Whilst matters were in this state, however, a camp was formed in Provence in view of withstanding the descent of Charles of Austria, (2) and James, being called upon the list, was obliged to betake himself to the army. At the very beginning of the campaign his father passed from life into death, the tidings whereof brought him double sorrow, on the one part for the loss of his father, and on the other for the difficulty he should have on his return in seeing his sweetheart as often as he had hoped.

2 Charles V. entered Provence by way of Piedmont in the summer of 1536, and invested Marseilles. A scarcity of supplies and much sickness among his troops compelled him, however, to raise the siege.—M.

As time went on, the first of these griefs was forgotten and the other increased. Since death is a natural thing, and for the most part befalls the father before the children, the sadness it causes gradually disappears; but love, instead of bringing us death, brings us life through the procreation of children, in whom we have immortality, and this it is which chiefly causes our desires to increase.

James, therefore, when he had returned to Paris, thought or cared for nothing save how he might renew his frequent visits to the mercer's house, and so, under cloak of pure friendship for him, traffic in his dearest wares. On the other hand, during his absence, Frances had been urgently sought by others, both because of her beauty and of her wit, and also because she was long since come to marriageable years; but whether it was that her father was avaricious, or that, since she was his only daughter, he was over anxious to establish her well, he failed to perform his duty in the matter. This, however, tended but little to her honour, for in these days people speak ill of one long before they have any reason to do so, and particularly in aught that concerns the chastity of a beautiful woman or maid. Her father did not shut his ears or eyes to the general gossip, nor seek resemblance with many others who, instead of rebuking wrongdoing, seem rather to incite their wives and children to it, for he kept her with such strictness that even those who sought her with offers of marriage could see her but seldom, and then only in presence of her mother.

It were needless to ask whether James found all this hard of endurance. He could not conceive that such rigour should be without weighty reason, and therefore wavered greatly between love and jealousy. However, he resolved at all risks to learn the cause, but wished first of all to know whether her affection was the same as before; he therefore set about this, and coming one morning to church, he placed himself near her to hear mass, and soon perceived by her countenance that she was no less glad to see him than he was to see her. Accordingly, knowing that the mother was less stern than the father, he was sometimes, when he met them on their way to church, bold enough to accost them as though by chance, and with a familiar and ordinary greeting; all, however, being done expressly so that he might the better work his ends.

To be brief, when the year of mourning for his father was drawing to an end, he resolved, on laying aside his weeds, to cut a good figure and do credit to his forefathers; and of this he spoke to his mother, who approved his design; for having but two children, himself and a daughter already well and honourably mated, she greatly desired to see him suitably married. And, indeed, like the worthy lady that she was, she still further incited his heart in the direction of virtue by countless instances of other young men of his own age who were making their way unaided, or at least were showing themselves worthy of those from whom they sprang.

It now only remained to determine where they should equip themselves, and the mother said—

"I am of opinion, James, that we should go to our friend Master Peter,"—that is, to the father of Frances—"for, knowing us, he will not cheat us."

His mother was indeed tickling him where he itched; however, he held firm and replied—

"We will go where we may find the cheapest and the best. Still," he added, "for the sake of his friendship with my departed father, I am willing that we should visit him first."

Matters being thus contrived, the mother and son went one morning to see Master Peter, who made them welcome; for traders, as you know, are never backward in this respect. They caused great quantities of all kinds of silk to be displayed before them, and chose what they required; but they could not agree upon the price, for James haggled on purpose, because his sweetheart's mother did not come in. So at last they went away without buying anything, in order to see what could be done elsewhere. But James could find nothing so handsome as in his sweetheart's house, and thither after a while they returned.

The mercer's wife was now there and gave them the best reception imaginable, and after such bargaining as is common in shops of the kind, during which Peter's wife proved even harder than her husband, James said to her—

"In sooth, madam, you are very hard to deal with. I can see how it is; we have lost my father, and our friends recognise us no longer."

So saying, he pretended to weep and wipe his eyes at thought of his departed father; but 'twas done in order to further his design.

The good widow, his mother, took the matter in perfect faith, and on her part said—

"We are as little visited since his death as if we had never been known. Such is the regard in which poor widows are held!"

Upon this the two women exchanged fresh declarations of affection, and promised to see each other oftener than ever. While they were thus discoursing, there came in other traders, whom the master himself led into the back shop. Then the young man perceived his opportunity, and said to his mother—

"I have often on feast days seen this good lady going to visit the holy places in our neighbourhood, and especially the convents. Now if, when passing, she would sometimes condescend to take wine with us, she would do us at once pleasure and honour."

The mercer's wife, who suspected no harm, replied that for more than a fortnight past she had intended to go thither, that, if it were fair, she would probably do so on the following Sunday, and that she would then certainly visit the lady at her house. This affair being concluded, the bargain for the silk quickly followed, since, for the sake of a little money, 'twould have been foolish to let slip so excellent an opportunity.

When matters had been thus contrived, and the merchandise taken away, James, knowing that he could not alone achieve so difficult an enterprise, was constrained to make it known to a faithful friend named Oliver, and they took such good counsel together that nothing now remained but to put their plan into execution.

Accordingly, when Sunday was come, the mercer's wife and her daughter, on returning from worship, failed not to visit the widow, whom they found talking with a neighbour in a gallery that looked upon the garden, while her daughter was walking in the pathways with James and Oliver.

When James saw his sweetheart, he so controlled himself that his countenance showed no change, and in this sort went forward to receive the mother and her daughter. Then, as the old commonly seek the old, the three ladies sat down together on a bench with their backs to the garden, whither the lovers gradually made their way, and at last reached the place where were the other two. Thus meeting, they exchanged some courtesies and then began to walk about once more, whereupon the young man related his pitiful case to Frances, and this so well that, while unwilling to grant, she yet durst not refuse what he sought; and he could indeed see that she was in a sore strait. It must, however, be understood that, while thus discoursing, they often, to take away all ground for suspicion, passed and repassed in front of the shelter-place where the worthy dames were seated—talking the while on commonplace and ordinary matters, and at times disporting themselves through the garden.

At last, in the space of half-an-hour, when the good women had become well accustomed to this behaviour, James made a sign to Oliver, who played his part with the girl that was with him so cleverly, that she did not perceive the two lovers going into a close rilled with cherry trees, and well shut in by tall rose trees and gooseberry bushes. (3) They made show of going thither in order to gather some almonds which were in a corner of the close, but their purpose was to gather plums.

3 Large gardens and enclosures were then plentiful in the heart of Paris. Forty years ago, when the Boulevard Sebastopol was laid out, it was found that many of the houses in the ancient Rues St. Martin and St. Denis had, in their rear, gardens of considerable extent containing century-old trees, the existence of which had never been suspected by the passers-by in those then cramped and dingy thoroughfares.—M.

Accordingly, James, instead of giving his sweetheart a green gown, gave her a red one, and its colour even came into her face through finding herself surprised sooner than she had expected. And these plums of theirs being ripe, they plucked them with such expedition that Oliver himself had not believed it possible, but that he perceived the girl to droop her gaze and look ashamed. This taught him the truth, for she had before walked with head erect, with no fear lest the vein in her eye, which ought to be red, should take an azure hue. However, when James perceived her perturbation, he recalled her to herself by fitting remonstrances.

Nevertheless, while making the next two or three turns about the garden, she would not refrain from tears and sighs, or from saying again and again—"Alas! was it for this you loved me? If only I could have imagined it! Heavens! what shall I do? I am ruined for life. What will you now think of me? I feel sure you will respect me no longer, if, at least, you are one of those that love but for their own pleasure. Alas, why did I not die before falling into such an error?"

She shed many tears while uttering these words, but James comforted her with many promises and oaths, and so, before they had gone thrice again round the garden, or James had signalled to his comrade, they once more entered the close, but by another path. And there, in spite of all, she could not but receive more delight from the second green gown than from the first; from which moment her satisfaction was such that they took counsel together how they might see each other with more frequency and convenience until her father should see fit to consent.

In this matter they were greatly assisted by a young woman, who was neighbour to Master Peter; she had some kinship with James, and was a good friend to Frances. And in this way, from what I can understand, they continued without scandal until the celebration of the marriage, when Frances, being an only child, proved to be very rich for a trader's daughter. James had, however, to wait for the greater part of his fortune until the death of his father-in-law, for the latter was so grasping a man that he seemed to think one hand capable of robbing him of that which he held in the other. (4)

4 This reminds one of Moliere's Harpagon, when he requires La Fleche to show him his hands. See L'Avare, act i. sc. iii.—M.

"In this story, ladies, you see a love affair well begun, well carried on, and better ended. For although it is a common thing among you men to scorn a girl or woman as soon as she has freely given what you chiefly seek in her, yet this young man was animated by sound and sincere love; and finding in his sweetheart what every husband desires in the girl he weds, and knowing, moreover, that she was of good birth, and discreet in all respects, save for the error into which he himself had led her, he would not act the adulterer or be the cause of an unhappy marriage elsewhere. And for this I hold him worthy of high praise."

"Yet," said Oisille, "they were both to blame, ay, and the third party also who assisted or at least concurred in a rape."

"Do you call that a rape," said Saffredent, "in which both parties are agreed? Is there any marriage better than one thus resulting from secret love? The proverb says that marriages are made in heaven, but this does not hold of forced marriages, nor of such as are made for money or are deemed to be completely sanctioned as soon as the parents have given their consent."

"You may say what you will," said Oisille, "but we must recognise that obedience is due to parents, or, in default of them, to other kinsfolk. Otherwise, if all were permitted to marry at will, how many horned marriages should we not find? Is it to be presumed that a young man and a girl of twelve or fifteen years can know what is good for them? If we examined into the happiness of marriages on the whole, we should find that at least as many love-matches have turned out ill as those that were made under compulsion. Young people, who do not know what is good for them, attach themselves heedlessly to the first that comes; then by degrees they find out their error and fall into others that are still greater. On the other hand, most of those who act under compulsion proceed by the advice of people who have seen more and have more judgment than the persons concerned, and so when these come to feel the good that was before unknown to them, they rejoice in it and embrace it with far more eagerness and affection."

"True, madam," said Hircan, "but you have forgotten that the girl was of full age and marriageable, and that she was aware of her father's injustice in letting her virginity grow musty rather than rub the rust off his crown pieces. And do you not know that nature is a jade? She loved and was loved; she found her happiness close to her hand, and she may have remembered the proverb, 'She that will not when she may, when she will she shall have nay.' All these things, added to her wooer's despatch, gave her no time to resist. Further, you have heard that immediately afterwards her face showed that some noteworthy change had been wrought in her. She was perhaps annoyed at the shortness of the time afforded her to decide whether the thing were good or bad, for no great pressing was needed to make her try a second time."

"Now, for my part," said Longarine, "I can find no excuse for such conduct, except that I approve the good faith shown by the youth who, comporting himself like an honest man, would not forsake her, but took her such as he had made her. In this respect, considering the corruption and depravity of the youth of the present day, I deem him worthy of high praise. I would not for all that seek to excuse his first fault, which, in fact, amounted to rape in respect to the daughter, and subornation with regard to the mother."

"No, no," said Dagoucin, "there was neither rape nor subornation. Everything was done by mere consent, both on the part of the mothers, who did not prevent it (though, indeed, they were deceived), and on that of the daughter, who was pleased by it, and so never complained."

"It was all the result," said Parlamente, "of the great kindliness and simplicity of the mercer's wife, who unwittingly led the maiden to the slaughter."

"Nay, to the wedding," said Simontault, "where such simplicity was no less profitable to the girl than it once was hurtful to one who suffered herself to be readily duped by her husband."

"Since you know such a story," said Nomerfide, "I give you my vote that you may tell it to us."

"I will indeed do so," said Simontault, "but you must promise not to weep. Those who declare, ladies, that your craftiness surpasses that of men, would find it hard to bring forward such an instance as I will now relate, wherein I propose to show you not only the great craftiness of a husband, but the exceeding simplicity and goodness of his wife."



[The Man of Tours and his Serving-maid in the Snow]



TALE XLV.

At his wife's request, an upholsterer of Tours gave the Innocents to his serving-maid, with whom he was in love; but he did so after such a fashion as to let her have what belonged by right only to his wife, who, for her part, was such a simpleton that she could never believe her husband had so wronged her, albeit she had abundant warning thereof from a neighbour.

In the city of Tours dwelt a man of shrewd and sound understanding, who was upholsterer to the late Duke of Orleans, (1) son of King Francis the First; and although this upholsterer had, through sickness, become deaf, he had nevertheless lost nothing of his wit, which, in regard both to his trade and to other matters, was as shrewd as any man's. And how he was able to avail himself of it you shall hear.

1 Charles of France, Duke of Orleans, Bourbonnais, Angoumois and Chatelherault, Count of Clermont, La Marche, and Civray, Governor and Lieutenant-General of Champagne and Brie. He has been referred to in the Memoir of Queen Margaret, ante, vol. i. pp. xxxvi., xlvii.-viii. Born at St. Germain in January 1521, the Duke of Orleans took part in several military expeditions, and gave proof of much ability as a commander. He died, according to some accounts, of a pleurisy, and, according to others, of the plague, in 1545. The above story was evidently written subsequent to that date, as Queen Margaret refers to him as "the late Duke of Orleans."—L.

He had married a virtuous and honourable woman, with whom he lived in great peace and quietness. He was very fearful of displeasing her, whilst she, on her part, sought in all things to obey him. But, for all the affection that he bore her, he was so charitably inclined that he would often give to his female neighbours that which by right belonged to his wife, though this he did as secretly as he was able.

There was in their house a very plump serving-maid with whom the upholsterer fell in love. Nevertheless, dreading lest his wife should know this, he often made show of scolding and rebuking her, saying that she was the laziest wench he had ever known, though this was no wonder, seeing that her mistress never beat her. And thus it came to pass that one day, while they were speaking about giving the Innocents, (2) the upholsterer said to his wife—

"It were a charity to give them to that lazy wench of yours, but it should not be with your hand, for it is too feeble, and in like way your heart is too pitiful for such a task. If, however, I were to make use of mine, she would serve us better than she now does."

2 Prior to the Reformation it was the custom, not only in France but throughout Europe, to whip children on the morning of Innocents' Day (December 28), in order, says Gregory in his treatise on the Boy Bishop, "that the memory of Herod's murder of the Innocents might stick the closer." This custom (concerning which see Haspinian, De Orig. Festor, Christianor. fol. 160) subsequently degenerated into a jocular usage, so far as the children were concerned, and town-gallants and country-swains commonly sought to surprise young women in bed, and make them play the part of the Innocents, more frequently than otherwise to the loss of their virtue. A story is told of a French nobleman who in taking leave of some ladies to join a hunting party, heard one of them whisper, "We shall sleep at our ease, and pass the Innocents without receiving them." This put the nobleman, a certain Seigneur du Rivau, on his mettle. "He kept his appointment," we are told, "galloped back twenty leagues at night, arrived at the lady's house at dawn on Innocents' Day, surprised her in bed, and used the privilege of the season." (Bonn's Heptameron, p. 301). Verses illustrative of the custom will be found in the works of Clement Marot, Jannet's edition, 1868, vol iii. p. 7, and in those of Cholieres, Jouaust's edition, 1879, vol. i. p. 224-6.—L. and Ed.

The poor woman, suspecting no harm, begged him to do execution upon the girl, confessing that she herself had neither strength nor heart for beating her.

The husband willingly accepted this commission, and, playing the part of a stern executioner, had purchase made of the finest rods that could be found. To show, moreover, how anxious he was not to spare the girl, he caused these rods to be steeped in pickle, so that his poor wife felt far more pity for her maid than suspicion of her husband.

Innocents' Day being come, the upholsterer rose early in the morning, and, going up to the room where the maid lay all alone, he gave her the Innocents in a different fashion to that which he had talked of with his wife. The maid wept full sore, but it was of no avail. Nevertheless, fearing lest his wife should come upon them, he fell to beating the bed-post with the rods which he had with him in such wise that he barked and broke them; and in this condition he brought them back to his wife, saying—

"Methinks, sweetheart, your maid will remember the Innocents."

When the upholsterer was gone out of the house, the poor servant threw herself upon her knees before her mistress, telling her that her husband had done her the greatest wrong that was ever done to a serving-maid. The mistress, however, thinking that this merely had reference to the flogging which she believed to have been given, would not suffer the girl to finish, but said to her—

"My husband did well, and only what I have for more than a month been urging him to do. If you were hurt I am very glad to hear it. You may lay it all at my door, and, what is more, he did not even do as much as he ought to have done."

The serving-maid, finding that her mistress approved of the matter, thought that it could not be so great a sin as she had imagined, the more so as it had been brought to pass by a woman whose virtue was held in such high repute. Accordingly she never afterwards ventured to speak of it.

Her master, however, seeing that his wife was as content to be deceived as he was to deceive her, resolved that he would frequently give her this contentment, and so practised on the serving-maid, that she wept no more at receiving the Innocents.

He continued this manner of life for a great while, without his wife being any the wiser, until there came a time of heavy snow, when, having already given the girl the Innocents on the grass in his garden, he was minded to do the same in the snow. Accordingly, one morning before any one in the house was awake, he took the girl clad in nothing but her shift to make the crucifix in the snow, and while they were pelting each other in sport, they did not forget the game of the Innocents.

This sport, however, was observed by one of their female neighbours who had gone to her window, which overlooked the garden, to see what manner of weather it was, and so wrathful was she at the evil sight, that she resolved to tell her good gossip of it, to the end that she might no longer suffer herself to be deceived by a wicked husband or served by a wanton jade.

After playing these fine pranks, the upholsterer looked about him to see whether any one could perceive him, and to his exceeding annoyance observed his neighbour at her window. But just as he was able to give any colour to his tapestry, so he bethought him to give such a colour to what he had done, that his neighbour would be no less deceived than his wife. Accordingly, as soon as he had gone back to bed again, he made his wife rise in nothing but her shift, and taking her into the garden as he had taken his serving-maid, he played with her for a long time in the snow even as he had played with the other. And then he gave her the Innocents in the same way as he had given them to the maid, and afterwards they returned to bed together.

When the good woman went to mass, her neighbour and excellent friend failed not to be there, and, while unwilling to say anything further, zealously begged of her to dismiss her serving-maid, who was, she said, a very wicked and dangerous wench. This, however, the other would not do without knowing why she thought so ill of the girl, and at last her neighbour related how she had seen the wench that morning in the garden with her husband.

At this the good woman fell to laughing heartily, and said—

"Eh! gossip dear, 'twas myself!"

"What, gossip? Why she wore naught but her shift, and it was only five o'clock in the morning."

"In faith, gossip," replied the good woman, "'twas myself."

"They pelted each other with snow," the other went on, "on the breasts and elsewhere, as familiarly as could be."

"Eh! gossip, eh!" the good woman replied, "'twas myself."

"Nay, gossip," said the other, "I saw them afterwards doing something in the snow that to my mind is neither seemly nor right."

"Gossip," returned the good woman, "I have told you, and I tell you again, that it was myself and none other who did all that you say, for my good husband and I play thus familiarly together. And, I pray you, be not scandalised at this, for you know that we are bound to please our husbands."

So the worthy gossip went away, more wishful to possess such a husband for herself than she had been to talk about the husband of her friend; and when the upholsterer came home again his wife told him the whole story.

"Now look you, sweetheart," replied the upholsterer, "if you were not a woman of virtue and sound understanding we should long ago have been separated the one from the other. But I hope that God will continue to preserve us in our mutual love, to His own glory and our happiness."

"Amen to that, my dear," said the good woman, "and I hope that on my part you will never find aught to blame." (3)

3 This tale is accounted by most critics and commentators to be the best in the Heptameron. Dunlop thinks it may have been borrowed from a fabliau composed by some Trouvere who had travelled in the East, and points out that it corresponds with the story of the Shopkeeper s Wife in Nakshebi's Persian Tales (Tooti Nameh). Had it been brought to France, however, in the manner suggested it would, like other tales, have found its way into the works of many sixteenth-century story-writers besides Queen Margaret. Such, however, is not the case, and curiously enough, so far as we can find, the tale, as given in the Heptameron, was never imitated until La Fontaine wrote his Servante Justifiee (Contes, livre ii. No. vi.), in the opening lines of which he expressly acknowledges his indebtedness to the Queen of Navarre.—Ed.

"Unbelieving indeed, ladies, must be the man who, after hearing this true story, should hold you to be as crafty as men are; though, if we are not to wrong either, and to give both man and wife the praise they truly deserve, we must needs admit that the better of the two was worth naught."

"The man," said Parlamente, "was marvellously wicked, for he deceived his servant on the one side and his wife on the other."

"Then you cannot have understood the story," said Hircan. "We are told that he contented them both in the same morning, and I consider it a highly virtuous thing, both for body and mind, to be able to say and do that which may make two opposites content."

"It was doubly wicked," said Parlamente, "to satisfy the simplicity of one by falsehood and the wickedness of the other by vice. But I am aware that sins, when brought before such judges as you, will always be forgiven."

"Yet I promise you," said Hircan, "that for my own part I shall never essay so great and difficult a task, for if I but render you content my day will not have been ill spent."

"If mutual love," said Parlamente, "cannot content the heart, nothing else can."

"In sooth," said Simontault, "I think there is no greater grief in the world than to love and not be loved."

"To be loved," said Parlamente, "it were needful to turn to such as love. Very often, however, those women who will not love are loved the most, while those men who love most strongly are loved the least."

"You remind me," said Oisille, "of a story which I had not intended to bring forward among such good ones."

"Still I pray you tell it us," said Simontault. "That will I do right willingly," replied Oisille.



TALE XLVI. (A).

A Grey Friar named De Vale, being bidden to dinner at the house of the Judge of the Exempts in Angouleme, perceived that the Judge's wife (with whom he was in love) went up into the garret alone; thinking to surprise her, he followed her thither; but she dealt him such a kick in the stomach that he fell from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and fled out of the town to the house of a lady that had such great liking for those of his Order (foolishly believing them possessed of greater virtues than belong to them), that she entrusted him with the correction of her daughter, whom he lay with by force instead of chastising her for the sin of sloth-fulness, as he had promised her mother he would do. (1)

1 Boaistuau and Gruget omit this tale, and the latter replaces it by that numbered XLVI. (B). Count Charles of Angouleme having died on January i, 1496, the incidents related above must have occurred at an earlier date.—L.

In the town of Angouleme, where Count Charles, father of King Francis, often abode, there dwelt a Grey Friar named De Vale, the same being held a learned man and a great preacher. One Advent this Friar preached in the town in presence of the Count, whereby he won such renown that those who knew him eagerly invited him to dine at their houses. Among others that did this was the Judge of the Exempts (2) of the county, who had wedded a beautiful and virtuous woman. The Friar was dying for love of her, yet lacked the hardihood to tell her so; nevertheless she perceived the truth, and held him in derision.

2 The Exempt was a police officer, and the functions of the Juge des Exempts were akin to those of a police magistrate.—Ed.

After he had given several tokens of his wanton purpose, he one day espied her going up into the garret alone. Thinking to surprise her, he followed, but hearing his footsteps she turned and asked whither he was going. "I am going after you," he replied, "to tell you a secret."

"Nay, good father," said the Judge's wife. "I will have no secret converse with such as you. If you come up any higher, you will be sorry for it."

Seeing that she was alone, he gave no heed to her words, but hastened up after her. She, however, was a woman of spirit, and when she saw the Friar at the top of the staircase, she gave him a kick in the stomach, and with the words, "Down! down! sir," (3) cast him from the top to the bottom. The poor father was so greatly ashamed at this, that, forgetting the hurt he had received in falling, he fled out of the town as fast as he was able. He felt sure that the lady would not conceal the matter from her husband; and indeed she did not, nor yet from the Count and Countess, so that the Friar never again durst come into their presence.

3 The French words here are "Devaliez, devaliez, monsieur," whilst MS. No. 1520 gives, "Monsieur de Vale, devales." In either case there is evidently a play upon the friar's name, which was possibly pronounced Valles or Valles. Adrien de Valois, it maybe pointed out, rendered his name in Latin as Valesius; the county of Valois and that of Valais are one and the same; we continue calling the old French kings Valois, as their name was written, instead of Valais as it was pronounced, as witness, for instance, the nickname given to Henry III. by the lampooners of the League, "Henri devale." See also post, Tale XLVI. (B), note 2.—M. and Ed.

To complete his wickedness, he repaired to the house of a lady who preferred the Grey Friars to all other folk, and, after preaching a sermon or two before her, he cast his eyes upon her daughter, who was very beautiful. And as the maiden did not rise in the morning to hear his sermon, he often scolded her in presence of her mother, whereupon the latter would say to him—"Would to God, father, that she had some taste of the discipline which you monks receive from one another."

The good father vowed that if she continued to be so slothful, he would indeed give her some of it, and her mother earnestly begged him to do so.

A day or two afterwards, he entered the lady's apartment, and, not seeing her daughter there, asked her where she was.

"She fears you so little," replied the lady, "that she is still in bed."

"There can be no doubt," said the Grey Friar, "that it is a very evil habit in young girls to be slothful. Few people think much of the sin of sloth, but for my part, I deem it one of the most dangerous there is, for the body as for the soul. You should therefore chastise her for it, and if you will give me the matter in charge, I will take good care that she does not lie abed at an hour when she ought to be praying to God."

The poor lady, believing him to be a virtuous man, begged him to be kind enough to correct her daughter, which he at once agreed to do, and, going up a narrow wooden staircase, he found the girl all alone in bed. She was sleeping very soundly, and while she slept he lay with her by force. The poor girl, waking up, knew not whether he were man or devil, but began to cry out as loudly as she could, and to call for help to her mother. But the latter, standing at the foot of the staircase, cried out to the Friar—"Have no pity on her, sir. Give it to her again, and chastise the naughty jade."

When the Friar had worked his wicked will, he came down to the lady and said to her with a face all afire—"I think, madam, that your daughter will remember my discipline."

The mother thanked him warmly and then went upstairs, where she found her daughter making such lamentation as is to be expected from a virtuous woman who has suffered from so foul a crime. On learning the truth, the mother had search made everywhere for the Friar, but he was already far away, nor was he ever afterwards seen in the kingdom of France.

"You see, ladies, with how much security such commissions may be given to those that are unfit for them. The correction of men pertains to men and that of women to women; for women in the correction of men would be as pitiful as men in the correction of women would be cruel."

"Jesus! madam," said Parlamente, "what a base and wicked Friar!"

"Say rather," said Hircan, "what a foolish and witless mother to be led by hypocrisy into allowing so much familiarity to those who ought never to be seen except in church."

"In truth," said Parlamente, "I acknowledge that she was the most foolish mother imaginable; had she been as wise as the Judge's wife, she would rather have made him come down the staircase than go up. But what can you expect? The devil that is half-angel is the most dangerous of all, for he is so well able to transform himself into an angel of light, that people shrink from suspecting him to be what he really is; and it seems to me that persons who are not suspicious are worthy of praise."

"At the same time," said Oisille, "people ought to suspect the evil that is to be avoided, especially those who hold a trust; for it is better to suspect an evil that does not exist than by foolish trustfulness to fall into one that does. I have never known a woman deceived through being slow to believe men's words, but many are there that have been deceived through being over prompt in giving credence to falsehood. Therefore I say that possible evil cannot be held in too strong suspicion by those that have charge of men, women, cities or states; for, however good the watch that is kept, wickedness and treachery are prevalent enough, and the shepherd who is not vigilant will always be deceived by the wiles of the wolf."

"Still," said Dagoucin, "a suspicious person cannot have a perfect friend, and many friends have been divided by suspicion."

"If you know any such instance," said Oisille, "I give you my vote that you may relate it."

"I know one," said Dagoucin, "which is so strictly true that you will needs hear it with pleasure. I will tell you, ladies, when it is that a close friendship is most easily severed; 'tis when the security of friendship begins to give place to suspicion. For just as trust in a friend is the greatest honour that can be shown him, so is doubt of him a still greater dishonour. It proves that he is deemed other than we would have him to be, and so causes many close friendships to be broken off, and friends to be turned into foes. This you will see from the story that I am minded to relate."



[The Young Man beating his Wife]



TALE XLVI.(B).

Concerning a Grey Friar who made it a great crime on the part of husbands to beat their wives. (1)

In the town of Angouleme, where Count Charles, father of King Francis, often abode, there dwelt a Grey Friar named De Valles, (2) the same being a learned man and a very great preacher. At Advent time this Friar preached in the town in presence of the Count, whereby his reputation was still further increased.

1 This is the tale inserted in Gruget's edition in lieu of the previous one.—Ed.

2 We had thought that Friar Valles might possibly be Robert de Valle, who at the close of the fifteenth century wrote a work entitled Explanatio in Plinium, but find that this divine was a Bishop of Rouen, and never belonged to the Grey Friars. In Gessner's Biographia Universalis, continued by Frisius, mention is made of three learned ecclesiastics of the name of Valle living in or about Queen Margaret's time: Baptiste de Valle, who wrote on war and duelling; William de Valle, who penned a volume entitled De Anima Sorbono; and Amant de Valle, a Franciscan minorite born at Toulouse, who was the author of numerous philosophical works, the most important being Elucidationes Scoti.—B. J.

It happened also that during Advent a hare-brained young fellow, who had married a passably handsome young woman, continued none the less to run at the least as dissolute a course as did those that were still bachelors. The young wife, being advised of this, could not keep silence upon it, so that she very often received payment after a different and a prompter fashion than she could have wished. For all that, she ceased not to persist in lamentation, and sometimes in railing as well; which so provoked the young man that he beat her even to bruises and blood. Thereupon she cried out yet more loudly than before; and in a like fashion all the women of the neighbourhood, knowing the reason of this, could not keep silence, but cried out publicly in the streets, saying—

"Shame, shame on such husbands! To the devil with them!"

By good fortune the Grey Friar De Valles was passing that way and heard the noise and the reason of it. He resolved to touch upon it the following day in his sermon, and did so. Turning his discourse to the subject of marriage and the affection which ought to subsist in it, he greatly extolled that condition, at the same time censuring those that offended against it, and comparing wedded to parental love. Among other things, he said that a husband who beat his wife was in more danger, and would have a heavier punishment, than if he had beaten his father or his mother.

"For," said he, "if you beat your father or your mother you will be sent for penance to Rome; but if you beat your wife, she and all the women of the neighbourhood will send you to the devil, that is, to hell. Now look you what a difference there is between these two penances. From Rome a man commonly returns again, but from hell, oh! from that place, there is no return: nulla est redemptio" (3)

After preaching this sermon, he was informed that the women were making a triumph of it, (4) and that their husbands could no longer control them. He therefore resolved to set the husbands right just as he had previously assisted their wives.

3 This was the Pope's expression apropos of Messer Biagio, whom Michael Angelo had introduced into his "Last Judgment."—M.

4 The French expression is faisaient leur Achilles, the nearest equivalent to which in English would probably be "Hectoring" It is curious that the French should have taken the name of Achilles and we that of Hector to express the same idea of arrogance and bluster.—Ed.

With this intent, in one of his sermons he compared women and devil together, saying that these were the greatest enemies that man had, that they tempted him without ceasing, and that he could not rid himself of them, especially of women.

"For," said he, "as far as devils are concerned, if you show them the cross they flee away, whereas women, on the contrary, are tamed by it, and are made to run hither and thither and cause their husbands countless torments. But, good people, know you what you must do? When you find your wives afflicting you thus continually, as is their wont, take off the handle of the cross and with it drive them away. You will not have made this experiment briskly three or four times before you will find yourselves the better for it, and see that, even as the devil is driven off by the virtue of the cross, so can you drive away and silence your wives by virtue of the handle, provided only that it be not attached to the cross aforesaid."

"You have here some of the sermons by this reverend De Valles, of whose life I will with good reason relate nothing more. However, I will tell you that, whatever face he put upon the matter—and I knew him—he was much more inclined to the side of the women than to that of the men."

"Yet, madam," said Parlamente, "he did not show this in his last sermon, in which he instructed the men to ill-treat them."

"Nay, you do not comprehend his artifice," said Hircan. "You are not experienced in war and in the use of the stratagems that it requires; among these, one of the most important is to kindle strife in the camp of the enemy, whereby he becomes far easier to conquer. This master monk well knew that hatred and wrath between husband and wife most often cause a loose rein to be given to the wife's honour. And when that honour frees itself from the guardianship of virtue, it finds itself in the power of the wolf before it knows even that it is astray."

"However that may be," said Parlamente, "I could not love a man who had sown such division between my husband and myself as would lead even to blows; for beating banishes love. Yet, by what I have heard, they [the friars] can be so mincing when they seek some advantage over a woman, and so attractive in their discourse, that I feel sure there would be more danger in hearkening to them in secret than in publicly receiving blows from a husband in other respects a good one."

"Truly," said Dagoucin, "they have so revealed their plottings in all directions, that it is not without reason that they are to be feared; (5) although in my opinion persons who are not suspicious are worthy of praise."

5 From this point the dialogue is almost word for word the same as that following Tale XLVI. (A).—Ed.

"At the same time," said Oisille, "people ought to suspect the evil that is to be avoided, for it is better to suspect an evil that does not exist than by foolish trustfulness to fall into one that does. For my part, I have never known a woman deceived by being slow to believe men's words, but many are through being too prompt in giving credence to falsehood. Therefore I say that possible evil cannot be too strongly suspected by those that have charge of men, women, cities or states; for, however good may be the watch that is kept, wickedness and treachery are prevalent enough, and for this reason the shepherd who is not vigilant will always be deceived by the wiles of the wolf."

"Still," said Dagoucin, "a suspicious person cannot have a perfect friend, and many friends have been parted by bare suspicion."

"If you should know any such instance," thereupon said Oisille, "I will give you my vote that you may relate it."

"I know one," said Dagoucin, "which is so strictly true that you will hear it with pleasure. I will tell you, ladies, when it is that close friendship is most readily broken off; it is when the security of friendship begins to give place to suspicion. For just as to trust a friend is the greatest honour one can do him, so is doubt of him the greatest dishonour, inasmuch as it proves that he is deemed other than one would have him to be, and in this wise many close friendships are broken off and friends turned into foes. This you will see from the story that I am now about to relate."



[The Gentleman reproaching his Friend for his Jealousy]



TALE XLVII.

Two gentlemen lined in such perfect friendship that for a great while they had everything excepting a wife in common, until one was married, when without cause he began to suspect his companion, who, in vexation at being wrongfully suspected, withdrew his friendship, and did not rest till he had made the other a cuckold.

Not far from the province of Le Perche (1) there dwelt two gentlemen who from the days of their childhood had lived in such perfect friendship that they had but one heart, one house, one bed, one table, and one purse. They continued living in this perfect friendship for a long time, without there ever being between them any wish or word such as might betray that they were different persons; so truly did they live not merely like two brothers but like one individual man.

1 Between Normandy and Maine. Its chief town was Mortagne.

Of the two one married, yet did not on that account abate his friendship for his fellow or cease to live with him as had been his wont. And whenever they chanced to lodge where room was scanty, he failed not to make him sleep with himself and his wife; (2) though he did, in truth, himself lie in the middle. Their goods were all in common, so that neither the marriage nor aught else that might betide could impair their perfect friendship.

2 To do honour to a guest it was then a common practice to invite him to share the same bed as one's self and one's wife. In this wise, long after Queen Margaret s time, we find Louis XIII. sharing the bed of the Duke and Duchess of Luynes. Tale vii. of the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles (imitated in Malespini's Ducento Novelle and the Joyeuses Adventures et nouvelles recreations) relates what befell a Paris goldsmith who took a carter to bed with him and his spouse, and neglected to follow the usual custom of sleeping in the middle. In Queen Margaret's time, it may be added, the so-called "beds of honour" in the abodes of noblemen and gentlemen were large enough to accommodate four or five persons.—B. J. and Ed.

But after some time, worldly happiness, which is ever changeful in its nature, could no longer abide in this too happy household. The husband, without cause, lost the confidence that he had in his friend and in his wife, and, being unable to conceal the truth from the latter, spoke to her with angry words. At this she was greatly amazed, for he had charged her in all things save one to treat his friend as she did himself, and now he forbade her to speak with him except it were before others. She made the matter known to her husband's friend, who did not believe her, knowing as he well did that he had never purposed doing aught to grieve his comrade. And as he was wont to hide nothing from him, he told him what he had heard, begging him not to conceal the truth, for neither in this nor in any other matter had he any desire to occasion the severance of the friendship which had so long subsisted between them.

The married gentleman assured him that he had never thought of such a thing, and that those who had spread such a rumour had foully lied.

Thereupon his comrade replied—

"I well know that jealousy is a passion as insupportable as love, and were you inclined to jealousy even with regard to myself, I should not blame you, for you could not help it. But there is a thing that is in your power of which I should have reason to complain, and that is the concealment of your distemper from me, seeing that never before was thought, feeling or opinion concealed between us. If I were in love with your wife, you should not impute it to me as a crime, for love is not a fire that I can hold in my hand to do with it what I will; but if it were so and I concealed it from you, and sought by demonstration to make it known to your wife, I should be the wickedest comrade that ever lived.

"As far as I myself am concerned, I can truly assure you that, although she is an honourable and virtuous woman, she is the last of all the women I have ever seen upon whom, even though she were not yours, my fancy would light. But even though there be no occasion to do so, I ask you, if you have the smallest possible feeling of suspicion, to tell me of it, that I may so act as to prevent a friendship that has lasted so long from being severed for the sake of a woman. For, even if I loved her more dearly than aught in the world beside, I would never speak to her of it, seeing that I set your honour before aught else."

His comrade swore to him the strongest oaths he could muster, that he had never thought of such a thing, and begged him to act in his house as he had been used to do.

"That will I," the other replied, "but if after this should you harbour an evil opinion of me and conceal it or bear me ill-will, I will continue no more in fellowship with you."

Some time afterwards, whilst they were living together as had been their wont, the married gentleman again fell into stronger suspicion than ever, and commanded his wife to no longer show the same countenance to his friend as before. This she at once made known to her husband's comrade, and begged that he would of his own motion abstain from holding speech with her, since she had been charged to do the like towards him.

The gentleman perceived from her words and from divers tokens on the part of his comrade that the latter had not kept his promise, and so said to him in great wrath—

"If, comrade, you are jealous, 'tis a natural thing, but, after the oaths you swore to me, I must needs be angered that you have used such concealment towards me. I had always thought that neither obstacle nor mean intervened between your heart and mine, but to my exceeding sorrow, and with no fault on my part, I see that the reverse is true. Not only are you most jealous of your wife and of me, but you seek to hide your distemper from me, until at last it must wholly turn to hate, and the dearest love that our time has known become the deadliest enmity.

"I have done all I could to avoid this mishap, but since you suspect me of being so wicked and the opposite of what I have always proved towards you, I give you my oath and word that I will indeed be such a one as you deem me, and that I will never rest until I have had from your wife that which you believe I seek from her. So I bid you beware of me henceforward, for, since suspicion has destroyed your friendship for me, resentment will destroy mine for you."

Although his comrade tried to persuade him of the contrary, he would no longer believe him, but removed his portion of the furniture and goods that had been in common between them. And so their hearts were as widely sundered as they had before been closely united, and the unmarried gentleman never rested until, as he had promised, he had made his comrade a cuckold. (3)

3 The idea developed in this tale, that of bringing to pass by one's own actions the thing one fears and seeks to avoid or prevent, has much analogy with that embodied in the "novel of the Curious Impertinent" which Cervantes introduces into Don Quixote (Part I. chaps, xxviii., xxix). In this tale it will be remembered Anselmo and Lothario are represented as being two such close friends as the gentlemen who figured in Queen Margaret's tale. Anselmo marries, however, and seized with an insane desire to test the virtue of his wife, Camilla, by exposing her to temptation, urges Lothario to pay court to her. Lothario at first resists these solicitations, pointing out the folly of such an enterprise, but his friend entreats him so pressingly that he finally consents, and in the sequel the passion which he at first simulates for Camilla becomes a real one and leads to his seducing her and carrying her away, with the result that both the wretched Anselmo and his wife soon die of grief, whilst Lothario betakes himself to the wars and perishes in battle.—M. & Ed.

"Thus, ladies, may it fare with those who wrongfully suspect their wives of evil. Many men make of them what they suspect them to be, for a virtuous woman is more readily overcome by despair than by all the pleasures on earth. And if any one says that suspicion is love, I give him nay, for although it results from love as do ashes from fire, it kills it nevertheless in the same way."

"I do not think," said Hircan, "that anything can be more grievous to either man or woman than to be suspected of that which is contrary to fact. For my own part, nothing could more readily prompt me to sever fellowship with my friends than such suspicion."

"Nevertheless," said Oisille, "woman is without rational excuse who revenges herself for her husband's suspicion by her own shame. It is as though a man should thrust his sword through his own body, because unable to slay his foe, or should bite his own fingers because he cannot scratch him. She would have done better had she spoken to the gentleman no more, and so shown her husband how wrongly he had suspected her; for time would have softened them both."

"Still 'twas done like a woman of spirit," said Ennasuite. "If many women acted in the same way, their husbands would not be so outrageous as they are."

"For all that," said Longarine, "patience gives a woman the victory in the end, and chastity brings her praise, and more we should not desire."

"Nevertheless," said Ennasuite, "a woman may be unchaste and yet commit no sin."

"How may that be?" said Oisille.

"When she mistakes another man for her husband."

"And who," said Parlamente, "is so foolish that she cannot clearly tell the difference between her husband and another man, whatever disguise the latter may wear?"

"There have been and still will be," said Ennasuite, "a few deceived in this fashion, and therefore still innocent and free from sin."

"If you know of such a one," said Dagoucin, "I give you my vote that you may tell us about her, for I think it very strange that innocence and sin can go together."

"Listen, then," said Ennasuite. "If, ladies, the foregoing tales have not sufficiently warned you of the danger of lodging in our houses those who call us worldly and consider themselves as something holy and far worthier than we, I will give you yet a further instance of it, that you may see by the errors into which those fall who trust them too much that not only are they human like others, but that there is something devilish in their nature, passing the ordinary wickedness of men. This you will learn from the following story."



[The Grey Friars Caught and Punished]



TALE XLVIII.

The older and wickeder of two Grey Friars, who were lodged in an inn where the marriage of the host's daughter was being celebrated, perceived the bride being led away, whereupon he went and took the place of the bridegroom whilst the latter was still dancing with the company. (1)

1 We have already had an instance of a friar stealing into a wife's bed at night-time, in the husband's absence (see ante, vol. iii., tale xxili.). For a similar incident see the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, No. xxx.—Ed.

At an inn, in a village of the land of Perigort, there was celebrated the marriage of a maiden of the house, at which all the kinsfolk and friends strove to make as good cheer as might be. On the day of the wedding there arrived at the inn two Grey Friars, to whom supper was given in their own room, since it was not meet for those of their condition to be present at a wedding. However, the chief of the two, who had the greater authority and craft, resolved that, since he was shut out from the board, he would share the bed, and in this way play them one of the tricks of his trade.

When evening was come, and the dances were begun, the Grey Friar continued to observe the bride for a long time, and found her very handsome and to his taste. Then, inquiring carefully of the serving-woman concerning the room in which she was to lie, he found that it was close to his own, at which he was well pleased; and so good a watch did he keep in order to work his end, that he perceived the bride being led from the hall by the old women, as is the custom. As it was yet very early, the bridegroom would not leave the dance, in which he was so greatly absorbed that he seemed to have altogether forgotten his wife.

Not so the Friar, for, as soon as his ears told him that the bride was in bed, he put off his grey robe and went and took the husband's place. Being fearful of discovery, however, he stayed but a very short time, and then went to the end of a passage where his comrade, who was keeping watch for him, signed to him that the husband was dancing-still.

The Friar, who had not yet satisfied his wicked lust, thereupon went back to bed with the bride, until his comrade gave him a signal that it was time to leave.

The bridegroom afterwards came to bed, and his wife, who had been so tormented by the Friar that she desired naught but rest, could not help saying to him—

"Have you resolved never to sleep or do anything but torment me?"

The unhappy husband, who had but just come in, was greatly astonished at this, and asked what torment he had given her, seeing that he had not left the dance.

"A pretty dance!" said the poor girl. "This is the third time that you have come to bed. I think you would do better to sleep."

The husband was greatly astonished on hearing these words, and set aside thought of everything else in order that he might learn the truth of what had passed.

When his wife had told him the story, he at once suspected the Grey Friars who were lodged in the house, and forthwith rising, he went into their room, which was close beside his own.

Not finding them there, he began to call out for help in so loud a voice that he speedily drew together all his friends, who, when they had heard the tale, assisted him with candles, lanterns, and all the dogs of the village to hunt for the Grey Friars.

Not finding them in the house, they made all diligence, and so caught them among the vines, where they treated them as they deserved; for, after soundly beating them, they cut off their arms and legs, and left them among the vines to the care of Bacchus and Venus, of whom they had been better disciples than of St. Francis.

"Be not amazed, ladies, if such folk, being cut off from our usual mode of life, do things of which adventurers (2) even would be ashamed. Wonder rather that they do no worse when God withdraws his hand from them, for so little does the habit make the monk, that it often unmakes him through the pride it lends him. For my own part, I go not beyond the religion that is taught by St. James, who has told us to 'keep the heart pure and unspotted toward God, and to show all charity to our neighbours.'"(3)

2 This is an allusion to the dismissed French Swiss, and German lansquenets who roamed about France in little bands, kidnapping, plundering, and at times hiring themselves out as spadassins. These men, the pests of the country, were commonly known by the name of adventurers.—B. J.

3 "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction and to keep himself unspotted from the world."—James i. 27.—Ed.

"Heavens!" said Oisille, "shall we never have done with tales about these tiresome Grey Friars?"

Then said Ennasuite—

"If, ladies, princes and gentlemen are not spared, the Grey Friars, it seems to me, are highly honoured by being noticed. They are so useless that, were it not that they often do evil things worthy of remembrance, they would never even be mentioned; and, as the saying goes, it is better to do evil than to do nothing at all. Besides, the more varied the flowers the handsomer will our posy be."

"If you will promise not to be angry with me," said Hircan, "I will tell you the story of a great lady whose wantonness was so extreme that you will forgive the poor friar for having taken what he needed, where he was able to find it, seeing that she, who had enough to eat, nevertheless sought for dainties in too monstrous a fashion."

"Since we have sworn to speak the truth," said Oisille, "we have also sworn to hear it. You may therefore speak with freedom, for the evil things that we tell of men and women are not uttered to shame those that are spoken of in the story, but to take away all trust in created beings, by revealing the trouble to which these are liable, and this to the end that we may fix and rest our hope on Him alone who is perfect, and without whom every man is only imperfection."

"Well then," said Hircan, "I will relate my story without fear."



[The Countess facing her Lovers]



TALE XLIX.

Same French gentlemen, perceiving that the King their master was exceedingly well treated by a foreign Countess whom he loved, ventured to speak to her, and sought her with such success, that one after another they had from her what they desired, each, however, believing that he alone possessed the happiness in which all the others shared. And this being discovered by one of their number, they all plotted together to be revenged on her; but, as she showed a fair countenance and treated them no worse than before, they brought away in their own bosoms the shame which they had thought to bring upon her. (1)

At the Court of King Charles—which Charles I shall not mention, for the sake of the lady of whom I wish to speak, and whom I shall not call by her own name—there was a Countess of excellent lineage, (2) but a foreigner. And as novelties ever please, this lady, both for the strangeness of her attire and for its exceeding richness, was observed by all. Though she was not to be ranked among the most beautiful, she possessed gracefulness, together with a noble assurance that could not be surpassed; and, moreover, her manner of speech and her seriousness were to match, so that there was none but feared to accost her excepting the King, who loved her exceedingly. That he might have still more intimate converse with her, he gave some mission to the Count, her husband, which kept him away for a long time, and meanwhile the King made right good cheer with his wife.

1 The incidents here related must have occurred during the reign of Charles VIII., probably in or about 1490.—L.

2 This Countess cannot be identified. She was probably the wife of one of the many Italian noblemen, like the Caraccioli and San Severini, who entered the French service about the time of the conquest of Naples. Brantome alludes to the story in his Dames Galantes (Fourth Discourse) but gives no names.—Ed.

Several of the King's gentlemen, knowing that their master was well treated by her, took courage to speak to her, and among the rest was one called Astillon, (3) a bold man and graceful of bearing.

3 This is James de Chastillon, not, however, J. Gaucher de Chastillon, "King of Yvetot," as M. de Lincy supposes, but J. de Coligny-Chastillon, as has been pointed out by M. Frank. Brantome devotes the Nineteenth Discourse of his Capitaines francois to this personage, and says: "He had been one of the great favourites and mignons of King Charles VIII., even at the time of the journey to the kingdom of Naples; and 'twas then said, 'Chastillon, Bourdillon and Bonneval [see post, note 5] govern the royal blood.'" Wounded in April 1512 at the battle of Ravenna, "the most bloody battle of the century," he was removed to Ferrara, where he died (May 25). He was the second husband of Blanche de Tournon, Lady of Honour to Queen Margaret, respecting whom see ante, vol. i. pp. 84-5, 122-4, and vol. iv. p. 144, note 2.—L., F. and Ed.

At first she treated him so seriously, threatening to tell of him to the King his master, that he well-nigh became afraid of her. However, as he had not been wont to fear the threats even of the most redoubtable captains, he would not suffer himself to be moved by hers, but pressed her so closely that she at last consented to speak with him in private, and taught him the manner in which he should come to her apartment. This he failed not to do, and, in order that the King might be without suspicion of the truth, he craved permission to go on a journey, and set out from the Court. On the very first day, however, he left all his following and returned at night to receive fulfilment of the promises that the Countess had made him. These she kept so much to his satisfaction, that he was content to remain shut up in a closet for five or six days, without once going out, and living only on restoratives.

During the week that he lay in hiding, one of his companions called Durassier (4) made love to the Countess. At the beginning she spoke to this new lover, as she had spoken to the first, with harsh and haughty speech that grew milder day by day, insomuch that when the time was come for dismissing the first prisoner, she put the second into his place. While he was there, another companion of his, named Valnebon, (5) did the same as the former two, and after these there came yet two or three more to lodge in the sweet prison.

4 This in all probability is the doughty James Galliot de Genouillac, who—much in the same way as in our own times the names of the "Iron Duke" and the "Man of Iron" have been bestowed on Wellington and Bismarck—was called by his contemporaries the "Seigneur d'Acier" or "Steel Lord," whence "Durassier"—hard steel. Born in Le Quercy in or about 1466, Genouillac accompanied Charles VIII. on his Italian expeditions, and, according to Brantome, surpassed all others in valour and influence. He greatly distinguished himself at the battle of Fornova (1495), and in 1515 we find him one of the chief commanders of the French artillery. For the great skill he displayed at Marignano he was appointed Grand Master of the Artillery and Seneschal of Armagnac, and he subsequently became Grand Equerry of France. At Pavia, where he again commanded the artillery, he would have swept away the Spaniards had not the French impetuously charged upon them, preventing him from firing his pieces. Most of the latter he contrived to save, severe as was the defeat, and he effectually protected the retreat of the Duke of Alencon and the Count of Clermont into France. Genouillac died in 1546, a year after he had been appointed Governor of Languedoc.—B. J. and Ed.

5 Valnebon is an anagram of the name Bonneval, and Queen Margaret evidently refers here to a member of the Bonneval family. In the time of Charles VIII. this illustrious Limousin house had two principal members, Anthony, one of the leading counsellors of that king (as of his predecessor Louis XI. and his successor Louis XII.), and Germain, also a royal counsellor and chamberlain. The heroes of the above story being military men and old friends and comrades, it is probable that the reference is to Germain de Bonneval, he, like Chastillon and Genouillac, having accompanied Charles VIII. on his expedition into Italy. Germain de Bonneval, moreover, was one of the seven noblemen who fought at the battle of Fornova, clad and armed exactly like the French king. He perished at the memorable defeat of Pavia in 1525. From him descended, in a direct line, the famous eighteenth century adventurer, Claud Alexander, Count de Bonneval.—B. J. and Ed.

This manner of life continued for a long time, and was so skilfully contrived that none of the lovers knew aught of the others; and although they were aware of the love that each of them bore the lady, there was not one but believed himself to be the only successful suitor, and laughed at his comrades who, as he thought, had failed to win such great happiness.

One day when the gentlemen aforesaid were at a banquet where they made right good cheer, they began to speak of their several fortunes and of the prisons in which they had lain during the wars. Valnebon, however, who found it a hard task to conceal the great good fortune he had met with, began saying to his comrades—

"I know not what prisons have been yours, but for my own part, for love of one wherein I once lay, I shall all my life long give praise and honour to the rest. I think that no pleasure on earth comes near that of being kept a prisoner."

Astillon, who had been the first captive, had a suspicion of the prison that he meant, and replied—

"What gaoler, Valnebon, man or woman, treated you so well that you became so fond of your prison?"

"Whoever the gaoler may have been," said Valnebon, "my prisonment was so pleasant that I would willingly have had it last longer. Never was I better treated or more content."

Durassier, who was a man of few words, clearly perceived that they were discussing the prison in which he had shared like the rest; so he said to Valnebon—

"On what meats were you fed in the prison that you praise so highly?"

"What meats?" said Valnebon. "The King himself has none better or more nourishing."

"But I should also like to know," said Durassier, "whether your keeper made you earn your bread properly?"

Valnebon, suspecting that he had been understood, could not hold from swearing.

"God's grace!" said he. "Had I indeed comrades where I believed myself alone?"

Perceiving this dispute, wherein he had part like the rest, Astillon laughed and said—

"We all serve one master, and have been comrades and friends from boyhood; if, then, we are comrades in the same good fortune, we can but laugh at it. But, to see whether what I imagine be true, pray let me question you, and do you confess the truth to me; for if that which I fancy has befallen us, it is as amusing an adventure as could be found in any book."

They all swore to tell the truth if the matter were such as they could not deny.

Then said he to them—

"I will tell you my own fortune, and you will tell me, ay or nay, if yours has been the same."

To this they all agreed, whereupon he said—

"I asked leave of the King to go on a journey."

"So," they replied, "did we."

"When I was two leagues from the Court, I left all my following and went and yielded myself up prisoner."

"We," they replied, "did the same."

"I remained," said Astillon, "for seven or eight days, and lay in a closet where I was fed on nothing but restoratives and the choicest viands that I ever ate. At the end of a week, those who held me captive suffered me to depart much weaker in body than I had been on my arrival."

They all swore that the like had happened to them.

"My imprisonment," said Astillon, "began on such a day and finished on such another."

"Mine," thereupon said Durassier, "began on the very day that yours ended, and lasted until such a day."

Valnebon, who was losing patience, began to swear.

"'Sblood!" said he, "from what I can see, I, who thought myself the first and only one, was the third, for I went in on such a day and came out on such another."

Three others, who were at the table, swore that they had followed in like order.

"Well, since that is so," said Astillon, "I will mention the condition of our gaoler. She is married, and her husband is a long way off."

"'Tis even she," they all replied.

"Well, to put us out of our pain," said Astillon, "I, who was first enrolled, shall also be the first to name her. It was my lady the Countess, she who was so extremely haughty that in conquering her affection I felt as though I had conquered Caesar."

[Said Valnebon—(6)]

6 It is probable that the angry Valnebon is speaking here, and that his name has been accidentally omitted from the MSS. At all events the three subsequent paragraphs show that these remarks are not made by Astillon, who declines the other speaker's advice, and proposes a scheme of his own.— Ed.

"To the devil with the jade, who gave us so much toil, and made us believe ourselves so fortunate in winning her! Never was there such wantonness, for while she kept one in hiding she was practising upon another, so that she might never be without diversion. I would rather die than suffer her to go unpunished."

Each thereupon asked him what he thought ought to be done to her, saying that they were all ready to do it.

"I think," said he, "that we ought to tell the King our master, who prizes her as though she were a goddess.

"By no means," said Astillon; "we are ourselves able to take vengeance upon her, without calling in the aid of our master. Let us all be present to-morrow when she goes to mass, each of us wearing an iron chain about his neck. Then, when she enters the church, we will greet her as shall be fitting."

This counsel was highly approved by the whole company, and each provided himself with an iron chain. The next morning they all went, dressed in black and with their iron chains twisted like collars round their necks, to meet the Countess as she was going to church. And as soon as she saw them thus attired, she began to laugh and asked them—

"Whither go such doleful folk?"

"Madam," said Astillon, "we are come to attend you as poor captive slaves constrained to do your service."

The Countess, feigning not to understand, replied—

"You are not my captives, and I cannot understand that you have more occasion than others to do me service."

Thereupon Valnebon stepped forward and said to her—

"After eating your bread for so long a time, we should be ungrateful indeed if we did not serve you."

She made excellent show of not understanding the matter, thinking by this seriousness to confound them; but they pursued their discourse in such sort that she saw that all was discovered. So she immediately devised a means of baffling them, for, having lost honour and conscience, she would in no wise take to herself the shame that they thought to bring upon her. On the contrary, like one who set her pleasure before all earthly honour, she neither changed her countenance nor treated them worse than before, whereat they were so confounded, that they carried away in their own bosoms the shame they had thought to bring upon her.

"If, ladies, you do not consider this story enough to prove that women are as bad as men, I will seek out others of the same kind to relate to you. Nevertheless I think that this one will suffice to show you that a woman who has lost shame is far bolder to do evil than a man."

There was not a woman in the company that heard this story, who did not make as many signs of the cross as if all the devils in hell were before her eyes. However, Oisille said—

"Ladies, let us humble ourselves at hearing of so terrible a circumstance, and the more so as she who is forsaken by God becomes like him with whom she unites; for even as those who cleave to God have His spirit within them, so is it with those that cleave to His opposite, whence it comes that nothing can be more brutish than one devoid of the Spirit of God."

"Whatever the poor lady may have done," said Ennasuite, "I nevertheless cannot praise the men who boasted of their imprisonment."

"It is my opinion," said Longarine, "that a man finds it as troublesome to conceal his good fortune as to pursue it. There is never a hunter but delights to wind his horn over his quarry, nor lover but would fain have credit for his conquest."

"That," said Simontault, "is an opinion which I would hold to be heretical in presence of all the Inquisitors of the Faith, for there are more men than women that can keep a secret, and I know right well that some might be found who would rather forego their happiness than have any human being know of it. For this reason has the Church, like a wise mother, ordained men to be confessors and not women, seeing that the latter can conceal nothing."

"That is not the reason," said Oisille; "it is because women are such enemies of vice that they would not grant absolution with the same readiness as is shown by men, and would be too stern in their penances."

"If they were as stern in their penances," said Dagoucin, "as they are in their responses, they would reduce far more sinners to despair than they would draw to salvation; and so the Church has in every sort well ordained. But, for all that, I will not excuse the gentlemen who thus boasted of their prison, for never was a man honoured by speaking evil of a woman."

"Since they all fared alike," said Hircan, "it seems to me that they did well to console one another."

"Nay," said Geburon, "they should never have acknowledged it for the sake of their own honour. The books of the Round Table (7) teach us that it is not to the honour of a worthy knight to overcome one that is good for naught."

7 Queen Margaret was well acquainted with these (see ante, vol. iii. p. 48). In a list drawn up after her father's death, of the two hundred volumes of books in his library, a most remarkable one for the times, we find specified several copies of "Lancelot," "Tristan," &c, some in MS. with miniatures and illuminated letters, and others printed on parchment. Besides numerous religious writings, volumes of Aristotle, Ovid, Mandeville, Dante, the Chronicles of St. Denis, and the "Book of the Great Khan, bound in cloth of gold," the library contained various works of a character akin to that of the Heptameron. For instance, a copy of the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles in print; a French translation of Poggio's Facetio, also in print, and two copies of Boccaccio in MS., one of them bound in purple velvet, and richly illuminated, each page having a border of blue and silver. This last if still in existence would be very valuable.—Eu.

"I am amazed," said Longarine, "that the unhappy woman did not die of shame in presence of her captives."

"Those who have lost shame," said Oisille, "can hardly ever recover it, excepting, however, she that has forgotten it through deep love. Of such have I seen many return."

"I think," said Hircan, "that you must have seen the return of as many as went, for deep love in a woman is difficult to find."

"I am not of your opinion," said Longarine; "I think that there are some women who have loved to death."

"So exceedingly do I desire to hear a tale of that kind," said Hircan, "that I give you my vote in order to learn of a love in women that I had never deemed them to possess."

"Well, if you hearken," said Longarine, "you will believe, and will see that there is no stronger passion than love. But while it prompts one to almost impossible enterprises for the sake of winning some portion of happiness in this life, so does it more than any other passion reduce that man or woman to despair, who loses the hope of gaining what is longed for. This indeed you will see from the following story."



[The Lady killing herself on the Death of her Lover]



TALE L.

Messire John Peter for a long time wooed in vain a neighbour of his by whom he was sorely smitten, and to divert his humour withdrew for a few days from the sight of her; but this brought so deep a melancholy upon him that the doctors ordered him to be bled. The lady, who knew whence his distemper proceeded, then thought to save his life, but did indeed hasten his death, by granting him that which she had always refused. Then, reflecting that she was herself the cause of the loss of so perfect a lover, she dealt herself a sword-thrust that made her a partner in his fate. (1)

In the town of Cremona not long ago there lived a gentleman called Messire John Peter, (2) who had long loved a lady that dwelt near to his own house; but strive as he might he was never able to have of her the reply that he desired, albeit he loved her with his whole heart. Being greatly grieved and troubled at this, the poor gentleman withdrew into his lodging with the resolve that he would no longer vainly pursue the happiness the quest of which was devouring his life; and accordingly, to divert his humour, he passed a few days without seeing her. This caused him to fall into deep sadness, so that his countenance was no longer the same. His kinsfolk summoned the doctors, who, finding that his face was growing yellow, thought that he had some obstruction of the liver and ordered a blood-letting.

1 The incidents here narrated probably occurred in or about 1544.—L.

2 "Jehan Pietre" (Pietro) in the MSS.—Ed.

The lady, who had dealt so sternly with him, knew very well that his sickness was caused by her refusal alone, and she sent to him an old woman in whom she trusted, to tell him that, since she saw his love to be genuine and unfeigned, she was now resolved to grant him all that which she had refused him so long. She had therefore devised a means to leave her house and go to a place where he might privately see her.

The gentleman, who that same morning had been bled in the arm, found himself better cured by this message than by any medicine or bloodletting he could have had, and he sent word that he would be at the place without fail at the hour she had appointed. He added that she had wrought an evident miracle, since with one word she had cured a man of a sickness for which all the doctors were not able to find a remedy.

The longed-for evening being come, the gentleman repaired to the appointed place with such extreme joy as must needs come soon to an end, since increase of it were not possible. He had waited but a short time after his arrival, when she whom he loved more dearly than his own soul came to meet him. He did not occupy himself with making long speeches, for the fire that consumed him prompted him to seek with all speed that which he could scarcely believe to be at last within his power. But whilst, intoxicated beyond measure with love and joy, he was in one direction seeking a cure that would give him life, he brought to pass in another the hastening of his death; for, heedless of himself for his sweetheart's sake, he perceived not that his arm became unbound, and that the newly-opened wound discharged so much blood that he was, poor gentleman, completely bathed in it. Thinking, however, that his weakness had been caused by his excess, he bethought himself of returning home.

Then love, which had too closely united them, so dealt with him that, as he was parting from his sweetheart, his soul parted from his body, and, by reason of his great loss of blood, he fell dead at his lady's feet.

She, on her side, stood there in astonishment, contemplating the loss of so perfect a lover, of whose death she had herself been the sole cause. Reflecting, on the other hand, on the shame and sorrow that would be hers if the dead body were found in her house, she carried it, with a serving-woman whom she trusted, into the street in order that the matter might not be known. Nevertheless, she felt that she could not leave it there alone. Taking up the dead man's sword, she was fain to share his fate, and, indeed, to punish her heart, which had been the cause of all his woe, she pierced it through and through, so that her dead body fell upon that of her lover.

When her father and mother came out of their house in the morning, they found this pitiful sight, and, after making such mourning as was natural, they buried the lovers together.

"Thus, ladies, may it be seen that excessive love brings with it other woe."

"This is what I like to see," said Simontault, "a love so equal that when one died the other could not live. Had I, by the grace of God, found such a mistress, I think that none could ever have ioved her more perfectly than I."

"Yet am I of opinion," said Parlamente, "that you would not have been so blinded by love as not to bind up your arm better than he did. The days are gone when men were wont to forget their lives for the ladies' sake."

"But those are not gone," said Simontault, "when ladies are apt to forget their lovers' lives for their pleasure's sake."

"I think," said Ennasuite, "that there is no living woman that can take pleasure in the death of a man, no, not even though he were her enemy. Still, if men will indeed kill themselves, the ladies cannot prevent them."

"Nevertheless," said Saffredent, "she that denies the gift of bread to a poor starving man is held to be a murderess."

"If your requests," said Oisille, "were as reasonable as those of a poor man seeking to supply his needs, it would be over cruel of the ladies to refuse you. God be thanked, however, your sickness kills none but such as must of necessity die within the year."

"I do not understand, madam," said Saffredent, "that there can be any greater need than that which causes all others to be forgotten. When love is deep, no bread and no meat whatsoever can be thought of save the glance and speech of the woman whom one loves."

"If you were allowed to fast," said Oisille, "with no other meat but that, you would tell a very different tale."

"I acknowledge," he replied, "that the body might fail, but not so the heart and will."

"Then," said Parlamente, "God has dealt very mercifully with you in leading you to have recourse to a quarter where you find such little contentment that you must needs console yourself with eating and drinking. Methinks in these matters you acquit yourself so well, that you should praise God for the tenderness of His cruelty."

"I have been so nurtured in torment," he replied, "that I am beginning to be well pleased with woes of which other men complain."

"Perhaps," said Longarine, "our complaints debar you from company where your gladness makes you welcome; for nothing is so vexatious as an importunate lover."

"Say, rather," answered Simontault, "as a cruel lady ———'"

"I clearly see," said Oisille, "now that the matter touches Simontault, that, if we stay until he brings his reasonings to an end, we shall find ourselves at complines (3) rather than vespers. Let us, therefore, go and praise God that this day has passed without graver dispute."

3 The last division in the Roman Catholic breviary.—Ed.

She was the first to rise, and all the others followed her, but Simontault and Longarine ceased not to carry on their quarrel, yet so gently that, without drawing of sword, Simontault won the victory, and proved that the strongest passion was the sorest need.

At this point they entered the church, where the monks were waiting for them.

Having heard vespers, they went to sup as much off words as meat, for their converse lasted as long as they were at table, and throughout the evening also, until Oisille told them that they might well retire and give some rest to their minds. The five days that were past had been filled with such brave stories, that she had great fear lest the sixth should not be equal to them; for, even if they were to invent their tales, it was not possible to tell any better than those true ones which had already been related in the company.

Geburon, however, told her that, so long as the world lasted, things would happen worthy of remembrance.

"For," said he, "the wickedness of wicked men is always what it has been, as also is the goodness of the good. So long as wickedness and good reign upon earth, they will ever fill it with fresh actions, although it be written that there is nothing new under the sun. (4) But we, who have not been summoned to the intimate counsels of God, and who are ignorant of first causes, deem all new things noteworthy in proportion as we would not or could not ourselves accomplish them. So, be not afraid that the days to come will not be in keeping with those that are past, and be sure that on your own part you perform well your duty."

4 Ecclesiastes i. 9, 10.—M.

Oisille replied that she commended herself to God, and in His name she bade them good-night.

So all the company withdrew, thus bringing to an end the Fifth Day.



APPENDIX.



A. (Tale XXXVI., Page 63.)

The following are the more important particulars, supplied by M. Jules Roman, with reference to President Charles of Grenoble:—

Jeffroy Charles was an Italian, born in the marquisate of Saluzza, where his father, Constant, had been a distinguished jurisconsult. The hero of Queen Margaret's xxxvith tale always signed his name Jeffroy Charles, but his descendants adopted the spelling Carles. Doubtless the name had originally been Caroli. Before fixing himself in France, Jeffroy Charles had been in the service of Luigi II., Marquis of Saluzza, who had appointed him to the office of "Podesta" and entrusted him with various diplomatic missions to the French Court (see Discorsi sopre alame famiglie nobili del Piemonte by Francesco Agostini della Chiesa, in MS. in the State Archives, at Turin). At the time when Charles VIII. was planning his expedition to Naples, he gave a cordial greeting to all the Italians who presented themselves at his Court, and, securing the services of Jeffroy Charles, he appointed him counsellor of the Parliament of Grenoble (October 5, 1493), and entrusted him with various secret missions, the result being that he sojourned but unfrequently in Dauphine. On the death of Charles VIII., Jeffroy secured the good graces of his successor, Louis XII., and was appointed (June 16, 1500) President of the Senate of Turin, and some months later Chief President of the Parliament of Grenoble. Charles spent the greater part of that year on missions, both to the Court of the Emperor Maximilian and that of the Pope. It was he who obtained from the former the investiture of Louis XII. as Duke of Milan, which afterwards led to so much warfare. Most of the following years he spent at Milan, seeking to organise the government of the duchy, and contending against the rapacity of both the French and the Italian nobles. In 1508 he was sent by Louis XII. to Cambrai, in company with Cardinal d'Amboise, to conclude an alliance with the Emperor against Venice, and he also repaired the same year to Rome with Marshal Trivulzio to negotiate the Pope's entry into this league.

On war being declared, he set aside his judicial robes, and took an active part in the campaign against Venice, fighting so bravely at Agnadel that Louis XII. knighted him on the battlefield. His last diplomatic mission was to the Court of Leo X. in 1515, in which year he was, on account of his great learning, appointed to direct the education of the King's younger daughter, the celebrated Renee of Ferrara. But it is doubtful whether he ever even entered upon these duties, since he died soon after he had been entrusted with them. His family remained in Dauphine, where it died out, obscurely, during the seventeenth century. Only one of his sons, Anthony, evinced any talent, becoming counsellor of the Rouen Parliament (1519), and ambassador at Milan (1530). Lancelot de Carles, Bishop of Riez, was not, as some biographers assert, a son of Jeffroy Charles, nor was he, it would seem, in any way connected with the Saluzza family.

Jeffroy Charles's wife, Margaret du Mottet, had borne him eight children before he surprised her in adultery. After the tragical ending of his conjugal mishaps he adopted as his crest the figure of an angel holding the forefinger of one hand to his mouth as if to enjoin secrecy. (1) In the seventeenth century this "angel of silence" was to be seen, carved in stone, and serving as a support of the Charles escutcheon, on the house where the President had resided in the Rue des Clercs at Grenoble (Guy Allard's Dictionnaire du Dauphine, &c, Grenoble 1695). Escutcheon and support have nowadays disappeared, but on certain of Charles's seals, as well as in books that belonged to him, now in the Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris, the emblem of the angel will still be found. The earliest seal on which we find it is one affixed to a receipt dated from Milan, July 31, 1506. Assuming that he adopted this crest in memory of the events narrated by Queen Margaret, it is probable that the latter occurred in the earlier part of 1506 or the latter part of the previous year. (2)

1 The suggestion here presents itself that, apart from the question of any crime, this emblem of secrecy was a very fitting one for a diplomatist to assume.—Ed.

2 That is, twenty years after the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles, from which some commentators think the Heptameron story to have been borrowed, was first printed. —Ed.

Three copies of a medal showing Charles's energetic, angular profile, with the inscription Jafredus Karoli jurisconsultus preses Delphinatus et Mediolani, are known to exist; one in the Grenoble museum, one in that of Milan, and one in my (M. Roman's) collection. Three MS. works from the President's library are in the Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris. The frontispiece of one of these (MSS. Lat. No. 4801) is a miniature painting of his escutcheon, surmounted by the half-length figure of the "angel of silence," who is clad in dark blue, with wings of red, green and blue feathers. On folio 74 of the same MS. is a full-length figure of the angel, clad in light blue and supporting Charles's escutcheon with one hand, whilst the forefinger of the other is pressed to his lips. In the libraries of Lyons, Grenoble and Turin are other richly-illuminated works that belonged to the President, who was a distinguished bibliophilist and great patron of letters, several learned Italian writers, and among others, J. P. Parisio, J. M. Cattaneo and P'ranchino Gafforio, having dedicated their principal works to him. He it was, moreover, who saved the life of Aldo Manuzio, the famous Venetian printer, when he was arrested by the French as a spy in 1506.

From the foregoing particulars it will be seen that President Charles was alike learned, brave and skilful. But for the Queen of Navarre's circumstantial narrative it would be hard to believe that a man with so creditable a public record killed his wife by means of a salad of poisonous herbs.—Ed.

THE END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME