THE TALES OF
THE HEPTAMERON
OF
Margaret, Queen of Navarre
Newly Translated into English from the Authentic Text
OF M. LE ROUX DE LINCY WITH
AN ESSAY UPON THE HEPTAMERON
BY
GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A.
Also the Original Seventy-three Full Page Engravings
Designed by S. FREUDENBERG
And One Hundred and Fifty Head and Tail Pieces
By DUNKER
IN FIVE VOLUMES
VOLUME THE FIFTH
LONDON: PRINTED FOR THE SOCIETY OF ENGLISH BIBLIOPHILISTS
MDCCCXCIV
| [Volume I.] | [Volume II.] | [Volume III.] | [Volume IV.] |
[Margaret, Queen of Navarre, from a crayon drawing by Clouet, preserved at the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris]
Contents
[ THE SUPPOSED NARRATORS OF THE HEPTAMERON TALES. ]
List of Illustrations
[ 005a.jpg the Duke of Urbino Sending The Maiden to Prison for Carrying Messages ]
[ 015a.jpg the Gentleman and his Friend Annoyed by The Smell of Sugar ]
[ 023a.jpg the Lord Des Cheriots Flying from The Prince’s Servant ]
[ 037a.jpg the Lady Watching The Shadow Faces Kissing ]
[ 043a.jpg the Servant Selling The Horse With The Cat ]
[ 051a.jpg the Grey Friar Introducing his Comrade to The Lady and Her Daughter ]
[ 063a.jpg the English Lord Seizing The Lady’s Glove ]
[ 071a. The Gentleman Mocked by The Ladies when Returning from The False Tryst ]
[ 079a. The Lady Discovering Her Husband With The Waiting-woman ]
[ 091a. The Chanter of Blois Delivering his Mistress from The Grave ]
[ 105a. The Lady Returning to Her Lover, The Canon of Autun ]
[ 119a. The Gentleman’s Spur Catching in The Sheet ]
[ 125a. The King Asking The Young Lord to Join his Banquet ]
[ 133a. The Lady Swooning in The Arms of The Gentleman Of Valencia Who Had Become a Monk ]
[ 143a. The Old Woman Startled by The Waking of The Soldier ]
[ 149a. The Old Serving-woman Explaining Her Mistake To The Duke and Duchess of Vendôme ]
[ 155a. The Wife Reading to Her Husband on The Desert Island ]
[ 163a. The Apothecary’s Wife Giving The Dose of Cantharides To Her Husband ]
[ 169a. The Wife Discovering Her Husband in The Hood Of Their Serving-maid ]
[ 175a. The Gentleman Killing Himself on The Death of his Mistress ]
[ 219a. The Saddler’s Wife Cured by The Sight of Her Husband Caressing the Serving-maid ]
[ 225a. The Monk Conversing With The Nun While Shrouding A Dead Body ]
DETAILED CONTENTS OF VOLUME V.
SIXTH DAY.
Prologue
[Tale LI.] Cruelty of the Duke of Urbino, who, contrary to the promise he had given to the Duchess, hanged a poor lady that had consented to convey letters to his son’s sweetheart, the sister of the Abbot of Farse.
[Tale LII.] Merry trick played by the varlet of an apothecary at Alençon on the Lord de la Tirelière and the lawyer Anthony Bacheré, who, thinking to breakfast at his expense, find that they have stolen from him something very different to a loaf of sugar.
[Tale LIII.] Story of the Lady of Neufchâtel, a widow at the Court of Francis I., who, through not admitting that she has plighted her troth to the Lord des Cheriots, plays him an evil trick through the means of the Prince of Belhoste.
[Tale LIV.] Merry adventure of a serving-woman and a gentleman named Thogas, whereof his wife has no suspicion.
[Tale LV.] The widow of a merchant of Saragossa, not wishing to lose the value of a horse, the price of which her husband had ordered to be given to the poor, devises the plan of selling the horse for one ducat only, adding, however, to the bargain a cat at ninety-nine.
[Tale LVI.] Notable deception practised by an old Grey Friar of Padua, who, being charged by a widow to find a husband for her daughter, did, for the sake of getting the dowry, cause her to marry a young Grey Friar, his comrade, whose condition, however, was before long discovered.
[Tale LVII.] Singular behaviour of an English lord, who is content merely to keep and wear upon his doublet the glove of a lady whom he loves.
[Tale LVIII.] A lady at the Court of Francis I., wishing to prove that she has no commerce with a certain gentleman who loves her, gives him a pretended tryst and causes him to pass for a thief.
[Tale LIX.] Story of the same lady, who, learning that her husband is in love with her waiting-woman, contrives to surprise him and impose her own terms upon him.
[Tale LX.] A man of Paris, thinking his wife to be well and duly deceased, marries again, but at the end of fifteen years is forced to take his first wife back, although she has been living meantime with one of the chanters of Louis XII.
SEVENTH DAY.
Prologue
[Tale LXI.] Great kindness of a husband, who consents to take back his wife twice over, spite of her wanton love for a Canon of Autun.
[Tale LXII.] How a lady, while telling a story as of another, let her tongue trip in such a way as to show that what she related had happened to herself.
[Tale LXIII.] How the honourable behaviour of a young lord, who feigns sickness in order to be faithful to his wife, spoils a party in which he was to have made one with the King, and in this way saves the honour of three maidens of Paris.
[Tale LXIV.] Story of a gentleman of Valencia in Spain, whom a lady drove to such despair that he became a monk, and whom afterwards she strove in vain to win back to herself.
[Tale LXV.] Merry mistake of a worthy woman, who in the church of St. John of Lyons mistakes a sleeping soldier for one of the statues on a tomb, and sets a lighted candle on his forehead.
[Tale LXVI.] How an old serving-woman, thinking to surprise a Prothonotary with a lady, finds herself insulting Anthony de Bourbon and his wife Jane d’Albret.
[Tale LXVII.] How the Sire de Robertval, granting a traitor his life at the prayers of the man’s wife, set them both down on a desert island, and how, after the husband’s death, the wife was rescued and brought back to La Rochelle.
[Tale LXVIII.] The wife of an apothecary at Pau, hearing her husband give some powder of cantharides to a woman who was godmother with himself, secretly administered to him such a dose of the same drug that he nearly died.
[Tale LXIX.] How the wife of one of the King’s Equerries surprised her husband muffled in the hood of their servant-maid, and bolting meal in her stead.
[Tale LXX.] Of the love of a Duchess of Burgundy for a gentleman who rejects her advances, for which reason she accuses him to the Duke her husband, and the latter does not believe his oaths till assured by him that he loves the Lady du Vergier. Then the Duchess, having drawn knowledge of this amour from her husband, addresses to the Lady du Vergier in public, an allusion that causes the death of both lovers; and the Duke, in despair at his own lack of discretion, stabs the Duchess himself.
EIGHTH DAY.
Prologue
[Tale LXXI.] The wife of a saddler of Amboise is saved on her deathbed through a fit of anger at seeing her husband fondle a servant-maid.
[Tale LXXII.] Kindness of the Duchess of Alençon to a poor nun whom she meets at Lyons, on her way to Rome, there to confess to the Pope how a monk had wronged her, and to obtain his Holiness’s pardon.
SIXTH DAY.
On the Sixth Day are related the deceits practised
by Man on Woman, Woman on Man, or
Woman on Woman, through
greed, revenge, and
wickedness. [ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]
PROLOGUE.
In the morning the Lady Oisille went earlier than was her wont to make ready for her reading in the hall, but the company being advised of this, and eager to hearken to her excellent instruction, used such despatch in dressing themselves that she had not long to wait. Perceiving their fervour, she set about reading them the Epistle of St. John the Evangelist, which is full of naught but love, in the same wise as, on the foregoing days, she had expounded to them St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans. The company found this fare so much to their taste, that, although they tarried a half-hour longer than on the other days, it seemed to them as if they had not remained there a quarter of an hour altogether. From thence they proceeded to the contemplation of the mass, when one and all commended themselves to the Holy Ghost in order that they might that day be enabled to satisfy their merry audience; and, after they had broken their fast and taken a little rest, they set out to resume their accustomed diversion.
And the Lady Oisille asking who should begin the day, Longarine made answer—
“I give my vote to Madame Oisille; she has this day read to us so beauteous a lesson, that she can but tell us some story apt to crown the glory which she won this morning.”
“I am sorry,” said Oisille, “that I cannot tell you aught so profitable this afternoon as I did in the morning. But at least the purport of my story shall not depart from the teaching of Holy Scripture, where it is written, ‘Trust not in princes, nor in the sons of men, in whom is not our salvation.’ (1) And that this truth may not be forgotten by you for lack of an example, I will tell you a tale which is quite true, and the memory of which is so fresh that the eyes of those that saw the piteous sight are scarcely yet dried.”
[The Duke of Urbino sending the Maiden to Prison for carrying
Messages between his Son and his Sweetheart]
TALE LI.
Because he would not have his son make a poor marriage, the
Duke of Urbino, contrary to the promise given to his wife,
hanged a young maiden by whom his son was wont to inform his
sweetheart of the love he bore her.
The Duke of Urbino, called the Prefect, (1) the same that married the sister of the first Duke of Mantua, had a son of between eighteen and twenty years of age, who was in love with a girl of an excellent and honourable house, sister to the Abbot of Farse. (2) And since, according to the custom of the country, he was not free to converse with her as he wished, he obtained the aid of a gentleman in his service, who was in love with a very beautiful and virtuous young damsel in the service of his mother. By means of this damsel he informed his sweetheart of the deep affection that he bore her; and the poor girl, thinking no harm, took pleasure in doing him service, believing his purpose to be so good and virtuous that she might honourably be the carrier of his intentions. But the Duke, who had more regard for the profit of his house than for any virtuous affection, was in such great fear lest these dealings should lead his son (3) into marriage, that he caused a strict watch to be kept; whereupon he was informed that the poor damsel had been concerned in carrying some letters from his son to the lady he loved. On hearing this he was in great wrath, and resolved to take the matter in hand.
1 This is Francesco Maria I., della Rovere, nephew to Pope
Julius II., by whom he was created Prefect of Rome. Brought
up at the French Court, he became one of the great captains
of the period, especially distinguishing himself in the
command of the Venetian forces during the earlier part of
his career. He married Leonora Ypolita Gonzaga, daughter of
Francesco II., fourth Marquis of Mantua, respecting whom see
ante, vol. iii., notes to Tale XIX. It was Leonora rather
than her husband who imparted lustre to the Court of Urbino
at this period by encouraging arts and letters. Among those
who flourished there were Raffaelle and Baldassare
Castiglione. Francesco Maria, born in March 1491, died in
1538 from the effects—so it is asserted by several
contemporary writers—of a poisonous lotion which a Mantuan
barber had dropped into his ear. His wife, who bore him two
sons (see post, note 3), died at the age of 72, in 1570.—L.
and Ed.
2 The French words are Abbé de Farse. Farse would appear
to be a locality, as abbots were then usually designated by
the names of their monasteries; still it may be intended for
the Abbot’s surname, and some commentators, adopting this
view, have suggested that the proper reading would be
Farnese.—Ed.
3 The Duke’s two sons were Federigo, born in March 1511,
and Guidobaldo, born in April 1514. The former according to
all authorities died when “young,” and probably long before
reaching man’s estate. Dennistoun, in his searching Memoirs
of the Dukes of Urbino (London, 1851), clearly shows that
for many years prior to Francesco Maria’s death his second
son Guidobaldo was the only child remaining to him. Already
in 1534, when but twenty years old, Guidobaldo was regarded
as his father’s sole heir and successor. In that year
Francesco Maria forced the young man to marry Giulia Varana,
a child of eleven, in order that he might lay claim to her
father’s state of Camerino and annex it to the duchy. There
is no record of Guidobaldo having ever engaged in any such
intrigue as related by Queen Margaret in the above tale,
still it must be to him that she refers, everything pointing
to the conclusion that his brother Federigo died in
childhood. Guidobaldo became Duke of Urbino on his father’s
death.—Ed.
He could not, however, conceal his anger so well that the maiden was not advised of it, and knowing his wickedness, which was in her eyes as great as his conscience was small, she felt a wondrous dread. Going therefore to the Duchess, she craved leave to retire somewhere out of the Duke’s sight until his passion should be past; but her mistress replied that, before giving her leave to do so, she would try to find out her husband’s will in the matter.
Very soon, however, the Duchess heard the Duke’s evil words concerning the affair, and, knowing his temper, she not only gave the maiden leave, but advised her to retire into a convent until the storm was over. This she did as secretly as she could, yet not so stealthily but that the Duke was advised of it. Thereupon, with pretended cheerfulness of countenance, he asked his wife where the maiden was, and she, believing him to be well aware of the truth, confessed it to him. He feigned to be vexed thereat, saying that the girl had no need to behave in that fashion, and that for his part he desired her no harm. And he requested his wife to cause her to come back again, since it was by no means well to have such matters noised abroad.
The Duchess replied that, if the poor girl was so unfortunate as to have lost his favour, it were better for a time that she should not come into his presence; however, he would not hearken to her reasonings, but commanded her to bid the maiden return.
The Duchess failed not to make the Duke’s will known to the maiden; but the latter, who could not but feel afraid, entreated her mistress that she might not be compelled to run this risk, saying that she knew the Duke was not so ready to forgive her as he feigned to be. Nevertheless, the Duchess assured her that she should take no hurt, and pledged her own life and honour for her safety.
The girl, who well knew that her mistress loved her, and would not lightly deceive her, trusted in her promise, believing that the Duke would never break a pledge when his wife’s honour was its warranty. And accordingly she returned to the Duchess.
As soon as the Duke knew this, he failed not to repair to his wife’s apartment. There, as soon as he saw the maiden, he said to his wife, “So such-a-one has returned,” and turning to his gentlemen, he commanded them to arrest her and lead her to prison.
At this the poor Duchess, who by the pledging of her word had drawn the maiden from her refuge, was in such despair that, falling upon her knees before her husband, she prayed that for love of herself and of his house he would not do so foul a deed, seeing that it was in obedience to himself that she had drawn the maiden from her place of safety.
But no prayer that she could utter availed to soften his hard heart, or to overcome his stern resolve to be avenged. Without making any reply, he withdrew as speedily as possible, and, foregoing all manner of trial, and forgetting God and the honour of his house, he cruelly caused the hapless maiden to be hanged.
I cannot undertake to recount to you the grief of the Duchess; it was such as beseemed a lady of honour and a tender heart on beholding one, whom she would fain have saved, perish through trust in her own plighted faith. Still less is it possible to describe the deep affliction of the unhappy gentleman, the maiden’s lover, who failed not to do all that in him lay to save his sweetheart’s life, offering to give his own for hers; but no feeling of pity moved the heart of this Duke, whose only happiness was that of avenging himself on those whom he hated. (4)
4 That Francesco-Maria was a man of a hasty, violent
temperament is certain. Much that Guicciardini relates of
him was doubtless penned in a spirit of resentment, for
during the time the historian lived at Urbino the Duke
repeatedly struck him, and on one occasion felled him to the
ground, with the sneering remark, “Your business is to
confer with pedants.” On the other hand, however, there is
independent documentary evidence in existence—notably
among the Urbino MSS. in the Vatican library—which shows
that Francesco-Maria in no wise recoiled from shedding
blood. He was yet in his teens when it was reported to him
that his sister—the widow of Venanzio of Camerino, killed
by Caesar Borgia—had secretly married a certain Giovanni
Andrea of Verona and borne him a son. Watching his
opportunity, Francesco-Maria set upon the unfortunate Andrea
one day in the ducal chamber and then and there killed him,
though not without resistance, for Andrea only succumbed
after receiving four-and-twenty stabs with his murderer’s
poignard (Urbino MSS. Vat. No. 904). A few years later, in
1511, Francesco-Maria assassinated the Papal Legate
Alidosio, Cardinal Archbishop of Pavia, whom he encountered
in the environs of Bologna riding his mule and followed by a
hundred light horse. Nevertheless Urbino, with only a small
retinue, galloped up to him, plunged a dagger into his
stomach and fled before the soldiery could intervene. From
these examples it will be seen that, although history has
preserved no record of the affair related by Queen Margaret,
her narrative may well be a true one.—Ed.
Thus, in spite of every law of honour, was the innocent maiden put to death by this cruel Duke, to the exceeding sorrow of all that knew her.
“See, ladies, what are the effects of wickedness when this is combined with power.”
“I had indeed heard,” said Longarine, “that the Italians were prone to three especial vices; but I should not have thought that vengeance and cruelty would have gone so far as to deal a cruel death for so slight a cause.”
“Longarine,” said Saffredent, laughing, “you have told us one of the three vices, but we must also know the other two.”
“If you did not know them,” she replied, “I would inform you, but I am sure that you know them all.”
“From your words,” said Saffredent, “it seems that you deem me very vicious.”
“Not so,” said Longarine, “but you so well know the ugliness of vice that, better than any other, you are able to avoid it.”
“Do not be amazed,” said Simontault, “at this act of cruelty. Those who have passed through Italy have seen such incredible instances, that this one is in comparison but a trifling peccadillo.”
“Ay, truly,” said Geburon. “When Rivolta was taken by the French, (5) there was an Italian captain who was esteemed a knightly comrade, but on seeing the dead body of a man who was only his enemy in that being a Guelph he was opposed to the Ghibellines, he tore out his heart, broiled it on the coals and devoured it. And when some asked him how he liked it, he replied that he had never eaten so savoury or dainty a morsel. Not content with this fine deed, he killed the dead man’s wife, and tearing out the fruit of her womb, dashed it against a wall. Then he filled the bodies both of husband and wife with oats and made his horses eat from them. Think you that such a man as that would not surely have put to death a girl whom he suspected of offending him?”
5 Rivolta or Rivoli was captured by the French under Louis
XII. in 1509. An instance of savagery identical in character
with that mentioned by “Geburon” had already occurred at the
time of Charles VIII.‘s expedition to Naples, when the
culprit, a young Italian of good birth, was seized and
publicly executed.—Ed.
“It must be acknowledged,” said Ennasuite, “that this Duke of Urbino was more afraid that his son might make a poor marriage than desirous of giving him a wife to his liking.”
“I think you can have no doubt,” replied Simon-tault, “that it is the Italian nature to love unnaturally that which has been created only for nature’s service.”
“Worse than that,” said Hircan, “they make a god of things that are contrary to nature.”
“And there,” said Longarine, “you have another one of the sins that I meant; for we know that to love money, excepting so far as it be necessary, is idolatry.”
Parlamente then said that St. Paul had not forgotten the vices of the Italians, and of all those who believe that they exceed and surpass others in honour, prudence and human reason, and who trust so strongly to this last as to withhold from God the glory that is His due. Wherefore the Almighty, jealous of His honour, renders’ those who believe themselves possessed of more understanding than other men, more insensate even than wild the beasts, causing them to show by their unnatural deeds that their sense is reprobate.
Longarine here interrupted Parlamente to say that this was indeed the third sin to which the Italians were prone.
“By my faith,” said Nomerfide, “this discourse is very pleasing to me, for, since those that possess the best trained and acutest understandings are punished by being made more witless even than wild beasts, it must follow that such as are humble, and low, and of little reach, like myself, are filled with the wisdom of angels.”
“I protest to you,” said Oisille, “that I am not far from your opinion, for none is more ignorant than he who thinks he knows.”
“I have never seen a mocker,” said Geburon, “that was not mocked, a deceiver that was not deceived, or a boaster that was not humbled.”
“You remind me,” said Simontault, “of a deceit which, had it been of a seemly sort, I would willingly have related.”
“Well,” said Oisille, “since we are here to utter truth, I give you my vote that you may tell it to us whatsoever its nature may be.”
“Since you give place to me,” said Simontault, “I will tell it you.”
[The Gentleman and his Friend annoyed by The Smell of that
which they Thought was Sugar]
TALE LII.
An apothecary s man, espying behind him an advocate who was
to plague him, and on whom he desired to be revenged,
dropped from his sleeve a lump of frozen ordure, wrapped in
paper like a sugar-loaf, which a gentleman who was with the
advocate picked up and hid in his bosom, and then went to
breakfast at a tavern, whence he came forth with all the
cost and shame that he had thought to bring upon the poor
varlet.
Near the town of Alençon there lived a gentleman called the Lord of La Tireliere, who one morning came from his house to the town afoot, both because the distance was not great and because it was freezing hard. (1) When he had done his business, he sought out a crony of his, an advocate named Anthony Bacheré, and, after speaking with him of his affairs, he told him that he should much like to meet with a good breakfast, but at somebody else’s expense. While thus discussing, they sat themselves down in front of an apothecary’s shop, where there was a varlet who listened to them, and who forthwith resolved to give them their breakfast.
1 The phraseology of this story varies considerably in the
different MSS. of the Heptameron. In No. 1520, for
instance, the tale begins as follows: “In the town of
Alençon, in the time of the last Duke Charles, there was an
advocate, a merry companion, fond of breakfasting o’
mornings. One day, whilst he sat at his door, he saw pass a
gentleman called the Lord of La Tilleriere, who, by reason
of the extreme cold, had come on foot from his house to the
town in order to attend to certain business there, and in
doing so had not forgotten to put on his great robe, lined
with fox-skin. And when he saw the advocate, who was much
such a man as himself, he told him that he had completed his
business, and had nothing further to do, except it were to
find a good breakfast. The advocate made answer that they
could find breakfasts enough and to spare, provided they had
some one to defray the cost, and, taking the other under the
arm, he said to him, ‘Come, gossip, we may perhaps find some
fool who will pay the reckoning for us both.’ Now behind
them was an apothecary’s man, an artful and inventive
fellow, whom this advocate was always plaguing,” &c.—L.
He went out from his shop into a street whither all repaired on needful occasions, (2) and there found a large lump of ordure standing on end, and so well frozen that it looked like a small loaf of fine sugar. Forthwith he wrapped it in handsome white paper, in the manner he was wont to use for the attraction of customers, and hid it in his sleeve.
2 In olden time, as shown in the Mémoires de l’Académie de
Troyes, there were in most French towns streets specially
set aside for the purpose referred to. At Alençon, in Queen
Margaret’s time, there was a street called the Rue des
Fumiers, as appears from a report dated March 8, 1564
(Archives of the Orne, Series A). Probably it is to this
street that she alludes. (Communicated by M. L. Duval,
archivist of the department of the Orne).—M.
Afterwards he came and passed in front of the gentleman and the advocate, and, letting the sugar-loaf (3) fall near them, as if by mischance, went into a house whither he had pretended to be carrying it.
The Lord of La Tirelière (4) hastened back with all speed to pick up what he thought to be a sugar-loaf, and just as he had done so the apothecary’s man also came back looking and asking for his sugar everywhere.
3 M. Duval, archivist of the Orne, states that La
Tirelière, which is situated near St. Germain-du-Corbois,
within three miles of Alençon, is an old gentilhommière or
manor-house, surrounded by a moat. It was originally a
simple vavassonrie held in fief from the Counts and Dukes
of Alençon by the Pantolf and Crouches families, and in the
seventeenth century was merged into the marquisate of
L’Isle.—M.
4 Sugar was at this period sold by apothecaries, and was a
rare and costly luxury. There were loaves of various sizes,
but none so large as those of the present time.—M.
The gentleman, thinking that he had cleverly tricked him, then went in haste to a tavern with his crony, to whom he said—
“Our breakfast has been paid for at the cost of that varlet.”
When he was come to the tavern he called for good bread, good wine and good meat, for he thought that he had wherewith to pay. But whilst he was eating, as he began to grow warm, his sugar-loaf in its turn began to thaw and melt, and filled the whole room with the smell peculiar to it, whereupon he, who carried it in his bosom, grew wroth with the waiting-woman, and said to her—
“You are the filthiest folks that ever I knew in this town, for either you or your children have strewn all this room with filth.”
“By St. Peter!” replied the woman, “there is no filth here unless you have brought it in yourselves.”
Thereupon they rose, by reason of the great stench that they smelt, and went up to the fire, where the gentleman drew out of his bosom a handkerchief all dyed with the melted sugar, and on opening his robe, lined with fox-skin, found it to be quite spoiled.
And all that he was able to say to his crony was this—
“The rogue whom we thought to deceive has deceived us instead.”
Then they paid their reckoning and went away as vexed as they had been merry on their arrival, when they fancied they had tricked the apothecary’s varlet. (5)
5 In MS. 1520, this tale ends in the following manner:—
“They were no sooner in the street than they perceived the
apothecary’s man going about and making inquiry of every one
whether they had not seen a loaf of sugar wrapped in paper.
They [the advocate and his companion] sought to avoid him,
but he called aloud to the advocate, ‘If you have my loaf of
sugar, sir, I beg that you will give it back to me, for ‘tis
a double sin to rob a poor servant.’ His shouts brought to
the spot many people curious to witness the dispute, and the
true circumstances of the case were so well proven, that the
apothecary’s man was as glad to have been robbed as the
others were vexed at having committed such a nasty theft.
However, they comforted themselves with the hope that they
might some day give him tit for tat.”—Ed.
“Often, ladies, do we see the like befall those who delight in using such cunning. If the gentleman had not sought to eat at another’s expense, he would not have drunk so vile a beverage at his own. It is true, ladies, that my story is not a very clean one, but you gave me license to speak the truth, and I have done so in order to show you that no one is sorry when a deceiver is deceived.”
“It is commonly said,” replied Hircan, “that words have no stink, yet those for whom they are intended do not easily escape smelling them.”
“It is true,” said Oisille, “that such words do not stink, but there are others which are spoken of as nasty, and which are of such evil odour that they disgust the soul even more than the body is disgusted when it smells such a sugar-loaf as you described in the tale.”
“I pray you,” said Hircan, “tell me what words you know of so foul as to sicken both the heart and soul of a virtuous woman.”
“It would indeed be seemly,” replied Oisille, “that I should tell you words which I counsel no woman to utter.”
“By that,” said Saffredent, “I quite understand what those terms are. They are such as women desirous of being held discreet do not commonly employ. But I would ask all the ladies present why, when they dare not utter them, they are so ready to laugh at them when they are used in their presence.”
Then said Parlamente—
“We do not laugh because we hear such pretty expressions, though it is indeed true that every one is disposed to laugh on seeing anybody stumble or on hearing any one utter an unfitting word, as often happens. The tongue will trip and cause one word to be used for another, even by the discreetest and most excellent speakers. But when you men talk viciously, not from ignorance, but by reason of your own wickedness, I know of no virtuous woman who does not feel a loathing for such speakers, and who would not merely refuse to hearken to them, but even to remain in their company.”
“That is very true,” responded Geburon. “I have frequently seen women make the sign of the cross on hearing certain words spoken, and cease not in doing so after these words had been uttered a second time.”
“But how many times,” said Simontault, “have they put on their masks (6) in order to laugh as freely as they pretended to be angry?”
“Yet it were better to do this,” said Parlamente, “than to let it be seen that the talk pleased them.”
“Then,” said Dagoucin, “you praise a lady’s hypocrisy no less than her virtue?”
“Virtue would be far better,” said Longarine, “but, when it is lacking, recourse must be had to hypocrisy, just as we use our slippers (7) to disguise our littleness. And it is no small matter to be able to conceal our imperfections.”
8 Tourets-de-nez. See ante, vol. iii. p. 27, note 5.—Ed.
7 High-heeled slippers or mules were then worn.—B. J.
“By my word,” said Hircan, “it were better sometimes to show some slight imperfection than to cover it so closely with the cloak of virtue.”
“It is true,” said Ennasuitc, “that a borrowed garment brings the borrower as much dishonour when he is constrained to return it as it brought him honour whilst it was being worn, and there is a lady now living who, by being too eager to conceal a small error, fell into a greater.”
“I think,” said Hircan, “that I know whom you mean; in any case, however, do not pronounce her name.”
“Ho! ho!” said Geburon [to Ennasuite], “I give you my vote on condition that when you have related the story you will tell us the names. We will swear never to mention them.”
“I promise it,” said Knnasuite, “for there is nothing that may not be told in all honour.”
[The Lord des Cheriots flying from the Prince’s Servant]
TALE LIII.
By her dissimulation the Lady of Neufchastel caused the
Prince of Belhoste to put her to such proof that it turned
to her dishonour.
King Francis the First was once at a handsome and pleasant castle, whither he had gone with a small following, both for the purpose of hunting and in order to take some repose. With him in his train was a certain Prince of Belhoste, (1) as worshipful, virtuous, discreet and handsome a Prince as any at Court. The wife he had married did not belong to a family of high rank, yet he loved her as dearly and treated her as well as it were possible for a husband to do, and also trusted in her. And when he was in love with anybody he never concealed it from her, knowing that she had no other will than his own.
1 The Bibliophile Jacob surmises that this personage may be
one of the Italian grandees at that period in the service of
France, in which case the allusion may be to John
Caraccioli, Prince of Melphes, created a marshal of France
in 1544. Queen Margaret, however, makes no mention of her
Prince being a foreigner. “Belhoste” is of course a
fictitious name invented to replace that which the Prince
really bore, and admits of so many interpretations that its
meaning in the present instance cannot well be determined.
From the circumstance, however, that the Prince’s wife was
of inferior birth to himself, it is not impossible that the
personage referred to may be either Charles de Bourbon,
Prince of La Roche-sur-Yonne and Duke of Beaupréau, or John
VIII., Lord of Créqui, Canaples and Pontdormi, and Prince of
Poix. The former, who married Philippa de Montespedon, widow
of René de Montéjan, and a lady of honour to Catherine de’
Medici when Dauphiness, took a prominent part in the last
wars of Francis I.‘s reign, and survived till 1565. The
latter, generally known at Court by the name of Canaples,
was a gentleman of the chamber and an especial favourite of
Francis I. Brantôme says of him in his Homines Illustres that he was “a valiant lord and the strongest man of arms
that in those days existed in all Christendom, for he broke
a lance, no matter its strength, as easily as though it were
a mere switch, and few were able to withstand him.” In 1525
the Prince of Poix married a Demoiselle d’Acigné or Assigny,
of petite noblesse, who in 1532 became a lady of honour to
Queen Eleanor. She died in 1558, surviving her husband by
three years. See Rouard’s rare Notice dun Recueil de
Crayons à la Bibliothèque Méjanes d’Aix, Paris, 1863.—Ed.
Now this Prince conceived a deep affection for a widow lady called Madame de Neufchastel, (2) who was reputed the most beautiful woman it were possible to see; and if the Prince of Bel-hoste loved her well, his wife loved her no less, and would often send and bid her to dinner, for she deemed her so discreet and honourable, that, instead of being grieved by her husband’s love for her, she rejoiced to see him address his attentions to one so full of honour and virtue.
2 M. Lacroix thinks that this lady may be Jane de Hochberg,
only daughter of Philip, sovereign Count of Neufchâtel.
According to the custom of the time, she was commonly called
Madame de Neufchâtel, despite her marriage with Louis
d’Orléans, Duke of Longueville. She died in 1543, after a
lengthy widowhood. We consider the accuracy of M. Lacroix’s
surmise to be extremely doubtful, for the names of both the
men figuring in the story are obviously altered so as to
conceal their identity, and it is therefore not likely that
Queen Margaret would designate the lady by her real name,
and thus publish her shame to the world. The Madame de
Neufchâtel she speaks of may really have been a Madame de
Châteauneuf, Châteauvieux or Maisonneuve; or we may again be
in presence of Margaret’s lady of honour, the widowed
Blanche de Chastillon, née de Tournon, to whom frequent
reference has been made.—Ed.
This affection lasted for a great while, the Prince of Belhoste caring for all the lady’s affairs as though they were his own, and his wife doing no less. By reason, however, of her beauty many great lords and gentlemen earnestly sought the lady’s favour, some only for love’s sake, others for sake of the ring, for, besides being beautiful, she was also very rich.
Among the rest was a young gentleman, called the Lord des Cheriots, (3) who wooed her so ardently that he was never absent from her levee and couchée, and was also with her as much as possible during the day. This did not please the Prince of Belhoste, who thought that a man of such poor estate, and so lacking in grace, did not deserve an honourable and gracious reception, and he often made remonstrances about it to the lady. She, however, being one of Eve’s daughters, (4) excused herself by saying that she spoke with every one in general, and that their own affection was the better concealed, since she never spoke more with one than with another.
3 “Des Cheriots” (occasionally Des Cheriotz in the MS.) may
be a play upon the name of D’Escars, sometimes written Des
Cars. According to La Curne de Ste. Palaye car as well as
char signified chariot. The D’Escars dukedom is modern,
dating from 1815, and in the time of Francis I. the family
was of small estate. Some members of it may well have filled
inferior offices about the court, as in 1536 a Demoiselle
Suzanne d’Escars married Geoffrey de Pompadour, who was both
a prothonotary and cupbearer to Francis I., and lived to
become Governor of the Limousin under Charles IX.—M. and
Ed.
4 We take this expression from MS. 1520. Ours says, “a
daughter of the Duke,” which is evidently an error.—L.
Albeit, after some time, this Lord des Cheriots so pressed her that, more through his importunity than through love, she promised to marry him, begging him, however, not to urge her to reveal the marriage until her daughters were wedded. After this the gentleman was wont to go with untroubled conscience to her chamber at whatsoever hour he chose, and none but a waiting-woman and a serving-man had knowledge of the matter.
When the Prince perceived that the gentleman was growing more and more familiar in the house of her whom he so dearly loved, he took it in ill-part, and could not refrain from saying to the lady—
“I have always prized your honour like that of my own sister, and you are aware of the honourable manner in which I have addressed you, and the happiness that I have in loving a lady as discreet and virtuous as yourself; but did I think that another who deserves it not could win by importunity that which I am not willing to crave, contrary to your own desire, this would be unendurable to me, and in the like degree dishonouring to you. I tell you this because you are beautiful and young, and although hitherto of good repute, are now beginning to gain a very evil fame. Even though he be not your equal in birth or fortune, and have less influence, knowledge and address, yet it were better to have married him than to give all men matter for suspicion. I pray you, therefore, tell me whether you are resolved to love him, for I will not have him as fellow of mine. I would rather leave you altogether to him, and put away from me the feelings that I have hitherto borne you.”
The poor lady, fearful of losing his affection, thereupon began to weep, and vowed to him that she would rather die than wed the gentleman of whom he had spoken, but (she added) he was so importunate that she could not help his entering her chamber at a time when every one else did so.
“Of such times as those,” said the Prince, “I do not speak, for I can go as well as he, and see all what you are doing. But I have been told that he goes after you are in bed, and this I look upon as so extraordinary that, if you should continue in this mode of life without declaring him to be your husband, you will be disgraced more than any woman that ever lived.”
She swore to him with all the oaths she could utter that the other was neither her husband nor her lover, but only as importunate a gentleman as there well could be.
“Since he is troublesome to you,” said the Prince, “I promise you that I will rid you of him.”
“What!” asked the lady. “Would you kill him?”
“No, no,” said the Prince, “but I will give him to understood that it is not in such a place as this, not in such a house as the King’s, that ladies are to be put to shame. And I swear to you by the faith of the lover that I am, that if, after I have spoken with him, he does not correct himself, I will correct him in such a manner as to make him a warning to others.”
So saying he went away, and on leaving the room failed not to meet the Lord des Cheriots on his way in. To him he spoke after the fashion that you have heard, assuring him that the first time he was found there after an hour at which gentlemen might reasonably visit the ladies, he would give him such a fright as he would ever remember. And he added that the lady was of too noble a house to be trifled with after such a fashion.
The gentleman protested that he had never been in the room except in the same manner as the rest, and, if the Prince should find him there, he gave him full leave to do his worst.
One day afterwards, when the gentleman believed the Prince’s words to have been forgotten, he went to see his lady in the evening, and remained sufficiently late.
The Prince [that same evening] told his wife that Madame de Neufchastel had a severe cold, upon hearing which the worthy lady begged that he would visit her on behalf of them both, and make excuse for herself, since she could not go by reason of a certain matter that she must needs attend to in her room.
The Prince waited until the King was in bed, and then went to give the lady good-evening, but as he was going up a stairway he met a serving-man coming down, who, on being asked how his mistress did, swore that she was in bed and asleep.
The Prince went down the stairway, but, suspecting that the servant had lied, looked behind and saw him going back again with all speed. He walked about the courtyard in front of the door to see whether the servant would return. A quarter of an hour later he perceived him come down again and look all about to see who was in the courtyard.
Forthwith the Prince was convinced that the Lord des Cheriots was in the lady’s chamber, but through fear of himself durst not come down, and he therefore again walked about for a long-while.
At last, observing that the lady’s room had a casement which was not at all high up, and which looked upon a little garden, he remembered the proverb which says, “When the door fails the window avails,” and he thereupon called a servant of his own, and said to him—
“Go into the garden there behind, and, if you see a gentleman come down from the window, draw your sword as soon as he reaches the ground, clash it against the wall, and cry out, ‘Slay! slay!’ Be careful, however, that you do not touch him.”
The servant went whither his master had sent him, and the Prince walked about until three hours after midnight.
When the Lord des Cheriots heard that the Prince was still in the yard, he resolved to descend by the window, and, having first thrown clown his cloak, he then, by the help of his good friends, leapt into the garden. As soon as the servant saw him, he failed not to make a noise with his sword, at the same time crying, “Slay! slay!” Upon this the poor gentleman, believing it was his [the servant’s] master, was in such great fear that, without thinking of his cloak, he fled as quickly as he was able.
He met the archers of the watch, who wondered greatly to see him running in this fashion, but he durst say nothing to them, except to beg them to open him the gate [of the castle], or else to lodge him with themselves until morning. And this, as they had not the keys, they did.
Then the Prince went to bed, and, finding his wife asleep, awoke her saying—
“Guess, my wife, what hour it is.‘’
“I have not heard the clock strike since I went to bed,” she replied.
“It is three hours after midnight,” said he.
“If that be so,” said his wife, “where have you been all this time? I greatly fear that your health will be the worse for it.”
“Sweetheart,” said the Prince, “watching will never make me ill when I am engaged in preventing those who try to deceive me from going to sleep.”
So saying, he began to laugh so heartily that his wife begged him to tell her of the matter. This he did at length, showing her the wolf’s skin (4) which his servant had brought him. After making merry at the expense of the hapless lovers, they went to sleep in gentle tranquillity, while the other two passed the night in torment, fearing and dreading lest the affair should be revealed.
However, the gentleman, knowing right well that he could not use concealment with the Prince, came to him in the morning when he was dressing to beg that he would not expose him, and would give orders for the return of his cloak.
The Prince pretended that he knew nothing of the matter, and put such a face on it that the gentleman was wholly at a loss what to think. But in the end he received a rating that he had not expected, for the Prince assured him that, if ever he went to the lady’s room again, he would tell the King of it, and have him banished the Court.
“I pray you, ladies, judge whether it had not been better for this poor lady to have spoken freely to him who did her the honour of loving and esteeming her, instead of leading him by her dissimulation to prove her in a way that brought her so much shame.”
“She knew,” said Geburon, “that if she confessed the truth she would wholly lose his favour, and this she on no account desired to do.”
“It seems to me,” said Longarine, “that when she had chosen a husband to her liking, she ought not to have feared the loss of any other man’s affection.”
“I am sure,” said Parlamente, “that if she had dared to reveal her marriage, she would have been quite content with her husband; but she wished to hide it until her daughters were wed, and so she would not abandon so good a means of concealment.”
“It was not for that reason,” said Saffredent, “but because the ambition of women is so great that they are never satisfied with having only one lover. I have heard that the discreetest of them are glad to have three—one, namely, for honour, one for profit, and one for delight. Each of the three thinks himself loved the best, but the first two are as servants to the last.”
“You speak,” said Oisille, “of such women as have neither love nor honour.”
“Madam,” said Saffredent, “there are some of the kind that I describe, whom you reckon among the most honourable in the land.”
“You may be sure,” said Hircan, “that a crafty woman will be able to live where all others die of hunger.”
“And,” said Longarine, “when their craftiness is discerned, ‘tis death.”
“Nay, ‘tis life,” said Simontault, “for they deem it no small glory to be reputed more crafty than their fellows. And the reputation of ‘crafty,’ gained thus at their own expense, brings lovers more readily under subjection to them than does their beauty, for one of the greatest delights shared by those who are in love is to conduct the affair slyly.”
“You speak,” said Ennasuite, “of wanton love, for the honourable has no need of concealment.”
“Ah!” said Dagoucin, “I pray you put that thought out of your head. The more precious the drug, the less should it be exposed to the air, because of the perverseness of those who trust only to outward signs. These are not different in the case of honourable and faithful affection than in any other case, so they must none the less be hidden when the love is virtuous than when it is the opposite, if one would avoid the evil opinion of those who cannot believe that a man may love a lady in all honour, and who, being themselves slaves to pleasure, think every one else the same. If we were all of good faith, look and speech would be without concealment, at least toward those who would rather die than take them in an evil sense.”
“I protest to you, Dagoucin,” said Hircan, “that your philosophy is too deep for any man here to understand or believe. You would have us think that men are angels, or stones, or devils.”
“I am well aware,” said Dagoucin, “that men are men and subject to every passion, but there are some, nevertheless, who would rather die than that their mistresses should, for their delight, do aught against their consciences.”
“To die means a great deal,” said Geburon. “I would not believe that of them were it uttered by the lips of the austerest monk alive.”
“Nay, I believe,” said Hircan, “that there is none but desires the very opposite. But they make pretence of disliking the grapes when these hang too high to be gathered.”
“Still,” said Nomcrfide, “I am sure that the Prince’s wife was very glad to find that her husband was learning to know women.”
“I assure you it was not so,” said Ennasuite. “She was very sorry on account of the love that she bore the lady.”
“I would as soon,” said Saffredent, “have the lady who laughed when her husband kissed her maid.”
“In sooth,” said Ennasuite, “you shall tell us the story. I give place to you.”
“Although the story is very short,” said Saffredent, “I will still relate it, for I would rather make you laugh than speak myself at length.”
[The Lady watching the Shadow Faces Kissing]
TALE LIV.
Thogas’s wife, believing that her husband loved none but
herself, was pleased that her serving-woman should amuse
him, and laughed when in her presence he kissed the girl
before her eyes, and with her knowledge.
Between the Pyrenees Mountains and the Alps, there dwelt a gentleman named Thogas, (1) who had a wife and children, with a very beautiful house, and so much wealth and pleasure at his hand, that there was reason he should live in contentment, had it not been that he was subject to great pain beneath the roots of the hair, in such wise that the doctors advised him to sleep no longer with his wife. She, whose chief thought was for her husband’s life and health, readily consented, and caused her bed to be set in another corner of the room directly opposite her husband’s, so that they could neither of them put out their heads without seeing each other.
1 We are unable to trace any family named Thogas, which is
probably a fictitious appellation. Read backwards with the
letter h omitted it forms Sagot, whilst if the syllables be
transposed it suggests Guasto, a well-known Basque or
Navarrese name.—Ed.
This lady had two serving-women, and often when the lord and his lady were in bed, they would each take some diverting book to read, whilst the serving-women held candles, the younger, that is, for the gentleman, and the other for his wife.
The gentleman, finding that the maid was younger and handsomer than her mistress, took such great pleasure in observing her that he would break off his reading in order to converse with her. His wife could hear this very plainly, but believing that her husband loved none but herself, she was well pleased that her servants should amuse him.
It happened one evening, however, when they had read longer than was their wont, that the lady looked towards her husband’s bed where was the young serving-maid holding the candle. Of her she could see nothing but her back, and of her husband nothing at all excepting on the side of the chimney, which jutted out in front of his bed, and the white wall of which was bright with the light from the candle. And upon this wall she could plainly see the shadows both of her husband and of her maid; whether they drew apart, or came near together or laughed, it was all as clear to her as though she had veritably beheld them.
The gentleman, using no precaution since he felt sure that his wife could not see them, kissed her maid, and on the first occasion his wife suffered this to pass without uttering a word. But when she saw that the shadows frequently returned to this fellowship, she feared that there might be some reality beneath it all, and burst into a loud laugh, whereat the shadows were alarmed and separated.
The gentleman then asked his wife why she was laughing so heartily, so that he might have a share in her merriment.
“Husband,” she replied, “I am so foolish that I laugh at my own shadow.”
Inquire as he might, she would never acknowledge any other reason, but, nevertheless, he thenceforward refrained from kissing such shadow-faces.
“That is the story of which I was reminded when I spoke of the lady who loved her husband’s sweetheart.”
“By my faith,” said Ennasuite, “if my maid had treated me in that fashion, I should have risen and extinguished the candle upon her nose.”
“You are indeed terrible,” said Hircan, “but it had been well done if your husband and the maid had both turned upon you and beaten you soundly. There should not be so much ado for a kiss; and ‘twould have been better if his wife had said nothing about it, and had suffered him to take his pastime, which might perchance have cured his complaint.”
“Nay,” said Parlamente, “she was afraid that the end of the pastime would make him worse.”
“She was not one of those,” said Oisille, “against whom our Lord says, ‘We have mourned to you and ye have not lamented, we have sung to you and ye have not danced,’ (2) for when her husband was ill, she wept, and when he was merry, she laughed. In the same fashion every virtuous woman ought to share the good and evil, the joy and the sadness of her husband, and serve and obey him as the Church does Jesus Christ.”
2 “They are like unto children sitting in the market-place,
and calling one to another, and saying, We have piped unto
you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned to you, and ye
have not wept.”—St. Luke vii. 32.—M.
“Then, ladies,” said Parlamente, “our husbands should be to us what Christ is to the Church.”
“So are we,” said Saffredent, “and, if it were possible, something more; for Christ died but once for His Church, whereas we die daily for our wives.”
“Die!” said Longarine. “Methinks that you and the others here present are now worth more crowns than you were worth pence before you were wed.”
“And I know why,” said Saffredent; “it is because our worth is often tried. Still our shoulders are sensible of having worn the cuirass so long.”
“If,” said Ennasuite, “you had been obliged to wear harness for a month and lie on the hard ground, you would greatly long to regain the bed of your excellent wife, and wear the cuirass of which you now complain. But it is said that everything can be endured except ease, and that none know what rest is until they have lost it. This foolish woman, who laughed when her husband was merry, was fond of taking her rest under any circumstances.”
“I am sure,” said Longarine, “that she loved her rest better than her husband, since she took nothing that he did to heart.”
“She did take to heart,” said Parlamente, “those things which might have been hurtful to his conscience and his health, but she would not dwell upon trifles.”
“When you speak of conscience,” said Simontault “you make me laugh. ‘Tis a thing to which I would have no woman give heed.”
“It would be a good thing,” said Nomerfide, “if you had a wife like one who, after her husband’s death, proved that she loved her money better than her conscience.”
“I pray you,” said Saffredent, “tell us that tale. I give you my vote.”
“I had not intended,” said Nomcrfide, “to relate so short a story, but, since it is suited to the occasion, I will do so.”
[The Servant selling the Horse with the Cat]
TALE LV.
A merchant’s widow, whilst carrying out her husband’s will,
interpreted its purport to the advantage of herself and her
children. (1)
In the town of Safagossa there lived a rich merchant, who, finding his death draw nigh, and himself no longer able to retain possession of his goods—-which he had perchance gathered together by evil means—thought that if he made a little present to God, he might thus after his death make part atonement for his sins, just as though God sold His pardon for money. Accordingly, when he had settled matters in respect of his house, he declared it to be his desire that a fine Spanish horse which he possessed should be sold for as much as it would bring, and the money obtained for it be distributed among the poor. And he begged his wife that she would in no wise fail to sell the horse as soon as he was dead, and distribute the money in the manner he had commanded.
1 Whether the incidents here related be true or not, it is
probable that this was a story told to Queen Margaret at the
time of her journey to Spain in 1525. It will have been
observed (ante, pp. 36 and 42) that both the previous tale
and this one are introduced into the Heptameron in a semi-
apologetic fashion, as though the Queen had not originally
intended that her work should include such short, slight
anecdotes. However, already at this stage—the fifty-fifth
only of the hundred tales which she proposed writing—she
probably found fewer materials at her disposal than she had
anticipated, and harked back to incidents of her earlier
years, which she had at first thought too trifling to
record. Still, slight as this story may be, it is not
without point. The example set by the wife of the Saragossa
merchant has been followed in modern times in more ways than
one.—Ed.
When the burial was over and the first tears were shed, the wife, who was no more of a fool than Spanish women are used to be, went to the servant who with herself had heard his master declare his desire, and said to him—
“Methinks I have lost enough in the person of a husband I loved so dearly, without afterwards losing his possessions. Yet would I not disobey his word, but rather better his intention; for the poor man, led astray by the greed of the priests, thought to make a great sacrifice to God in bestowing after his death a sum of money, not a crown of which, as you well know, he would have given in his lifetime to relieve even the sorest need. I have therefore bethought me that we will do what he commanded at his death, and in still better fashion than he himself would have done if had he lived a fortnight longer. But no living person must know aught of the matter.”
When she had received the servant’s promise to keep it secret, she said to him—
“You will go and sell the horse, and when you are asked, ‘How much?’ you will reply, ‘A ducat.’ I have, however, a very fine cat which I also wish to dispose of, and you will sell it with the horse for ninety-nine ducats, so that cat and horse together will bring in the hundred ducats for which my husband wished to sell the horse alone.”
The servant readily fulfilled his mistress’s command. While he was walking the horse about the market-place, and holding the cat in his arms, a gentleman, who had seen the horse before, and was desirous of possessing it, asked the servant what price he sought.
“A ducat,” replied the man.
“I pray you,” said the gentleman, “do not mock me.”
“I assure you, sir,” said the servant, “that it will cost you only a ducat. It is true that the cat must be bought at the same time, and for the cat I must have nine and ninety ducats.”
Forthwith, the gentleman, thinking the bargain a reasonable one, paid him one ducat for the horse, and the remainder as was desired of him, and took his goods away.
The servant, on his part, went off with the money, with which his mistress was right well pleased, and she failed not to give the ducat that the horse had brought to the poor Mendicants, (2) as her husband had commanded, and the remainder she kept for the needs of herself and her children. (3)
2 The allusion is not to the ordinary beggars who then, as
now, swarmed in Spain, but to the Mendicant friars.—Ed.
3 In Boaistuau’s and Gruget’s editions of the Heptameron the dialogue following this tale is replaced by matter of
their own invention. They did not dare to reproduce Queen
Margaret’s bold opinions respecting the clergy, the monastic
orders, &c., at a time when scores of people, including even
Counsellors of Parliament, were being burnt at the stake for
heresy.—L. and Ed.
“What think you? Was she not far more prudent than her husband, and did she not think less of her conscience than of the advantage of her household?”
“I think,” said Parlamente, “that she did love her husband; but, seeing that most men wander in their wits when at the point of death, and knowing his intentions, she tried to interpret them to her children’s advantage. And therein I hold her to have been very prudent.”
“What!” said Geburon. “Do you not hold it a great wrong not to carry out the last wishes of departed friends?”
“Assuredly I do,” said Parlamente; “that is to say if the testator be in his right mind, and not raving.”
“Do you call it raving to give one’s goods to the Church and the poor Mendicants?”
“I do not call it raving,” said Parlamente, “if a man distribute what God has given into his hands among the poor; but to make alms of another person’s goods is, in my opinion, no great wisdom. You will commonly see the greatest usurers build the handsomest and most magnificent chapels imaginable, thinking they may appease God with ten thousand ducats’ worth of building for a hundred thousand ducats’ worth of robbery, just as though God did not know how to count.”
“In sooth,” said Oisille, “I have many a time wondered how they can think to appease God for things which He Himself rebuked when He was on earth, such as great buildings, gildings, pictures and paint. If they really understood the passage in which God says to us that the only offering He requires from us is a contrite and humble heart, (4) and the other in which St. Paul says we are the temples of God wherein He desires to dwell, (5) they would be at pains to adorn their consciences while yet alive, and would not wait for the hour when man can do nothing more, whether good or evil, nor (what is worse) charge those who remain on earth to give their alms to folk upon whom, during their lifetime, they did not deign to look. But He who knows the heart cannot be deceived, and will judge them not according to their works, but according to their faith and charity towards Himself.”
4 “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and
a contrite heart, O God, thou will not despise.”—Psalm li. 17.—Ed.
5 “For ye are the temple of the living God; as God hath
said, I will dwell in them and walk in them,” &c.—2
Corinthians vi. 16.—Ed.
“Why is it, then,” said Geburon, “that these Grey Friars and Mendicants talk to us at our death of nothing but bestowing great benefits upon their monasteries, assuring us that they will put us into Paradise whether we will or not?”
“How now, Geburon?” said Hircan. “Have you forgotten the wickedness you related to us of the Grey Friars, that you ask how such folk find it possible to lie? I declare to you that I do not think that there can be greater lies than theirs. Those, indeed, who speak on behalf of the whole community are not to be blamed, but there are some among them who forget their vows of poverty in order to satisfy their own greed.”
“Methinks, Hircan,” said Nomerfide, “you must know some such tale, and if it be worthy of this company, I pray you tell it us.”
“I will,” said Hircan, “although it irks me to speak of such folk. Methinks they are of the number of those of whom Virgil says to Dante, ‘Pass on and heed them not.’ (6) Still, to show you that they have not laid aside their passions with their worldly garments, I will tell you of something that once came to pass.”
6 Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa (Dante’s
Purgatorio, iii. 51). The allusion is to the souls of
those who led useless and idle lives on earth, supporting
neither the Divinity by the observance of virtue, nor the
spirit of evil by the practice of vice. They are thus cast
out both from heaven and hell.—Ed.
[The Grey Friar introducing his Comrade to the Lady and her Daughter]
