the country. There he remained until the return of her husband, when he resumed his mask, and quitted the place he had so cunningly usurped. The husband, on entering his courtyard, found that his wife had carefully executed his orders, and thanked her for it. " I have only done my duty, my dear," she said. " It is true that if one had not an eye on the varlets, you have not a dog but what would be mangy, or a horse but would be out of condition ; but as I know their laziness and your wishes, you shall be better served than ever you have been." The husband, who thought he had got the best groom in the world, asked her what she thought of him. " I assure you, monsieur," said she, " that he knows his business as well as any man you could find. Still he requires to be kept to his work, for he is the sleepiest varlet I ever saw." The wedded pair were on better terms with each other than they had ever been, and the husband became quite cured of his jealousy, because his wife was now as attached . to her household concerns as she had previously been fond of feasts, dances, and company. Formerly she used always to spend four hours at her toilette ; but now she dressed very simply. Her husband, and those who did not know that a wors« /Voz/el a6.] Tldrd Day. 183 devil^had driven out a lesser, extolled her for so happy a change. Meanwhile, this virtuous-seeming hypocrite led such a licentious life that reason, conscience, order, or moderation had no longer any place in her. M. D'Avamies, being yoting and of a delicate constitution, could not long sustain all this ; but became so pale and thin that he had no need of a mask to conceal his identity. His extravagant love for this woman had so infatuated him that he imagined he had strength to accomplish devoirs for which that of Hercules would not have been sufficient. Having fallen ill at last, and being teased by the lady, who was not so fond ol him sick as sound, hFasked for his discharge, which the hus- band granted with regret, making him promise to return as soon as he was recovered. , M . D'Avannes had no need of a horse for his departure, for he had only the length of a street to travel. He went at once to his good father's, and found there only his wife, whose virtuous love for him had not at all decreased through absence. When she saw him so pale and thin, she could not help saying to him, " I do not know, monsieur, what is the present state of your con- science, but I do not perceive that your pilgrimage has increased your plumpness. I am very much mistaken if your travels by, night have not fatigued you more than those by day. If you had made the journey to Jerusalem on foot, you would have come back more sunburnt, but not so lean and weak. Recollect this ride, and pay no more devotions to such images, which, instead of resuscitating the dead, bring the living to death. I should say more to you, but I see that, if you have sinned, you have been so punished that it would be cruel to add to your distress." M. D'Avannes, more ashamed than penitent, replied, " I have heard, madam, that repentance follows close upon the fault. This I experience, to my cost ; and I pray you, madam, to excuse my youth, which is punished by the experience of the mischief it would not be warned against." The lady changed the conversation, and made him lie down in a fine bed, where he remained for a fortnight, taking nothing but restoratives ; and the husband and the wife were so assiduous in their attentions that one or other was always with him. Though he had committed the folly you have heard against the feelings and the advice of the excellent lady, she nevertheless continued to love him as before, in the hope that, when this great fire of youth had passed away, he would reform and come id love rightly, and then he would be all her own. During the fortnight he remained in her house, she talked so much and so 184 The Heptameron of the Queen 0/ t^avarre. well to inspire him with a love of virtue that he began to hate vice, and to be disgusted with his fault. Gazing one day on the virtuous lady, who appeared to him much handsomer than the wanton, and knowing her excellent qualities better than he had ever done, he banished all fear, and thus addressed her : " I see no better means, madam, of becoming as good as you would have me to be, than to turn my whole heart to the love of virtue. Pray tell me, madam, I beseech you, would you not have the goodness to give me all the aid in your power to that end ? " The lady, delighted to see him come to the point to which she wished to lead him, replied, " I promise you, monsieur, that if you love virtue as much as becomes a lord of your rank, I will spare nothing to render you all the services of which I may be capable." " Remember your promise, madam," returned D'Avannes; "and ' consider that God, whom the Christia n knows only by faith, has deigned to assume flesh like tTTatoTthe sinner, in order that, attracting our flesh to the love of his humanity. He might also attract our spirits to the love of his divinity, thus employing visible things to make us love the Invisible. As this virtue, which I wish Jo love all my life longi has nothing visible about it except the outward, ^effects, Jt-produces, it is necessary that it should f^ assume .some body, in order to make itself known to men. It has assumed that body, madam, in putting on yours, the most perfect | it could have found. I own, therefore, that you are not only / virtuous, but actually virtue itself ; and I, who see that virtue I shine beneath the veil of the most be^utifijiiady that ever existed, wish to serve and honour it all my life, and to renounce for ever the love that is criminal and vain." The lady, though no less delighted than surprised to hear hinji speak thus, was able completely to^encealjierjeeliags, and said, " I will not take upon me, monsieur, to reply to your theology; but as I am much more disposed to fearihe-.eyil than to believe) the good, I beg you will not address me in a language which I gives^u so poor an opinion of those who are weak enough to believe it. I know very well that I am a woman like any other, and a woman that has so many defects that virtue would do~ something greater in transforming rSeTihlto itself than in trans- 1 forming itself into me, unless it wished to remain unknown to 1 the world. No one would think of recognizing it under such a garb as mine. Howbeit, with all my faults, my lord, I still love you as much as a woman can and ought who fears God and Novel 26.] TTiird Day. igj cherishes honour ; but this love shall not be declared to you until your heart is capable of the patience^iivhich-a virtuous love re- - quires. When that time comesTTnonsieur, I know what I shall tviiVe'to tell you. Meanwhile, be assured that your weKare, your p<-rson, and your honour are dearer to me than to yourself." Trembling, and with tears in his eyes, M. D'Avannes begged to be allowed to take a kiss as a pledge of her word, but she refused, saying that she did not choose to violate the custom of the country for him. Presently the husband arrived. " I am so much indebted, father," said D'Avannes, "to you and your wife, that I entreat you always to regard me as your son." The good man willingly expressed his assent. •' Let me kiss you, then, in assurance of that affection," continued D'Avannes. This was done. " If I were not afraid," he said next, "of con- travening the law; I would request the same favour of my 7 mother , your wife." The husband desired his wTfeto kiss him, wrhich she did without testifying either repugnance or alacrity ; J whilst the fire which the previous conversation had already kindled in the heart of M. D'Avannes grew hotter at this kiss so ardently longed for, and before so peremptorily denied him. After this, M. D'Avannes went back to the king, his brother, and told all sorts of stories about his journey to Montferrat. To his great vexation he learned that his brother was going to Oly and Taffares, and fearing that the Journey would be a long one, he resolved to try before his departure if the lady were not better disposed towards him than she appeared. To this end he went to lodge in town, and took, in the street in which she lived, a dilapidated old wooden house, to which he set fire about midnight. The whole town was in great alarm ; the rich man was roused by the noise, and calling out from the window to know where the fire was, he was told that it was at the house of M. D'Avannes. Hurrying thither with all his domestics, he found the young lord in the street in his shirt. Such was his . pity for him that, taking him in his arms, and covering him with his own robe, he hastened home with him, and said to his wife, " Here is a prisoner, my dear, whom I commit to your custody. Treat him like myself." He was no sooner gone than M. D'Avannes, who would have been glad to be treated as her husband, jumped into the bed, , hoping that the opportunity and the place would inspire the chaste lady with more humane sentiments ; but he was quite disappointed, for as he got in at one side she got out at the other, carrying away her chamarre, which she put on ; and 1 86 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. seating herself at the bedside, she said, " What ! monsieur, V^ did you imagine that opportunity could change a virtuous heart ?_ Know that as gold becomes purer in the fire, so a chaste heart grows stronger amid temptations. Often it grows stronger among them than elsewhere, and becomes more cold the more it is attacked by its_ opposite. Be assured, then, that if I had' entertained any other sentiments than those I have avowed, I should not have lacked means, and that I neglect them only because I do not choose to use them. If you would have me continue to love you, banish not only the desire but the thought that, do what you may, you can ever bring me to be other than what I am." Her women now coming in, she ordered them to prepare a collation of all sorts of confections ; but D'Avannes could neither eat nor drink, so great was his vejfation at having missed his blow, and exposed himself, as he feared, by that demonstration of his desires, to lose the position of familiarity in which he had been with her. The husband, having taken measures for ex- tinguishing the fire, returned, and prevailed on M. D'Avannes to pass the night in his house ; but he passed it in such a manner that his eyes were more occupied in weeping than in sleeping. He went and bade them adieu at the bedside very early in the^ morning, and plainly perceived, in kissing the lady, that she felt L^^ more pity than anger for his fault. This was a fresh brand toj the fire of his love. After dinner he set out for Taffares with the king ; but before his departure he went twice more to take a final farewell of his good father and his wife, who, since her husband's first command, no longer made any scruple to kiss M. D'Avannes as her son. There is no doubt that the more virtue did violence to thepoor lady's eyes and countenance, constraining them to hide the fire that was in her heart, the more it auMi4nted.andbecamej.nsup- portable, Unable, then, any longer to endure the conflict between ' ^le and Jionour, which yet she had resolved should never be manifested, and having no longer the pleasure and consolation of seeing and conversing with him for whom she lived, she fell into a continuous fever, caused by a(^|melancRoty) humour which she was forced to conceal, and which rendered the ex- tremities of her body quite cold, though the inside burned continually. The physicians, a class of men on whose hands hangs not the health of men, began to despair on account of an obstruction of the spleen, which rendered her melancholy, and they advised the husband to warn his wife to think ot her Mwrf 26.] Third Day. ,8y conscience, saying that she was in the hands of God ; as if people in good health were not there also. The husband, who was excessively fond of his wife, was so overwhelmed at this news that he wrote, for his own consolation, to M. D'Avannes, begging he would take the trouble to come and see them, in the hope that his presence would be a comfort to the patient, M. D'Avannes, on receipt of the letter, instantly started off post- haste, and on entering the house, he found the domestics ol both sexes as full of grief for their mistress as she deserved. Shocked at what he saw, he remained at the door as if paralysed, until his good father came and embraced him with tears, and without being able to utter a word, led him to the sick woman's chamber. Turning her languid eyes full upon him, she held out her hand, and drew him towards her with all the little strength left her. " The moment is come, my lord," she said, embracing him, " when all dissimulation_ nKjaLceasgi_and I must declare to you the truth I have had so much difficulty in concealing ; it is, that if you have had much love for me, I have had no less for you. ; But my pain is greater than yours, because I have been com- ' pelled to hide it. Con5duwx_and_honour^ have never allowed, m^ to declare to yoti the^ _sentiments of_ my heart, for fear ot augmentrngfiTyou a passion which I wished to diminish. ButJ know, my lord, that the no which I have said to you so often, ' and which it has cost me so much pain to pronounce, is the cause of my death. I die with satisfaction, since, by God's grace, notwithstanding the excess of my love, I have nothing to reproach myself with in regard to piety and honour. I say the excess of my love, for a less fire than mine has destroyed greater and ^ stronger edifices. I die happy, since, before quitting this world, I can declare my affection, which cqrr^ponds to yours, save j only that the honour of men and that o_f women are not the same | thing. I pray you, my lord, henceforth not to be afraid to - a33ress yourself to the greatest and most yirtuous ladies you can ; for it is hearts of that character which have the s^fongest j passions, and which control them most wisely ; and your grace, go^Too'cs, and good,.breeding will always enable you to gather the fruits of your love. I will not ask you to pray to God for me, for I know that the gate of Paradise is not shut against true lovers, land that love is a fire which punishes lovers so well in this life that they are exempted from the sharp torment of pur- " gatory. And now, farewell, my lord ; I commend to you your good father, my husband. Tell him truly, I beg you, what yo« 1 88 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. know of me, in order that he may know how much I have loved God and him. And come no more before my eyes, for hence* forth I wish to employ my mind only in putting myself ia a condition to receive the promises made to me by God before the foundation of the world." So saying, she embraced him with all the strenf^th of hei weak arms. M. D'Avannes, on whom compassion produced the same effect as pain and sickness in the lady, retired withour being able to say a word, and threw himself upon a bed which was in the room, where he fainted several times. The lady then called her husband, and, after many becoming demonstrations, she recommended M. D'Avannes to him, assuring him that next to himself that was the person she had loved best in the world. Having kissed her husband she bade him farewell, and then the holy sacrament of the altar was brought her after extreme unc-^ tion, which she received with joy, and an entire assurance of her salvation. Finding at last that her sight was leaving her, and^ that her strength was failing, she began to repeat aloud her In manus, hearing which, M. D'Avannes sat up in the bed, and saw her render up with a gentle sigh her glorious soul to Him from whom it came. When he saw that she was dead, he threw him- self upon the body, which he had never approached without trembling while she lived, and embraced it so that it was with difficulty he was forced away from it. The husband, who had never supposed he loved her so much, was surprised, and said, " It is too much, my lord." And thereupon they withdrew. I After they had long deplored, the one his wife, the other his mistress, M. D'Avannes recounted his love to the husband, and told him that until her death the deceased had never shown him any other signs than those of rigid reserve. This increased the husband's admiration for his departed wife, and still more his grief for her loss, and all his life afterwards he rendered service to M. D'Avannes. The latter, who was then but eighteen, re- turned to the court, and it was a long time before he would speak to any of the ladies there, or even see them ; and for more than two years he wore mourning. You see, ladies, what a difference there is between a chaste woman and a wanton. Their love, too, produced very different effects ; for the one died a glorious death, and the other lived but too long after the loss of her rep utation and her honour . As much as the death of the saint is precious before God, so is that «f the sinner the reverse. Mw/26.] nUrd Day. 189 "Truly, Saffredent," said Oisille, "anything finer than the story you have just narrated one could not wish to hear ; and if the rest of the company knew the persons as I do, they would think it still finer, for I never saw a handsomer gentleman, or one of better deportment, than M. D'Avannes." " Must it not be owned," replied Saffredent, "that this was a chaste and good woman, since, in order to appear more virtuous than she was in reality, and to hide the love which reason and nature w illed that she should have for so perfect a gentleman, she let herself die for want of giving herself the pleasure she desired without owning it." " If she had felt that desire,'' saidParlamente, " she would not have lacked either place or opportunity to reveal it ; but she had so much virtue that reason always controlled her desire." "You may paint her portrait as you please," said Hircan^^i "but I know that a greater devil always drives out a lessTand that the pride of the ladies seeks rather carnal pleasure than the fe ar an d love of God. They are perpefual enigmas, and they are such clever dissemblers that it is impossible to know what is in their hearts. If the world had not annexed infamy to the loss of their honour, it would be universally found that nature has made them with the same inclinations and the same affections as ourselves. Not daring to take the pleasure they long for, they have changed that vice into another which they think more deco- rous : I mean a cruelty quite as much pretended as real, by which they think to gain immortal renown ; and through the petty vanity of resisting the vice of nature's law (if nature is vicious), they resemble not only the brutes in cruelty and inhu- manity, but even the devils, whose pride and craft they borrow." " It is a pity you have a good woman for your wife," said Nomerfide, "since, not content with despising the virtue of other women, you would fain have it believed that they are all vicious." " I am very glad," replied Hircan, " to have a wife who gives no ground for scandal ; a thing which I would not do either ; but as for chastity of heart, I believe that she and I are children of Adam and Eve ; so, if we examine ourselves well, we have no business to cover our nakedness with leaves, but rather to confess our weakness." "I know well," said Parlamente, "that we all have need of the grace of God, being as we are by i^ature dis posed to sin ; but it must be owned, nevertheless, that our temptations are not similar to yours : and if we sin through pride, no one suffers for it, and neither our body nor our hands receive any stain. But 190 The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. your pleasure consists in dishonouring women, and your glory in killing men in war ; which are two things absolutely opposed to the law of God." c- " I admit what you say," remarked Geburon ; " but when God says that whoever looks upon a woman to lust after her hath \ already committed adultery in his heart, and that whoever hateth his neighbour is a homicide, do you suppose he does not also / mean to speak of women ?" 1 '• God, who knoweth the heart, will decide," said Longarine. ' "Meanwhile, it is always a good thing that men should have no power to accuse us, for God's good^ess is so great that He will not judge us without an accuser. Not judge us, did I say ? The frailty of our hearts is so well known to Him that He will give us credit for not having proceeded to overt acts." " Pray let us drop this dispute," said Saffredent. " We are here to tell tales, not to preach sermons. I therefore give my voice to Ennasuite. and beg that she will not forget to make us laugh." " I shall not fail to do so,'' replied Ennasuite. " On my way hither I was told a story of two servants of a princess, which seemed to me so droll, and made me laugh so much, that I forgot the dismal tale I had prepared for to-day, and which I will post- pone until to-morrow, my countenance being now too merry to make it pass well with you " NOVEL XXVII. Of a secretary who had the impudence to solicit the favours of his host's wife, and had only shame for his pains. ilHERE was at Amboise a man who served a princess in the capacity of chamberlain, and who, being an obliging, civil person, gladly entertained people who came to him, especially his own comrades. Not long ago one of his mistress's secretaries came to lodge with him, and remained ten or twelve days. This secretary was so ugly that he was more like a king of the cannibals than a Christian. Though his host treated him as a friend and a brother, yet he behaved to him like a man who had — I will not say forgotten all decency, but who had never had a feeling of it in his heart : this was, to solicit in the way of lawless love his companion's wife, who not only had nothing engaging in her, but looked the Mvelzj.] Third Day. 191 very antidote of criminal pleasure, and as good and virtuous a woman as any in Amboise. On becoming aware of the man's bad intentions, the woman thought it better to expose his turpi- tude than to suppress and conceal it by a prompt and decisive refusal ; she therefore pretended to listen to his suit. He, think- ing that he had made a conquest, pressed her incessantly, without considering that she was fifty, that she was not handsome, and that she had the reputation of a good woman who loved her husband. One day among others, when the husband was at home, and they were in a lower room, she pretended that the only thing requisite was to find a safe place for a tete-d,-tete, where they might entertain each other as he wished. He pro- posed that they should go up to the garret. She rose at once, and begged him to first, promising to follow him. He, laughing and grinning like an amorous monkey, went upstairs and posted himself in the garret. Whilst he was waiting for what he had so hotly desired, he listened with all his ears fof his fair one's footsteps ; but instead of them, he heard her voice crying out, " Wait a bit, master secretary, till I go and ask my husband if it is his pleasure that I should go to you." Imagine how the man looked in tears who had cut such an ugly figure when laughing. He hurried down stairs with tears in his eyes, and begged her for God's sake to say nothing, and not set her husband against him. " I am certain," she replied, " that you are too much his friend to wish to say anything which might not be repeated to him ; so I am going to speak to him about this matter." And so she did, in spite of all he could do to prevent her. He ran away, and was as much ashamed as the husband was glad to hear of the trick his wife had played him. So satisfied was the good man with his wife's virtue, that he gave himself no concern about his companion's villany, thinking him sufficiently punished in having the shame he had intended for him recoil upon his own head. This tale teaches us, ladies, that honest folk ought never to attach themselves to those who have neither conscience, heart, not wit enough to know God, honour, and true love. " Though your tale be short," said Oisille, " it is as amusing as any I have heard, and to the honour of a worthy woman." "It is no great thing to boast of," said Simontault, "for an honest woman to refuse a man so ugly as you represent this secretary to have been. Had he been handsome and well-bred, her conduct would then have been some evidence of virtue. Aa 193 7 he Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. I thin?: I know the man, if it was my turn to tell a story, I think I could give you one about him not less droll. than this." " Well, do so," said Ennasuite. " Courtiers, and inhabitants of great cities," he continued, " have such a good opinion of their own capacity that they regard others as very small folk in comparison with themselves. Though craft and cunning are of all countries and all conditions, yet as those who think themselves the shrewdest do so only through vanity, they are only the more laughed at when they happen to make some mistake, as I shall instance to you in an affair of recent occurrence." NOVEL XXVIII. A secretary, thinking to dupe a certain person, was himself duped. |HEN King Francis I. was at Paris with his sister the Queen of Navarre, that princess had a secretary named Jean, who was not one of those who let anything worth having be lost for want of picking it up. There was neither president nor counsellor with whom he was not acquainted, merchant nor rich man whose house he did not frequent. At the same time there also arrived in Paris a merchant of Bayonne, named Bernard du Ha, who, having business in hand, and being in need of protection, addressed himself to the lieutenant criminel, who was of his country. The Queen of Navarr«'s secretary used also to go frequently to see the same person, as a good servant of his master and mistress. One holiday, when he went to the house, he found neither the lieutenant nor his lady at home ; but there was Bernard du Ha, playing a viol or some other instru- ment for the servant-women of the house, and teaching them to dance the branles of Gascony. When the secretary saw this, he wanted to make Bernard believe that he was doing wrong, and that if the lieutenant and his lady knew of it they would be very angry. Having talked to him in so alarming a manner that the other begged him not to tell what he had seen, he said, "What will you give me not to say a word about it ?" Barnard du Ha, who was not so frightened as he made believe, perceiving that the secretary wanted to dupe him, promised to give him a pasty of the best Basque ham he had ever eaten. The secretary was highly pleased, and begged that he might have the pasty on the following Sunday after dinner, which the other pro- mised. NmeisS.'] Third Day. 193 Counting on this promise, the secretary went to see a lady 01 Paris, whom he passionately desired to marry, and said to her, " On Sunday, madam, I will come and sup with you, if you please ; but do not trouble yourself about anything but good bread and good wine, for I have so gulled a stupid fellow of Bayonne, that he will be at the cost of the rest : I will bring you the best Basque ham that ever was tasted in Paris." The lady, taking his word for it, invited two or three of her fair neigh- bours, and assured them she would treat them to something they had never tasted before. Sunday being come, the secretary went in quest of the merchant, and found him at the Pont au Change. Saluting him very politely, he said, "To the devil with you for having given me such trouble to find you." " Many a one has taken more trouble than you," replied Bernard du Ha, " and has not been so well rewarded in the end." So saying, he produced the pasty, which he had under his cloak, and which was big enough to set before a small army. The secretary was so pleased that, although he had an enormous ugly mouth, he squeezed it up so small that one would have thought he could not bite the ham. Hastily clutching the pasty, he turned his back upon the merchant without inviting him to partake of the treat, and carried it to his mistress, who was very curious to know if the eatables of Guienne were as good as those of Paris. Supper-time being come, the company began to fall to at the soup with much vigour. " Leave those insipid things," said the secretary, "and let us taste this whet for wine." So saying, he opened the pasty, and set about cutting the ham, but it was so hard that he could not stick the knife into it. After trying again and again, he found that he was hoaxed, and that instead of a ham he had been given a wooden shoe, such as is worn in Gascony, with a stick thrust into the end of it, and the whole smeared with suet and pow- dered with rust of iron and spices, which gave out a very pleasant odour. The secretary was greatly ashamed both of having been duped by the person he thought to dupe, and havmg deluded his mistress, contrary to his intentions ; to say nothing of his sore disappointment at having to content himself with soup for supper. The ladies, who were as vexed as himself, would have accused him as the author of the trick if they had not seen by his face that he was anything bujt pleased with its success. After making a light supper, the secretary retired in great dudgeon, and seeing that Bernard du Ha had not 1 ept his word, O 194 Tf^i Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. he did not think himself bound by his own. Accordingly ha went to the lieutenant criminel, intending to say everything bad he could of the merchant ; but the latter had been beforehand with him, and had already related the adventure to the lieutenant, who laughed in the secretary's face, and told him that he had learned to his cost what it was to play tricks on Gascons. And so all he got was the shame of having been the dupe of his own cunning. The same thing happens to many, who, wishing to deceive, find themselves deceived. Therefore it is best to do to others only as we would be done by. " I assure you," said Geburon, " that I have often witnessed such occurrences ; and those who pass for village boobies often overreach persons who think themselves very clever ; for there is no greater ninny than a man who thinks himself cunning, nor any one wiser than he who knows that he is not so." " He who knows his own incapacity, knows something, after all," said Parlamente, " For fear time should fail us, I give my voice to Nomerfide," said Simontault. " I am sure she will not delay us long by her rhetoric." "You shall have from me the satisfaction you desire," said Nomerfide. " I am not surprised, ladies, if love inspires princes and well-educated persons with the art of extricating themselves from danger. In fact, they are brought up in intercourse with so many persons of knowledge, that it would be very surprising if they were ignorant of anything. But address in love appears with much greater lustre when those who display it are persons of less intelligence. I shall, then, relate to you a piece of clever, ness exhibited by a priest through the prompting of love alone ! for he was so ignorant in all other things, that he could hardly tay mass.' Novel 29.1 Third Day. 195 NOVEL XXIX. A villager, whose wife intiigued with the parish priest, suffered himself to b« easily deceived. |HERE was at Carrelles, a village in the county of Maine, a rich husbandman, who in his old age married a hand- some young wife, by whom he had no children ; but she consoled herself for this disappointment with several friends. When gentlemen and persons of mark failed her, she reverted to her last resource, which was the church, and chose for the accomplice of her sin him who could absolve her — that is to say, her priest, who paid frequent visits to his sheep. The dull old husband suspected nothing ; but as he was a rough and sturdy old fellow, she played her game as secretly as she could, being afraid that her husband would kill her if he came to know of it. One day, when the husband was gone into the fields, and his wife did not expect him back for some time, she sent for master parson to confess her ; but during the time they were making good cheer together the husband arrived so suddenly that the priest had not time to steal off. Intending, then, to hide, he went by the wife's directions up into a loft, and covered the trap- hole in the floor by whxh he had got in with a winnowing basket. Meanwhile the wife, who was afraid her husband might suspect something, regaled him well at dinner, and plied him so well with wine, that the good man, having taken a little drop too much, and being fatigued with walking, fell asleep in a chair by the fireside. The priest, who found it dull work waiting in the loft, on ceasing to hear any noise in the room below, leaned over the trap-hole, and stretching out his neck as far as he could, saw that the good man was asleep. But while making his observa- tions he inadvertently leaned with so much weight on the win- nowing basket, that down fell basket, priest and all, by the side of the good man, and woke him up with the noise. But the priest was on his legs before the other had opened his eyes, and said, " There's your winnowing basket, gossip, and I'm much obliged to you ;" and so saying, he walked off. The poor hus- bandman, quite bewildered, asked his wife what was the matter ? " It is your winnowing basket, my dear," she replied, " which the priest had borrowed and has now returned." " It is a very clumsy way of returning what one has borrowed," said the good man, grumbling, " for I thought the house was falling." k?* 7%(f Heptameron of the Queem of Navarrt. In this way the priest saved himself at the expense of the hus- bandman, who objected to nothing but the abrupt manner in which his reverence had returned his winnowing basket. The master he served, ladies, saved him for that time, in order to possess and torment him longer. " Do not imagine that simple folk are more exempt from craft than we are," said Geburon ; " far from it, they have a great deal more. Look at thieves, murderers, sorcerers, false coiners, and ether people of that sort, whose wits are always at work ; they are all simple folk." " I am not surprised that they have more craft than others," said Parlamente, " but I am surprised that, having their wits directed to so many other things, they can think of love. Is it not strange that so fine a passion can enter such vulgar hearts ?" " You know, madam, what Maitre Jean de Meun says : — Aussi Hen sont amourettes Sous bureau que sous brunettes. Besides, the love of which the tale speaks is not that which makes one wear harness. The poor, who have not wealth and honours like us, have in compensation more of the commodities of nature. Their viands are not so delicate as ours, but good appetite makes amends for that deficiency, and they fare better on coarse bread than we on dainties. Their beds are not so handsome or so well made as ours, but their sleep is sounder. Their ladies are neither painted nor decked out like ours whom we idolise, but they receive pleasure from them much oftener than we, without fearing any other tongues than those of the beasts and birds that see them. In a word, they lack what we have, and have abundance of what we have not." " Pray let us have done with this peasant and his wife," said Nomerfide, "and finish the day before vespers. It is for Hircan to do so." " I will finish it, then, with a very dismal tale," said Hircan. " Though I do not willingly speak ill of ladies, knowing as I do that men are malicious enough to deduce from the fault of one conclusions disparaging to all the rest, yet the singularity of the adventure overcomes my fear, and the exposure of ignorance will perhaps make others wiser." Nnelio.] Third Day. J97 NOVEL XXX. Frailty ol a lady who, to conceal one evil, commits another still greater. HEN Louis XIL was king, the legate at Avignon being then a lord of the house of Amboise, nephew to the legate of France, whose name was George, there was a lady in Languedoc who had an income of more than four thousand ducats. Her name I will not mention, for sake of her relations. She was still very young when her hus- band died, leaving her but one son ; and whether from regret for her husband, or love of her son, she resolved never to marry again. To avoid all occasion for doing so, she frequented only the society of the devout, thinking that opportunity makes sin, and not knowing that sin forges opportunity. She gave herself up wholly to the divine service, shunning all parties of pleasure; and everything worldly, insomuch that she made it a matter of conscience to be present at a wedding, or to hear the organ played in church. When her son was seven years old, she chose a man of holy life as his preceptor, to bring him up in piety ana sanctity. But when he was between fourteen and fifteen, nature, who is a very mysterious scnoolmaster, finding him well grown and idle, taught him a very different lesson from any he had learned from his preceptor ; for under that new instruction he began to look upon and desire such things as seemed to him fair and among others a demoiselle who slept in his mother's room. Nc one had the least suspicion of this, for he was regarded as a child, and nothing was ever heard in the house but goodly discourse. The young gallant having begun secretly to solicit this girl, she went and told her mistress. The mother loved her son so much, that she believed this to be a story told to get him into disgrace ; 'but the girl repeated her complaints so often that her mistress at last said she would find out the truth of the matter ; if it was as the girl stated, she would punish her son severely, but if not, the accuser should pay the penalty. In order, then, to come at the truth, she ordered the demoiselle to make an appoint- ment with the young gentleman that he should come to her at midnight, to the bed in which she lay alone near the door in his mother's chamber. The demoiselle obeyed her orders, and thai night the mother lay down in the demoiselle's bed, resolving that if her son came thither she would chastise him in such a manner that he should never lie with a woman without remembering it. Such were her angry thoughts when her son actually entered the bed in which she lay ; but unable still to bring herself to believe 19* Tile Heptameron of the Queen ofNcuvarre, that he had any unchaste intention, she waited for some plainer evidence of his bad purpose before she would speak to him. But she waited so long, and nature is so frail, that her anger ended in an abominable pleasure, and she forgot that she was a mother. As water retained by force is more impetuous when let loose, so was it with this unfortunate woman, who made her whole pride consist in the violence she did her body. When she began to descend the first step from her chastity she found herself at once at the bottom, and became pregnant that night by him whom she wished to hinder from getting others with child. No sooner was the sin committed than she was seized with the most poignant remorse, and her repentance lasted as long as her life. So keen was her anguish on rising from beside her son, who never discovered his mistake, that entering a closet, and calling to mind the firm resolution she had formed, and which she had so badly executed, she passed the whole night alone in an agony of tears. But instead of humbling herself, and owning that of ourselves alone, and without the aid of God, we can do nothing but sin, she thought by her own efforts and by her tears to repair the past and prevent future mischief, always imputing her sin to the occasion, and not to wickedness, for which there is no remedy but the grace of God. As if there was but one sort of sin which could bring damnation, she applied her whole mind to avoid that one ; but pride, which the sense of extreme sinful- ness should destroy, was too strongly rooted in her heart, and grew in such a manner, that, to avoid one evil, she committed many others. Early next morning she sent for her son's governor, and said to him, " My son is coming to maturity, and it is time that he. should be removed from the house. One of my relations, who is beyond the mountains with the Grand Master of Chaumont, will be glad to have him. Take him away, then, forthwith : and to spare me the pain of parting, do not let him come to bid me farewell." Without more ado she gave him money for the journey, and he set out the next day with his pupil, who was very glad of it ; and having had what he wanted of his mistress, desired nothing better than to go to the wars. The lady was long plunged in extreme grief, and but for the fear of God she could have wished that the unhappy fruit of her womb should perish. To conceal her fault she pretended to be ill ; and having a bas- tard brother in whom she confided above all men, and to whom she had made large donations, she sent for him, informed him of the misfortune that had happened to her, but not of her son's Novel ^Q.] Third Day. 199 share in it, and begged him to save her honour by his help, which he did. Some days before she expected to be confined he ad- vised her to try change of air, and remove to his house, where she would be more likely to recover than at home. She went thither with hardly any attendants, and found there a midwife, who had been sent for as if to attend her brother's wife, and who, without knowing the lying-in woman, delivered her by night of a fine little girl. The gentleman put the infant out to nurse as his own ; and the lady, after a month's stay, returned home, where she lived more austerely than ever. Her son being grown up, and Italy being at peace, he sent to beg his mother's permission to return to her. But as she was afraid of relapsing into the same crime, she put him off from time to time as well as she could ; but he pressed her so much, that at last she gave him leave to come home, having no plausible reason to allege for persisting longer in her refusal. She sent him word, however, not to appear before her until he was married ; to choose a wife whom he loved passionately ; and not to let his choice be determined by wealth, for if he chose a comely wife that was enough. During this time the daughter, vvho had been left with the bastard brother, having grown up into a very handsome girl, her guardian thought of removing her to some place where she should not be known. He consulted the mother on the subject, and it was her wish that she should be given to the Queen of Navarre, named Catherine. The girl was so handsome and well-bred at the age of thirteen, that the Queen of Navarre had a great regard for her, and wished much to marry her well ; but the girl being poor, many lovers presented themselves, but no husband. The unknown father, returning from Italy, visited the court of the Queen of Navarre, and no sooner saw his daughter than he fell in love with her. As he had his mother's permission to marry any woman he liked, he only asked was she of noble lineage, and being told that she was. he demanded her in marriage of the Queen of Navarre, who very gladly bestowed her upon him, knowing well that the cavalier was as wealthy as he was well- bred and handsome, The marriage having been consummated, the gentleman wrote to his mother, saying she could no longer close her doors against him, since he brought with him a wife as handsome and as per- fect as she could wish for. His mother made inquiries as to the wife he had taken, and found that it was their own daughter, which caused her sucli excessive affliction, that she was near aoo T^e Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. dying suddenly, seeing that the means she employed to put a stop to the course of her misfortune only served to make it greater. Finding no remedy for what had occurred, she went to the Legate of Avignon, confessed the enormity of her crime, and asked his advice. The legate, to satisfy her conscience, sum- moned several theologians, to whom he submitted the affair without naming the person concerned. The decision of this council of conscience was, that the lady was never to reveal the secret to her children, who had not sinned, inasmuch as they had known nothing ; but that, as for herself, she was to do penance all her life. So the poor lady returned home, where soon after arrived her son and her daughter-in-law, who loved each other so much, that never was there a fonder couple, or one more like each other, she being his daughter, sister and wife ; and he her father, brother, and husband. Their love continued unabated to the last, whilst their profoundly penitent mother never saw them caress but she withdrew to weep.* • This novel is founded on a popular tradition, traces of which are found in several places in France. Millin, in his Afitiquitis Nationales, speaking of the collegial church of Ecouis, says : " There was found in the middle of the nave, in the cross aisle, a white marble slab, on which was inscribed this epitaph : 'Ci-glt I'enfant, ci-glt le p4re, Ci-g!t la soeur, ci-git le ftere, Ci-glt la femme et le marl, Et ne sont que deux corps id.' " [Here lies the child, here lies the father, here lies the sister, here lies th« brother, here lie the wife and the husband, and there are but two bodies here.] "The tradition is, that a son of Madame d'Ecouis had by his mother, witho tt knowing her or being recognised by her, a daughter named C&ile. lie afterwards married in Lorraine that same Cecile, she being then with the Duchess of Bar. Thus C&ile was her husband's daughter and sister. They were interred in the same grave at Ecouis, in 1512." Millin says that the same story is told (but with modifications) in oth- lisbed in 1638. JuUo de Medrano, an old Spanish writer of the sixteenth century, says that he heard a similar story when he was in the Bourbonnais, where the inhabitants showed him the house in which the parties had lived, and repeated to him this epitaph, which was inscribed on their tomb " (that in four lines quoted above). " Mr. Walpole disclaims having had any knowledge of the tale of the Queen of Navarre or Bandello when lie wrote his drama. Its plot, he says, was suggested by a story he had heard when very young, of a lady who, under uncommon agonies of mind, waited on Archbishop Tillotson_ revealed her crime, and besought his counsel in what manner she should act, as the fruit of her horrible artifice had lately been married to her son, neither party being aware of the relation that subsisted between them. The prelate charged her never to let her son or daughter know what had passed. For herself, he bade her almost despair " toi The Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. " Be assured," said Parlamente, " that the first step man takes in self-confidence, removes him so far from the confidence he ought to have in God." "Man is wise," said Geburon, " when he recognises no greater enemy than himself, and distrusts his own will and counsel, how- ever good and holy they may seem in his eyes." "For no apparent prospect of good to come of it, however great," said Longarine, " should a woman expose herself to share the same bed with a man, however nearly related to her. Fire and tow are no safe neighbours. " Assuredly," said Ennasuite, " this woman was a conceited fool, who thought herself such a saint that she could no\. sin, as some would have simple folks believe of them, which is a gross and pernicious error." " Is it possible," exclaimed Oisille, " that there are people so foolish as to believe anything of the sort?" "They do still more," said Longarine; " they say that it is necessary to habituate oneself to chastity ; and to try their strength, they talk with the handsomest women and those they love best, and by kissing and touching them make trial of themselves as to whether or not they are in a condition of complete mortification of the flesh. When they find that this pleasure moves them, they fall back on solitude, fasting, and discipline ; and when they have so subdued the flesh that neither conversation nor kissing causes them any emotion, the fools try the temptation of lying together and embracing without any voluptuous desire. But, for one who resists, a thousand succumb. Thence have ensued so many mischiefs, that the Archbishop of Milan, where this religious practice was introduced, was com- pelled to separate the sexes, and put the women into the women's convent, and the men into that of the men." " Was there ever a more extravagant folly ?" said Geburon. " A man wants to make himself sinless, and seeks with avidity provocations to sin." " Some there are," said Saffredent, " who do quite the reverse ; they shun temptation as much as possible, and yet concupiscence clings to them everywhere. The good Saint Jerome, after having soundly flogged and hid himself in the desert, confessed that he had been unable to overcome the fire of lust that burned in his marrow. The sovereign remedy, then, is to commend oneself to God ; for, unless He upholds us by His power. His virtue, and His goodness, we not only fall, but take pleasure in falling." " You do not see what I do," said Hircan ; " which is, that Novel 3a] Third Day. 203 whilst we were telling our stories the monks who were behind that hedge did not hear the vesper-bell ; but no sooner did they hear us talk of God than away they went, and now they are ringing the second bell." " We shall do well to follow them," said Oisille, " and praise God for his grace in enabling us to pass this day so happily." Upon this the whole company rose and went to the church, where they devoutly heard vespers. At supper they talked over the conversation of the day, and many things which had occurred in the time, each citing what he thought most worthy of recollec- tion. After a cheerful evening, they retired to their beds, in the hope of resuming next day a pastime which was so agreeable to Ifaem. Thus ended the third day. >04 Tlu Ileptameron of the Queen of Navarre. FOURTH DAY. j]ADAME OISILLE rose earlier than the rest, according to her good custom, and meditated on Holy Writ whilst awaiting the gradual assemblage of the company. The laziest excused themselves with the words of Scrip- ture, " I have a wife, and I cannot come so soon." Thus it was that when Hircan and his wi*» made their appearance, Madame Oisille had already begun her reading ; but she knew how to pick out the passages in which those are censured who neglect the hearing of the Word. She not only read the text, but she made them such good and holy exhortations that it was impos- sible for them to take offence at them. When these devotional exercises were ended, Parlamente said to her, " I was vexed when I came in at having been lazy, but 1 now congratulate myself on my laziness, since it has made you speak so well. I derive a double advantage from it — repose of body and satisfac- tion of mind." " For penance, then, let us go to mass," said Oisille, " to pray to our Lord for the will and the strength to do His com- mands ; and then let Him command what he pleases." As she said these words they entered the church, and after having heard mass with much devotion, they sat down to table, where Hircan did not fail to banter his wife for her laziness. After dinner every one retired to study his part, and at the appointed hour they all repaired punctually to the usual ren- dezvous. Oisille asked Hircan who should begin the day. " If my wife had not been the first speaker yesterday," he said, " I would give my voice for her ; for though I have always believed that she loved me better than any man in the world, she has shown me to-day that she loves me a great deal better than God and his Word, since she has preferred my company to your reading. Since, then, I cannot give my voice to the most discreet of the women, I will give it to the most discreet of the men — I mean Geburon, whom I entreat not to spare the monks." " It is not necessary to make the entreaty," replied Geburon. "I hold them too well in mind to forget them. It is not long since I heard a story told by Monsieur de Saint Vincent, then the emperor's ambassador, which is too good to be lost," S lef ^^■7"'''^J «^^J! icf-^ i>ji o ij ATI! I v:mk .1 oil It N V. I'. Ko\wellcXXX[- ^Tava 3^-] Fourth Day. aoj NOVEL XXXI. K moiustery of cordeliers was burned and the monks in it, in perpetual memorj' of the cnielty of one of them who was in love with a lady. |ITHIN the dominions of the Emperor Maximilian of Austria there was a monastery of Cordeliers, held in high esteem, and near it was the house of a gentleman. This gentleman was so infatuated with these Cordeliers that there was nothing he did not give them, in order to have part in the benefit of their fastings and prayers. Among others, there was in this monastery a tall, handsome young Cordelier, whom the gentleman had taken for his confessor, and who was as absolute in the house as the master himself. The Cordelier, struck by the exceeding beauty and propriety of the gentleman's wife, became so enamoured of her, that he could neither eat nor drink, and lost all natural reason. Resolved to execute his design, he went all alone one day to the gentleman's house. Finding no one at home, the monk asked the lady whither her husband was gone. She replied that he was gone to one of his estates, where he was to remain two or three days ; but that if he wanted him she would send an express to bring him back. The Cordelier told her that was necessary, and began to go to and fro about the house, as if he had some affair of consequence in his head. As soon as the monk had left the lady's room, she said to one of her women ("there were but two of them), "Run after the father, and learn what he wants ; for I know by his looks that he is not pleased." The girl, finding him in the court-yard, asked him if he wanted anything ? He said he did, and drawing her into a corner, he plunged into her bosom a poniard he carried in his sleeve. He had hardly done the deed when one of the gentle- man's men, who had gone to receive the rent of a farm, entered the yard on horseback. As soon as he had dismounted, he saluted the Cordelier, who embraced him, and buried the poniard in his back, after which he closed the gates of the chiteau. The lady, seeing that her servant did not return, and surprised at her remaining so long with the Cordelier, said to the other woman, " Go see why your companion does not come back." The servant went, and no sooner came in sight of the Cordelier than he called her aside, and served her as he had done the other. Knowing that he was then alone in the house, he went to the lady, and told her that he had long loved her, and that it was lime' she should obey him. She, who could never have suspected him Jf anything of the kind, replied, " I believe, father, that if I 2o6 TTie Heptameron oftht Queen of Navarre. were so unhappily inclined, you would be the first to condemn me and cast a stone at me." " Come out into the yard," said the monk, " and you will see what I have done." The poor woman did so, and seeing her two women and her man lying dead on the ground, was so horrified, that she remained motionless and speechless as a statue. The villain, who did not want to have her for an hour only, did not think fit to offer her violence then, and said to her, " Have no fear, mademoiselle; you are in the hands of that man in all the world who loves you most." So saying, he took off his robe, beneath which he had a smaller one, which he presented to the demoiselle, threatening, if she did not put it on, that he would treat her as he had done the others. The demoiselle, more dead than alive, made a show of obeying him, as well to save her life as to gain time, in hopes that her husband would return. She took off her head-dress by the Cordelier's order as slowly as she could ; and when she had done so, the monk, without regard to the beauty of her hair, cut it off in haste, made her strip to her shift, and put on the small robe, and then, resuming his own. set off with all the speed he could make along with the little Cordelier he had so long coveted. God, who has pity on the wronged innocent, was touched by the tears of this poor lady, and so ordered things that her hus- band, having despatched his business sooner than he expected, took that very road to return home by which the Cordelier was carrying off his wife. The monk, descrying the husband from a distance, said to the lady, " Here comes your husband. 1 know that if you look at him he will try to get you out of my hands ; so walk before me, and do not turn your head in his direction, for if you make him the least sign, I shall have plunged my poniard in your breast sooner than he will have delivered you." Presently the gentleman came up, and asked him whence he came?" "From your house, monsieur," replied the Cordelier. " I left mademoiselle quite well, and she is expecting you." The gentleman rode on without perceiving his wife ; but the valet who accompanied him, and who had always been in the habit of conversing with the Cordelier's companion, named Friar John, called to his mistress, thinking that she was that person. The poor woman, who durst not turn her head towards her husband, made no reply to the valet ; and the latter crossed the road, that he might see the face of this pretended Brother John. The poor lady, without saying anything, made a sign to him with her eyes, which were full of tears. The valet then rode up to his master, Novel z^.] Fourth Day. 207 and said, ' In conscience, monsieur. Friar John is very like mademoiselle, your wife. I had a look at him as I crossed the road. It is certainly not the usual Friar John ; at least, I can tell you, that if it is, he weeps abundantly, and that he gave me a very sorrowful glance of his eye." The gentleman told him he was dreaming, and made light of what he said. The valet, however, still persisting in it that there was something wrong, asked leave to ride back and see to it, and begged his master to wait for him. The gentleman let him go, and waited to see what would be the upshot. But the Cordelier, hearing the valet coming after him with shouts to Friar John, and making no doubt that the lady had been recognised, turned upon the valet with a great iron-bound staff, gave him such a blow on the side that he knocked him off his horse, and springing Instantly upon him with the poniard, speedily dispatched him. The gentleman, who from a distance had seen his valet fall, and supposed that this had happened by some accident, spurred towards him at once to help him. As soon as he was within reach, the Cordelier struck him a blow of the same staff with which he had struck the valet, unhorsed and fell upon him ; but the gentleman, being very strong, threw his arms round the Cordelier, and hugged him so roughly, that he not only prevented his doing him any more mischief, but made him drop the poniard. The wife caught it up at once and gave it to her husband. At the same time she seized him by his hood and held him with all her might, whilst her husband stabbed him several times with the poniard. The Cordelier, being unable to do anything else, begged for quarter, and confessed the crime he had committed. The gentleman granted him his life, and begged his wife to go for his people, and a cart to carry the prisoner away, which sha did, throwing off her Cordelier's robes, and hurrying home in her shift and cropped hair. The gentleman's retainers all hastened to help him to bring home the wolf he had captured ; and the culprit was afterwards sent by the gentleman to Flandersto be tried by the emperor's officers. He not only confessed the crime for which he was tried, but also avowed a fact, which was afterwards verified on the spot by special commissioners sent for that purpose, which was, that several other ladies and handsome girls had been taken to that convent in the same manner as this Cordelier had attempted to carry off the lady of whom we are speaking ; and if he did not succeed, this was owing to nothing else than the goodness of God, who always takes upon Him the defence of those who trusl »o8 Tlte Beptameron of the Queen of Navarre. in Him, The girls and the other stolen spoil found in tho monastery were removed, and the monks were burned with the monastery, in perpetual memorial of a crime so horrible. We see from this that there is nothing more cruel than love when its principle is vice, as there is nothing more humane or more laudable when it dwells in a virtuous heart.* I am very sorry, ladies, that truth does not furnish us with so many tales to the advantage of the Cordeliers as contrariwise. I like this order, and should be very glad to know some story in which I could praise them. But we are so pledged to speak the truth, that I cannot conceal it after the report of persons so worthy of belief ; though, at the same time, I assure you that if the Cordeliers of the present day did anything worthy of memory which was to their honour, I would do justice to it with more alacrity than I have told the truth in the story I have just related to you. "In good faith, Geburon," said Oisille, "that sort of love might well be called cruelty." " I am surprised," said Simontault, " that he did not ravish the lady at once when he saw her in her shift, and in a place where he was master." " He was not picksome but gluttonous,*' said Saffredent. " As he intended to have his fill of her every day, he had no mind to amuse himself with nibbling at her." "That is not it," said Parlamente. "A ruffian is always timorous. The fear of being surprised and losing his prey made him carry off his lamb, as the wolf carries off a sheep, to devour it at his ease." " I cannot believe he loved her,'' said Dagoucin, " nor can I conceive that so exalted a passion as love should enter so cowardly and villanous a heart." " Be it as it may," said Oisille, " he was well punished for it. I pray God that all who do the like deeds may suffer the like penalties. But to whom do you give your voice?" • Notwithstanding what is said in the prologue to the fourth day respecting the recent origin of this tale, it is found in several writers of earlier date. It is identical, for instance, with a fabliau by Rutebeuf, entitled Frlre Denise (See Fabliaux de Legrand d' Aussy), iv. 383, and has some resemblance to No. LX. of the Cent Nauveltes NonvelUs. The Queen of Navarre's tale has been copied by Henry Stephens, in his Apology for Herodotus, by L'Etoile, in his journal of Ihe reign of Henri III., anno l%^^, and bjr Malespini, in his Ducento NovtlU, No. LXXV. Novel Z2-'] Fourth Day. 209 "To you madam," said Geburon, "for I know you will not fail to tell us a good tale." " If new things are good," replied Oisille, " I will tell you one which cannot be bad, since the event happened in my time, and I have it from an eye-witness. You are, doubtless, not ignorant that death being the end of all our woes, it may, consequently, be called the beginning of our felicity and our repose.^ Thus man s greatest misery is to wish for death and not be able to obtain ii. The greatest ill which can befall a criminal is not to be put to death, but to be made to suffer so much that he longs for death, while his sufferings, though continual, are of such a nature as not to be capable of abridging his life. It was in this way that a gentleman treated his wife, as you shall hear." NOVEL XXXII. A husband surprises his wife in flagrante delicto, and subjects her to a punisik ment more terrible than death itself. ING CHARLES VIII. sent to Germany a gentleman named Bernage, Lord of Sivray, near Amboise. This gentleman, travelling day and night, arrived very late one evening at the house of a gentleman, where he asked for a night's lodging, and obtained it, but with difficulty. The owner of the house, nevertheless, learning in whose service he was, came to him and begged he would excuse the incivility of his servants, stating that certain of his wife's relations, who meant him mischief, obliged him to keep his doors thus closed. Scrnage told him on what business he was travelling, and his host expressing his readiness to render the king his master all possible services, received his ambassador into his house, and lodged and treated him honourably. Supper-time being come, he showed him into a richly-tapestried hall, where, entering from behind the hangings, there appeared the most beautiful woman that ever was seen ; but her hair was cropped close, and she was dressed in black garments of German cut. After the gentleman had washed with Bernage, water was set before this lady, who washed also, and took her seat at the end of the table without speaking to anyone, or anyone to her. Bernage often looked at her, and thought her one of the handsomest women he had ever seen, except that her face was very pale, and her air extremely sad. After she had eaten a little, she asked for drink, which was 210 Hie Heptameron of the Queen of Navarre. given to her by a domestic in a very singular vessel. This was a death's head, th holes of which were stopped with silver ; and out of this vessel she drank two or three times. After she had supped and washed, she made a reverence to the master of the house, and retired again behind the tapestry without speaking to anyone. Bernage was so surprised at this extraordinary spectacle that he became quite sombre and pensive. His host perceived this, and said to him, "You are surprised, I see, at what you have beheld at table. Now, the courteous demeanour I have marked in you does not permit me to make a secret of the matter to you, hut to explain it, in order that you may not suppose me capable of acting so cruelly without great reason. That lady whom you have seen is my wife, whom I loved more than man ever loved woman. I risked everything to marry her, and I brought her hither in spite of her relations. She, too, evinced so much love for me that I would have hazarded a thousand lives to obtain her. We lived long in such concord and pleasure that I esteemed myself the happiest gentleman in Christendom ; but honour having obliged me to make a journey, she forgot hers and the love she had for me, and conceived a passion for a young gentle- man I had brought up in this house. I was near discovering the fact on my return home, but I loved her so ardently that I could not bring myself to doubt her. At last, however, experience opened my eyes, and I saw what I feared more than death. The love I had felt for her changed into fury and despair. Feigning one day to go into the country, I hid myself in the chamber which she at present occupies. Soon after my pretended de- parture, she retired to it, and sent for the young gentleman. I saw him enter the room and take liberties with her which should have been reserved for me alone. When I saw him about to enter the bed with her, I issued from my hiding-place, seized him in her arms, and slew him. But as my wife's crime seemed to me so great that it would not have been a sufficient punish- ment for it had I killed her as I had killed her gallant, I imposed upon her one which I believe is more insupportable than death ; which was, to shut her up in the chamber in which she used to enjoy her stolen pleasures. I have hung there in a press all the bones of her gallant, as one hangs up something precious in a cabinet ; and that she may not forget them at her meals, I have her served, as she sits opposite to me at table, with the skull of that ingrate instead of a cup, in order that she may see living him whom she has made her mortal enemy by her crime, and Novel ■^2.'] Fourth Day. tj\ dead, for her sake, him whose love she preferred to mine. In this way, when she dines and when she sups, she sees the two things which must afflict her most, namely, the living enemy and the dead friend ; and all this through her guilt. In other respects, I treat her as I do myself, except that her hair is cropped ; for the hair is an ornament no more appropriate to the adulteress than the veil to a harlot : therefore her cropped head denotes that she has lost honour and chastity. If you please to take the trouble to see her, I will take you into her room." Bernage willingly accepted the offer, and going down stairs with his host, found the lady seated alone by an excellent fire in a very handsome chamber. The gentleman drew back a curtain which concealed a great press, and there he saw all the bones of a man suspended. Bernage had a great wish to speak to the lady, but durst not for fear of the husband, until the latter, guessing his thoughts, said to him, " If you like to say anything to her, you wiii see how she expresses herself" "Your patience, madam," said Bernage, turning to her, "is equal to your torture ; I regard you as the most unhappy woman in the world." The lady, with eyes filled with tears, and with incomparable grace and humility, replied, " I confess, sir, that my fault is so great, that all the ills which the master of this house, whom I am not worthy to call husband, could inflict upon me, are nothing in comparison to the grief I feel for having offended him." So saying she wept profusely. The gentleman took ISernage by the arm and led him away. Next morning he continued his journey upon the king's service ; but on taking leave of the gentleman he could not help saying to him, '• The esteem I entertain for you, sir, and the courtesies you have shown me in your house, oblige me to tell you that, in my opinion, considering the great repentance of your poor wife, you ought to forgive her ; the more so as you are young and have no children. It would be a pity that a house like yours should fall, and that those who perhaps do not love you should become inheritors of your substance." The gentleman, who had resolved never to forgive his wife, pondered long over what Bernage had said to him, and at last, owning that he had spoken the truth, promised that if she perse- vered in her present humility, he would forgive her after some time. Bernage, on his return to the court, related the whole story to the king, who directed inquiries to be made into the matter, and found that it was all just as Bernage had reported. 1 1 1 T7ie Hepiameron ofiJie Queen of Navarre. The description he gave of the lady's beauty so pleased the king that he sent his painter, Jean de Paris, to talte her portrait ex- actly as she was, which he did with the husband's consent. After she had undergone a long penance, and always with the same humility, the gentleman, who longed much for children, took pity on his